The trial began on Tuesday, April 24, in the Brooklyn courtroom of Judge Neil Firetog.
The jury had been selected the day before; I sat there looking at these 16 citizens, (including four alternates) who would eventually decide the innocence or guilt of the man charged with causing the death of my son. Who are these people? I thought. What do I know about them?
Men and women, Hispanic, Caucasian, African-American, Asian, from the pretty to the plain, short to tall, youthful to mature. One biting his nails; one gesturing for a drink of water; one sitting forward; one slumping in his seat, another seemingly uninterested.
Nothing in common — except for silence. I wouldn’t hear any of them speak for most of five days.
Our son Alain Schaberger was killed March 13, 2011. Ever since, we’ve received endless support and comfort from the Police Department, especially the men and women of our son’s former command, the eight-four precinct; the PBA and the NYPD’s Employee Relations Section.
Throughout the trial, we had that support at every turn. We were never left alone — officers eager to help us in any way (Transportation? Lunch?) were in arm’s reach every minute. Up to last March 13, we had one cop in the family; now we had 35,000.
This support meant a great deal to us, but it didn’t relieve the stress of sitting in that courtroom each day.
My wife, May, and I sat there for every minute. Our daughter, Tracey, and her husband, Jeff, missed only a few hours, when other care was unavailable for their twin 3-year-old girls.
These girls, Kate and Jill, with their innocence and smiles, were the strength my wife drew on the past 13 months. Even as a father, I can’t imagine the hurt of a mother who loses a child.
And strength my wife had. The prosecution called five witnesses; the defense, two more. We sat there listening over and over to five descriptions of Alain’s death, plus the medical examiner presenting in clinical terms the injuries that caused the death.
My daughter was so overwhelmed at one point that she had to leave the room. My wife sat there, next to me, in the first row, upset, in tears, stiff with tension — but wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t give one inch to the tragedy that had surrounded us.
Our son died by falling over a front stoop railing and dropping, head first, 10 feet to a concrete basement level below. The issue was whether he’d been pushed.
The three police officers all stated that when our son tried to cuff the accused, he resisted, turned to Alain and with both hands shoved him in the chest — sending him over the railing behind him.
The mother of the accused gave another story, saying another officer, standing in between, bumped Alain over the rail after the accused made a sudden, innocent gesture. The girlfriend — who’d made the 911 call that triggered the incident — told a similar story.
But Assistant District Attorney Mark Hale deserves his excellent reputation. His questioning drew out glaring inconsistencies — including the very different story the mother had given a few hours after the incident, that no one had touched our son, he’d simply fallen over the rail.
And I saw the jury clearly note this glaring inconsistency, along with others in the defense’s case.
Late Tuesday morning, May 1, with both summations complete, the judge instructed the jury on the points of law involved and the jurors began deliberation.
They’d reached no decision by day’s end; the judge instructed everyone to return the next day at 9:45 AM.
A long night of doubt ensued. Would the jury appreciate the inconsistencies, did they believe cops, were they sympathetic to the mother?
Wednesday morning came; we sat in a small room adjacent to the courtroom. About 11 o’clock the judge called everyone in. The jury reached a decision.
The clerk read the charges: Aggravated Manslaughter of a Police Officer. The foreman declined to announce the verdict; juror No. 3 accepted the duty.
The jury finally spoke: Guilty.
We left the courtroom thankful, relieved, but still hurting.