CHAPTER ONE: CHANGING TIMES AND WORDS

Construction on the New Courthouse building in Suffolk County, an addition to

a five story courthouse in Pemberton Square, began in the late thirties. When
completed in 1939, this hall of justice reached a height of fifteen stories dwarfing its
neighbors. It was one of two high rise buildings that dominated the skyline of Boston,
the other being the Custom House.
It sat as the symbol of justice on the edge of Beacon Hill and the City's West
End. In its newness it seemed to scowl down on the older neighborhood that
surrounded it, especially the Scollay Square area with its famous burlesque halls, the
Old Howard and Casino, and the hot dog shops like Joe & Nemo’s which provided
sustenance to the many sailors out for a night on the town.
When the New Courthouse stood at its tallest, burlesque in Boston was
entering last days. It continued on through the Second World War and for a few
years after. During that time one could sit on the outside the courthouse in the
evenings in late spring and summer and hear the lilting voices of the high spirited
college students or servicemen singing the bawdy refrains from “I Used To Work In
Chicago” and “Any Ice Today Lady?”
After the war ended, the country felt a compelling need for a new beginning.
World War II with its immense mobilization of men, the unprecedented production of
war goods, and the uncertain struggled against formidable foes left a Maginot Line
across American thinking, there was the pre-war with its lengthy depression and the
present. Things that spoke of the pre-war era were out of favor. A new word came to
the fore: redevelopment. City planners decided to throw out the old and bring on the
new. Swaths, wider than Sherman's, cut through the contiguous older residential
neighborhoods surrounding the courthouse to make way for the newer buildings
extolling the virtues of a powerful government and eager capitalism. Scollay Square
vanished. It was flattened under a red brick expanse of the ugliest building ever
built, the fort-like, hostile, unwelcoming City Hall. The courthouse was encircled and
cut off from view by a new nine story brick building.
The habitués of Scollay Square drifted away. The City lost its night life. The
Scollay square area became a dead zone at night for the remainder of the 20 th
century. At the other end of Washington Street, a site soon to be labeled the Combat
Zone, large bars offering entertainment, opened. The pre-war burlesque which relied
on comedy routines and risqué stories and songs disappeared. A side aspect of
burlesque, the strip tease moved into the bars and lounges. Writhing semi-clad
women and gangsterish looking men replaced youthful and harmless attendees who
enjoyed the foolishness and frolicking of burlesque theatre.
Boston, like the rest of America, was erasing the past and putting on a new
face, botoxing its appearance. The poor, the downtrodden, the push cart vendors,
the rag men, the minimum wage workers were pushed from their affordable,
convenient, downtown homes in the West End by cruel city planners, who took from
the voiceless poor to give to the raucous rich in the name of redevelopment.
The New Courthouse started to take on a shoddy, seedy appearance, the look
of its original neighborhood. It seemed to hide behind these new buildings as if
ashamed of showing its age. But even though it hid, it was found out.
 In 1976 it achieved the ignoble distinction of being a target of a bomb planted
by the new revolutionaries who were fighting against American imperialism. These
radicals noticed their facile discontent by directing their violence from a distance at
the working class, the people they were supposedly liberating. A bomb injured 22
working people. The courthouse damage was timely repaired.
One thing that survived the purging of the old was the judicial machinery and
its mechanics, housed in the New Courthouse who, oversaw the operations of the
Commonwealth's justice system. Here were the true believers in the adage: “the
wheels of justice grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine.” Those who came
within its doors failed to heed Dickens warning: “Suffer any wrong that can be done
to you rather than come here.”
On the sixth floor within this building was the location of offices of District
Attorney Daniel Hooligan. He still dispensed justice in the same way it was done
when the New Courthouse was young and Scollay Square swarmed with squabbling
swabbies. It could be summed up “don’t commit the crime if you can’t do the time.”
It was old time city justice best described by G.K. Chesterton:

“And the horrible thing about all legal officials even

the best, about all judges, magistrates, barristers,
detectives, and policemen, is not that they are wicked
(some of them are quite intelligent); it is simply that
they have gotten used to it. They simply do not see the
prisoner in the dock; all they see is the usual man in
the usual place. They do not see the awful court of
judgment; they see only their own workshop.”

What was not seen by most was at the time I write, was that like the
burlesque and Scollay Square, so too was the old time justice going to disappear,
especially here, in the capitol of the bluest of blue states. This would come about
mainly because of the input of women into the legal system who thought of providing
rights for victims, services to witnesses and protection to other women. Women
lawyers were a new addition to the judicial system in the latter third of the 20th
century.
Opposite the entrance to District Attorney Hooligan’s office was the Grand Jury
room. In that room, Michael "Mucka" Curley, the erstwhile struggling lawyer, now an
earnest assistant district attorney, was speaking to the Grand Jury. "Ladies and
Gentlemen, I'm going to present to you today a request for an indictment against a
person named Jake N. Jake, wherein it is alleged, here, let me read it, ‘he did assault
and beat a person by the name of Edward Roberts, and by said assault and beating
did kill Edward Roberts.’ You will hear evidence which will show that right after the
concert on the Esplanade, last week, the Fourth of July concert by the Pops, which I'm
sure you're all familiar with, Mr. Jake and Mr. Roberts, you’ll hear these people are
what we commonly refer to as street people, had a dispute over who was going to be
with Theresa, another street person. By the way you may hear some testimony
involving a rape, and if you do, I'll discuss that with you if you choose, but there is no
indictment before you for that. But what I was saying is that they had a dispute and
Mr. Jake struck Mr. Roberts over the head with a large rock killing him. He then
dumped the body into the Charles River."
Mucka had been with the DA's office for about four years. The last two and a
half of were spent in the homicide unit prosecuting murder cases. Usually it took
more experience than that to move into the homicide unit, but the low pay and poor
working conditions caused high staff turnover allowing for Mucka’s fast progress. Sort
of like in the military during a war against an equally armed adversary when
promotion speedily arrive as those at the lower levels, who survive, move up to
replace those that are no longer there.
The analogy likening Hooligan's office to a military unit during wartime was
apt in other respects. Hooligan and his senior staff, except for one or two notable
exceptions, sat back like generals far from the fields of combat, issuing vacuous
orders to those expected to implement them. Those carrying out the orders who
survived left the service with little more than a hearty handshake; those at the upper
levels with a hefty retirement.
Hooligan had two sides to him. He had a passionate love of a good laugh who
loved to jest and surrounded himself with jesters going out of his way to avoid
unpleasant experiences. His other side was a strong commitment to fairness, what
was done to one was what he wanted done to all. He was very conservative bending
reluctantly to the new winds blowing against him.
Mucka was hired because of the experience he'd set forth on his resume. He
indicated he'd worked in the Norfolk district attorney’s office for two years. He didn't
mention that it involved no criminal trial work. He worked on a federal grant for
another state agency trying to locate chiselers who were skipping out on child
support payments. He also put down that he'd been gainfully employed in his own
law practice for a half a dozen years prior to that. But he had few clients and what
he had barely provided him with a hand to mouth existence. For all practical
purposes he was inexperienced and probably unemployable prior to signing up with
Hooligan's office but Hooligan, like the generals in war time, expended little time on
checking qualifications because of the overwhelming need for warm bodies to be
constantly flung toward gaps left by the frequent vacancies.
Mucka Curley found a home. He hoped to hang on there for a few years to
improve his skills and reputation. He’d then try to move into a private law firm. After
a few months in the homicide division, he found himself second in seniority. Like
many who look to their external title to determine their worth, this caused him to
develop a bloated opinion of his talents. He'd brag to any willing listener that he
was: "The assistant chief of the most biggest and most important homicide unit in
the United States northeast of New York City."
He was a chunky, slothful fellow hovering around 5' 8" in height who displayed
his deep abjuration of exercise in his ample girth. His dark brown hair of almost
shoulder length always appeared dirty. He covered his countenance with a bushy
beard which hid thin, severe lips. The longish hair, the ample beard and extra weight
were all attributes he'd decided that prominent trial attorneys of days gone by took
upon themselves to gain an upper hand in their cases. He believed these
accouterments gave him a certain aura of respectability and wisdom which enhanced
his credibility in front of juries and judges. He took voice lessons until he developed a
deep sonorous quality to his words. In the courtroom he spoke in a low, soft manner.
The crescendos were saved for those times needed to emphasize a point to the
normally inattentive fact finders.
Mucka's often sweaty brow was now bone dry. This was grand jury time which
was to a prosecutor like a walk in the Public Gardens. The prosecutor could strut his
stuff in front of an audience of one regular and one baker's dozen of dragooned
citizens who listened to the evidence as they would a radio playing background
music, silently and with minimal interest. Their thoughts were on more important
matters as whether they would finish before lunch, and if not, where they would go to
eat. All knew they served no purpose. What they did could be done much better
without them. They participated unwillingly in this mindless exercise that demanded
nothing of them. The judicial mechanics who oversaw the system thought, if they
thought about it at all, that a grand jury was necessary because it was always
thought necessary.
Mucka rambled on telling about the facts. He explicated on the reason why
even though there was a killing involved, he was not seeking an indictment for
murder but one of manslaughter. He all but said he did not bring an indictment for
rape because he did not believe one could or would rape a street person.
If Mucka had his way he would not have been presenting the case at all. The
only evidence he had was the dead body, the statement of Theresa given to
Detective Lieutenant Corrigan, and Theresa herself, with whom he had great difficulty
communicating. He had been tricked into doing the case.
He thought the time spent on prosecuting one hobo for killing another was a
waste the good time and money of the Commonwealth. He wished he could tell the
grand jury that the loss of a hobo was of little concern to him and it should be
likewise to them. But such a statement may have come back to bite him so he took
the safe road.
Mucka rued the day he got involved with the case. It was on the afternoon of
the 5th of July. Cosmo Curtis, the head of the homicide division, walked into his
office. "Mucka, you're next! Aren't you?"
Mucka immediately knew he was referring to the homicide assignments. The
cases were assigned on a rotating basis among all the prosecutors in the unit except
for Cosmo who could pick and choose the cases he wanted to handle. Mucka,
although on the rotating list, had a side deal with Cosmo that allowed him to avoid
handling certain cases that he felt were not up to his self-perceived level of worth.
"Yeah, I'm next. What've you got?"
"I just got a call from Gerry Corrigan. You might have heard they pulled a
body out of the Charles this morning."
"Yeah, I heard something about that on the radio - some cop rescued a guy -
they found a body nearby - I thought that was in Cambridge."
"No, it was over at the Esplanade on the Boston side."
"Oh, so what do you have?"
"Corrigan said Doctor Katter's autopsy showed that the guy they thought had
drowned died of a skull fracture."
"Do they know who he is?"
 "Don't know yet, Mucka, but it could be an OC hit," Cosmo said dissembling.
He knew it was a street person. If he mentioned that, Mucka wouldn't want to handle
the case. Then Cosmo would have to take it to the next prosecutor who'd bitch about
it and say it was Mucka's turn. To save himself aggravation, he thought best to dress
it up a bit. He knew Mucka disdained street people, but that he would bite at the bait
if he mentioned it might involve organized crime. Once he snapped, he was hooked.
Office policy dictated that once a case was assigned, you were stuck with it forever.
"Oh, yeah. I'll give it a go. Give me the file."
"It's all yours, Mucka," Cosmo said as he flipped the file containing a couple of
handwritten notes on his desk and quickly departed.
Mucka looked through the file, saw it contained nothing of value. He picked
up the telephone and called Corrigan. "Gerry! Mucka. What's the story on the body
you pulled out of the Charles?"
"I've just got the autopsy report. It's a definite homicide. You handling it,
Mucka?"
"Yeah, I'll be doing it."
"Good. I think we've got a wrap on this. We've got a witness who has given
me a real good statement."
"That's good, so what do you think?"
"Let me finish up my report and do a few more things. I'll come over with it
later in the day. I think you'll get a better feel for it after you read it."
"All right, when will . . . . "
"I’ll have it for you about five or six.”
"Good. I'll see you then."
Late in the afternoon, Gerry Corrigan walked into Mucka's office with several
pieces of paper in his hands. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, he handed him
the papers indicating that it was the statement of the witness. Mucka took the
papers which contained the interview of Theresa LNU, for last name unknown.
She was portrayed as a lucid, bright, personable young woman who attended
the POPS in celebration of the 4th of July. She made a mistake by lingering in the
area of the Esplanade and was accosted by two men, Jake Jake, Jr and Edward
Roberts. These men appeared at first from all outward indications to present no
threat. She joined them at the edge of the river for a beer. The report of Corrigan’s
interview with her continued:
"'How long did you stay at the river's edge?"
"We were there about fifteen or twenty minutes when the man who called
himself Jake finally left us alone."
"Did he say why he was leaving?"
"I guess he was upset because I was talking to Eddie and he was sort of left
out."
"Did he say anything about that?"
"Yes, A couple of times he said what's wrong with me am I, you know, he said
things like what's wrong with me, am I dirt, you know, things like that."
'Did he leave?'
 'Yes, but before he did, he surprised me by putting his arm around me. I told
him not to do it but he continued. It was then that Eddie grabbed him by the arm
and twisted it behind his back and told him to leave me alone.'
'What happened then.'
'After Eddie did that, Jake got up and said he could tell when he wasn't
wanted. We thought he had left. So we sat and talked for a while and then I said I
wanted to go home and Eddie said he'd walk me to the T. So we got up and we were
still there talking and then he came back and hit him.'
“Who hit who?”
“Jake hit Eddie.”
'All right, after you got up which way were you facing.'
'We were facing the river. I remember that because just before he got hit
Eddie told me to look at some ducks who were swimming past.'
'Did you see Jake hit Eddie?'
'Yes.'
'Tell me what you saw?'
'Something caught my eye. I looked over my shoulder like this and I saw this
Jake guy. He had a big boulder in his both hands. And before I could do or say
anything, I saw him crash it onto Eddie's head. It was awful.'
'Then what happened.'
'As I told you, Eddie fell onto the ground. I just stood there shaking and then
Jake grabbed me and started to grab at me and feelin' me all over.'
'And what happened?'
'He pulled me to the ground and was touching my breasts and private parts
and then he did it.”
“What did he do?”
“You know.”
“You have to tell me so I can write it down.”
“He you know . . . “
“Did he do something with his penis?”
“His what?”
“His penis.”
“He put it in me.”
“Did he climax?”
“What?”
“Did he come?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“What happened then?”
“He got off me.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing, I was afraid to move.”
“What did he do?”
“He started to pull Eddie toward the water. So I got up and ran toward
Storrow Drive and I saw the police officers in the car driving around.'
'Do you know who they were?'
'No, I don't remember their names.'
 'If I said one was Officer Rossi and the other Officer Rumpole, are those
familiar.'
'Yes, those were the men.'"
When Mucka finished reading the statement that seemed to have been taken
by a stenographer, he looked up. "That's a good statement, Gerry. Is the witness as
good as she sounds?"
"She's as good as you get, Mucka, considering. Give me time and I'll make
her into a pro. I can work with her."
"I'd like to talk to her."
"Sure, Mucka."
"The sooner the better Gerry."
"I'll bring her in as soon as I can."
"What about later tonight?"
"I don't think so, Mucka. She's had, as you might have figured, a very trying
day. So, as soon as I can, okay."
"Yeah, that's fine Gerry. Oh, one thing. Why don’t we know her last name?
Why you saying last name unknown?”
Corrigan quickly replied: “She won’t tell us her name right now. But you’ll get
it.”
“Why not?”
“Something about not wanting her family to find out what happened. But
we’ll find it out. You’ll get it as soon as I know it.”
Mucka didn’t like it but he trusted Corrigan so he said, “fine, Gerry.”
Corrigan picked up the papers containing the interview and said: "See you
then!"
"Leave the report, Gerry. I'd like to go over it."
"It's the only one I've got, Mucka."
"Here, I'll make a copy of it."
"That's all right, Mucka. I'll bring one by in the morning," said Corrigan as he
quickly vanished out the door.
Mucka watched the door shut behind him. "That Corrigan sure produces a
nice report," he thought. "Too bad all the cops weren't like him."
What Mucka couldn't know at the time was that the report he'd just read had
little resemblance to the actual happening at the time Theresa was interviewed by
Massachusetts State Police Detective Lieutenant Gerald X. Corrigan.
The frightful beauty of Corrigan's mental process was he never considered
that he was lying by asserting that witnesses told him things which they didn't tell
him. Corrigan believed he had the innate God-given capability to figure out how a
crime occurred and to put the right words together to make up a story, like Mozart
put the right notes to make up a composition. Once he figured out how the crime
happened from examining the physical evidence, the people involved, and the
possible motives, he'd have the witnesses, like in a paint-by-numbers picture, fill in
the outline with the color of their words. When they demurred, or in his mind
fabricated, or encountered difficulty remembering, the word man would fill in the
missing gaps with the appropriate color.
 Corrigan learned how to do this technique from an old-time State Police
Detective Lieutenant, Sean Tunney. He epitomized the practice of patience and
exactitude in the questioning of witnesses. Tunney's technique was to have each
witness brought to a table isolated from the rest of the people present. He'd
laborious write down what each one told him. Time was no object. Each percipient
witness, any possible witness, or any other person who might have the remotest bit
of information received the same deferential treatment.
After long hours of interviewing individuals, page after page of handwritten
notes, Tunney would leave the scene and find a quiet location where he could dictate
his interviews onto a tape. Thereafter the tape would be transcribed. Tunney's
questions and the witnesses answers would appear on paper in quotes. It looked to
all who read them that a stenographer was present during the interview and recorded
verbatim each word which was uttered.
Tunney's report of interviews were the standard by which all others were
judged. The words of the questions and answers entombed in quotes were as
permanent as those inscribed on the holy scrolls that Moses carried down from Mount
Sinai and were no more to be doubted than those words on the two tablets. No way
existed to prove them wrong. Tunney had long since compared his original notes to
the written transcript to insure their accuracy. These had then been destroyed.
Tunney's reputation as the ultimate interviewer had been well established by
the time Corrigan gained his gold detective badge. Corrigan's first step was to
endear himself to Tunney by running errands and picking up the bills for the after-
dinner drinks. Corrigan's penchant for finding a person's weakness and using it to his
own benefit paid off handsomely with Tunney since he quickly spotted Tunney's
parsimonious nature and had the ancient knowledge that the key to open a miser's
heart is to keep his wallet closed. By dropping some money here and there, Corrigan
became Tunney's confidant and lackey.
It was during the investigation of the notorious ax murders of Spencer Sandler
and his wife, Pooh, in the upper crust section of Fisher Hill in Brookline that Corrigan
worked hand-in-glove with Tunney. The major suspect, and the person convicted of
the killings, was an Italian caretaker, Guilio Alberti, who'd been with the Sandlers for
about four years. He had a slippery grasp of English. Prior to conducting the
interviews, Corrigan and Tunney completed an extensive review of the physical
evidence available to them and opined on the circumstances of the crime. In one of
his rare breaches of protocol, Tunney allowed Corrigan to sit with him at the table
while he conducted the interviews.
But he forbade him the use of any writing implements because, as he said, he
feared Corrigan might not write down things exactly right and any, even the slightest
deviation, could undermine a solid case. Tunney well knew that consistency, lack of
contradiction, and inclusion of every meaningful fact, was the basic elements of a
report if a conviction was to be gained. So Corrigan sat, listened intently, and
secretly recorded while Tunney laborious examined each person.
Corrigan's fine memory, which had not been diminished by his many other
character defects, allowed him to maintain an excellent retention of what was spoken
that evening. He later read the transcripts of the interviews. After perusing them, he
found that about 2% of what Tunney indicated had been said did not square with his
memory. Most of the 2% were facts that corresponded with their initial supposition
as to the way the crime was committed.
None of these necessary facts had been provided by people interview but they
sat in Tunney's report. The greatest additions or subtractions were from the
statements given by the caretaker Alberti. A few of the statements attributed to him
varied almost 180 degrees from what Corrigan remembered him saying.
"So," Corrigan laughingly thought, "the old pro's a phony. Tunney's laborious
interviews are only the facade he uses to hide his technique of putting crucial facts
into a person's mouth." Corrigan was quite sure that he was correct in his
assessment and that he'd unmasked the deceit. However, he wanted to be sure that
his initial analysis of Tunney's transcript was correct. So he compared it word for
word with the secret recordings he had done with his NAGRA tape recorder which he
secreted on his person during the interviews. He was stunned when he saw that the
quoted language in Tunney's reports hardly mirrored the words which were spoken.
Tunney had developed the ultimate shell game and had managed to
consummate a major scam on the judicial system. Corrigan wondered how many
persons were now in jail and not roaming the streets except for Tunney's literary
license. But Tunney's nefarious scheme didn't bother Corrigan. He had no doubt that
Tunney's duplicity was necessitated by the handcuffs put upon police interrogations
by the courts. Tunney never used enhanced interrogation techniques, sometimes
called torture, to get to the desired results. He always treated people with respect
and consideration. He just added a word here or there to bring out the true story.
Corrigan never worried that Tunney's obvious deceit had cause an innocent person to
be incarcerated because he assumed Tunney could tell, like he could, who was guilty
or innocent.
Delighted at having unearthed the master's sleight of tongue, he took the
transcript and the tape and placed them away in a safe spot for insurance purposes.
He confidently commenced his career as a detective ensconced in the belief that his
ability to beguile and bewilder would serve him as well as it did Tunney. Thereafter,
in important cases, Corrigan's reports of interviews, like those of Tunney's, presented
language that consistently ran true when compared to the physical evidence.
Like Tunney, he interviewed in a private one-on-one setting. He made sure
that in every situation afterwards that it was his suave manner and professional word
backed up by the written transcript against the amateur witness's frenzied
protestations of not having spoken the language which was sitting in quotes on a
transcript.
The icing on the cake was that credulous prosecutors with a modicum of
ability in the art of cross examination could destroy any witness who testified
contrary to what was contained in the transcript. The prosecutor would go through
page after page demonstrating the accuracy of Corrigan's transcript and securing
from the witness agreement after agreement that the innocuous questions and
answers were accurately recorded. The prosecutor would suddenly ask with a flare,
"Now you have just gone through this whole transcript with me and you agree that
99% of it accurately reflects what you said to Detective Corrigan when he
interviewed you but you now say Detective Corrigan was mistaken in these one or
two answers, is that not correct?" The witness would agree.
 The jury would think the witness lying because everything seemed to have
been taken down word for word, and now, the only thing the witness wanted to
change was the incriminatory statements. Of course, from Detective Corrigan's
viewpoint the only statements worth slanting were those that were incriminatory. But
like with Teresa's transcript, Detective Corrigan did not have the slightest twinge of
guilt at what he was doing. He firmly believed that what he had written down in his
reports of his interviews were truthful not so much in that they accurately portrayed
what the witness told him but because they accurately reflected what he instinctively
knew from his experience had actually happened. It was the truth as reconstructed
through the courtesy of Gerry Corrigan. It was the art of turning words into
admissions.
Except for the hours spent at the Old Colony police station with Corrigan
immediately after the body was discovered, Theresa found herself confined in a room
located in the Sarah Franklin House for single working women and students in
Boston’s South End. She was reminded repeatedly that her enforced occupancy was
voluntary. She could sign herself out at any time. But before she did, she'd have to
notify Lieutenant Corrigan that she was leaving. Two earlier requests to be loosed
upon the streets of Boston were withdrawn after discussions with Corrigan who went
from incessant harangues filled with vituperations which frightened her to friendly
cajoling and then back again to veiled threats.
These kept her there uncomplaining as much as if bars were on the doors of
her room. Corrigan clearly limned himself as her protector as long as she stayed but
as an avenging ogre if she left leaving no doubt in her mind he’d track her down. She
feared confronting Corrigan's wrath or questioning his ostensible power. She
panicked at the thought of being confined to jail or even worse, to quote him,
"dumped in a loony bin." Soon even the thought of again requesting release caused
her to tremble.
Though her decision to forgo seeking freedom was in part occasioned by her
fear of Corrigan, there was more to it. She went along because she couldn't take the
chance her confinement would turn arid as she knew it would in a loony bin. As long
as she cooperated with Corrigan, she knew he'd give her each day her daily dose of
wine which sedated her and allowed her to struggle through one day at a time.
Her original memory of the 4th of July evening consisted of vague incomplete
disjointed memories unlike the vivid fixed picture Corrigan tried to etch into her mind.
Corrigan’s boldness in producing a transcript of Theresa’s alleged statements was
matched by his belief he could make Theresa memorize what he had written down.
Over and over he would review his transcript of the night’s events with her starting
afresh each day. He'd sit with the pint of wine on the dressing table next to him while
he conducted the class. Until she'd remembered in the manner he sought, she could
only stare at the bait, which distraction also foiled Corrigan’s attempt to make her
concentrate and learn by rote.
By the time Corrigan interviewed her on the day they found Eddie Roberts’
body he had been at the scene and had a good idea what had happened. He saw
Roberts had been killed by a blow on the head; he heard Jake was captured running
away into the water. He heard Theresa had run for help to the cops resting in their
cruisers saying something about a rape. When he met Theresa she could hardly talk
and when she did she mumbled incoherently being totally incapable of putting one
lucid thought after the next. She was a blank canvas on which Corrigan could sketch
the picture of what happened. Corrigan was incapable of understanding her mental
processes. He suspected she was conveniently acting stupid. He figured she’d
eventually come up with the truth and would be able to recite it in line with the report
that he was making out which he planned to bring to the DA. Later, when he learned
on the street that Jake was Theresa's boyfriend, his erroneous belief was further
buttressed. He assumed her unwillingness to tell the truth as he had conjured it up
was done in order to protect Jake.
She worked hard with what was left available to her for mental abilities to
insert the Corrigan version into the place of the actual events but she couldn't hold
on to it. She remember the next line he wanted her to repeat only to forget the one
before it. Even though her opaque memories of Jake as her helper had been beaten
down it did not follow that she could facilely supplant it with Corrigan’s memory of
what happened. Corrigan refused to believe she lacked such elementary abilities.
Corrigan didn’t bring her to see Mucka until over a week had passed. Mucka
interviewed her twice. Both times ended in abject failures. Corrigan insisted she was
just covering up for Jake after the interviews. "Can't you see she's faking!" he
insisted. "Can't you see what she's doin'. She's deliberately forgetting everything
about Jake. It's an act."
"I don't know, Gerry. She's not the brightest thing that I've ever encountered,
you know. She's barely functioning. I don't know. Maybe she can't remember most
of this stuff."
Corrigan turned and paused. He then scowled at Mucka and using his plump
index finger for emphasis, he poked him hard on the shoulder and said: "You don't
know these people at all, do you, Mucka?"
"You do?" Mucka retorted. He was frustrated after this second ineffectual
attempt to elicit from Theresa something of value that would advance his case. He
resented Corrigan's implication that he was deficient in his ability to analyze
witnesses. He shot back: "Where the hell did you get your special expertise with
street people?"
Corrigan stood abashed for a second. His competence in dealing with people
had been unquestioned. He fancied himself to be the ace homicide investigator. He
boasted of never having failed to solve a case over which he had maintained
complete control. He bragged that every defendant he'd had indicted was convicted.
This braggadocio of Corrigan was inane when placed beside his actual record
but he knew no one kept score. Even proving him a liar would not affect his clout.
Corrigan's real forte consisted in having survived for a long time and in being well
connected. He had campaigned long and hard for the state representative who was
now the chairman of the committee on public safety - the body that established the
budget for his job. He had likewise ingratiated himself with District Attorney
Hooligan, who, had an inordinate fondness for Irish ass-kissers, a function in which
Corrigan had no peer. Over the years Corrigan's reputation developed to where he
was thought an untouchable who'd best not be crossed. More than one prosecutor
who failed to heed this advice found himself, at best, reassigned out of the homicide
unit, or, what was usually the case, pounding the pavement in search of a lawyer's
job in a market bloated with unemployed advocates.
Corrigan bristled inside. "Who the hell does this brass kid think he's talking
to," he irately asked himself. Even though he knew he'd eventually have the upper
hand in the case and he could let the taunt pass, it was not in his nature to do so.
Corrigan, grew up in a neighborhood section of the city but avoided much of the
rough-and-tumble the other boys engaged in. He spent most of his police officer
years chauffeuring the governor or guarding the attorney general. He now planned
to impress Mucka with his storehouse of lies.
"Look, Mucka, where do you think I grew up. Not like you with your fancy law
degree. I grew up on these streets, yeah, right on these streets. I've been working
these streets since I was fourteen years old. That's how I know what these people
are about. While you were in college I was pounding the beat on these streets
dealing with these people. While you were in law school, I was out there - eight, ten,
twelve hours a day, every day. Every day for the past thirty plus years I've been
dealing with these people, Mucka, that's how I get my special expertise if you have to
know."
Mucka regretted having caused this uproar. He didn't want to get on
Corrigan's bad side. He needed to stay a few more years in the homicide unit. He
needed to eat. Perhaps some day, if he did well enough, and he established a good
reputation, and acquired excellent experience, all the expense to the public purse, he
would market it to secure a decent position in the private sphere. But now was not
the time. He had to swallow his pride and to supplicate the beer bellied Irishman
with the bloated ego who stared indignantly at him. "Maybe you're right, Gerry," he
answered. "Maybe she's faking it like you said."
"You bet she's faking," answered Corrigan as he basked in the warmth of
another victory. He walked over to Mucka as if to demonstrate his magnanimity.
"You'd be better off, Michael Curley," he purred in a fatherly tone as he put his arms
around the back of his shoulders. "You'd be better off it you'd let me handle this. Let
me deal with Theresa. I'll get us what we need. All right, buddy? Let me deal with
her."
Mucka shook his head in affirmation of his surrender and his relinquishment of
the command of the case to Corrigan. What surprised him was that aside from the
initial rush of repulsion at himself for his base obsequiousness, there was no lingering
self-reproach or inner turmoil at having surrendered his principles so quickly. "Maybe
this is the world of 'real-politics,'" he thought. "Maybe this is after all what life is
about, the sacrificing of innumerable small principles in order to achieve a larger
goal. Isn't that life, the art of compromise? But I gave up so easily. I crumbled as if
this was a dispute over whether to buy the Globe or the Herald. Is that all it is? Isn't
there more to it? Shouldn't I have told him that Theresa was barely able to
remember her name never mind what happened that night. Her value as a witness is
zero, absolute zero. Her contribution to this case is a valuable as her contribution to
the Gross National Product. I should have said that rather than caving in to him."
Mucka thought these things but did not feel them. His mind was not upon the
case but upon himself. He fretted over Theresa's lack of value to the case because
that would affect its ultimate outcome if he indicted Jake. He thought that if he'd
stood his ground it may have been better. If he told Corrigan he wasn't going to use
her - no, he couldn't afford to upset Corrigan. That would put his job in jeopardy. No,
he did the right thing. Some other time he'll devote to considering this conundrum of
self-balancing the scale between self-advancement and minor ethical lapses. "What's
the big deal here. So what if I offer a witness whose frail memory has been
buttressed by suggestions made by a police officer. Suggestions? What Corrigan is
doing is making up a story and planting his idea of what happened into the mind of a
witness. Is that right? But I don't know if what Corrigan thinks is right isn't right.
Maybe Theresa's covering up and the way Corrigan is treating her is the only way to
get at the truth. What is ethically wrong with presenting the truth?"
Mucka knew he was playing games trying to rationalize his actions which were
clearly beyond the pale. He'd read Corrigan's report of his interview with Theresa.
He found it to be incredulous after his attempts to converse with her. Yet, he could
not prove that Corrigan had fabricated every statement in the report. He wondered if
Corrigan had actually been able to get these statements out of Theresa or whether
he totally fabricated them. It was hare to believe the latter.
Corrigan on the other hand was convinced of his rectitude. He zealously
believed that what he wrote were the true facts. He wasn't going to let anyone get
away with murder on his beat; nor was he about to let Theresa hide behind her silly
silent imbecilic stare. If she wouldn't talk, he'd talk for her. She was very easy prey.
If she denied making the statement, no one would accept her word over his? He'd
say to anyone who doubted him: "hey, do you think I could make up something like
that. Even if I could, why would I? What motive do I have to lie? Do you think I'd
jeopardize my pension over this case? Come on, give me a break." No one would
doubt him. The judges, the juries, the prosecutors would believe him over Theresa
just as in every other case where he had to make words into admissions. Why,
everyone would ask, would a man with his unblemished record lie? What had he to
gain? Without a reasonable answer, they would all come down on his side.
Mucka was well aware that his usually unfettered discretion was limited
because of Corrigan's stature. He was uneasy because Corrigan had become so
bullheaded over the case insisting that a first degree murder indictment be sought.
That’s why Mucka couldn’t just dump the case. Corrigan wouldn't hear of it. Mucka
settled his qualms by deciding to seek the manslaughter indictment.
If he got a murder indictment, his hands would be tied in trying to plea
bargain the case. To reduce a charge from murder to manslaughter in order to get a
plea of guilty, he'd have to recommend a lengthy imprisonment which he knew Jake's
attorney would reject. But with the manslaughter charge, he had the flexibility to
insure that the case never went to trial. He'd give Jake's attorney an offer he couldn't
refuse. If he did refuse it, he'd make it even better. Mucka was determined that he'd
never stand in front of a petit jury with this, as he referred to the case, "piece of shit."
So if he indicted for manslaughter, Hooligan wouldn't care since this was a low profile
case. All he'd have to do was to pacify Corrigan with a few laughs, a couple of beers,
and a pat on the behind.
But it wasn't so easy bringing Corrigan into his tent. They had several heated
discussion over the evidence and the charges in the days immediately preceding the
grand jury hearing. The dispute continued on the morning of the hearing. Just after
Mucka entered his office, he felt Gerry Corrigan right behind him.
"Mucka, you got a minute," he inquired as he passed through the door and
pulled back a seat without waiting for an answer.
Mucka seeing that any protestation would simply delay the confrontation put
his pen down and responded: "Yeah, sure, Gerry." He lamely added to the seated
detective: "Have a seat."
"Yeah, thanks," Corrigan responded pulling the chair closer to the desk. He
leaned on top of the cluttered desk coming half way over toward Mucka. Mucka
chastised himself for his instinctive action of leaning backwards in his chair as if
trying to escape from Corrigan's forward thrust.
"Mucka! I want to talk about the case we're puttin' in the grand jury this
morning"
"I figured that."
"Mucka, I just want to tell you. I've been over this with my guys, you know.
And we think this is a definite first degree."
Mucka wondered why Corrigan thought that the assertion that other cops
agreed with him would change his mind. Cops always agreed with each other when
faced with a decision by an outsider. Mucka was as much an outsider as anyone else
when it came to a dispute over the whether his prosecutorial decision or that of a
detective lieutenant was correct. He tried to cut the discussion short: "Look, Gerry,
we've been through this. I don't want to rehash it again."
"Yeah, I know Mucka, but we think it's a first."
"Gerry," said Mucka feeling the redness seeping into his face and reminding
himself not to get upset. "How can you think this is a first? He leaned forward closer
to Gerry. "The case involves three stew bums - two of whom for some ungodly
reason got into a fight over the broad - allegedly for sex - and they fell into the
Charles. One drowned. It's not first degree murder, Gerry. It might not even be
manslaughter. But I'll try to get an indictment for manslaughter. That's the best I
can do."
"Can I say something, Mucka?"
"Yeah, sure, what?"
"Look, Mucka, we see it differently. Like we think Jake planned to kill Roberts.
We . . . "
"Planned it? Come on Gerry. Jake couldn't plan his next step. How the hell
could he plan a murder?"
"Mucka all we're asking you to do is to keep an open mind and look at the
evidence. Look at the autopsy report! Roberts died of a fractured skull, he wasn't
drowned. He was killed by a blow on the head by a blunt object. This had to happen
on the land. He didn't drown, Mucka. He was pushed into the water after he was
killed. How can it be manslaughter? It's first degree all the way!"
Mucka had had it with Corrigan's bellyaching. He'd been over the same
grounds with him before. He replied: "Look, Gerry, we've been through this. I've
made my decision. All right!"
 "No, it's not all right," pressed Corrigan. His voice took on a wailing aspect as
he demanded that Curley meet his objection, "Why isn't this a first, Mucka - tell me -
why isn't it?"
"I've told you before Gerry, if he killed him on the land he wouldn't have been
in the water when he was rescued. It's simple, isn't it?" asked Mucka trying to hold
his pique hidden. "How the hell did he get into the water if they weren't fighting
there?"
"He was putting the body in there. Read the report but then when he saw the
cruiser he tried to escape!"
"Escape? Escape from what? He couldn't swim and he's trying to escape by
going into the Charles."
"He panicked when he saw the cruiser coming."
"I don't buy it, Gerry. You don't run in the water to escape if you can't swim."
"I've known cases, Mucka, where . . . . "
Mucka cut him short: "Gerry, knock off the shit. We've all known cases where
something or other has happened. The bottom line here is that if I'm lucky I'll get a
manslaughter indictment so let's leave it like that."
Corrigan started to get up. "I don't like it Mucka, I really don't."
"Hey, Gerry. I've got to do what I think is right, you know."
"So don't I Mucka, and I have to tell my guys that I think you're shittin' the bed
on us, you know." Corrigan turned to walk out the door. The last comment had stung
Mucka but he held his peace. Corrigan opened the door and looked back. "And what
do I tell Don Rossi who risked his life to capture Jake. What do I tell him - the DA
doesn't like state cops - or - better yet - the DA doesn't give a shit about him?"
Mucka was boiling. 'I'll tell you what to tell your buddy Rossi. Tell him we'd all
be better off if he let Jake go under then we wouldn't be bothered by this piece of
shit."
Corrigan scowled and slammed the door. Mucka was mad at himself for
getting upset and making the last intemperate remark. "I shouldn't let them get to
me," he thought. "I should know by now how to handle them but they're got this
knack for getting under my skin."
Mucka returned to preparing the case. More than ever he was determined to
seek a manslaughter indictment even though it may not be the right decision. He
was bothered by his main witness, Theresa. He had an aversion to her. He didn't
have the patience to listen to her scatterbrain answers to his questions or the time to
waste trying to solicit information from her. He felt dirty looking at her filthy pimple
encrusted pizza-like face.
But it wasn't just Theresa, or Jake, but the whole mass of homeless that
bothered him. Their omnipresent solicitations and reminders that all wasn't well with
society was something he could do without. He wished despite Corrigan he'd the
courage to instruct the jury not to indict so he could rid himself of the whole mess.
He knew Hooligan would get too much aggravation from the cops and wouldn't be
happy listening to Corrigan bad mouthing him. So the immense bother of dealing
with these homeless scum was not as bad as the alternative.
 Upon reflection he became less bothered about the little set-to with Corrigan.
He felt they'd patch that up in due course. But he couldn't stop being concerned
about Theresa.
While Mucka and Corrigan disagreed over the charges, the case was put
before the grand jury. After the police officers who were at the scene and the coroner
testified, Lieutenant Corrigan put into evidence the statement he said that Theresa
made to him. Then Theresa was brought into the grand jury room. Mucka introduced
her by saying: "On the witness stand is Theresa, last name unknown, about whose
statement Lieutenant Corrigan just testified. She is now residing at the Sarah
Franklin House. She was with Jake Jake and Edward Roberts on the early morning
hours of July 5th. She'll testify as to the events which took place that night to the
best of her ability." Under his breath Mucka murmured to himself, "I hope."
Having made that statement, Mucka looked directly at the voice reporter who
recorded all the transactions before the grand jury. He was a fellow employee of the
D.A.'s office, Stanley Polska. Mucka nodded. That was the signal for the reporter to
start recording what was said to the grand jury.
In the good old days, what a prosecutor said to a grand jury was not recorded.
But the chief mechanics on the high court determined that whenever the prosecutor
spoke to the grand jury, his words must be recorded unless it was indicated by the
reporter on the transcript that he was talking "off-the record." That proved
embarrassing when certain defense counsel questioned what had been said during
these discussions. To avoid future hassles and inquiries in this area, the court
reporter who wanted to continue working for the DA’s office. Signals given to him by
the assistant district attorney, like those given a runner on the base paths from the
dugout, controlled the contents of the transcript. Nothing appeared in the transcripts
about off the record discussions, no testimony appeared that the prosecutor wanted
excised. Not even prosecutors who were sworn to uphold the laws and whose
function was to prosecute those who violated the laws, considered that they had to
uphold all the laws. Being in positions of power, they could pick and choose.
Mucka turned to Theresa and asked her to stand. She raised the wrong arm in
response to his request that she raise her right hand. He swore her in without
comment. No juror seemed to notice. Mucka wanted to get her in and out as
expeditiously as possible. He had planned to ask her a dozen or so leading questions
and end the inquiry. He told her to take a seat. He had to suggest to her after she
was seated that she could put her arm down.
Mucka then said, “I want to advise the grand jury that in the indictment we
have Theresa’s last name written by the initial LNU. That stands for last name
unknown. Theresa to this time has refused to disclose her last name. She does not
want to have her family involved in this matter. But when we learn it, we will
substitute if for that acronym.”
Theresa listened but had no idea what he was talking about. She had no
family. If she did she’d like them to be involved.
Mucka went on. “For the record, you are Theresa, of the Sarah Franklin House
in Boston, are you not?"
She nodded her head affirmatively. "Theresa," Mucka said in response to this
action, "you must say yes or no. You must say the words. You can't shake your head
since the man sitting over there," he pointed to the court recorder sitting to the left of
Theresa, "has to record your words. So please say yes or no, do you understand?"
She nodded. Mucka let it pass even though he'd just explained she shouldn't
nod but said, “let the record show she nodded her head in answer to my question.”
"Now, Theresa, I'll ask you again and ask you to say 'yes' or 'no,' are you
Theresa from the Sarah Franklin House Boston?"
A faint, hoarse, clumsy 'yes' could be heard coming from the hidden mouth.
She was holding her head in her hands and was staring down at the desk.
"Now, Theresa, on the evening of July 4th, the morning of July 5th, you were at
the Charles River over near the Hatch Shell with Jake Jake and Edward Roberts, isn’t
that true?"
She nodded but also suddenly said "yes." Despite the new dress, the bright
red shoes, and the washed-up appearance, she still reeked with the air of a piece of
society's flotsam. She stared down at her shoes. Her permanently knotted colorless
drab hair limped from her head.
"Do you remember, Theresa, what happened when you were with these two
men at that time?” Mucka inquired. She didn't answer. He repeated the question.
She didn't respond, not even a nod. She was looking down at the ground moving the
front of her shoes back and forth.
He again asked the question desperately hoping to elicit a response from her.
His voice had lost much of its sonorous quality. He was answered by her silence.
Suddenly, he felt a deep distaste for these proceedings. Was it because he felt that
Theresa was vile and vermin laden and he didn't want to be near her? Or was it
because he knew the whole case was a charade where the witness was expected to
parrot facts conjured up by a powerfully connected detective? The room was
suddenly hotter than before. He had to tell himself to calm down. In a louder, more
strident voice, he asked the question again.
She looked up at him as if in a daze. His brow had taken on a swarthy look
and tiny beads of sweat slid down into the forest of his beard. He was exasperated at
himself for having allowed himself to be saddled with this drunken wrench. He
certainly had better things to do. He now truly despised her filth and decadent
aspect as he stared back at her pimple scarred tomato sauce colored face. He
scolded himself for forfeiting control over the case to Corrigan.
He'd have to sit down with Stanley Polska, the reporter, and clean up the
transcript before he releases it to defense counsel. He abhorred doing that. Not so
much that he believed he was doing anything wrong or unethical, after all the grand
jury, although fictitiously said to be an arm of the court, is a member of the
prosecution team and what is said in there can be controlled by the prosecutor
despite the restrictions put on it by the higher court. After all it performs a pretty
useless function when one considers it realistically so what did it matter that what
came out of there never reflected what actually went on in there.
He disliked doing it because it gave Polska an edge over him. He didn't trust
Polska. There was something about him that made him wary of him. He had a funny
feeling that someday Polska would call in his IOUs. Mucka didn't want him holding
too many from him.
 Again he asked: "Theresa, would you like me to ask the question again?" This
time he'd summonsed the courage to walk nearer to her. She looked up at him. He
could see her pupils were jaundiced, her irises clouded, and little purple puss bubble
growing out from the redness of her face. He fought the urge to flee. He hated her
even more.
She said: "Yes."
He backed away a bit. "Do you know Jake Jake and Edward Roberts."
"Yes."
"They were with you on the morning of July 5th, weren't they?"
"Yes."
"Can you tell us if you were drinking?":
Theresa looked up and stunned the gathering by breaking out into a big smile.
Her few remaining yellowed and blackened teeth graphically portrayed their years of
neglect. "Of course we were drinking," she said as she girlishly flicked her head as if
to toss the hair from her eyes. "It was the 4th of July." A nervous tittering could be
heard among the jurors. Like Mucka, they wanted Theresa out of the room sooner
rather than later. Two of the women began to scratch the imaginary lice which had
crawled across the floor onto their legs.
"Theresa, you remember that Jake Jake hit Edward Robert with a large rock,
don't you?"
Her smile was exchanged for a hard cold stare which added years to her age.
"He didn' do that - you wanna know - Jake saved me - that other guy was gonna
attack me and Jake saved me!" she exclaimed. "That's what happened."
"But he hit Roberts on the head with a rock from behind, didn't he Theresa."
"No! No! That's a lie. That’s wrong."
"By hitting him with a big rock, isn't that so Theresa."
Theresa stood up and yelled: "No! No! You don't understand. That's not
true."
"But didn't you tell Detective Corrigan you were standing with Edward Roberts
and Jake Jake came up from behind him and hit him over the head."
"I didn' say that. He said that. I didn' say it."
"You like Jake Jake don't you, Theresa?"
"He didn't hit him."
"Is he your boyfriend, Theresa?"
"He didn' hit him. He just tried to stop him!"
"He did what, Theresa?"
"He tried to stop him from hurtin' me."
"Who was going to hurt you, Theresa?"
"The utter one."
"You mean Edward Roberts."
"Yeah, him, Eddie, the utter one."
"He was going to hurt you Theresa?"
"Yes!"
"What was he going to do to you. Theresa?"
"What they all do to me."
"What's that, Theresa?"
 "You know!"
"I don't Theresa, tell us what he was going to do to you."
"You know!"
"Theresa, you have to tell us what you say he was going to do to you."
She sat back down and remained quiet again looking down at her feet. Mucka
several times stressed the need for her to answer his questions. Theresa sat with her
head down staring at the floor as if suddenly struck deaf and dumb. Except for his
personal repulsion to her body, he'd have tried to touch her, maybe to even shake
her to see if she would respond. But after a couple of more questions during which
an ominous creepy stultifying feeling rose in the room. one of the jurors suggested
they take a recess. Without waiting for an answer, the women jurors quickly followed
by the men were out of their seats. They stumbled and scrambled out the door.
Exasperated, Mucka followed. He fled from the room to cross the hall to talk
with Corrigan. When he got to his office he learned Corrigan had gone down for
coffee. He felt he just escaped from a fetid swamp. He tried to cool off. He had no
desire to go back there. He planned to tell Corrigan there would be no indictment.
After Mucka left, Theresa lifted her head having been brought back into the
room by its stillness. Seeing no one around, she tentatively left the witness chair and
slowly walked from the room back through the door which she entered. She walked
into a corridor lined with closed elevator doors. A bell sounded and a red light came
on. She followed two others on to it and was taken down. She got off with the two
she had followed at the second floor. They crossed over into another building. She
followed them to the outside.