Mirror Image

by Ice-T

  And finally, there was Carla. She was the key to Casey keeping his head tight and he knew it, but he still didn’t know if he really had the capacity to be in a relationship for the long haul. He remembered back when he’d first entered Attica—he was twenty-nine and already a legend on the street. Back then, nobody could tell him shit.

  When he’d had his mandatory psychiatry evaluation, the shrink told him that in his opinion, Casey would always be uncomfortable in intimate relationships because of his parents’ deaths and the numerous bad experiences he’d had in the foster care system. “When that happens to a kid, he often becomes detached or violent or an addict. And that means you have someone that can never give one hundred percent to anyone else.” Casey remembered hearing those words and being pissed. The longer the shrink spoke, the more he was sure he had Casey pegged. He suspected that Casey formed relationships through shared violent experiences; being in shoot-outs or fights bonded him to his guys because he identified with the “take no shit from anyone” attitude.

  For Casey, respect was earned in combat; until he’d seen a nigga in battle, he would never really trust them. The shrink had told him that the trauma of his youth would follow him like a dark shadow unless he did something about it. He told him that through talk therapy and treatments like EMDR and hypnotherapy, he could help him minimize the past’s influence on the present and, in some instances, eliminate it altogether. Casey wanted no part of his treatments or to be anyone’s experiment, but he knew that consenting increased his odds on getting an early parole and reuniting with Antonio.

  For the first three months, he’d played along with the shrink’s plan, or at least that’s what he told himself, but after that he saw the benefits of treatment. Seven months into his sessions, budget cutbacks eliminated the visits. It was then that Mack D, a sixty-five-year-old master criminal, had entered the picture. He had waited and baited Casey like a master chess player—had he not, Casey would have dismissed him. Mack elevated Casey’s game with his gangsta metaphysics and put him on a positive path. And it was a good thing, too, because eight years into his sentence, he’d gotten a visit from his son, who told Casey he was following in his father’s footsteps with his first job. His boy was sixteen at the time and, just like his father, couldn’t be told shit. Casey tried everything to get his kid to call off the job, but to no avail. Stuck behind bars, he tormented himself about the potential consequences and his lack of influence on his own son. On the outside, no one would have defied him, but things had changed.

  Five days later came the news that Antonio had been shot robbing a store with another kid. Antonio died in the hospital within hours. On hearing this, Casey went into a dark hole of hate and depression. Had it not been for Mack D, Casey knew he wouldn’t have survived that devastating loss.

  Casey felt his phone buzz. It was Champa, who said he was outside the office with Shin. Casey let them in and asked for an update on the day’s activities.

  “Jacob will be ready to do some test runs on the tech tomorrow afternoon,” Champa said.

  “Reach out to Al P. and make sure he’s on deck for tomorrow’s meeting with Jacob. Have ’em bring five phones that we can do tests on,” Casey said, then turned to Shinzo. “Whassup with our man at the restaurant?”

  “He hasn’t seen Petrosian at Marat’s, but it’s only been a couple days. I expect he’ll show up sooner or later.”

  “All right, we all got shit to do, so let’s go do it.” With that, Casey broke up the meeting, and they all went their separate ways.

  * * *

  Casey didn’t sleep much that night—his mind was buzzing with details and logistics. That next morning, he hit the weights hard, and while working out he got a text from Champa: I got phone problems, my connection’s weak, I’m gonna need a repair guy.

  Casey knew that was Champa’s coded way of sayin’ Al P. was locked up and that he was reaching out to Alejandro to spring him. Casey stared at the phone, resisting the urge to smash it against the wall. It seemed like everywhere he looked, niggas just couldn’t help shooting themselves in the foot. Casey texted back: I’d be pissed as hell if I got a new phone and it was fucking up already. Maybe you should toss that shit and just start over.

  Champa quickly texted back. Nah, the phone’s good, just a bit of interference, that’s all.

  Which meant whatever the po-po had Al P. on, it wasn’t major, like a murder rap or some shit. Casey toweled off and sat down, wondering what the hell had happened. If one cog of this machine broke, everything would shut down after it. At this point, finding someone else to do the job would take too long, and if there was a personnel change, then Al P. would have to be taken out. He couldn’t afford to have someone not on the team knowing his business. More mess, goddamnit.

  Casey replied to Champa, saying he wanted to meet with him in forty-five minutes at the diner down the street from his pad. Casey showered and walked a couple blocks to Cafe de Carlito. The diner was a little hole in the wall that was always packed with secretaries and the like jonesing for their five-dollar lattes. Some of those bitches were getting downright irate, waiting for their shit. Man, what a great racket, Casey thought. Just as addictive as coke, but more expensive, and legal to boot.

  Champa walked up to Casey and eyed the line of ladies at the to-go counter. “Man, these broads love that java.”

  “Yeah, I was just thinkin’ the same thing. C’mon, let’s walk.” When they were away from the diner, Casey continued. “What the fuck’s goin’ on with your man?”

  “He got pulled over last night, and the cops ran his shit. He had a warrant ’cause of back child support—” Champa’s phone interrupted him, and he looked at the screen. “Hold up, it’s Alejandro.

  “Whassup, man, tell me somethin’.… Uh-huh, you shittin’ me?… Seventeen Gs for child support?… How long was he in arrears for?… How many kids?… Okay, so if he pays that off, is he good? Okay, hold on a sec.” Champa held the phone to his chest and looked at Casey. “Okay, the nigga got pulled over late last night, the pigs ran his license and saw that it wasn’t valid ’cause he owes back child support to the tune of—”

  Casey held up his hand. “—Seventeen Gs, yeah, I got that part. Tell him he’ll have the bread in an hour, ask him when he’ll be out.”

  “Alejandro, yeah, okay, spring that nigga, you’ll have that paper within the hour, but I need him sprung now.…” Champa nodded as he listened. “Okay … so by two, then.… My man, thank you—oh, hey, have him call me when he’s on the street.… Do not forget to tell him to reach out.… Later.”

  Champa hung up the phone and said, “Dig this—that nigga’s got fourteen fuckin’ kids!”

  “So when he’s not shootin’ dice and losin’, he’s tappin’ ass and skippin’ out on support payments, that’s great.” Casey shot a disapproving look at Champa. “What else don’t we know about this cat, Champa?”

  Champa winced, knowin’ he was on the hot seat. “Truthfully, I think he’s cool. It’s just one of the things that you gotta charge to the game.”

  Casey said, “Oh, this shit gonna get charged, believe that. When you see him, you let him know his poon-chasing ass is now in debt to me, and from here on out, I want no more drama.”

  “Okay, cool, I got it, Crush, and it will be handled. You want me to reach out to Shin and have him hustle down to Alejandro’s with the loot?”

  “Yeah, have him meet me at the office. He ain’t gonna have enough cash on him.”

  The guys split up and met up at the office fifteen minutes later. Casey got there first and opened up the safe. The biometric safe was as high tech as they came. Opening it required not only a combination, but Casey putting his finger on a biometric reader. Inside the safe was just under $2.3 million in cash, a couple of 9 millimeters, a grenade, two untraceable cell phones, and the best fake passports money could buy—one for him and one for Carla. The grenade had been intended for Rono’s punk ass, but chokin’ that nigga out had been a better idea th
an blowing him to pieces.

  Casey pulled out twenty Gs, stuffed it in a manila envelope, and tossed it on his desk. He looked in the safe one last time before closing it, staring at the rest of the money. A lotta cats in his situation would have taken all the money and the passports and gotten the fuck out while they could, but that wasn’t his style.

  Casey’s cell buzzed, letting him know Shin was waiting. He closed the safe, picked up the envelope, and opened the door to let Shin enter.

  Casey tossed him the envelope. “Okay, inside is twenty large, that’ll cover Al P.’s bullshit and put some money in Alejandro’s pocket for his trouble. Get down there quick and wait for him to be sprung. Actually, you know what, wait for him at Laselle’s, it’s an ice cream spot on Morris Avenue, around the corner from the courthouse. I don’t need anyone makin’ a connection between you and him. And make sure he brings what he needs for the meeting.”

  “You got it—what’d he get busted for?”

  “For bein’ a dumb-ass. Now, go.”

  Shin tucked the money in the breast pocket of his jacket and bounced. Casey walked to the lobby as Champa showed up. He told him to reach out to Jacob and let him know they’d be there around two. He figured that would be enough time for Al to get what he needed for the meeting and be there with time to spare.

  Champa got a buzz from Al while Casey and he were eating lunch. Casey overheard Al say he was free, but before he could say anything else, Champa told him to go to Morris Avenue and look for Shin’s G-Wagen. Al started to jabber with excuses about what had happened, but Champa cut him off by saying, “Kill game, nigga!” and hung up.

  Champa glanced at Casey and said, “You’d think he’d know not to say shit on the goddamn phone.”

  “Right now, I’m thinkin’ a lotta things ’bout this cat—none of ’em good.” Casey chewed his food and gave Champa the red-eye.

  “I know, I know. If the nigga ain’t amazing at the meeting today, I will gladly take care of it.”

  Casey grunted and kept eating. His phone buzzed a minute later with a message from Shin that Al P. and he were in motion and would be at Jacob’s spot at 2 P.M. Shin knew enough not to talk with Al on the ride over and to wait in the car until told otherwise.

  * * *

  At ten after two, Casey’s black Escalade pulled up in front of Jacob’s spot. Champa asked Casey to give him a minute. Champa got out of the Escalade, walked over to Shin’s side of the car, said some words. After a moment, Shin got out and Champa got in. Casey rolled down the window in time to hear Champa go into a fuckin’ tirade.

  “Nigga, what the fuck you doin’, havin’ fourteen muthafuckin’ kids? You think you some kinda muthafuckin’ pimp! You’re no goddamn pimp! Fourteen kids, goddamnit! what the fuck is that about? Nigga, you betta pray your goddamn tech is the fliest shit Crush has ever seen! That seventeen Gs is coming out your end, you fuckin’ feel me? Tell me why I shouldn’t just fuckin’ shoot you right now, huh!”

  Casey and Shin started laughing as they listened to Champa go totally berserk on Al P. Across the street, the Rastafarians at the restaurant were starting to take notice; Casey gave his horn a quick tap so Champa would cool it.

  A second later, Champa got out of the car, so worked up that tiny beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. Then Al got out of the car, visibly shaken and walking like he’d just been sucker-punched in the face. Casey told Shin to stay on the street and keep an eye out.

  Al composed himself and walked up to Casey sheepishly, staring at the ground. “Look, Casey, I’m sorry ya had to bail my ass out—I swear I was gonna make it right, but they popped me ’fore I could, thasall.”

  Casey stared through the other man, purposely speaking in a low voice so Al would have to strain to hear him. “This ain’t no bullshit. This is some high-stakes shit we’re doing, and if anyone gets wise to it before we pull it off, then we’re all dead men. The only reason you still breathing is ’cause you talked a good game. Now you better be muthafuckin’ able to back it up.”

  Not waiting for a response, Casey turned and walked to the building, the guys falling in behind him. When they got to Jacob’s door, like clockwork he opened it before they could knock. Jacob looked Al up and down, but before he could say anything, Champa held up a hand. “Don’t sweat it.”

  They all walked in except for Al, who was told to wait in the hall. The apartment was freezing, a necessity to keep the machines running efficiently. Jacob looked like he hadn’t slept for a couple days. For the next hour, he ran down everything that he had accomplished; the voice capture and recognition, the data scan, everything was set and ready to be tested. The app that allowed Casey to see how close targets were to him was up and running as well.

  Casey looked around the room, every inch of which was crammed with computers and monitors. “Is all this gear gonna make your electric bill spike and raise any suspicions?”

  “Normally it would, but I’ve already hacked into my meter to make sure my usage doesn’t register.”

  At least one of these niggas got their shit together. Casey was more and more impressed by Jacob’s thoroughness, but he knew everyone had an Achilles’ heel, so what was this guy’s?

  “Good. Okay, now what about tapping into squad cars?”

  Jacob smiled, turned to his keyboard and typed furiously, then pointed to the forty-two-inch LED monitor on the wall. Its blue screen came to life and showed a video of a cruiser going down a street; in the corner of the monitor was a map with a red dot moving along Bronxwood Avenue.

  “This is real-time, in the Bronx.”

  Casey smiled as he looked at the monitor, recognizing the familiar sites of the avenue buzz by—the food plaza, the meat market, and the small apartment buildings. He couldn’t believe it, his plan was actually coming together.

  Champa started laughing uncontrollably. “Oh shit, nigga, this is fuckin’ brilliant, I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

  Casey was impressed with how clear the picture was as well. He turned to Jacob. “Well done, my man, but what about getting into the onboard computer and the DVR?”

  “The DVR’s easy—check this out.” Jacob punched in a bunch of commands, and a file list popped up in a separate window.

  “Can we see the video?” Casey asked.

  “Yes, but it may not be a good idea. I can’t verify that when I hack into the system and play something that it won’t also play inside the squad car as well. The same goes for the computer, I’m afraid.”

  “So you need to log in when both guys are out of the car.”

  “Pretty much, I can tell when they leave the car because the video is always running. The good news is that I have learned how the computer and its applications work just by watching the officers all day. They’ve given me my own live tutorial.”

  Casey nodded with satisfaction. “Okay, tight, we’ll get more into this later—for now, shut it down. Champa, get Al in here.”

  Champa walked out into the hallway, grabbed Al, and brought him back inside. Introductions were made and then everyone got down to business. Casey had the five phones that Al had brought loaded with the software and tested to make sure that they could be hacked. The process of loading the software was very smooth, just like Al said. He then tied those phones to Jacob’s server so all the e-mails, text messages, phone logs, and conversations were constantly saved.

  Casey grabbed two of the phones and had Champa dial the numbers. For the next twenty minutes, they had a conversation to test the voice-recognition software. As they talked, they could see the computer transcribing their conversation in almost real time. It highlighted key words in their conversation; then, two minutes after, Jacob’s in-box pinged with an alert that included the text and a link to the audio. They ran more tests on the phones and Jacob’s system for the next two hours and found quite a few minor bugs, all of which Jacob fixed on the spot. Even with those glitches, the system’s speed and accuracy were incredibly impressive.

  While they we
re finishing up the tests, Casey got a text from Shin: I’m really hungry, let’s get some Armenian food now.

  Casey looked up at Champa, and the room fell silent.

  “It’s game time. Alek Petrosian’s at Marat’s.”

  8

  Casey opened the door and told Champa to step outside with him. “I’ma head down there with Shin. You stay here and keep shit on track.” Casey picked up one of the phones Al P. had brought and held it up. “I’m takin’ one of these phones so you can hear what’s goin’ on.”

  He turned to go downstairs, but Champa stopped him. “Hold up, Crush. What if shit goes down? You gonna need backup.”

  “Nothing’s goin’ down—he don’t know me from Adam. ’Sides, it’s a crowded restaurant.”

  “I still think I should roll with you, dawg.”

  “Look, I need you here handlin’ shit. I’ll call you from the car in two seconds.” Casey quickly buzzed down the four flights of stairs and hit the door. He jogged across the street and got in Shin’s G-Wagen. “Let’s go.”

  Shin punched the gas and they were off. Pulling out his baby 9 millimeter from his front pocket, Casey checked that it was loaded and ready for action. Shin glanced over and raised his eyebrows. “Damn, you expectin’ some drama, Crush? Do I need to call backup?”

  “I don’t know what to expect, but I always wanna be prepared, no exceptions.”

  “Okay, cool, so no backup, then?”

  “We don’t got time.… Does your guy in the kitchen have a piece?”

  “Fo sho.”

  “Okay, between the three of us, we should be fine, but I don’t think it’s gonna get hot.”