Unlike the intense, sneering character he plays on television, Martin is the picture of affability. On screen, he looks gaunt, with piercing eyes. In person, he is tall and slender, his eyes bright and friendly. Martin, 19, is a recent graduate of the High School of Performing Arts. Right before he was cast on Crime and Punishment, he was your typical young New York actor—working a day job as a waiter, doing small productions at night. He is eager to please, maybe to offset the negative reaction many people have had to his character.

Though he lives in a hotel, Martin is quick to point out that he isn’t exactly a Hilton—his getting a part on television has nothing to do with privilege. A quick look around the lobby, where we sit down to talk, confirms his story. There are threadbare patches on the arms of the chairs and the floorboards are uneven. The phone never rings, and no one comes through the front door. No, the Hiltons they are not.

“I spent most of the summer doing Hamlet in that room right there,” Martin says, pointing at the dining room. “On a unicycle.”

A unicycle? Hamlet? In the hotel?

“It was kind of a carnival, old movie setting,” he explains. “We had to do the show here because…well, that’s a long story. But we were sort of the goofballs of the show. I’ve run into that dining room door headfirst more times than I can count.”

Martin explains that his part on Crime and Punishment was supposed to be a small one—a one-off episode. But when the script was changed to accommodate the departure of Donald Purchase, he found himself thrust into the spotlight.

So, how does it feel to be the most hated man in New York?

“I don’t know,” he says. “Kind of weird? Very weird? I like doing this part, but…people seem really upset about what happened. It’s just a show…”

But for many, Crime and Punishment isn’t just a show—and the characters aren’t just people on TV. They’re old friends. And Sonny Lavinski was the oldest friend of all. I’ve read enough reports of people attacking Martin in the street, throwing food at him, to know this must be an ongoing issue for him. Would he still take the part, even knowing what would happen?

“Sure,” he says, without hesitation. “I’m an actor. I have to take work when I can get it.”

Does he worry that he’ll be typecast? That he might not work again because people will always associate him with this odious role? That maybe he’s done a little too well?

For the first time since I’ve met him, Martin’s features cloud over, his cheeks hollow a bit, and I see just the smallest hint of the darkness of his character.

“You think?” he asks.

THE WORST OF TIMES