In the criminal justice system
the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups,
the police who investigate crime
and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders.
These are their stories.
First call came in around 2:00.
By the time units rolled in, the flames were wall-to-wall.
And it's a lock for arson?
We found a gasoline can and a box of matches.
Two witnesses saw somebody drive away just before the bonfire.
Gave us a description.
Louis Johnson, medium rare.
Smoke stains in his nose and mouth,
he was alive before the fire started.
Fumes killed him.
Couldn't run out?
The door was locked from the inside.
Our guess is, he was spending the night.
Didn't want any visitors.
Did Johnson ever have any trouble before this?
Some vandalism last week before he got his trees.
What was it, kids? No.
A local crew muscling the businesses for protection.
Nobody, and that includes Johnson, wanted to talk about it.
And look where it got him.
We're gonna need the names of that crew, all right?
Two pairs of eyes put you in the lot.
I was buying my Christmas tree.
At 2:04 a.m.
No, you're cooked, Danny, we got your prints on the box of matches.
I hate to break it to you, but you're the stupidest torch I ever met.
Now's your one chance to do something smart.
I swear, I didn't know Louis was in the shed when the fire broke out.
Bad break, his wife tossing him out of the house that night.
The job was about reducing the value of Louis' inventory. That's all.
I can serve up the guy that paid me. We know him.
He's being worked on next door.
No, we're shopping for the CEO.
Yeah, but I just know the one guy. I'm not part of the crew.
That's too bad, 'cause you're gonna take the weight for all of them, Danny.
The Schwartz deli job last year,
I can give you who was behind that.
Too late. Somebody already beat you to it.
All right. Wait, wait. I got something big.
I know the guy that really did that Cookie Costello stabbing.
You know the one. Big mother case. 30 years ago.
Girl got stabbed while the whole neighborhood watched.
Yeah. Sal Munoz. He's been in Attica for the last 30 years.
Yeah, that's what you think.
I want somebody from the D.A.'s in here.
They need a reason to move, Danny.
Yeah, well, tell them this.
This guy, I'll call him Bobby,
me and him were having a few pops one night,
he tells me how he stuck the girl with a knife so she could never have kids.
Hey, see? I got something. Next time I talk, it's to the D.A.
My first partner in uniform was on that Costello canvas.
They kept the details of her injuries out of the papers, too personal.
I remember reading something about that.
Yeah, young woman stabbed 14 times
and raped outside her building in the East Village.
Yeah, while 40 of her neighbors turned up their TVs
so they couldn't hear the screams.
So what, they had TVs but no phones?
Oh, they called the police all right, about 45 minutes later.
Should've heard the excuses.
Everybody assumed somebody else called it in.
So if Danny's on the money,
then the wrong guy's been in jail for the past 30 years.
And Mr. Right's been on the street.
Thirty years ago, I sat in her hospital room and held her hand.
You prosecuted Sal Munoz?
Ms. Costello sent me Christmas cards every year since.
This firebug, he gave you a name?
Bobby Farina.
Career deadbeat. In and out of State facilities since he was six.
And somewhere along the way, he must've picked up a crystal ball.
Van Buren says the police never released the specifics of Costello's injuries.
Munoz confessed.
After how many rounds with New York's finest?
Cookie Costello couldn't ID him, Adam.
We should at least talk to her.
Absolutely not.
A building full of her friends and neighbors watched.
She was stabbed, then raped, left for dead in an alley.
Thirty years isn't time enough for wounds like that to heal.
Munoz is serving consecutive 25-year terms. We can't ignore this.
Have the cops find this Farina character.
Damn.
Today's my birthday,
you know, half a century, I'm pushing carcasses for a living.
Yeah, I know just how you feel, Bobby.
Half a century and I'm still talking to scum like you.
I'm all straightened out now.
Oh, yeah. We heard from your P.O.
How you got four years for straightening out your girlfriend.
I'm a gridiron legend. You know, we can't all beat the rap.
And what about Cookie Costello?
You straighten her out, too?
Don't ring no bells. A bitch with a name like that, I'd remember.
What? You don't read the papers?
She was carved up in May 1965,
three blocks from where you parked your sorry ass.
I was doing a stretch in Dannemora in '65.
For assaulting a hooker, we heard.
You went in, in September. Try again.
May '65. I could've been in New Jersey.
I did a lot of work there. You know, collecting for the bookies.
Hey, the only ones who knew the particulars are the victim, her doctors,
and the piece of crap who did it, and that's you!
All right, look. I got it from this lawyer, Nick Taradash, all right?
He repped me on a couple beefs.
The guy lays all these gems on me about this Costello thing. I swear to God.
Nick and I shared office space after his first coronary,
and after his second last summer, I took over the whole place.
And that would make him?
Dead. He made me his executor.
Should've said no.
Sanitation Department would choke on his files.
Did you know Nick?
No. But we ran into one of his clients, Ms. Marks. Bobby Farina.
Leg-breaker, all-around dirt bag.
Don't know the name, but the description fits Nick's clientele.
All the local hoods used to carry Nick's card in their wallets.
And now they carry yours?
I'm not the household name Nick was, but I'm getting there.
Okay, Bobby Farina.
Still has a balance. What's he done now?
We're looking at him for the Cookie Costello case.
He has knowledge of details that were withheld.
Claims he got them from Mr. Taradash.
Possible. Nick was court-appointed to rep the defendant, Sal Munoz.
He liked to talk it up. Case got him good press.
So in other words, Taradash was handed a hot potato.
Not much he could do with it. Munoz confessed.
Nick tried to plea him on insanity,
but, apparently, the juries didn't go for that stuff back then.
Insanity's the defense of last resort.
Taradash went for it on first down.
So maybe his heart wasn't in it.
After all, the vic was the girl next door, right?
Let me propose a less noble reason.
Taradash makes his living repping the local bad boys.
Now, suppose one of them was the guilty party?
Farina. And Taradash might not want to bite the hand that feeds him.
I wonder if Bobby's name ever came up during the investigation.
Let's go see the detectives.
Farina? Dumb muscle.
Yeah, that's him. You ever look at him for the Costello case?
No. No, Costello was a sex thing.
We had our guy, the P.R., Munoz.
The sick son of a bitch followed her from work in his car.
Picked on her because she was wearing a white dress.
Figured she was canned goods.
You said she was coming home from work?
What we got is she went to a movie.
Oh, no. She was working under the table at the Franklin Pub.
On account of her probation, she was supposed to keep out of the place.
Probation for what?
Gambling.
We didn't release that out of respect for the victim.
What else didn't make it into your report?
It had nothing to do with the case.
She gambled, Farina collected for gamblers.
There's gambling all over the place except in your report.
Munoz did it! He confessed to it. And two rapes besides.
Right after a trip to the West End Grill?
Munoz was a righteous bust.
So the hell with you.
Okay, I'll bite. What's the West End Grill?
The docks on the West Side.
Back in the '60s, they used to take guys like Munoz out there
and see how far they could swim, after they beat the hell out of them.
Or so I heard.
It's time to talk to Cookie.
She lives in Tarrytown.
Oh, I'm sorry. I don't remember anything after I got out of my car.
After 30 years, nothing. The doctors said it was the shock.
I say it was God's way of healing.
Well, that's a good way of looking at it.
Yeah, well, I've tried to forget everything.
So why is this all coming back now?
We have some new information on a Bobby Farina.
Guy from the old neighborhood.
Dad? Bobby Farina?
A wiseass kid, used to nick candy from my store.
He grew up to be a bagman for the bookies in the East Village.
Why do you worry about Farina?
They got the guy that attacked her.
You had a gambling arrest back then?
You bastards got crust.
Don't tell them nothing, Cookie.
Dad, I can handle this.
I was 22, I liked the excitement.
I used to have a crush on Sandy Koufax.
I used to bet the Dodgers when he pitched.
I bet the Giants, but sometimes I got jammed up,
and so I took bets at the bar for the bookies, to work it off.
I got caught.
And that's it? You never had any trouble with Bobby Farina?
You think I brought this on myself?
Look at it. It's the dress she was wearing.
Every time that animal comes up for parole, I'm there with this.
He laughs at me in the court, and you think it's not him?
You're damn fools.
She was up to her elbows in the action.
She could've pissed off these mooks any number of ways.
So they have Bobby send her a message.
Yeah, unless she wants a repeat performance,
she doesn't put the finger on him.
What? 30 years later, she's still afraid?
Hey, she looks at those scars every night. Listen, pull her records.
See if she was ever mixed up with Bobby.
Here we go.
Promoting gambling, second degree. She got a year probation.
Well, well. Taradash was her attorney.
Yeah, he was a local guy.
And Munoz wasn't.
Hey, Lennie, look at this. The bookie she was working for.
Eddie Murrows, I remember him. He's a KG, Known Gambler.
I know what it is.
He was in Bobby Farina's file as one of his employers.
Sure, Bobby did some work for me.
Nudged a few clients to get current on their delinquencies. Way back when.
Sounds like you had the whole neighborhood working for you.
Bobby Farina. Cookie Costello.
I let her work off what she owed.
Nice girl. Awful what happened.
P.R. Bastard should have gotten the chair.
We've got a better candidate.
Yeah. You spent the winter of '65 in Elmira on a gambling rap?
What's that got to do with Costello?
I ain't got no time for this.
Hey, is that a cell phone in your shirt pocket?
Yeah. So?
Well, a smart KG like you, you don't want your calls traced.
You probably use a stolen frequency, right? An E felony.
It'll take me 30 seconds to find out.
Now, in 1964, Cookie Costello was arrested for a gambling offense.
They gave her probation. That's very generous, right?
Yeah. So a couple of months later, you get popped.
Did you make a connection there?
That's nuts.
What she knew about my business you could put in a gel-tab.
Oh, that's not what we hear.
We hear you gave Bobby the say-so to carve her up.
No way. Bobby was in East Orange. May 25th, 1965.
Red-letter day in sports, Ali took Liston in one.
Bobby visited a client in Jersey.
A guy in the restaurant trade.
It's possible an unsolved battery was committed on this person.
The widow said the husband got beat up at their place about midnight.
Same time as Cookie.
Now she fingered Farina, but the husband wouldn't make a complaint.
But he stopped gambling right after that.
The bottom line is, Bobby's in the clear.
All this because Taradash opened his mouth.
Small world.
Oh, it gets even smaller.
Taradash was handling Cookie's gambling cases.
Is that a problem?
Taradash had a prior relationship with Costello.
Representing Munoz was a clear conflict of interest.
That's just terrific.
You didn't know?
If we knew that Taradash had the slightest privileged knowledge of the victim,
we would've had him conflicted out.
Turns out he didn't use that knowledge to discredit her.
Could have short-changed Munoz out of loyalty to her?
Not the Taradash I knew. There's nothing to this.
He put on a hell of a case. 12 expert witnesses.
Three weeks of testimony. Munoz got his money's worth.
Yes?
Much as we'd like to, we can't sweep this under the rug.
Munoz has to be notified.
Right.
Okay. Thanks.
We just got run off the high road by Teri Marks.
Teri Marks. Somebody I should know?
She shared an office with Taradash.
She just filed a motion for a new trial on behalf of Sal Munoz.
Mr. Munoz would like to thank your detectives.
If it weren't for them, I would've never looked in Nick's files
and found the conflict.
Sixth Amendment violation. Serious stuff.
Only in your mind, Ms. Marks. What do you want?
What my client wants, his freedom.
He's been denied parole three times.
His next at-bat's in two weeks.
Support his application, we'll drop this motion.
Fine. Done. As long as Ms. Costello agrees.
Come on,
Taradash shouldn't have gone near this case without a waiver from Mr. Munoz.
Of course, this was all news to you, Mr. Munoz?
That's right, man. Taradash never told me.
I'll do one better. Everyone knew about the conflict except my client.
Now it's a conspiracy.
Against the Puerto Rican man, baby.
Mr. Munoz, address yourself to me.
Your client confessed.
They didn't need a conspiracy to convict him.
This so-called conflict of interest is nothing but a footnote.
As if your opinion matters.
Come on, Sal, I'll walk you back to your bus.
We got a call from The New York Times this morning.
You sent them a press release about your motion?
It's an important case.
For your career.
The canons of ethics are clear, Your Honor.
A lawyer cannot represent one client
if he's limited by his responsibilities to another client.
Unless his client consents. Mr. Munoz wasn't even aware of the conflict.
Or he conveniently forgot Taradash notified him.
What's in the case record?
The record is silent on the subject.
The record is incomplete. Some transcripts are missing.
Then let's fill in the gaps.
Is the presiding judge still available to give testimony?
Yes, Your Honor. But Taradash's conflict is hardly new evidence.
With all due respect, it's not grounds for enlarging the record.
It is if I say it is.
Taradash told me in chambers
that he had represented Ms. Costello on one occasion.
But he believed that his representation of Munoz
wouldn't be adversely affected.
And, of course, he showed you a waiver signed by his client.
No.
I told him to consult with Munoz, and to report back if there was a problem.
And that's the last I heard of it.
Judge Mallory, why wasn't your conversation
with Mr. Taradash on the record?
I'm sure it was. I can't explain why it's not in the transcripts.
And you didn't insist on a signed waiver from Mr. Munoz?
I admit I should've followed through personally.
But Taradash tried a lot of cases before me.
He was meticulous. I'm sure it's all in his case files.
Ms. Marks, have you checked?
There is nothing in the files about a waiver.
Your Honor, much as we trust Counsel's thoroughness,
we'd like to examine those files ourselves.
Out of the question, Your Honor.
We're not waiving attorney-client privilege.
You put it into issue, Ms. Marks.
They're entitled to look.
I'll appoint a special master to search the files.
Jack, I was on the phone with the special master.
Taradash was a neat freak. He even saved his phone messages.
But there's no mention of a waiver.
Even a pack rat like Nixon was short 18 minutes.
Someone doctored his file?
After Taradash died, the files were turned over to Munoz, right?
He had them until after Marks called him to inquire about a waiver.
If there was one, Munoz could've pulled it from his file.
No way to even prove there was a waiver in the first place.
I checked our old files.
Some of the return receipts from Taradash were signed by a Marcella Klein.
Secretary?
Initials don't match Taradash's correspondence.
Klein could've been a law clerk.
Maybe she's entered the profession since then.
I was what nowadays you'd call a paralegal, secretary's pay, lawyer's duties.
But thanks to Mr. Taradash, I became an attorney.
To your knowledge, did he ever inform Mr. Munoz
that he had represented Ms. Costello?
He specifically told me he did. He said Mr. Munoz couldn't care less.
Thank you.
You weren't present
when Mr. Taradash spoke with my client?
No.
In fact, you refused to attend meetings with my client.
Well, he made me uncomfortable.
Mr. Taradash share your feelings about Mr. Munoz?
Mr. Taradash kept his feelings separate from his professional duties.
So we shouldn't read anything into the fact that he let an all-white jury be impaneled?
All-white juries were commonplace in 1965.
Or that he never brought up Ms. Costello's criminal activities?
It was moot. Mr. Munoz confessed.
Or that he never challenged that confession?
He believed it supported an insanity defense.
It was his strategy to let it stand.
An effective strategy, if he wanted his client convicted.
That's ridiculous.
He believed Mr. Munoz belonged in a hospital.
And he fought like hell to get him there.
His loyalties were split, Your Honor,
between his former client, a popular young woman,
and the man accused of brutally attacking her,
a nuisance client, that the court dumped into his lap.
No one could expect him to be impartial.
The trial judge did, and so did Mr. Munoz.
We heard testimony he was informed of the conflict.
Mr. McCoy, if he was informed, why did he wait 30 years to seek a new trial?
Maybe because he didn't realize he could until Ms. Marks told him.
Assume he did give a waiver.
He has a grade six education, he will do anything his lawyer tells him to.
The Judge should've looked out for his interests,
he should've advised Mr. Taradash to withdraw.
The verdict wouldn't have been any different with another lawyer.
Everything Mr. Taradash did was proper.
All right, Mr. McCoy.
The canons compel us to avoid even the appearance of impropriety.
Since there's no record of any waiver, I can't assume one was given.
I'm setting aside the verdict and granting the motion for a new trial.
We had to pull the one judge who reads the canons with a microscope.
Yeah. Marks is peddling her offer again.
They'll plead out if we support parole.
Not in my lifetime.
A new trial, Adam? 30-year-old evidence.
Witnesses gone who knows where.
You have the victim and the confession.
Do you want me to gift-wrap it for you?
He's almost 60. The jury might think he's rehabilitated,
even harmless.
Munoz just crawled halfway out the hole we dug for him 30 years ago.
You hit him with a shovel before he crawls all the way out.
"Case number 23049 of '65, People v. Salvatore Munoz
"One count attempted murder in the second degree.
"One count rape in the first degree."
Mr. Morean, remind me to check the warranty on my hearing aid, will you?
I heard you say '65.
It is a 1965 case, Your Honor. Remanded for a new trial.
After 30 years? Hats off, Mr. Munoz.
Let's see. You originally pleaded not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect.
You sticking with that plea?
My client's amending it to not guilty.
Your Honor, we ask bail be denied.
Mr. Munoz confessed to the crime.
He already served 30 years. He's earned a little R&R.
Ms. Marks, I don't really care
how much cigarette money he may have saved over the years,
he's staying put. Bail is denied. Next.
"Case number 93564..."
Bail for a confessed rapist?
You must've had a double dose of Wheaties this morning.
I skipped breakfast so I could file this early. Motion for suppression.
My client wasn't given his rights before he was questioned.
You kiss that confession goodbye, Ms. Kincaid.
Mr. Costello...
I had to see it for myself.
My daughter's scared out of her mind that monster will show up at our door.
We'll make sure that never happens.
They swore the only way he'd get out is in a box.
How could you let this happen?
My client was grilled for six hours without an attorney
before signing a confession.
He was never given any warnings about his right to counsel
nor his right to remain silent.
In 1965 he wasn't entitled to any warnings.
The Supreme Court didn't decide Miranda until 1966.
Miranda landed on the court's desk in the fall of 1965.
Any competent attorney in the country would've known about it.
Any competent attorney
would've delayed my client's proceedings long enough to see how the court ruled.
Mr. Taradash filed 27 pretrial motions attacking the State's evidence.
His competency is not in question.
Besides, it's irrelevant. Miranda isn't retroactive.
It's not grounds for appeal for every felon convicted before then.
I'm not talking about every felon.
I'm talking about a case
where there is the possibility of a conflict of interest.
The confession was never challenged.
Then challenge it under the laws as they existed in 1965.
I've read them, Your Honor.
I bet even Clarence Darrow couldn't get this confession suppressed.
Mr. McCoy, I don't know what a judge would've done in 1965,
but in 1995, there is an irrebuttable presumption
that any confession taken without Miranda warnings
is involuntary and therefore inadmissible.
I'm granting the motion. The confession is out.
I'm supposed to waste two detectives on a 30-year-old case?
We're already behind on last month.
The judge kicked the confession.
McCoy's counting on you guys to turn this sludge back into chicken salad.
This guy's already served twice what the Chambers kid got
for killing that girl in Central Park.
Munoz gets out, Detective, he can sleep on your couch.
Now, we'll need the witness who ID'd Munoz in a line-up.
One of Cookie's neighbors. She only saw the guy in the area.
The evidence is very thin.
What about the knife they found on Munoz?
Lost in the department's Bermuda Triangle.
Zip on forensics, no hairs, fibers or prints.
Tell me they did a rape kit.
They blood-typed the semen. A-negative, same as Munoz.
Along with three million other New Yorkers.
This is what they went to court with?
Cookie's father kept her dress.
Maybe the lab can do something with that.
Get it to Forensics,
and make a list of everyone who had an apartment facing that alley.
I said everything I had to say to the police 30 years ago.
We know what you said to your neighbor, Mrs. Baker, three years later.
We just talked to her.
Yeah, you told her you saw the whole thing from your bedroom window.
That old bat doesn't know what she's talking about.
I was asleep in the living room.
Mrs. Santoro, I don't know what they did with people like you 30 years ago.
Procedure now is, they throw you in jail for contempt.
But I didn't see anything.
This guy Munoz still knows how to swing a knife.
You want him out there on the same streets as your daughter?
I swear, I couldn't tell he was stabbing her.
What did you think he was doing?
Just hitting her.
I heard next morning...
Anyway, they caught the guy.
Well, how much did you see?
Not much.
Must've been at the window maybe 10 seconds. Saw his face.
I thought Cookie was just fighting with one of her sleazy boyfriends again.
Yeah? Why's that?
Cookie's what we used to call easy.
Every month, different low-life.
So she had it coming, huh?
I'm not saying that.
But the papers made her out to be this sweet young girl
with the bad neighbors.
She's the one that didn't belong in a family building.
Nice piece of workmanship.
Too bad it wasn't made of armor.
We got punctures in the fabric from a single-edged knife.
Blood stains typed and matched to the victim.
Small quantity of dried semen.
After 30 years, you can ID the owner?
Drying actually preserves the DNA. Ran a PCR on it.
Matches the blood sample we got from Mr. Munoz.
Oh, lucky us. Nowadays he'd be packing latex.
Here's the problem. I picked up more DNA on the lower part of the dress.
Doesn't match the vic or Munoz.
What's it from? Blood or semen? Can't tell yet.
It's mixed in with the other fluids. I'll keep you posted.
All right, thanks. A third party?
You think Munoz had an accomplice?
Or Cookie had a quick one on the way home from work.
Either way, we better find out before Munoz and his lawyer do.
What'd you want to do, ask her priest what she said at confession?
Better, her bartender. She was working at the Franklin Pub.
Yeah, assuming it's still in business.
I'm here to tell you it is.
Started here 32 years ago. Finally bought the place in '73.
Now I'm looking to cash in. You interested? Hey, cops and bars, made in heaven.
Excuse me. I always did want to own a bar.
Place is a goldmine, Lennie. Ten guys to every guy.
Yeah, when I used to come in here, it was all guys, too,
except we had the Giants game on.
So why the interest in Cookie Costello?
Sal Munoz is up for a new trial.
How'd that happen?
It's a technicality.
Anyway, we need some background on Cookie.
Now, we heard she had a lot of boyfriends.
Hey, that's a crime?
She was 22, had a nice figure, might as well put some miles on it, huh?
Was there anyone special she might've been intimate with that night?
No, no, no. She was here the whole time.
Look, the girl liked to have fun.
But the last week she was here,
she was getting her act together.
She stopped smoking, stopped drinking, gambling.
Hey, maybe she caught Billy Graham on TV. Excuse me.
My experience, there's only two reasons why a woman drops her bad habits:
One, a new man...
Or a baby.
She was stabbed in the lower abdomen, right?
The other DNA could've come from a baby she was carrying.
Now, the question is, why didn't the doctors who patched her up catch it?
Maybe they did.
Maybe it was filed in the police report right next to her gambling conviction.
Every time one of you people shows up at my door, it's bad news.
I had only found out about it a week before. Nobody knew.
I was scared. I was single. My parents were very traditional.
Back then, girls in my situation didn't have the choices they have today.
You asked the police to leave it out of their report?
No. They didn't know.
But the doctors said that...
My father was there when they brought me in.
The doctors told him about the baby.
He asked them if they could keep it secret, for my sake.
Never even told my mother.
People will have to know about it now, won't they?
Well, that's possible.
What about the baby's father?
I never told him. He was married.
We might need his name.
Bobby Farina.
She was having an affair with him.
It lasted less than two weeks.
She was ashamed. That's why she never said anything.
Issue is, how much does the other side know.
She's been very good about keeping her secret.
Have to assume Taradash didn't know. And neither does Marks.
You're thinking of not telling Marks?
Well, we have to release the forensics report on the dress.
So then they'll know she was pregnant.
Who the father was is none of their business.
Ms. Kincaid, do you think we ought to tell them?
We're required to under Rosario.
Only if we put her on the stand. And we're not going to.
Even so, it's exculpatory.
It points to a credible alternative theory of the crime.
I see. Farina was furious that she was pregnant.
He attacked her. Killed her unborn baby. Left her for dead.
It might sound credible to a jury.
And Munoz comes along and rapes her. Still credible?
Maybe not, but I'd err on the side of caution and turn over what we know.
And give this three-time rapist a chance to bluff a jury?
That can't be a consideration.
Oh, it sure as hell can.
At the risk of committing reversible error?
How many times do we want to retry Munoz?
As many times as it takes.
We're legally, morally and ethically entitled to keep this information from him.
And that's exactly what we're gonna do.
The substance was made up of blood plasma, lipids and cells,
a mixture consistent with amniotic fluid.
This led me to conclude Ms. Costello was pregnant.
What can you tell us about the DNA from the semen you found on the dress?
I did a PCR test.
The DNA matched the defendant's on all 21 combination
of genetic markers.
And what are the odds that the semen on the dress
came from someone other than Mr. Munoz?
About one in 200.
Thank you.
One in 200 in a city of eight million?
Doesn't sound that impressive. Isn't there a more exact DNA test?
The RFLP, but there wasn't enough semen on the dress to do that test.
You testified that this dress
wasn't kept in the police evidence room over the last 30 years, is that correct?
Yes. It was returned to the victim.
So you can't be sure
this is the dress Ms. Costello was attacked in, can you?
We have a photograph of the dress taken right after the attack.
This appears to be the same dress.
Would you bet your reputation on it?
No.
I saw him from the back, moving his arms and then he looked up.
Is the man you saw here today?
Yes. That's him sitting right there.
Let the record show that the witness pointed at the defendant.
Thank you, Mrs. Santoro. No more questions.
I just want to make sure I have this right.
After 30 years your conscience suddenly drove you to call the police?
No. They came to me.
You just volunteered what you knew?
They said I could be charged with contempt if I didn't.
Over the years, you'd read newspaper accounts of the crime,
you'd seen pictures of my client?
Yeah, I suppose so.
Then isn't it possible, under pressure from the police,
that you confused those photos with the man that you glimpsed in 1965?
Oh, I don't know. I don't think so.
I'm just trying to do the right thing here.
My client should rot in jail just so you can sleep at night?
No more questions.
Mr. Munoz was picked up on a traffic stop for a broken tail light.
When I searched his car, I found a switchblade in the glove box.
I saw what looked like dried blood on the handle.
Without revealing the contents of the interrogation,
tell us what opinion you formed as to Mr. Munoz's guilt.
I was convinced he was our guy.
What convinced you, Detective? The fact that he was Puerto Rican?
He fit the description we had.
Hispanic male driving a beige car.
How many people fit that very unique profile?
I wouldn't know. But a witness picked Munoz out of a line-up.
A line-up consisting of my client and five Irish cops, isn't that right?
I didn't ask their ethnic origins.
But we followed procedure right down the line.
Wouldn't proper procedure have led you to investigate
Ms. Costello's gambling associates?
No.
How about the fact that she was pregnant when she was attacked?
We didn't know she was pregnant. She didn't tell us.
Now that you know, do the six stab wounds to her lower abdomen
acquire a new significance to you?
They might.
You're thinking whoever attacked her
did so with the intention of ending her pregnancy, isn't that right?
There's no facts to support that.
Detective, the only reason we have no facts is that you never bothered to collect any.
Withdrawn. No more questions.
Marks is killing us.
Yeah.
We've got to put her on, Adam. The jury needs to hear her.
We'll have to disclose that Farina's the father.
No choice. Marks is vilifying her.
If we don't call her as a witness,
the jury will assume we've got something to hide.
Put her on the witness list. Those the old files?
Yeah.
It won't be pretty. Marks'll have a field day with Costello.
Unless we inoculate the jury.
We do it to her before Marks does?
Ask the L.A. Prosecutors,
don't they wish they'd pulled the pin on the Fuhrman grenade?
I mean, just before I parked,
I noticed this beige car in my rear view
and then I got out.
The rest is just a blank. I woke up in the hospital.
Please describe your injuries.
The doctors told me I had 14 stab wounds,
in my throat, my chest, arms and stomach.
I can't have children of my own.
They told me I was raped.
Could you describe your social life before this attack?
I had a lot of boyfriends. I liked the attention.
I was young, I was pretty.
I wasn't worried about the future.
Sometimes, I made mistakes.
Please explain that.
I got pregnant
from this man, Bobby Farina.
He was married.
I never told him because I didn't know
if I was gonna keep the baby or give it up for adoption.
And you never told the police?
No. I was ashamed.
After all the other stupid things I'd done.
You mean your arrest?
Yes. For bookmaking.
I gambled.
And sometimes, I worked for my bookie to pay off my debts.
It was very foolish.
I wasn't a career woman.
The way I grew up, family is everything.
That's impossible now, because of him.
Thank you.
I'm very sorry about your injuries, Ms. Costello.
I just have a few questions.
The father of your child, Bobby Farina, what did he do for a living?
He worked for my bookie. He collected debts.
Were you aware that he'd been convicted of violent felonies?
I knew he'd got into trouble because of his temper.
And you knew that he wouldn't be overjoyed by the news of your pregnancy?
That's why I didn't tell him.
Well, you just said it was because you weren't sure about keeping the baby.
Well, it was for both reasons.
When the police questioned you recently about Mr. Farina,
you denied knowing him, isn't that so?
Yes. But I'm not lying now.
I never told him about the baby.
Because you were afraid of what he might do to you?
Yes.
But, in fact, Ms. Costello, you did tell him, didn't you?
No. You threatened to tell his wife
unless he gave you money for an abortion.
That's not true. I am a good Catholic.
I would never do a thing like that!
You mean the kind of good Catholic who gets arrested for bookmaking,
who commits adultery with felons?
Objection. Sustained.
Tone it down, Ms. Marks.
I am not a bad person!
But Bobby Farina is.
He stabbed you in the stomach and killed your unborn child, didn't he?
He is the one who tried to kill me.
How would you know?
You never saw your attacker.
When you came to in the hospital,
the police told you Sal Munoz was the one.
And you went along with it because you knew if you accused Bobby
that he would come back and finish the job, wouldn't he?
Please stop it.
The police framed my client
and you kept your mouth shut for 30 years.
Please stop. Even when the police told you
that Mr. Farina was a suspect, you still denied knowing him, didn't you?
Yes. Even though you knew
the only man with the motive to do this horrible thing to you
was Bobby Farina, isn't that the truth?
I don't... I don't know. I don't know.
No more questions.
Marks knows her audience.
You could've heard hair grow in that jury box.
People slow down for traffic accidents, that doesn't mean they approve.
Wishful thinking. She even created doubt in Cookie's mind.
Thirty years ago, no judge would've let Ms. Teri Marks
get away with that kind of muck-raking.
Thirty years ago, you had a confession.
Yeah. And we had an insanity plea.
You know, Munoz had a girlfriend. A Dominican girl.
She was supposed to testify at the first trial on his behalf.
In support of his insanity plea.
I read her statement. There's no red flag there.
The girl disappeared before she took the stand.
Defense accused us of threatening to pull her visa if she testified.
And?
And nonsense.
Well, then why'd she disappear?
Find her and ask her.
Sal wanted me to lie for him, to say that he was crazy,
that he heard voices
and that's why I ran away to Santo Domingo.
But he's not crazy. He's just evil.
Mr. McCoy, I hope this isn't why you want her to testify.
No, Your Honor.
Ms. Valerio, tell the judge about the times Sal hurt you.
Sometimes, he'd want to have sex with me and I didn't feel like it.
If I said no, he'd hit me and force me to.
If I tried to get away, he would hit me harder.
Your Honor.
Go on, Ms. Valerio.
One time I went to the police and Sal found out.
He got very angry.
He got this small knife from the kitchen and he pressed it against me
and he said that if I ever opened up my mouth again,
that he would cut me up inside so that I could never have babies.
All right. Thank you, Ms. Valerio. You can leave now.
Your Honor, I can't believe Mr. McCoy has asked you to allow this testimony.
It's prejudicial. It's prior bad acts. It's inadmissible.
It establishes a common pattern. Same weapon, same MO.
A paring knife versus a switchblade,
a girlfriend versus a complete stranger?
There's no pattern here.
He threatened to injure his girlfriend
in the exactly the same manner he injured Cookie Costello.
And who knows how many others.
That's the problem. There are no others.
Two vaguely similar acts do not add up to a pattern.
No, they don't, Ms. Marks.
Mr. McCoy, this is outside the Molineux exception. I can't allow it.
Ms. Valerio will not testify.
Have you reached a verdict?
We have.
On the first count of the indictment,
rape in the first degree, how do you find?
We find the defendant, Sal Munoz, not guilty.
On the second count of the indictment,
attempt to commit murder in the second degree,
how do you find?
We find the defendant not guilty.
Yes!
Marks just had a press conference.
She actually thinks she righted a 30-year-old wrong.
And probably hopes to be the centerfold in next month's Bar Journal.
Yeah. Well, she did her job. We didn't do ours.
Bad evidence. Bad memories. Bad rulings.
We did everything we could.
Yeah.
Didn't you tell me you never make this job personal?
I lied. Second time in 30 years.