Trey Carr looked at Sully with sad eyes as the young man retreated to the far end of the park. Carr picked up the pawn and put it with the other pieces. Inside, he felt despair. Despite his best efforts, Sully had not received the upbringing he deserved. He blamed himself. After all, what kind of a role model had he been?
When he looks at me, he sees a failed soul. I don’t instill any desire in him to succeed. All I do is remind him of a rigged, oppressive system that needs to be attacked and destroyed.
Suleiman was well out of earshot from his uncle but still spoke into the phone in a whisper through his mask. “What do you want?”
“It’s time,” Landry said, staring at the computer screen inside the van parked at Roaches Run. Of his three recruits, Landry considered Suleiman the easiest prey. He came from a shitty past and he faced a bleak future. Landry prided himself in taking advantage of such shortcomings. Still, he knew Suleiman needed to be coaxed into the gate.
“Tomorrow at 10:45 a.m., go to room 909 at the GreyStone Hotel in D.C. It’s near Farragut Square,” Landry instructed. “Use the keycard I mailed you last week. Inside the room, you’ll find three orange H-Pack backpacks. Strap one of them on your back and walk toward Lafayette Square per the instructions I mailed with the keycard.”
Suleiman glanced toward Uncle Trey. The chess pieces were already stored in a burlap sack. The old man was bent over and talking on his flip phone. Suleiman wondered who he was talking to. Does the old goat actually have any friends?
Suleiman spoke into the receiver, “What about the other backpacks?”
“That’s not your concern,” Landry said. “Your job is to pick up one backpack at precisely 10:45 a.m. and go to your designated place. Understand?”
“I understand,” Suleiman answered. He believed the plan called for multiple explosions around Lafayette Square. He just wanted to know who else was involved. Did they harbor the same uncertainty that he felt today? Why was it necessary to set off bombs to maim and kill? He knew something big had been unleashed last year. He remembered a report that on June 6 of last year over 500,000 people participated in protests at 550 places throughout the U.S. There was a movement going on and it was going to bring about change. He wanted to be part of the positive energy and didn’t want to emulate the insanity he’d witnessed in Washington back in January. Was bombing really the best way to seek systemic change? He knew the answer to his own question. No.
“And don’t wait for the next person to arrive,” Landry instructed. “The mission is synchronized. If you delay, you’ll throw off the timing for everything.”
“I understand,” Ahmed repeated.
“Now get some rest so you’ll be ready for this important mission.” Landry sensed hesitation. “What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know about this anymore,” said Suleiman. “All of the insanity that occurred back in January. Violence begets violence. It’s not the way.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Landry. “Just do as you’re told. Any more questions?”
Suleiman hung up. He did not have any more questions, but doubt still lingered in his mind. He turned back toward the table. Uncle Trey was gone.
Landry hoped Suleiman would not renege on his promise. He put the odds at 50/50. Then he made his next call to Target B, Maria Pena.
**
Twelve Years Earlier
The room was shaped like a shoebox, with a narrow metal table in the center. A chain was bolted to the middle of the table with a handcuff at the end of the chain. As Trey Carr remembered it, the room’s side walls were covered with white tiles of soundproof material. The rear wall had a small window, high up. He could not remember if there were bars on the window.
Carr sat beside his attorney, Sean Matthews. The guy wasn’t known for his courtroom prowess, but his retainer was cheap. Carr felt it was better than going with the public defender, though he now had doubts. Facing Carr and Matthews was a squat, wide-shouldered Alexandria cop.
Carr, 36 years old, had a rap sheet for petty offenses, including petit larceny and urinating in public.
“This time it’s serious,” said the cop.
Carr wasn’t good at remembering names. But this one was easy. The officer’s last name was the same as the legendary coach of the Dallas Cowboys, the nemesis of his beloved Washington team. “What are you talking about?” Carr asked angrily. “I got stopped for a busted headlight.” He knew there was a pipe in the glove compartment that he used for free-basing, but that could only result in a drug paraphernalia charge. Since he didn’t have drug-related convictions, he assumed Matthews would get him a suspended imposition of sentence, which meant no jail time provided he didn’t get caught again.
“I’m talking about a recent spate of robberies off Seminary Road,” Landry said.
Carr looked at Matthews. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. Matthews motioned for him to address Landry. He turned to the cop. “I didn’t rob any houses.”
“Well, if it wasn’t you, it was someone with your DNA,” Landry laughed.
Carr stared at the cop in shock. Did Landry just say what I thought he said?
“What DNA evidence are you referring to?” Matthews asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Landry replied. “Your client understands what I’m talking about.”
Carr rubbed his chin. Landry had sprung something unexpected on him. Well, maybe it was not totally unexpected. After all, he suspected his “nephew” Ahmed might be involved in some B&Es. The fancy clothes and high-end electronics that appeared out of nowhere were disconcerting. If Carr’s surmise was correct, Landry was attacking his one vulnerability. That wasn’t right. Family should be off limits.
“Robbery is a felony,” Landry said. “Someone gets convicted of a robbery, their life is effectively over. No chance of getting a job to do anything meaningful. No right to vote. No right to possess a firearm. That person is basically in the same hole as your ancestors, Trey, except there’s no hope for emancipation.”
Carr waited for Matthews to say something, anything, but the attorney just sat there, giving Landry carte blanche to say and do whatever he wanted. Two against one. Those weren’t the odds Carr was counting on when the interview began.
“That’s racist,” he said.
“That so?” Landry laughed.
Matthews snickered. Carr looked at his attorney in disgust.
Landry said, “You come from shit and your future is shit. That applies not only to you but to everyone associated with you.” He glanced at Matthews. “Even your attorney knows it’s true.” Then he added, “If you had any money, you wouldn’t have walked in here represented by Mr. Matthews. You got your poor, sorry ass in a heap of trouble, Trey, and anyone close to you will be in trouble too.”
Carr closed his eyes. His fingertips rubbed his eyelids. Then he lowered his hand, opened his eyes, and turned to Matthews. “Can we talk alone for a minute?”
Landry pushed back his chair. “I’ll step outside and let you two confer,” he said.
“Mighty considerate of you,” said Matthews. “Thanks, Phil.”
As the door closed, Carr, furious, asked Matthews, “What the fuck is going on? I expect advance warning if a cop is going to spring something like this on me. And you just sit here. He’s making a fool of me and he’s making a chump out of you. And you thank him for being considerate.”
Matthews remained silent for a long moment. “I know exactly what’s going on,” he said finally. “Landry wants you to take a plea. In exchange for doing that, he’s willing to drop an ongoing investigation against a member of your family. I’d say that’s pretty generous.”
“I can’t believe this,” Carr said, incredulous. “You knew all the time that this was going to happen? And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t warn me? I mean, you set me up. And now he’s fucking me over.”
Matthews suppressed a laugh. Carr reminded him of former D.C. mayor Marion Barry. The bitch s
et me up. He wondered what people saw in Barry anyway. The man was a low-life, just like Carr.
Matthews wanted to be done with the case. All he wanted to do was collect his retainer and move on to the next case. “It’s SOP with this cop,” he said. “I didn’t find out about your nephew until I got here this morning. If I’d known earlier, I’d-a told you.”
“Shit,” Carr said, disgusted and angry. “It’s 2009, for God’s sake. This isn’t supposed to be happening, not here, not now. This is old school. I say we alert the higher-ups to what’s happening. This cop’s trying to get me to take the fall for my nephew’s crimes, but we both know he’s also going to add a bunch of other unsolved cases to improve his stats at my expense.”
Matthews had actually known for days that Landry was going to pull this stunt. He hadn’t told Carr because Landry knew Matthews occasionally slid a Benjamin under the table to finagle a favorable disposition from the police in his cases. If Landry leaked word of those arrangements, certain members of the local police force would be disciplined, and Matthews would be disbarred.
Matthews opened his notepad and removed several 8x10 inch photos of Ahmed Suleiman accepting cash for small vials containing rock-like substances. He slid the photos across the table like he was putting down a royal flush.
“This is bullshit,” Carr said.
“It may be an unfair way to pressure you,” Matthews admitted, “but it’s not bullshit. The contents of those vials tested positive for crack cocaine. Landry’s got an ironclad case against your nephew. Maybe these are nickel-and-dime sales, but you know what they do to crack dealers. If Landry goes forward with this stuff, the kid’s gone for life.”
Carr stopped breathing. The neighborhood was being hollowed out. Young ambitious Black men were being put behind bars in droves. The Crime Prevention Act looked a lot like another urban renewal project to clean up the ghetto.
He grabbed the back of Matthews’ chair and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the stale air of the interview room. He was trapped, like an animal. “I need to talk to my nephew,” he said.
“There’s no time for that,” Landry said from behind them.
Carr and Matthews spun around, startled. Neither of them had heard Landry reenter the room. “Either we work out a deal now or I present this evidence to the grand jury,” Landry said. “And once I do that, all bets are off.”
“Get the fuck out of here!” Carr screamed. “I need to think.”
“Fine,” Landry said. “Go ahead and think. Just don’t think too long. Grand jury convenes tomorrow. I need to get this case on the docket if we can’t reach an accommodation.”
After Landry departed for the second time, Carr put his head down as tears of frustration overcame him. Months later, when he reflected on what happened next, he concluded Landry was simply playing him. He wanted Carr to overreact and get caught up in his own emotions. Landry was betting that once Carr broke down, he would backtrack. And once he backtracked, he would plead guilty to whatever shit Landry put in front of him.
After all this played out according to Landry’s plan, Carr was bitter about taking the rap for crimes he did not commit. He was aggravated about being manipulated by Landry into accepting the devil’s offer. And he prayed for the day when this vicious cycle would end and crooked cops would no longer be able to act with impunity against people like him.
**
“MARIA?” Landry asked when she answered the phone.
Maria Pena froze. She felt she had done something wrong. She wanted to reverse course. Yet she felt she couldn’t untangle herself from the web spun around her. She knew she bore some responsibility for the predicament in which she now found herself.
This man was uncanny. From the moment they met, it was as though he understood her better than she understood herself. How was it possible? How could he identify my vulnerabilities and take advantage of them so effortlessly?
“Yes,” she said hesitantly.
Landry smiled to himself. “It’s time,” he said. His words were soft and soothing. “It’s time to put our plan into action.”
“I don’t know.” The words came out as though each was a stand-alone sentence. “I.” “Don’t.” “Know.”
“Okay,” Landry replied soothingly. His voice evidenced no anger. “I understand. Not everyone is motivated when it’s time to act. It takes passion and commitment. Maybe you just don’t have what it takes.”
She knew he was manipulating her. Yet, for some reason, she was attracted to him. Maybe it was a self-destructive impulse, she thought. “Tell me again what you want me to do.”
“I want you to take a stand, Maria. I want you to find expression in your life. To live.”
It started with a random email advocating environmental protection. That wasn’t her thing — she was still searching for her purpose — but something in the email drew her to the author’s message. Then, out of curiosity, she went to the website. And there, to her surprise, she found praise heaped upon her hero: her father.
The website stated:
We need to follow the example of Fernando Pena, who railed for social justice. He staked everything on an unwavering devotion to truth. It cost him his career and caused untold suffering from the death of the woman he loved, but he never faltered in his quest. We must emulate him in our effort to reverse past environmental injustices.
She read and reread the words. A tribute to her father! Finally, someone recognized his brilliance and paid tribute to his work. She wondered whether it was a first step toward rehabilitating his reputation. When she got the next email, she contributed $20 to the cause.
Then the third email arrived. It thanked her for her support. She was surprised, since her contribution was only $20. Yet the email reminded her that, while money was good, personal involvement was better. And it implored her to enlist in a demonstration planned for Washington, D.C.
In late July, she answered a call from an unfamiliar number.
“Maria, I’m calling you from the Environment First Fund. Thank you for supporting the EFF. I wonder if you’ve had a chance to read my blog about our planned demonstration in Washington, D.C.?”
“No.”
Actually, she had, and Phil Landry knew it because he had monitored her activity. But it was easy playing dumb with Maria Pena. Landry knew that despite an impressive academic background and a more impressive pedigree, she had mental health issues. Like father, like daughter, Landry thought. From what he had learned, she would be psychotic if she didn’t take medication on a regular basis. In fact, she might be psycho even with her meds. Like father, like daughter.
“Do you have a minute for me to tell you about it?”
“I’m busy right now.”
He knew she wasn’t. She had nothing to do. She was unemployed. All she’d been doing for the past two months was going down to Lafayette Square and joining in the protests.
“I know you’re busy, but I’d appreciate it if you could just give me a couple of minutes,” he implored.
Her silence served as his opening. Landry spent the next 20 minutes extolling her father’s virtues and explaining how the EFF wanted to apply her father’s principles in criminal justice to environmental fairness.
“He was a trailblazer who ignited a movement,” Landry said. “When he saw injustice, he immediately took action to address it. His work at the Justice Department was unequaled. His dedication to find a just and verdant outcome harkened back to the days of Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy. I want to employ that same set of principles at the EFF. Verdant means green and lush, you know, and that’s the image I want to create for this organization. I can’t think of a better way of expressing environmental beauty than by using ‘verdant’ and I can’t think of a better person who symbolizes the pursuit of justice than Fernando Pena.”
Landry had studied Pena’s Facebook page and had seen a photo of Robert Kennedy on it. He didn’t think much of RFK; Landry considered RFK a belligerent rich kid who built
a favorable image from a malleable media. But it didn’t matter what he thought. What was important was that it was a selling point.
The same for “verdant.” It was a word that had been used in an ad by the Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation — “committed to building a more just, verdant, and peaceful world” — and Pena quoted the phrase in some of her tweets. It was meaningless drivel to him, but he echoed the words back to her as a means of effective seduction.
“Meet me,” he cajoled her. “I have something planned. I would like you to participate in it. And I’d like to tell you about it in person.”
She agreed to meet at the coffee shop at the Key Bridge Marriott in Rosslyn since it was close to his “office.” Pena had limited her contact with other people since the middle of March, when she began staying indoors to fight the spread of the coronavirus. She had spent over four months isolated from the world, afraid for her elderly father’s health as well as her own. And, when she did come out, it was as though she lacked the social skills to navigate her way through the day.
She never intended to spend the afternoon in bed with Landry at a hotel. It broke all the rules. So much for six feet of separation! But that’s what happened. First it was just talk about the environment and her father, of course. As she gazed intently into his eyes she sensed a strong magnetism drawing her to him. The fact that she hardly knew him added to the attraction. When he suggested that they move upstairs to a room in the hotel, she could not resist the temptation.
Afterwards, she spent several days trying to make sense of it. She had been social distancing for months, and now she’d become intimate with a man she’d known for barely two hours. As she tried to process the relationship, she grew anxious in anticipation of his next call.
“MARIA?”
She started as she heard her father’s booming voice.
“Who’s that?” Landry asked on the other end of the phone.
She lowered her phone. “Just a minute,” she called out.
“Who’s that?” Landry repeated.
“My father,” she whispered.
Roaches Run Page 3