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Not knowing what would happen next was the worst part of everything. Not knowing if my friend or I would be shot while we were held up at gunpoint by three guys with guns. Not knowing if we'd catch them and if I'd be able to walk down the streets of New York City again without constantly looking over my shoulder. And when they were caught, not knowing if someone else on the street, right in front of me, looking at me, had a gun and was angry today. Not knowing if our testimony in front of the grand jury would help put the bad guys behind bars for a long, long time.
Our case was assigned to Assistant District Attorney (ADA) Caramia Hart who we would soon nickname "Caramia 'By the Book' Hart." She was formal, thorough and very careful in every aspect of questioning us and preparing us for the Grand Jury. The grand jury, I learned, were about 16 people who, like regular jurists, are called in for a stretch of time to hear testimony of witnesses prior to trials of suspects. They are the ones who decide if a case is worth prosecuting, if the evidence seems strong enough, and they do this by indicting the suspects. Innocence until proven guilty, of course, but it seemed to me that an indictment would mean - yeah, pretty darn guilty but now let's let a jury decide.
I wasn't comforted to find out that Grand Juries listen to hours and hours and days and days of testimony and it's a running joke that the jurors are usually reading or knitting by the time anyone's case gets before them. Great.
My friend and I also worried about the way we looked. He has long hair down to his waist, and although he is certainly the most conservative and well-kept person I know, long hair on a guy tends to throw people off regardless. Were we too good-looking? Too white-bread? Did we appear to be rich or stuck up? Did we look as honest as we were? The worst dilemma, which sounds funny now but was a major issue for us, was what should we wear? If we wore jeans to look down-to-earth and feel comfortable, would that be disrespectful? If he wore a suit, should his hair be up in a bun (how he usually wears it when it's not down - no ponytails) or wear it loose and would his suits make him look too business like or too affluent? I don't really own dresses other than little summer flowered dresses and the only skirt I owned, a wool plaid one, was something I was saving for the trial - if there would be one. I finally decided on a white dress with tiny pink flowers and a pink tshirt underneath with a tan thin cardigan over that. I looked like a little girl. My friend settled on blue jeans, a blazer, his black cowboy boots, and his hair down.
Our biggest fear was that the Grand Jury would not believe us or not like us and therefore not care about indicting the suspects. The bad guys weren't there in the room so all the burden rested on us and the police detectives. At the last minute, while we waited outside the Grand Jury room, Caramia changed the order that we'd be testifying in and instead of going second, I went first.
I walked into a large room with rows of seats like a lecture hall. I was led to the "stage" where I sat in front of the Grand Jury. As I nervously glanced around, I did notice some books and newspapers but don't remember anyone knitting. ADA Hart asked me questions about the "incident" and I relayed the details as clearly and concisely as possible. Somewhere after I stated my name, my chin began to tremble uncontrollably and I noticed some sympathetic glances from the jurors.
After I told the story of our robbery and how we were taken against our will at gunpoint and led to the bank and the rest of the ordeal up to our escape, one juror asked me to clarify a small point to differentiate two of the suspects. I replied and it was over.
My friend went in separately as did the two detectives, Det. Garlick and Det. Howard. Then we all waited.
All three suspects were indicted on all counts - different degrees of robbery and even kidnapping. Our relief was short-lived when we learned the entire procedure from indictment to actual conviction on any charge could take over a year. In between, the bad guys could potentially plea to a lesser charge or if they decided to go to trial, anything was possible at that point. As in, they could be found "Not Guilty" and set free.
But until then, at least for the time being, they would be in jail at Rikers Island. When they were first arrested, their bond was set relatively low but none of them were able to post their bond. After the indictment, bail was remanded for all three (meaning there was no bail allowed so they could not get out on bail.) They spent Christmas in jail.
As time passed, we began to gather information about our assailants. I'll use their initials, more for our safety than theirs.
DM was 25 years old, had half a dozen violent crime arrests, and was a crack addict. He was the one my friend saw on his street corner, the one the police picked up and who turned his companions over to the police. During the robbery, he was the one in the white jacket who looked manic and seemed erratic.
RF was 19 years old, had only been out of jail for about 3 months after serving several years for an assault charge (talked down from attempted murder). He was the one who first approached us with a 9mm in hand, pointed right at us.
SC was 15 years old and had no prior record. He was dating RF's sister. He was the one who frisked my friend and who pulled his credit cards out of his wallet, trying to get my friend to get money out of the ATM.
DM, the oldest, and SC, the youngest, decided to take pleas. But RF decided to go to trial, to take his chances. If he lost, he would end up getting more jail time than the deal the District Attorney's office offered him. But if he won, he'd be back out on the street.
Now all we could do was wait. Things were in the system's hands now. And we weren't sure just what that meant.