Without Fear or Favor Read online

  However, as Nash had demanded, he was precluded from discussing Big George’s death at the abandoned house across from the home of Nevie Butler and her grandsons, his assault on Maurice Greene, and suspicions that he’d murdered Ny-Lee Tomes. The judge had agreed with the defense attorney that such revelations would be “too prejudicial” to the defense.

  “Tyrone, did you see Big George at Marcus Garvey Park on the afternoon that Officer Tony was murdered?” Karp asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “He was with Nat X and the man I didn’t know.”

  “Just so the record is clear, when you say Nat X, that’s the same person as the defendant, whom you previously identified seated right over here in this courtroom?” Karp pointed at Johnson.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So when you saw the defendant with Big George, what were you doing?”

  “We were playing basketball.”

  “Where were Nat X, Big George, and the unidentified man?”

  “They was sitting on a picnic table over near the 120th Street entrance.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Smoking dope and—”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Are you sure the three men you saw from the basketball court were those men?”

  “Yes, they were there first and I walked right by them.”

  “Did Officer Tony arrive before or after you?”

  “After. We were already playing when he showed up.” Tyrone hesitated and shook his head sadly. “He brought us a brand-new basketball because ours wasn’t any good no more.”

  “Did the defendant ever play basketball with you?”

  Tyrone looked over at Johnson, this time with disdain. “No. He said basketball was just another way for white men to get rich off of black men.”

  “Did Officer Tony have that same attitude?”

  “No.” Tyrone smiled. “He said he was going to come watch me play in Madison Square Garden when I’m playing for the Knicks.”

  “But first you’re going to play ball in college?”

  “My grandma says she’ll tan my hide if I don’t graduate from college,” Tyrone said, smiling at Nevie Butler as the spectators and courtroom staff laughed. “So I guess I’ll have to go.”

  “Might be good to have a fallback,” Karp said. His face grew serious. “I know this is going to be hard on you, but I need you to tell the jury what happened that early evening when Officer Tony Cippio started to leave the park after playing basketball with you.”

  Tears welled in Tyrone’s eyes, but he sighed and did as asked, stopping to answer Karp’s queries during the narrative, such as when he got to the part where he’d warned the officer about the men on the picnic table.

  “And you said you described Nat X to Officer Cippio and to me as tall and skinny with a scar over his right eye.” Karp showed a photograph to Tyrone and asked him to identify the person depicted.

  “It’s him,” Tyrone said, pointing at Johnson. “You see the scar above his eye?”

  “Have you seen this photograph before?” Karp asked.

  “Yes, you showed it and some other photos of men to me. You asked me if I could identify the man who shot Officer Tony.”

  “And did you do that?”

  “Yes, I picked that photograph.”

  “About when was that?” Karp asked. “Was there some sort of event that happened to fix the time in your mind?”

  “Yes, it was after you got shot. I remember that.”

  “So almost two months after Officer Cippio was shot?”

  Tyrone shrugged. “I guess. I know summer was over and I was back in school.”

  “And did I ask you to identify the man you saw shoot Officer Tony on another occasion?”

  “Yes, sir. Me and my grandma and Maurice all came down to the jail. First me and then Maurice went into that little room and looked through the glass into another room at some men standing against a wall. They each were holding up a number. You said it was a one-way mirror and that we could see them but they couldn’t see us.”

  “And did you identify the man you knew as Nat X from that lineup?” Karp asked.

  “I knew him right away,” Tyrone said.

  The teen grew more emotional as he described seeing the confrontation between Tony Cippio and the men who got up from the picnic table. “I knew there was going to be trouble,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “I told him not to go near them. I told him they didn’t like police officers.”

  “What happened, Tyrone?” Karp asked as he leaned on the jury rail.

  Tyrone was silent for a full minute, wiping at the tears in his eyes. But when he looked up at Johnson, it was with hatred. “He shot him. He just shot him to death,” the teen said angrily.

  “Who shot Officer Tony Cippio?” Karp asked for emphasis.

  “HIM!” Tyrone yelled, rising partly from his seat as he pointed a damning finger at Johnson, who glared malevolently.

  For the second time that day, Karp walked over and poured the witness a glass of water. Tyrone had reacted exactly as he’d hoped, but now he wanted to settle him down.

  He turned to the judge. “Your Honor, for demonstration purposes, I would ask that Assistant District Attorney Kenny Katz be allowed to assume the role of the victim. And that the witness be allowed to leave the stand for this presentation.”

  “Very well,” Kershner said.

  “Mr. Katz, if you would,” Karp said, directing his co-counsel to the center of the court. He turned back to Tyrone and asked him to approach. They’d gone over it in his office so that Tyrone would know where to go.

  “You’ve testified that Big George stepped in front of Officer Tony. So if I’m Big George and Mr. Katz is Officer Tony and he’s facing me, where was the defendant?”

  Tyrone stepped up behind Katz. “Right here.”

  “So demonstrate how the defendant shot the officer, please.”

  Tyrone raised his arm and pointed his finger at Katz’s back. “BANG!” he yelled, loud enough to make some of the jurors jump.

  Katz pitched forward and fell onto his face, then tried to rise.

  “After Officer Tony fell to the ground, what happened?” Karp continued.

  Tyrone stepped forward and grabbed Katz by the shoulder and turned him over. “Officer Tony sort of held his hand up and I think he was saying something, but I couldn’t hear.”

  “What did the defendant do then?”

  Tyrone again raised his hand and, standing over Katz’s prone figure, pointed his finger at his victim’s head and pulled the imaginary trigger. “BANG!” he yelled. “He shot Tony again in the head.”

  Katz fell back and lay still. The impact of the demonstration was so vivid the courtroom was dead quiet.

  “You may return to your seat,” Karp told Tyrone. “And you, too, Mr. Katz.”

  The jury was rapt now and hanging on Karp’s every word, their eyes following him as he walked over to the prosecution table, where he picked up a paper bag. He returned to the witness stand. “Were you able to see the type of gun the defendant pointed at Officer Tony?”

  “Yes, it was a revolver.”

  “Any particular color?”

  “Silver.”

  “Was there anything else you noticed about the gun?”

  “Yes, it had a shiny sort of white-silver handle on it.”

  “How could you tell that?”

  “Because when Officer Tony was facing Big George, Nat X pulled up the back of his sweatshirt and I could see it sticking up out of his pants. And then again when he pulled it out and when he ran past us.”

  Karp reached into the bag and pulled out the stainless steel, .45 caliber revolver with the mother-of-pearl grip taken from defendant Anthony Johnson in San Francisco. “Did it look like this gun?”

  “Yes, it looked like that gun.”

  Karp replaced the gun in the bag and set it back on the prosecut
ion table. “Is there any doubt in your mind that the men you walked past when you arrived at the park—whom you identified as Nat X, Big George, and an associate of theirs—were the same men who confronted Officer Tony?”

  “They were the same guys.”

  Returning one last time to the witness stand, Karp asked, “What did you do after you saw the defendant shoot Officer Tony twice, once when standing behind him and again in the head while Officer Tony lay defenseless on the ground?”

  “I ran over to see if I could help. I held his head until the black policeman got there.”

  “Was Officer Tony still alive?”

  “He was making some sounds like he was trying to breathe,” Tyrone said, and stifled a sob. “Then he died.”

  As Tyrone cried, Karp looked at the judge. “No further questions.”

  Judge Kershner was silent for a moment and had to clear her throat before she asked Nash if she wanted to cross-examine the teen. The defense attorney seemed unsure at first but then gathered herself and walked swiftly to the witness stand.

  “Good afternoon, Tyrone. May I call you Tyrone, since the DA did?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Nash smiled, though grimly. Karp knew she had to limit her questions; after all, her contention was that her client wasn’t even present at the murder. So all she could challenge was Tyrone’s identification as far as the scene and his conversations with Nat X, which is where she started.

  “Did this Nat X ever try to get you to shoot a police officer?” she asked.

  Tyrone shook his head. “No, he said we were at war with whites and the police were soldiers. And that we had to protect ourselves and our community. But he didn’t say, ‘Tyrone, go shoot a policeman.’ ”

  “How far were you from the men sitting on the picnic table?” she asked.

  “Pretty far.”

  “How far is pretty far?”

  “I don’t know,” Tyrone said, frowning.

  “Well, the size of a football field, one hundred yards?” Nash asked.

  Tyrone thought about it, then shook his head. “No, not that far. Maybe twenty yards?”

  Nash smiled. “That’s a pretty good guess. What if I told you it was about twenty-five?”

  “I guess,” Tyrone said with a shrug.

  “The man that you claim was my client, Mr. Johnson, you said he was wearing a sweatshirt,” Nash said. “Was it a hoodie type of sweatshirt?”

  “Yes. A black hoodie sweatshirt.”

  “And was he wearing the hood up or down?”

  “Up.”

  “So this man you say you saw shoot the police officer from a distance of twenty-five yards, he was wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood up covering his face?”

  “Not all of his face. And I saw him when I walked by before the shooting.”

  “And did you then watch him the whole time you were playing basketball?”

  Tyrone scrunched up his face. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean did you ever take your eyes off of the man you first saw on the picnic table?”

  “Um, I guess I didn’t watch him the whole time.”

  “So someone else could have taken his place?”

  “Objection,” Karp said, rising to his feet. “Sheer speculation, Your Honor, with no supporting evidence.”

  “Overruled, Mr. Karp,” Kershner said. “I’ll allow it.”

  “He was wearing the same black hoodie,” Tyrone said.

  “How do you know? Have you ever seen anyone else wearing a black hoodie?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so. But he was with Big George.”

  “Is it possible that Big George sometimes associated with other men who might wear black hoodie sweatshirts—?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Please wait for me to ask you another question, Tyrone,” Nash said sternly. “Now, did this Nat X ever show you a silver gun with a shiny handle?”

  “No.”

  “So he never talked about killing cops and he never showed you this gun?”

  “No.”

  “I see. And the next day you went to the district attorney’s office and that’s where this whole story was put together, right?”

  “No,” Tyrone said. “I knew what happened that night. You’re twisting things around.”

  “Am I? Or is it the DA who twisted things around, put words in your mouth?”

  “No, that’s not what happened!”

  “And these photographs you supposedly picked out of lineups, they were shown to you by Mr. Karp as well, weren’t they?”

  Again the youth looked at Karp, who couldn’t offer any help. “Yes, he showed them to me.”

  “And lo and behold, you picked out the photographs of my client, a black activist who talked to you about the black liberation movement but never once talked about killing police officers or showed you that gun you just identified?”

  “I saw what I saw,” Tyrone said defiantly.

  “Yes, of course you did,” Nash said, “which was exactly what the district attorney wanted you to see! No further questions.”

  “Mr. Karp, redirect?” Kershner asked.

  “Absolutely,” Karp said, striding out into the courtroom and then up to the defense table, where he loomed over the attorney and her client. He pointed so that the end of his finger was close enough to Johnson that the defendant could have grabbed it if he dared.

  “Tyrone, is this the man you saw shoot Officer Tony Cippio in the back and then in the head with a silver-colored revolver?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sure of it.”

  “Thank you,” Karp said. “No further questions.”

  20

  THE MOUSY LITTLE MAN WITH the bad comb-over and wearing a dark suit, narrow tie, and starched white shirt straight out of the 1950s peered through his Coke-bottle eyeglasses at the paperwork Karp had just handed him on the witness stand. He looked up. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

  Dr. Sherman Offendahl looked the part of a mild, bookwormish scientist. However, Espy Jaxon had assured Karp that when it came to DNA expertise, the lead geneticist with the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory was a “giant in the field.”

  “I had to call in some favors to get this guy on board,” Jaxon had explained months earlier to Karp. “He’s respected throughout the world, and above reproach, as is the Armed Forces Lab. So much so that some of the top labs regularly ask him to review their methods and discuss the latest technology with their people.”

  Karp started the DNA testimony when court convened the next morning by calling Jaxon to the stand to quickly run through the events leading to his request to find a laboratory apart from the NYPD lab to test the touch DNA samples taken from the shirt of Tony Cippio. He’d expected Jaxon to take the samples to the FBI lab in Quantico, but his friend decided to use the Armed Forces facility.

  Karp limited his questioning of Jaxon to establishing the chain of custody for the evidence. That included showing him the returned samples of the material he’d given the agent several days after the Cippio shooting.

  “Agent Jaxon, are those your initials on the sample cards?” Karp asked.

  Jaxon examined the documents and nodded. “They are.”

  Karp entered them as People’s Exhibit 58. Nash hadn’t even bothered to look at the documents and didn’t object.

  “Agent Jaxon, did I explain why I asked for federal assistance with DNA testing in this case?”

  “I believe that there was some concern on your part because the victim was a New York police officer, and that given today’s political climate, you wanted a second opinion, so to speak, on the evidence of whatever the NYPD crime lab reported so that there would be no question as to the legitimacy of the results. I requested that the Armed Forces Laboratory test the samples to avoid any such potential conflicts.”

  Nash declined to cross-examine Jaxon. As the agent stepped down from the witness stand, Karp glanced at Katz, who raised an eyebrow, smiled, and went ba
ck to making notes on a legal pad.

  Karp then called Offendahl to the witness stand. After the judge accepted the man as an expert in the field of DNA, the district attorney handed him the reports. The scientist examined them and announced he was prepared to answer questions.

  Karp began by asking him to first define DNA and what was meant by a “DNA profile.”

  “Ah, yes, well,” Offendahl began, “DNA is short for deoxyribonucleic acid. Without going into a lot of scientific terminology, it is the genetic material that determines the makeup of all living cells, and many viruses. It is passed down from parents, who each contribute fifty percent, to a child. It is unique to an individual, except in the case of identical twins, who share the exact same genetic makeup. A so-called DNA profile are the small variations between unrelated individuals, which is why a profile is as unique as a fingerprint.”

  “Is DNA profiling absolute?” Karp asked.

  Offendahl thought about it for a moment. “Sometimes we are asked to test genetic material that is degraded, such as over time or exposure to, say, sunlight or radiation. In that case, we sort of hedge our bets and offer a range, such as the likelihood of two people sharing the same profile to, say, one in a million or, as in the case of the samples I was asked to test for your office, one in a billion.”

  “Has there been much in the way of changes to the science of DNA profiling over the years, particularly the amount of genetic material necessary for accurate testing?” Karp asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Offendahl nodded. “DNA testing was first developed in the mid-1980s, and like any new science went through a period of growth and improvement. Right up until the mid to late 1990s, quite a sizable amount, comparatively, of genetic material—such as a large blood smear—was required. As time went on, however, techniques and technology both improved, and by the late 1990s that amount might need only be a drop of blood.”

  “And has the science continued to progress?” Karp asked.

  “Indeed,” Offendahl replied, obviously enjoying having an audience. “Modern-day DNA profiling, called STR analysis, is a very sensitive technique that requires only the tiniest speck of blood or saliva, even a hair root or a few skin cells.”