Badge of Evil

by Bill Stanton

  Bishop looked at A. J. and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. “Okay,” Bishop said, principally to A. J., “now I have a reason to stay in the game.”

  “But there’ll be no more episodes like last night,” Victoria continued, “or we’re done. When I call, I need to be able to reach you. Understood? The next time you turn your phone off when I want you will be the last time I want you. And the first thing I want you to do is find out who got to the judge. I want to know why I wasn’t able to get Supreme released on bail.”

  A. J. stole a look at the screen. As the president finished his announcement, Brock stepped forward. As was his custom, he threw his right arm around the president’s shoulder and gave him a good squeeze. The president smiled and then stepped back, allowing Brock to have center stage for his brief statement. A. J. turned to the group and began to explain his feeling about the extraordinary events of the past two weeks to Victoria and Lucy.

  “I don’t know exactly what’s going on here,” Bishop said, jumping in, “but something’s fucked up. No way two murder-suicides are a random coincidence. No way the Jafaari deaths are murder-suicide at all. I only met the mother once, but there’s no chance she killed both her kids and then offed herself. When I talked to her, she was relaxed, focused, and strong. And it was clear she loved her kids. Nothing in her profile would suggest suicide, let alone murder. My investigators’ll be all over Bellevue to find out what went down.”

  Lucy, her eyes puffy and red, looked at Bishop, then Victoria, and turned finally to A. J. “You need to talk to Supreme.”

  “Absolutely,” A. J. said. “And I need to get my meeting scheduled with Brock as well.”

  A. J. picked up his coffee cup and took a drink. “Ugh,” he said. “It’s ice-cold. All right,” he said, getting up from the table. “We really need to start rockin’. If there’s any chance something’s really amiss with Brock, besides his being a power-hungry, self-absorbed prick, we better find out before he’s confirmed by the Senate.”

  “We need a plan of attack,” Lucy said.

  “That’s exactly what I’m about to give you,” A. J. said with a smile. “Once the two of you get a little rest and you’re able to recharge, here’s what I want you to do. Bishop, your guys have been all over Brock’s raid, right? Good. Then it’s time for you to see what they have. We need to find out where the tip came from, how Brock got involved, and whether the whole thing was clean. And we need to find out why the cops are threatening people to keep them quiet. Lucy, you should make contact with Anderson’s wife. Go see her in person, if she’ll let you, and get whatever you can from her. She had to have some sense of what he was up to.”

  A. J. then looked at Victoria and glanced quickly at the television. Brock and the president were turning and walking out of the Roosevelt Room. The press conference was over and Brock’s nomination was official. “Vic,” A. J. said, “you need to get Supreme out of jail. And while you’re doing that, you think you can get me into Rikers for a visit?”

  “Even if I have to blow the warden,” she said.

  “Hey, Vic,” Bishop said, “I thought you did that for your last case.”

  14

  ON MOST DAYS, Walter Fitzgerald was okay with his place in the world. He had reached the upper ranks of the NYPD and achieved more success than he could’ve imagined as a working-class Irish kid growing up on Belmont Avenue in the Bronx. This was not one of those days. This was a day when he felt shortchanged and overlooked. A day when all of his resentments about having to take orders from people with less experience who were not nearly as smart as he was bubbled to the surface. It had been some time since Fitzgerald recognized he’d never get the top job, that despite his wealth of experience, political savvy, and street smarts, he’d never be police commissioner. And, for the most part, he’d made his peace with it. After more than thirty years in the department, he still loved his job, and even if he wasn’t going all the way to the top, he’d come pretty damn close. The fact that he’d outlasted five mayors and half a dozen police commissioners was a badge of honor he wore proudly. “In order to thrive, you must survive,” he often said, and that was the goal: survive and thrive.

  He’d actually started the day feeling pretty good. It was a Saturday, so he slept in till seven forty-five. Then he made himself a nice big breakfast of ham and eggs, some fresh fruit he’d picked up the day before at a farmer’s market in Union Square, and plenty of fresh ground coffee. He was meeting Commissioner Brock at eleven o’clock at police headquarters and he couldn’t wait. Fitzgerald was almost as excited about the get-together as he was the first time he was ever called to the commissioner’s office nearly twenty years earlier. Back then, the invitation was to recognize and reward him for his outstanding leadership. Two priests in lower Manhattan had been tortured and murdered, and within ten days, the detectives in his command made an arrest.

  Since then, he’d had hundreds, maybe even thousands of meetings with all the various police commissioners, and he couldn’t remember the last time he was this eager. He was thrilled for Brock, his onetime protégé, who was just back from Washington and his star turn with the president, and he knew that as manic as the commissioner was, he would be sky-high over the nomination. Fitzgerald couldn’t wait to hear the gossip and dirty details from Washington.

  But now, as he sat in the back of his Crown Victoria at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge, he was more pissed than pumped. He’d shown up at Brock’s office right on time, only to be directed by the commissioner’s secretary to the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge. She didn’t know why Brock wanted to meet him there and neither did Fitzgerald—at least not at first. On his way over, he figured Brock must be planning some kind of press event, otherwise why would they be meeting outside?

  Some guys just never get enough, he thought. He knew the commissioner as well as anyone and he’d seen outrageous displays of his ego many times. But this was off the charts, even for Brock. How needy and fucked up could one person be that he’d still be craving attention after a week like the one Brock had had? Any public display at this point, Fitzgerald believed, was an unnecessary distraction with no upside. Brock had already won the big prize. There was serious business to take care of, like the complicated minefield of the confirmation process. Not to mention the little problem of A. J. Ross and Frank Bishop snooping around and looking into the Kevin Anderson situation. They needed to be stopped before they caused real trouble, and Brock’s continuing to scream, “Look at me, look at me,” was definitely not the way to do it. If ever there was a time to just keep your head down and enjoy the spoils, the chief thought, it was now.

  So as Fitzgerald sat in his car waiting for Brock, his mood had darkened considerably. He no longer even cared much about what happened in Washington. His primary concern now was taking care of business in New York, his business. After three decades of extraordinary police work and even more skillful, meticulously planned political maneuvering, Fitzgerald was not about to let someone else’s carelessness—even if it was the commissioner’s—destroy everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.

  While he waited, he took a picture of his daughter out of his wallet. Bright blue eyes, luminous smile. He remembered how excited he was when the doctor announced, “It’s a girl!”

  His reverie was abruptly broken when the Emergency Service Unit vehicle pulled up. Brock and his entourage arrived a few minutes later. When the commissioner got out, he was grinning like a six-year-old at recess. He walked over and wrapped Fitzgerald in a big, tight bear hug. He squeezed hard for several seconds before letting go. “We did it, man, we actually fucking did it,” Brock said, laughing.

  “Congratulations,” Fitzgerald responded soberly.

  “ ‘Congratulations,’ ” Brock repeated incredulously. “That’s it? That’s all you got? What the hell’s the matter with you, man? How ’bout some excitement? How ’bout some noise? How ’bout some ‘Holy fuckin’ shit, Commish, you’re unbelievable’?
C’mon, Fitz, it doesn’t get any bigger than this.”

  “Sorry, Commissioner, I got a lot on my mind. I really am thrilled for you.”

  “Well, you’re doing a great job of hiding it.”

  “Listen, couldn’t we do this at Nello’s or Fat Jack’s or some other restaurant? I’ll buy.”

  “Fuck you,” Brock said, smiling. “This is gonna be great. I already made us a reservation and it’s only two hundred seventy-six feet away.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” an anxious Fitzgerald asked.

  “The fuck I am, brother.” But even before Brock answered, Fitzgerald saw two ESU officers approaching with harnesses, one for each of them. As the chief slipped into the canvas and leather contraption, which was not unlike the kind used by window washers, he knew what Brock was doing. The two of them were going to climb to the top of one of the towers on the Brooklyn Bridge. He felt like he wanted to strangle Brock. This compulsion to engage in risky behavior must be some kind of sickness, Fitzgerald thought. There was no other way to explain it. Brock was at the absolute pinnacle of his career; why would he stupidly dance along the edge and risk losing everything? Fitzgerald had about as much patience for pop psychology as he did for the ACLU, but in this case he was seriously starting to wonder if Brock’s compulsion to tempt fate was really a subconscious effort to sabotage himself.

  Fitzgerald didn’t dwell on his simplified attempt at analysis. At that moment he had more pressing concerns—like how the fuck he was supposed to get to the top of the tower? The main suspension cables came up out of the ground at the foot of the bridge. There was one on the right side and one on the left. They gradually rose to the top of the first tower at about a thirty-degree incline, and then they stretched straight across to the next tower. From there, they began their descent down to the ground on the other side of the East River. Each of these cables was about the width of a diving board, but of course they weren’t flat. They were cylinders. Walking on one was like walking on one of those balance beams that gymnasts use. You had to work to maintain your equilibrium and watch every step. Each main cable, about the thickness of a good-size log, was flanked on both sides by two narrower ones that ran parallel all the way up and across the span. These secondary cables were about at waist height, so, like a couple of window washers clamping onto the side of a building, Brock and Fitzgerald locked onto these cables with straps attached to each hip. They could also use them to hold on to during their ascent. As they began their climb, there were two beefy ESU officers in front of them and two behind as a safety precaution.

  It was a beautiful day with the kind of cloudless blue sky that sometimes causes outfielders to lose track of simple fly balls. Fitzgerald was breathing heavily as he climbed and he could feel the sweat underneath his shirt and dripping down his face. He focused intently on every step, carefully and slowly placing one foot in front of the other. Though he was afraid he’d lose his balance if he turned his head and really looked around, he could still see how spectacular the 360-degree view was. Unfortunately, he could also sense what was below him—on one side was the roadway and on the other was the blackness of the East River.

  The climb, which probably could’ve been done in twenty minutes, took nearly twice that time because of the chief’s cautious pace. When they reached the top of the tower, there was a flat surface about twenty feet by twenty feet where they could sit, relax, talk, and have lunch. Brock took a long, deep breath and exhaled slowly with a big smile on his face. “How great is this, huh, Fitz? Really makes you feel alive.”

  “Fuck you, cocksucker,” Fitzgerald responded. “I’m gonna get even with you for this.”

  “Hey, hey, watch your mouth,” Brock said. “Let’s have a little respect. What’s the matter with you, anyway? You afraid of heights?”

  “Who the fuck isn’t?”

  Brock had made sure one of the ESU guys brought along a camera; he’d taken a few pictures during the climb and he was taking some now with the skyline in the background. One of the other officers was unloading his pack, which contained drinks and sandwiches from Brock’s favorite restaurant. “Hey, guys,” the commissioner said. “Do me a favor. Go down to the truck and take out a bottle of champagne. I forgot to put it in the pack. I need all four of you to go.” The sergeant hesitated, not wanting to abandon his responsibility, but one quick look from the commissioner was all it took. He knew Brock wanted to be alone with the chief and he was not to be argued with.

  Once the ESU guys started their descent, Brock looked at Fitzgerald, who still seemed to be scowling. “You know this is not just about me,” the commissioner said. “This is for all of us, everybody in the crew. When one of us succeeds, we all succeed. That’s what we always said. So you’re coming with me.” Before Fitzgerald could protest, he said, “I don’t want to hear anything, Chief, you’re coming to Washington. But first you need to clean up the mess with Bishop and A. J. There’s nothing they can do to hurt us. They’ll never connect the dots. All the same, make it go away. That motherfucker Bishop has always been a pain in the ass, even when he was a cop. Maybe someday you’ll explain to me why you protect him. As far as Supreme goes, leave him to me. We can’t have any loose ends. The FBI’s gonna be all over the vetting process and I need to look clean. And so, by the way, do you.”

  Fitzgerald knew better than to argue when Brock was like this. The commissioner was pacing back and forth on the tower, each time coming and closer to the edge. Fitzgerald just sat and watched, careful not to send any signals with his body language or his facial expressions to antagonize the commissioner. He was just trying to ride out the storm. But he knew that ultimately something did need to be done about Bishop and A. J.

  “Everything’s under control, Commish,” Fitzgerald said finally. “I pulled a few strings, so Supreme’s not getting outta Rikers any time soon, even though he’s got that bitch Victoria Cannel representing him now. His bail was denied. I got him being watched, and I got Bishop and A. J. Ross and his assistant under surveillance as well. Whenever any one of ’em takes a piss, I’ll know what shade of yellow it is.”

  The commissioner, certain he’d gotten his message across, had relaxed and became upbeat again. He walked to one corner of the tower and motioned for Fitzgerald to join him. When the chief reluctantly complied, Brock put his arm around him and fully extended his other arm, pointing north. Fitzgerald was wondering what the hell the commissioner was doing. It was a strange, almost statuelike pose. Then it clicked. The chief looked down and saw a throng of reporters and cameras gathered at the foot of the bridge, tipped off to the photo op, no doubt, by Brock’s people.

  The wind picked up a little, swirling around the two men as they stood together stiffly for another few moments. Fitzgerald looked at the pleasure-boat traffic on the water. For just an instant, he had a wistful, envious sensation. How nice it would be, he thought, to spend a Saturday on the river, or in a park, or lying on the couch like a normal person. Maybe he’d reached the time in his life when he wanted to be able to go home on Friday and shut down, to leave it all at the office until after the weekend.

  “Chief, Chief.” He suddenly realized Brock was trying to get his attention. “Are you with me? All right, it’s time to go down.”

  The moment of doubt for Fitzgerald passed. “What’s the mayor gonna say when he sees photos of this little escapade?” he asked.

  “Well, I guess I’ll find out shortly. I’m going to see him as soon as we’re done.”

  “Aren’t you concerned?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Fuck him,” Brock said with a full measure of arrogance. “This is our time.”

  • • •

  Mayor Domenico was uncharacteristically subdued when Brock met with him. There was no yelling, no grand theatrical gestures, and no playing to the cheap seats. He sat behind his desk and was pretty much all business. He had his glasses on, his sleeves rolled up, and an unlit cigar stuck in his left hand. Brock was a little disappointed, but he knew this was
a session they had to have. Domenico was in operational mode. He’d been a high-ranking attorney in the Justice Department, so he knew the system and he knew exactly how the process would go. He had his secretary bring in a pad for Brock so he could take notes. The mayor then spent about thirty minutes briefing the police commissioner on who he needed to call, which lawyers had to be involved, what paperwork had to be pristinely presented, and which of his cronies he’d have to jettison.

  The mayor asked Brock several times if he anticipated any hot spots, anything the investigators might find that could potentially be a problem. Each time he asked, Brock responded in the same way: No, sir, there was nothing he was aware of that should cause any problems. And each time it came up, the mayor reminded Brock in a severe but muted tone that this was not just about him. The mayor told Brock, as if it needed repeating, that his long-term plan was a run for the White House, otherwise he might’ve taken the Homeland Security job himself. Therefore, any embarrassment, any humiliating surprise during the approval process, was absolutely unacceptable, since it would potentially damage much more than just Brock’s nomination.

  It was a painfully difficult position for the mayor to be in. Though he wasn’t his usual demonstrative self, he was seething. Despite the intense closeness of Domenico’s relationship with Brock, and the fact that Brock had always unquestioningly deferred to his authority, Domenico was, for the first time, concerned that the police commissioner might ultimately be impossible to control. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. Domenico had built his entire public life on the themes of discipline, personal accountability, and control. Every fire, every shooting, every water-main break, Domenico was there in his windbreaker letting everyone know he was in charge. It was always his cops and his crime-control strategies that made the city safe. If a reporter asked him why the schools were failing, he’d say it was because he didn’t control them. But it turned out that the arrogant tough guy now might not be able to control his police commissioner—a monster that he, in true Dr. Frankenstein fashion, had created. He’d fired one of Brock’s predecessors, one of the most effective police commissioners in decades, just because he thought the guy was getting too much press. Now, with Brock, he’d begun to have real moments of doubt.