False Witness (24 page)

All Police Department and Fire Department days off and vacations were canceled and both departments were automatically put on an overtime basis. The official policy that Saturday night was to contain, rather than control; do not engage directly; do not provoke. In cop-parlance: let ’em have their fucking free color TVs; the welfare ’ud give it to ’em anyway; nothing to lose
my
balls over.

On Sunday, Regg Morris appeared as one of the guests on a half-hour, midday live
Black Voice
television program. His passion and anger, his pity and heartbreak were marvelously controlled and genuine. To a point. The point being in his declaration that the “murder of Jewel Brown, black-child, black-girl-child, is part and parcel, of a line with the white establishment’s plan for the annihilation of the peoples of the Third World.”

As he made his accusations, he held up the poster of the bright-eyed third-grader and described the child as though she had never grown up and acted out her own rage and anger and violence and destruction. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear that Jewel Brown had stood, an unarmed eight-year-old, before the onslaught of the white man’s guns.

Regg Morris was careful not to put to rest the story that the Hasidim-police were,
in fact,
Hasidic Jews. When his host, rather shaken by Morris’s insinuation, interjected the fact of the police decoys, he was met with one of Regg’s best, coldest stares, the exasperated shrug of well-tailored shoulders and then the comment, “Well, you believe what they
tell
you to believe, I’ll believe what
I
believe.”

Before the half-hour was over, Regg Morris issued a warning, neither veiled nor disguised: the days when the Jewish power structure can take to the streets and, with perfect protection, security and official backing, in cold blood, murder black women and black girl-children is over. Be warned. Regg Morris faced directly into the cameras and asked, his voice acid and deadly, “And where is the
Jewish assailant
of Sanderalee Dawson? Where is the
Zionist-lunatic
who has so far succeeded in silencing the voice, but never the spirit, of the newly acknowledged and universally loved spokeswoman of the Palestinian people’s plight and of the plight of the peoples of the Third World?”

Thus saying, Regg Morris departed. Even I had trouble listening to the followup guests: civic leaders, black, white, Jew and Gentile; Police Department spokesmen; Hasidic spokesmen (Jews carry guns under their prayer shawls? Well, I ask you? The man is mad. Dangerous and mad).

Street rallies were held in various strategic parks, well covered by the media and well attended by both blacks and whites in an attempt to cool things down. Eventually, everything served to heat things up to boiling.

The clergy, both black and white, demanded an investigation and an explanation: Why was it necessary to pump eight bullets into this child’s helpless body? Will the officers involved face Grand Jury proceedings? Would the matter be, as always, whitewashed, glossed-over, filed away as this child Jewel Brown is “filed away” in her grave as just another incidence of police overkill?

The clergy did state that no actual Hasidic Jew had been involved in the shooting: they were “decoy cops” and that of course was another problem. The question of entrapment was examined rather broadly at the open-air rallies.

“Why aren’t medicated darts of some kind used in instances such as this terrible thing? Wouldn’t that be better than shooting eight deadly bullets into the body of a helpless child? Such darts are used to subdue wild animals, with much success and no harm.”

This question was asked by a well-meaning but luckless young white minister from a wealthy, liberal, politically activist Upper East Side church. His suggestion was greeted with fury by the black clergy, who were in no mood for an unfortunate choice of words. A black child had been placed in the same category as a wild animal. That’s how they see us, ultimately, isn’t it? Wild animals!

The suggestion caused a predictable breakdown in further communication among groups who were basically in sympathy with one another.

The street violence Sunday night involved more than the burning and looting and destruction of property.

The Jewish Defense League took to the streets and were joined by a large group of sturdy young men who called themselves “Concerned Citizens of Little Italy.” It wasn’t long before they all found opportunities to display their concern in face-to-face, baseball-bat-and-brick to chain-and-knife confrontations.

Whites were assaulted randomly and brutally wherever encountered by roving black street gangs in the theater district and around Times Square. Subways were declared unsafe in the off-hours and there was a distinct shortage of taxicabs in troubled areas.

Earlier in the evening, the Mayor tried a face-to-face visit with various groups of people. However, his being an argumentative rather than a pacifying personality, he quickly alienated even people who agreed with him. His chief aides, reinforced by the Police Commissioner, prevailed upon his good sense and all breathed easier when he finally consented to return to his office.

The orders to the Police Department were carefully changed but rigid in one respect: take control but
do not provoke.
Which is a pretty good order to issue from a wide antique desk and on contemplation of “trouble spots” that are identified by the color of the pin stuck in the map. But the city was determined, and rightfully so, in my opinion, to contain the situation without calling in the National Guard, which had been put on standby at the order of the Governor.

The first “round-up” types of arrest were being made in what previously had been considered the more stable sections of the city. Cheering the police on, with clenched fists of anger rather than support aimed in the general direction of the looters, were the heartsick black merchants who, within a matter of hours, had seen their small, expensive, stylish and highly mortgaged little shops swept away in the arms of grinning youths who were not only surprised but furious to find themselves, empty-handed, shoved into police wagons.

In Crown Heights, arrests were made selectively among the busted skulls and the skull-busters. Black and white together, youths were snatched, spun around, frisked, disarmed and shoved yelling, all-in-together, on top of each other or sideways or any other way, into the wagon or up the steps of the precinct. Young blacks deprived of the pointed, deadly looking Afro-combs demanded that the Jews be deprived of their yarmulkes: “They got long pins in their hats, man, can split your throat open.” The young Jewish Defense Leaguers, who did indeed sport the longest, thickest, sharpest hatpins ever seen, swore their religion was being interfered with and yelled First Amendment.

Young attorneys from activist organizations and middle-aged sorrowful-looking family lawyers as well as district leaders, black and white, reporters, photographers, cameramen, all met and mixed in whirling arguments, pleas, threats, demands, confrontations, pushing, shoving, knocking-down and knocking-over action. It was hard to know who was actually in custody and who was there to speak on behalf of those confined. The only absolute police instruction was not to have blacks and whites cohabit: no murder within the precinct house, things were tough enough.

The only people who had sense enough to maintain a low, quiet profile, to make remote observations on the rolling anger all around them, were the professional thieves who had been caught in the general net and hoped to get tossed out with the rest of them when things quieted down.

W
E WERE REMOTE FROM
all the street action, members of my Squad and I, although we kept up to date via telephone, radio and television. We had spent the entire weekend putting together—or examining—the case against Dr. David Cohen. The District Attorney had instructed me to prepare the case for Grand Jury presentation “as soon as possible.”

By late Sunday afternoon, what we had, more or less, made us decide to charge Dr. David Cohen with attempted murder, atrocious assault, dismemberment, assault with a deadly weapon, rape, sodomy, and whatever else might stick. To this end, we had assembled:

Sanderalee Dawson’s detailed accusation;

Statement by Timothy Doyle that the running shoes we had confiscated under our search warrant were “similar to” the shoes he had seen on the feet of the man who had accompanied the plaintiff on the night of the attack;

Statement by Timothy Doyle that to the best of his recollection Sanderalee Dawson was not limping on the night of the attack;

Lab report to the effect that a tiny, almost microscopic thread of blue mohair found on the sleeve of one of David Cohen’s navy blue running suits was very similar to the mohair [angora] with which Sanderalee’s scarf was knit (they gave a complicated point-by-point system of comparison); possible but not conclusive one way or the other;

Lab report to the effect that all three of Dr. Cohen’s navy blue miracle-fabric running suits had recently been laundered; detergent used: Tide. Two of the suits were taken from his apartment; one from his cottage in East Hampton; no trace of blood found on any of the three;

Lab report to the effect that there were no traces of blood on any of the six (three pairs) of custom-made running shoes (two pairs from apartment; one pair from East Hampton);

Further examination of these shoes indicated that a special built-up arch and hidden elevation was constructed in the right shoe (to compensate for Dr. Cohen’s polio-shortened leg); as with the running suits, it would appear that the meticulous doctor was in the habit of rotating his running shoes;

Note: Sam Hendrikson has contacted manufacturer of these special orthopedically designed running shoes for further information.

There was one other possibly significant piece of information provided by Jim Barrow’s man. Sam had visited the microsurgery class taught by Dr. David Cohen and his report was very interesting.

“Out of a total of fourteen people interviewed relative to Dr. Cohen’s account of how he received the injury to his left cheek, four stated, unequivocally, that they had actually seen the accident and the injury occur. Three did not see anything; they arrived as Dr. Cohen, clutching a handkerchief to his face, was rushed to the Emergency Room.

“But seven of the ‘witnesses to the event’ stated that on careful consideration they had
not actually seen
the accident, which appeared to have occurred right before their eyes. These witnesses are very intelligent and analytical young physicians and, in sum, what each of them stated to the undersigned is as follows (note—individual signed statements of these three attached hereto):

“Dr. Cohen entered the room very quickly as the class settled in. Usually, he was already at his desk, preparing his notes for the lecture. On the date in question, however, he entered rapidly, his right profile to the class. As he reached the desk, Dr. Cohen appeared to have slipped. There was a thudding sound at the corner of his desk and it was the distinct impression of at least seven of these witnesses that the ‘thud’ was caused by Dr. Cohen’s slapping the desk with the flat of his hand rather than with the side of his face. Dr. Cohen disappeared for a moment, under the desk; general commotion and concern; he emerged, hand to left side of face. Blood was squirting; he pulled out a handkerchief and held it to the wound. Two of the witnesses closest to Dr. Cohen’s desk stated it appeared to them that the handkerchief already had bloodstains on it.

“Dr. Cohen, holding handkerchief to face, kicked out at a flattened yogurt container and stated loudly, ‘I slipped on this damn garbage and hit my face on the edge of this damn desk. Look, the metal edge is exposed. I guess I’d better get this seen to.’ Someone suggested tetanus shots. One of the witnesses examined the desk edge, which did in fact have a rough metal edge exposed. It appeared to have been pried in some manner.

“Dr. Cohen was escorted by several students, including one of these seven, and at the ER he repeated that he had slipped on yogurt container, hit face on exposed metal desk edge. He was given t.a.t shots; two stitches in cheek; class canceled for that day.

“On careful consideration, each of the seven witnesses whose reports are attached herewith state that in some peculiar way, they felt that Dr. Cohen had ‘stage-managed’ the accident. He was immediately taken at his word, and the students proceeded to repeat to each other and to people who asked about the incident later exactly what he had called out to his audience, in almost his identical words. It was the impression—without any substantial grounds—of at least two of Cohen’s students that when he entered the lecture room, he already had a wound on his face, newly opened. They reiterate this is a ‘feeling.’ Careful investigation failed to discover anyone, at all, who remembered seeing Dr. Cohen at any time prior to the ‘accident’ that is described above.

“Efforts continuing.

“Det. Sam Hendrikson, Shield 340432”

All of which gave us something to think about, but wasn’t really of too much use if Dr. Cohen would be able to match us, witness for witness, with people who would verify
his
version of the wounding of his cheek.

Motive of each of the skeptics would have to be examined and they would have to be squeaky clean with no score to settle against Cohen.

From the laboratory came the information that a small—less than a quarter-inch—thread of blue mohair had turned up adhering to the sleeve of Dr. David Cohen’s running jacket. Now that would seem conclusive, establishing his presence in her apartment, right?

Not necessarily.

I asked Bobby Jones, who seemed very willing to defend David Cohen against the guilty appearance of the mohair thread on his running jacket.

It took Bobby about three minutes to alienate everyone in the room. It wasn’t that his argument would hold up, necessarily. It was that he presented it so willingly.

“The mohair thread? Why, Dr. David Cohen arrived at the hospital on the night of the crime and had close physical contact with Sanderalee Dawson, who had, on her own word, been wearing a mohair hat and scarf that night. Some small threads of mohair had very likely adhered to some part of her—her hair, most likely. During his initial physical examination of her, which was not done under sterile conditions, the thread attached itself to Dr. Cohen. To his sleeve, his arm, his head, his neck, whatever. After ten hours of surgery, he returned to his apartment and the practically invisible mohair thread was still on his clothing. He might have hung up his running jacket, or brushed against it, or whatever; the mohair thread floated onto the sleeve of his jacket. A perfectly innocent transference of the dreaded mohair thread.”