‘We have,’ said the jury foreman.
PART ONE
SISTERS
Three Months Earlier
911 Call Transcript
Incident Number: 19 – 269851
October 5, 2018, 23:35:24
Time: 23:35:24
Dispatcher: New York City 911, do you need police, fire or medical?
Caller: I need police and ambulance. Right now!
Dispatcher: What’s the address?
Caller: 152 Franklin Street. Please hurry, she stabbed him and she’s coming upstairs.
Dispatcher: Someone has been stabbed in the house?
Caller: Yes, my father. Oh my god, I can hear her on the stairs.
Dispatcher: I’ve got NYPD and EMS on the way. Where are you in the house? Where is your father?
Caller: He’s on the second floor. Master bedroom. There’s blood everywhere. I’m … I’m in the bathroom. It’s my sister. She’s still here. I think she has a knife. Oh God [inaudible].
Dispatcher: Stay calm. Have you locked the door?
Caller: Yes.
Dispatcher: Are you injured?
Caller: No, I’m not hurt. But she’s going to kill me. Please get them here fast. I need help. Please hurry …
Dispatcher: They’re coming. Stay down. If you can, brace your feet against the door. Okay, you should be safe. Take a breath, the police are on their way. Stay calm and stay quiet. What’s your name?
Caller: Alexandra Avellino.
Dispatcher: What is your father’s name?
Caller: Frank Avellino. It’s my sister, Sofia, she’s finally gone full fucking crazy. She ripped him to pieces … she [inaudible]
Dispatcher: Is there more than one bathroom? Which one are you in?
Caller: The en suite in the master bedroom. I think I hear her. She’s in the bedroom. Oh Jesus …
Dispatcher: Stay quiet. You’re going to be fine. NYPD are only a few blocks away. Stay on the line.
Caller: [inaudible]
Dispatcher: Alexandra … Alexandra? Are you still there?
Call ended 23:37:58
911 Call Transcript
Incident Number: 19 – 269851
October 5, 2018; 23:36:14
Time: 23:36:14
Dispatcher: New York City 911, do you need police, fire or medical?
Caller: Police and paramedic. My dad’s dying! I’m at 152 Franklin Street. Daddy! Daddy, please stay with me … he’s been attacked. He needs a paramedic.
Dispatcher: What is your name?
Caller: Sofia. Sofia Avellino, fuck, I don’t know what to do. There’s so much blood.
Dispatcher: Your father’s been attacked? Is he in the house?
Caller: He’s in the bedroom. She did this. It was her … [inaudible]
Dispatcher: Is there someone else in the house? Are you in a safe place?
Caller: I think she’s gone. Please get someone here, I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.
Dispatcher: Is your father bleeding? If he is, try and press on the wound with a cloth or towel. Keep pressure on it. The police should be outside any second. I see there’s another call from the property.
Caller: What? Someone else called you?
Dispatcher: Is there someone else in the house?
Caller: Oh my god! It’s Alexandra. She’s in the bathroom. I can see her shadow beneath the door. Shit! She’s right there! I have to get out. She’ll kill me. Please help me, please … [screaming]
Call ended 23:38:09
ONE
EDDIE
I hate lawyers.
Most of them. In fact, nearly all of them with only a few notable exceptions. My mentor, Judge Harry Ford, and a few old-timers who hung around the Manhattan Criminal Court buildings like ghosts at their own funerals. When I was operating long cons in my late teens, I knew a lot more lawyers than I do now. Most lawyers were easy to con because they were dishonest.
Never thought I would be one of them. The business card in my hip pocket read ‘Eddie Flynn, Attorney’.
If my father, a gifted conman in his own right, had lived to see this day, he would’ve been ashamed. I could’ve been a boxer, or a con artist, or a pick-pocket, or even a bookie. He would look at his son, the lawyer, and shake his head and wonder where he’d gone wrong as a parent.
The main problem is that lawyers tend to think of themselves more than their clients. They start off full of good intentions: they saw To Kill A Mockingbird, maybe even read Harper Lee’s book too, and they want to grow up to be Atticus Finch. They want to represent the little guy. David and Goliath stuff. Then they realize they won’t make a decent living in that line of work, that their clients are all guilty, and even if they do write a speech worthy of Atticus, the judge isn’t gonna listen to a goddamn word they say.
Those that are wise enough to know it was a pipe dream to begin with figure out they need to join a big firm, work their asses off and try to make partner before their first heart attack. In other words, they figure out that the law is a business. And business is booming for some.
Standing outside 16 Ericcson Place, I was reminded of how much money big-time criminal lawyers made. This was the address for NYPD’s First Precinct. The parking bays outside, usually reserved for patrol vehicles, had been taken by a fleet of expensive German engineering. I counted five Mercedes, nine BMWs and a Lexus.
There was something going down inside.
The entrance to the precinct was by way of blue and white painted mahogany doors with iron studs punctuating each ornate panel. This led to the TSO’s desk, and beyond, the duty sergeant’s booking desk. That’s where I saw the argument in full flow. A plain-clothes detective in a yellow shirt was sticking his finger in Sergeant Bukowski’s face while maybe a dozen lawyers on the other side of the desk argued among themselves in the waiting area. The waiting area wasn’t more than twenty feet long by ten feet wide, with yellow tile on the wall. The tile could’ve been white at one stage, but cops smoked a lot in the seventies and eighties.
Bukowski called me twenty minutes ago. Said I needed to get down here fast. There was a case. A big one. That meant I owed Bukowski Knicks tickets. We had an arrangement. If something juicy came across his desk, he called me. Only problem was Bukowski wasn’t the only cop in the precinct on the take, and judging by the crowd of lawyers, word must’ve gotten around.
‘Bukowski,’ I said.
He was a butter-ball of muscle, body hair and fat in NYPD navy blues. Ceiling lights caught the sweat on top of his bald head as he turned, winked at me and then blithely told the detective to take his finger out of his face or he would insert it somewhere in the detective’s mother. I didn’t listen to the details.
‘I’ve had enough, Bukowski. They get one minute each with the suspect. That’s it. After that she picks her lawyer and we go straight to interview. You got it?’ said the detective in the yellow shirt.
‘That’s fine with me. Seems fair. I can handle that. Go get some coffee for half an hour. Or call your mother, tell her I’ll be by when my shift’s over.’
The detective stepped back, nodding continually at Bukowski before swiveling on his heel and making his way through the steel door at the back of the waiting room.
Bukowski addressed the crowd of lawyers in front of him like he was a bingo caller explaining the rules. ‘Now, here’s what’s going to happen. Each one of you pricks takes a number, when I call it out you got a minute with the suspect. She don’t sign your retainer, you’re out of here. Got it? That’s the best I can do.’