Barnett, Hightower had been arrested only minutes after Barnett himself, though for possession, rather than sale.
Finding Hightower’s papers in the courthouse turned out to be a bit tricky, because they’d been sealed. The No Public Record stamp on the file could mean only one of three things, Jaywalker knew. First, that Hightower had been a juvenile or a youth, and Jaywalker knew he’d been neither. Second, that his case had ended with a dismissal or an acquittal. Or third, that he’d been convicted, but only of a
So he found a friendly clerk he’d known for years, gave him a sob story, and convinced the guy to look the other way for a few minutes. The clerk was taking a chance, but not all that much of one. Had they been caught, he knew Jaywalker would have taken the weight, explaining that he’d swiped the file without the clerk’s knowledge. The clerk knew this because that’s exactly the kind of thing Jaywalker had done in the past, whenever one of his little capers had been discovered. Even as it had led to a few of Jaywalker’s overnights at Rikers Island, it explained his reputation as a stand-up guy who could be trusted if the shit were to hit the fan.
One of the things Jaywalker always looked for in a court file was a photograph of the defendant. He liked to put a face on things. When he found Hightower’s mug shot, two things immediately jumped out at him. First, the guy wasn’t much to look at. Second, he’d never win a best-dressed contest, not in his stained and ratty blue denim work shirt.
So much for first impressions.
According to the file, Hightower had indeed been arrested on October 5, 1984. It seemed that he’d walked right into the middle of things, not realizing that the three or four guys in plainclothes surrounding Barnett were handcuffing him and reading him his rights. Jaywalker already knew this, having heard it from Barnett, who’d explained that Hightower had walked over intending to hit Barnett up for some of the money left over from the transaction, just as he had after the second one. Hightower had been promptly rewarded for his greed by being stood up against a wall and searched, and the search had revealed a tinfoil packet containing a small amount of white powder.
Jaywalker continued combing through the file until he found the lab report. Unlike the drugs bought and seized from Barnett, which had been delivered to the United States Chemist for analysis, Hightower’s tinfoil packet had been considered no big deal and had therefore been taken to the NYPD’s lab. There, according to the report, it had been found to contain heroin, as well as lactose and dextrose-two sugars commonly used as additives-and quinine. Because the total weight had come to just under a tenth of an ounce, less than the eighth-of-an-ounce threshold required for a felony, Hightower had been charged with only a misdemeanor. Still, it could have cost him up to a year in jail, as well as a violation of his parole. But luckily for him, he’d been permitted to plead down to disorderly conduct, a violation, receiving the maximum permissible sentence of fifteen days, which by that time he’d already served. Jaywalker looked through the papers, hunting for the name of the judge who’d been so kind as to approve such a generous plea bargain: Robert H. Straub, Criminal Court Judge.
Now, if Shirley Levine was a plus fifteen on a scale of leniency, Ronald Straub was a minus twenty. Which explained why he’d handed out the longest sentence he possibly could, but not why he’d gone along with the plea arrangement in the first place. That, Jaywalker knew, could only have been due to the urging of whatever A.D.A. had stood up on the case: Jonathan Hillebrand, Assistant District Attorney.
Jaywalker knew better than to question Judge Straub about the matter. He no doubt had been dealing with a calendar of over a hundred cases that day, and a year and a half later could hardly be expected to remember a plea that had probably taken two minutes at most. Besides, Straub might become curious about how Jaywalker had learned the disposition of a case that was supposed to have been sealed.
Jonathan Hillebrand was another matter. Jaywalker found him in one of the Criminal Court trial parts. He was a regular assistant, not in Special Narcotics like Daniel Pulaski. Which made sense, since Pulaski’s office took only felonies, and Hightower’s case had been a misdemeanor.
Not surprisingly, Hillebrand had no recollection of the matter. “It wasn’t my case,” he told Jaywalker, adding that he might have remembered the name had it been. “The way it works,” he explained, “is that I get handed a bunch of files in the morning. Each one has a note on it from the assigned assistant, telling me to answer ready for trial or ask for an adjournment, and if there’s an offer, what it is. The case you’re asking me about must have had a note saying to offer the defendant a violation and fifteen days.”
And the thing was, Jaywalker knew from experience that that was exactly how it worked.
Nor did he do any better when he tracked down the assistant whose case it
“But the guy was on parole.”
She shrugged her shoulders and said, “What can I tell you? I must not have noticed that. Or maybe he didn’t have enough time left on his parole for it to matter.”
In other words, Clarence Hightower had simply lucked out. He’d managed to slip through a small crack in a big system. It happened.
Still, Hightower was all Jaywalker had at this point. If Alonzo Barnett insisted on going to trial so that he could tell a jury he’d done someone a favor, the least Jaywalker could do was locate the guy he’d done the favor for, put him on the witness stand and have him corroborate the fact. It might not add up to a legal defense, but it might win some sympathy points with a jury. And from there, who knew? Stranger things had happened.
So Jaywalker put on his investigator’s hat and spent the next three days trying to find Clarence Hightower.
And struck out.
The address listed on the court papers turned out to be a nonexistent one. Ditto the one Hightower had given the Department of Corrections at Rikers Island. Jaywalker tried the phone book, the unlisted directory, Social Security, Internal Revenue, the Motor Vehicle Bureau, the Department of Social Services. He even checked to see if by any chance Hightower had applied for a barber’s license, as Barnett had tried to do. He hadn’t. As a last resort, using a public phone, Jaywalker called the Division of Parole up in Albany.
“This is Detective Kelly,” he told the woman who answered. “Manhattan North Homicide Squad, shield 5620.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
So far, so good.
“I need to know who’s supervising a particular parolee,” he explained, furnishing her Hightower’s full name and NYSIS number, which he’d made a point of copying down from the court papers.
“Hold, please.”
It took a few minutes, during which Jaywalker kept an eye out. He knew all about call tracing and GPS technology, and he didn’t want any real cops sneaking up on him and arresting him for criminal impersonation of a police officer. A felony was the last thing he needed on his record.
But no cops sneaked up.
“That supervision has been terminated,” the woman told him.
“When?”
“December 12 of 1985. Last year.”
Which struck Jaywalker as a bit strange. Hadn’t Barnett told him that Hightower had been doing ten-to- twenty at Green Haven? Released in 1984, he would have still owed the state four or five years, at a minimum.
“Can you give me the name of the last PO who supervised him?” Jaywalker asked.
“I’m not supposed to,” she told him. “Not on a closed case.”
“Look,” said Jaywalker gently, but not too gently. “I’ve got two dead kids I’m working on here, a four-year-old and a one-year-old. Both of them mutilated.” Hey, if you were going to lie, might as well make it a big one.
“Anunziatta,” she told him. “Ralph Anunziatta.”
“Got a phone number, by any chance?”
“Try 212-555-2138.”
“Thank you.”
