I stood, went into the bathroom, washed my hands, and threw the shotgun back on the bed.

When I went downstairs, Susan was standing at the open door. In the forecourt were two police cars and uniformed officers were moving quickly toward the house.

I put my arm around her shoulder and said, “It’s finished.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

The police searched and secured the premises and determined that there were no other perpetrators present.

The EMS people, who carried a stretcher upstairs, didn’t carry it downstairs, and a uniformed officer told me, “He’s dead.” The medical examiner, when he arrived, would make that official.

The police had tagged the weapons as evidence, and the crime scene investigators were on the way to begin the slow, arduous process of turning the scene of a violent personal assault into a neat scientific project.

While this was going on, a homicide detective by the name of Steve Jones had requisitioned our home office to conduct an interview with me while Susan was taken by EMS vehicle to the sexual assault unit at North Shore University Hospital.

I wasn’t happy that I hadn’t been allowed to accompany Susan to the hospital, but Detective Jones explained that this was standard operating procedure, to wit: In cases involving serious felonies, witnesses are separated. Well, one size does not fit all, and even though we were witnesses, and even though Susan killed the alleged assailant, we were also obviously crime victims, so I said to Detective Jones, “We will, of course, cooperate fully, but I have to insist that I be present when you interview Mrs. Sutter.” I further explained, “I am an attorney, and I am also her attorney.” I suggested, “It might be a good idea to call Detective Nastasi in the Second Precinct, who took our original complaint about threats that the assailant made against us.”

Detective Jones considered all that, then left the office to consult with his Homicide Squad supervisor and an assistant district attorney from their Homicide Unit, both of whom had recently arrived. This was, of course, a high-profile case, so Detective Jones, who, I’m certain, usually ran his own investigation, now had to share his duties and power with higher-ups who’d taken over the living room.

Bottom line on this, when a society lady kills a Mafia don – on her estate or his – the case takes on another dimension, and everyone wants in on it. I remembered this from the last time it happened.

Detective Jones returned and informed me, “Detective Nastasi is on the way.” In response to my other request, he said, “We have no objection to you being present when I interview Mrs. Sutter.”

“Thank you.”

Detective Jones then said to me, “As an attorney, you understand that you are a witness to a homicide and possibly more than a witness, so before I take your statement, I need to read you your rights.” He added, “As a formality.”

I wasn’t completely surprised by this, but I was getting annoyed. On the other hand, there was a corpse lying in my bedroom, and Detective Jones needed to be sure he was dealing with a justifiable homicide. Actually, he wasn’t – I mean, Susan shooting Anthony was borderline justifiable, but me speeding up his death was called murder. I said, “Let me save you the trouble.” Then, from memory, I advised myself of my rights.

Detective Jones seemed satisfied with that and didn’t ask me if I understood what I just said to myself.

Before I began my statement, I told Detective Jones that the deceased perpetrator, Anthony Bellarosa by name, had identified his accomplice to me as Tony Rosini, a man who I said was known to me.

Detective Jones passed this on to another detective, then informed me, “I was one of the detectives who responded to the other Bellarosa homicide ten years ago.”

I wasn’t quite sure why he mentioned that, but I was still annoyed that Susan and I had been separated, so I replied, “Has it been ten years between Bellarosa murders?”

He ignored my sarcasm, and I began my statement. Detective Jones wrote it all out longhand on lined paper, though of course I could have typed it on the computer or written it myself. But this is the way it’s always been done, so why introduce new technology?

I neglected to mention in my statement that I knelt on the assailant’s chest and reopened his wound to make sure he died before the EMS arrived. I mean, Detective Jones didn’t ask, so why should I volunteer?

All this took over an hour, and after I read my statement, I signed it, as did Detective Jones and another detective, who witnessed my signature.

I saw a police car pull into the forecourt and a uniformed officer escorted Susan to the front door. Detective Jones went to the door and accompanied Susan into the office.

We hugged, and she said, “I’m all right. They gave me some sedatives and painkillers and asked me to return tomorrow for a follow-up visit – but I think I’ll see my own physician instead.”

We were joined in the office by Detective Jones’s supervisor, Lieutenant Kennedy, and also by an assistant district attorney, a young lady named Christine Donnelly, who reminded me of Carolyn. To help put everyone in the right frame of mind at this critical juncture in the investigation, I said, “Our daughter Carolyn is an ADA in Brooklyn.”

Ms. Donnelly smiled at that news and commented, “It’s not easy working for Joe Hynes, but she’ll learn a lot.”

There is, as I knew, an amazing fraternity of law enforcement people, and you should never miss an opportunity to tell a cop or an ADA that your favorite uncle is a cop in the South Bronx – or someplace – and that your daughter, niece, or nephew works for some attorney general somewhere – even if you have to make it up.

Anyway, it was Detective Jones’s case – he’d caught the squeal, as they say – and he began by inquiring of Susan if she was feeling well and so forth.

Then he read her her rights and asked her to give a statement regarding what happened this evening. As she began, Detective Jones began writing on his lined paper.

I understood that it was best if I didn’t say anything, though of course I could have advised my client if I thought she was making an incriminating statement, such as, “I told John to go back upstairs and take care of him.” Then Detective Jones might inquire, “What did you mean by ‘take care of him’?”

Of course, we were not officially suspects in a homicide, but someone was dead, so Susan and I needed to be careful of what we said.

I’d already told Susan, before the first detective arrived, to state unequivocally that she believed our lives were in danger and that was why she’d shot a man who was not actually armed at the moment she shot him. I further advised her, as her attorney, to state that the perpetrator had ignored her command to stop and put up his hands and that he lunged at her.

This was no small technicality, unfortunately, and I didn’t want the grand jury to have any doubts. The reality, of course, was that Susan was aiming for his heart, then wanted to finish off Anthony with a shotgun blast to the face. I certainly understood why she’d want to do that, but I wasn’t sure if the police or the district attorney would understand – especially considering her unjustifiable murder of the alleged assailant’s father.

Bottom line here was that Susan Stanhope, nice lady that she was, had another side to her personality, which she’d shown ten years ago and which, I hoped, would not show itself again for a while.

As Susan related her story, Ms. Donnelly jotted a few notes and so did the Homicide Squad supervisor, Lieutenant Kennedy, but they let Susan do all the talking.

Susan reached the point in her story when Anthony Bellarosa and Tony Rosini literally dragged her up the stairs and into the bedroom, pulled off her robe and panties, and tied her to the bedposts.