A Matter of Conviction

The assistant district attorney — a young blond man who looked as if he were fresh out of N.Y.U. Law — was already there when Gunnison arrived. He had, since the case was a homicide, taken the precaution of bringing along a stenographer from the D.A.’s Homicide Bureau. The stenographer, a balding man in his early forties, sat in a straight-backed chair and stared with boredom at the steady rain which streaked the grilled windows of the squad room. Gunnison had a short whispered consultation with Larsen, and then he walked to the boys.

“All right,” he said, looking at the slip of paper in his hand. “Which one of you is Danny Di Pace?”

The boys hesitated. Behind them, the rain oozed monotonously against the glass panes. Night had come in earnest, following instantly on the spikes of the rain. Neon smeared its color splash against the windows; the squad room was curiously silent except for the whisper of raindrops against the asphalt outside.

“You hear me?” Gunnison said.

The boys did not speak. The tallest of the three, a powerfully built youth with dark-brown eyes, stood between the other two, presenting — because of his size — the natural apex of the triangle. The lieutenant took a step closer to him.

“You Danny Di Pace?”

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“My name is Arthur Reardon,” the boy said.

“How old are you, Arthur?”

“Seventeen.”

The lieutenant nodded. He turned to the redheaded boy on Reardon’s left. “And you?”

“I’m Di Pace.”

“Why didn’t you say so when I asked you?”

“I’m only fifteen,” Di Pace said. “I won’t be sixteen till September. You can’t hold me here. You can’t even question me. I’m a juvenile offender. I know my rights.”

Gunnison nodded sourly to the assistant D.A. “We got a lawyer in our midst,” he said. “I got news for you, sonnyboy, and you better listen to it carefully. The upper age limit for a juvenile offender in New York State is sixteen years old.”

“That’s what I said—”

“Shut up and listen to me!” Gunnison snapped. “The New York code states that a delinquent is a child who violates any law or any municipal ordinance or who commits any act which, if committed by an adult, would be a serious crime, except — and get this, sonnyboy — except any child fifteen years of age who commits any act which, if committed by an adult, would be a crime punishable by death or life sentence. Now homicide, whether you know it or not—”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” the assistant D.A. said firmly.

“Yes?” Gunnison said. He turned to face the young man, his hands still on his hips.

“I’ve no desire to interrupt your interrogation. But in all fairness, the boy hasn’t yet been charged with anything.”

Gunnison was silent for a moment, weighing his years of police work against the young man’s inexperience, weighing too their comparative ranks. Calmly, he said, “A homicide was committed.”

“True. And the boy was brought in for questioning in connection with it. He hasn’t yet been booked as either a defendant or a material witness. Besides, you left out an important part of the penal code.”

“Did I?” Gunnison said, and he hoped the sarcasm did not show too clearly in his voice.

“Yes. You forgot to mention that a judge can make and file an order removing the action to the Children’s Court.”

“The fact remains,” Gunnison said levelly, “that homicide is a crime punishable by death or life sentence, and I don’t expect any fifteen-year-old snot to go spouting law texts at me.” He glared at the assistant D.A. as if to make it clear he didn’t expect twenty-five-year-old snots to go spouting law at him either. The young man seemed unruffled.

“May I talk to you privately for a moment, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Sure,” Gunnison said. His eyes held the hard flat glare of contained anger. Purposefully, he walked to one of the desks inside the slatted rail divider which separated the squad room from the corridor outside.

“What is it?” he asked.

The assistant D.A. extended his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met before,” he said. “My name is Soames.”

“Glad to know you,” Gunnison said by rote.

“About procedure,” Soames said, “and I’m only anticipating later objections from whoever defends these boys. But you know as well as I that a fifteen-year-old kid isn’t supposed to be interrogated in a police station. All right, granted there’s no place specifically provided for this theoretic interrogation. But most police officers—”

“Most police officers handle the interrogation in a separate part of the precinct so that the rule is at least given some sort of observance. I’m well aware of that, Mr. Soames. If you don’t mind my saying so, however, I just this minute discovered the kid was fifteen.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But I’d like to find out how old the third boy is before I separate the adult killers from the baby killers. With your permission, of course.”

“Go right ahead,” Soames said.

“Thank you.”