by Yari Stern
“May I approach the bench, your honor? My information is confidential.” The man leaned heavily on his cane while keeping the other hand stuck rigidly in his coat pocket.
As he advanced, both prosecuting and defense attorneys rose and moved forward, in step with the man.
Yari slid his chair closer to the bench and leaned in to catch the conversation.
“My name is Donald Morgan, I’m with the ATF.” The fellow placed his badge and ID on the bench.
When Judge Kieser looked out at the two lawyers in front of him for objections, the federal prosecutor spoke up. “I recognize Agent Morgan now, your honor,” he said. “We were involved in several cases a few years ago.”
“Very well. Let’s hear it, Agent Morgan.”
“From July, 1964, until January of this year, I was working undercover to set up a motorcycle gang that had been running guns and speed throughout the U.S. and abroad. It was impossible for us to penetrate their circle. They checked everyone out top to bottom. They talked to their co-workers, neighbors, relatives, even ex-girlfriends before doing business. We could never get close enough to them, even though they were getting bigger and more dangerous all the while.
“I knew Sam Stern from my days of working with the Juvenile Aid Division. We had teamed up together trying to get the guns out of the schools in South Philly.
“I asked him if his son would be willing to help us. Yari was perfect; the appropriate age, tough as nails, and with a reputation that had spread just far enough to be known in the right places.
“I supplied him with guns the ATF had confiscated, which he then sold to the gang. Yari’s undercover work got us next to the people we were after.”
“Why didn’t you or your office inform the prosecution or this court of those facts previously, Mr. Morgan?” The judge was skeptical. “This case has been on the docket for months.”
“I just got out of the hospital, your honor. I was ‘made’ by a part of that same group after those first pinches. They beat me and left me for dead. I was in intensive care for almost a month, and only left rehab a few days ago.
“The ATF couldn’t notify the court because they didn’t know about my contact. Yari was my inside man. He was essentially non-existent, except to me. He only had a code name and a number.
“We’d like very much to use Yari in future investigations and so we ask the court to handle this case in a manner that would allow that to remain possible. Depending on how the court rules, our agency may or may not have a valuable asset against similar groups.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Gentlemen, you may be seated,” the Judge ordered.
The attorneys at the bench receded like slaves before a pharaoh.
Yari drew himself back and sat up straight.
“It is the finding of this court that the evidence was obtained without a proper warrant. Therefore, the case is dismissed.” The judge threw down his gavel, and swiftly disappeared behind the curtain leading to his private chambers.
Donald Morgan walked over to the table where Yari and Sam remained seated.
“I don’t remember ever working with the ATF, Mr. Morgan,” Sam told the agent.
“You didn’t, inspector. I’m sorry to have had to spring that on you.”
“Then what was that all about?” Sam still thought it was somehow connected to him.
“Your son saved my life. I was just returning the favor.”
Yari stared hard at the man in front of him. “I don’t know you.”
“Would you remember me if I was wearing a mustache and beard, and only one boot?”
“You were the one at the fire?” Yari took a closer look at the man. “It was you!”
“Me.”
“But how did you know who I was? You were totally out of it.”
“I heard your buddy call your name in the alley. Then, when I reached up to hold onto your jacket as you lowered me to the ground, this fell out.” The agent took a card out of his pocket that read, ‘Stern’s Specialty Shop’. It didn’t take much research to narrow it down to you.”
“Why didn’t you turn me in for the arson?”
“Because I know you didn’t volunteer to be there. I’ve known Jack for ten years. I realized it was his deal, not yours.”
“Then why wait so long to come forward?” Sam asked. “We’ve been in prison emotionally for months waiting for this.”
“I could have, but if I did come along before today, the prosecution might have had the time to check out my story, or bar my testimony.” The agent smiled broadly at the thought of how well his ruse had worked. “I thought it best to surprise them.”
“Thank you, Agent Morgan. If I can assist you or your family, call me…anytime.” Sam held out his hand, which was immediately seized.
“I owe you my freedom, Mr. Morgan.” Yari stood up unsteadily.
“As far as I’m concerned, I still owe you. You risked your life from two sides to save mine: the threat of Jack Trotter coming after you and the police catching you at the scene.” The agent reached out to shake hands with Yari.
Yari pulled Donald Morgan in and hugged him tight enough to elicit a groan.
“This is what it’s about when you go all the way for someone else, rather than for yourself,” Donald whispered in Yari’s ear. “You’ve got a second chance. Use it wisely, for your sake and your dad’s.”
As they walked toward the exit, Yari related the words of Agent Morgan to his Dad.
“What are you going to do with that second chance?” Sam asked.
As Sam and Yari reached the door, the group of well-dressed men got up and followed them out.
“I’d like to go to grad school but I’d always have to look over my shoulder,” Yari replied.
“Are you thinking about Jack Trotter?” one of the men questioned.
Sam and Yari turned to see who was speaking.
“Don’t waste a breath on him,” he added.
“Why? What happened to him?” Yari asked the stranger.
“As of this morning, Jack’s in jail, facing enough charges to keep him occupied for several lifetimes,” the man answered.
“What’s this all about?” Sam studied the group in front of them, then turned to Yari. “Do you know these men?”
“The guy doing the talking looks familiar, but I’m not sure,” Yari whispered to Sam.
“Sam, Yari, sorry to come upon you like this but I don’t announce my plans in advance very often these days.” The fellow was impeccably dressed, articulate in speech, and commanding in presence.
Father and son stared at each other, then returned their gazes to the man who initiated the meeting.
“Here, I thought you might like to have this.” The man handed Sam a thick manila folder tied with string and sealed shut with tape.
“What is it, and who are you?” Sam regained his presence of mind.
“I’m Senator Alan Street, head of the committee investigating organized crime in the tri-state area.”
“How does that relate to me and my son?”
“Your son provided some very important information to me a few weeks ago,” Alan Street responded. “He saved my ass. He cautioned me about a contract Sylvan Skolnick had out on me. I wanted to thank him personally.”
“There’s no way you could know it was me who called.”
“Every call that comes into my office is taped due to threats against my life. We knew in a couple of minutes that the warning came from Stern’s Specialty Shop on Ridge Avenue. That’s when I started making inquiries. I put the word out to the police department that I was looking into the Stern family. A few of your dad’s ‘old friends’ jumped at the chance to volunteer incriminating evidence. They thought my investigation was against you, Sam, that I was looking to force you out just as they were.
“I came here today to lend support to Yari. If things had gone badly I would have stepped in, but Agent Morgan beat me to the punch.”
A loud bang echoed through the hall
. Everyone ducked. The senator’s entourage momentarily covered him until they realized a child had popped a balloon. A semblance of calm quickly returned and the senator continued. “They gave me that folder,” he said, pointing to the file now in Sam’s hands, “hoping I could make even better use of it than they had planned. I didn’t divulge my intentions because I didn’t know their motives at the time.
“After I got back to my office and reviewed the file, I realized what was going on. I called Foxx and Solomon down to my office at City Hall. They thought I was going to give them commendations. I had Police Commissioner Howard Leary standing next to me to implement the orders.
“The commissioner told them he wasn’t going to charge them with blackmail but that they would be busted in rank and assigned to the Fairmount Park mounted detail until they became as proficient at collecting shit as they were at distributing it.
“I knew Frank Rizzo was behind all this but I couldn’t touch him. He’s got the mayor on his side. Now they’re talking about making that idiot the next mayor. If they do, we’re all in trouble.
“We decided it was time to break up the Cherry Hill Fats Mob. They’d become far too dangerous, and waiting to amass irrefutable evidence didn’t warrant the risk to the public or your family.
“I gave the order to have Sylvan Skolnick, Ed Dein, and Herman Speer picked up. We knew they wouldn’t put up a fight. It was Jack Trotter we were worried about. When we pulled up to his car lot, he made a break for it. We caught him a few hours later when he tried to cross the bridge into New Jersey.
“He laughed when we put the handcuffs on him. And he was right. We only had enough on him to put him away for a couple of years. He was real comfortable on the inside; all his friends were there. We needed a break to put him away permanently.
“When we brought him in we got our break. A guy we had in custody was being questioned about a mob contract. He saw Jack and almost shit his pants. He had helped Trotter in a hit that got out of hand. Three family members died instead of just the guy they were after.
“Jack promised to kill him next time he got the opportunity. Seeing his chance for revenge and leniency, the man spilled his guts. Jack Trotter is going to spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“That still leaves me with a deal I made with the devil.”
“Who?” the senator asked.
“Carlo Gambino.”
Senator Street laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, first, he’s been indicted on a dozen charges from loan-sharking, to racketeering, murder, arson for hire, prostitution and a few others things. He’ll be pretty busy until he dies…which will be soon.”
“How can you be sure about that?” Yari asked.
“That’s the way it is with the Sicilians. One guy gets killed; his killer gets killed and it will go on until there’s no one left. And it would go all the way back to the old country if they had a map. Don’t worry; he won’t escape his fate.
“So now that he’s out of the way, tell me your plans.” The senator’s tone changed from professional to personal.
“I’ve seen the power of money and the power of education. I was arrogant and held money in higher esteem. But I know better now. I’m going to continue my education. And with a degree I might be able to do more good than I could with a million dollars.”
One of the senator’s men came over and whispered in his ear. “Well, good luck, young man. Come see me when you finish school. I might have a position for you.”
As Senator Street began walking away, his entourage engulfed him in a protective phalanx worthy of the president.
Yari and Sam continued down the hallway. ”I never thought it was possible, that the government could ever help me. The only thing I’m certain of now is that I don’t deserve any of the breaks I’ve gotten, not after I screwed over so many people.”
“How can you say that after you saved the lives of a state senator; a government agent, a person you hardly knew; a friend who buried himself; and my job. That doesn’t sound like a man who isn’t deserving.”
“I just don’t--”
“It’s part of a much larger reality than you could experience in one place at one time,” Sam explained. “Finish school; gain the knowledge you need to see all this clearly.” Sam put a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “There’s a hell of a lot of wisdom in those hall.”
“I was thinking of going to grad school out of state,” Yari mused.
“Where did you have in mind?”
“Berkeley. About as far away as I can get without leaving the country.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Ridge Ave. Phila. Pa. Four years later.
Yari cruised down Ridge Ave, slowly absorbing all the changes. Crime had gotten so bad his parents closed down Stern’s Specialty Shop and moved to a spot in a farmer’s market out in the suburbs. Fifty years of tradition couldn’t withstand the devastating economic forces unleashed by the race riots and, afterward, the temptation of wonderland-type shopping malls.
Yet, even that awareness could not stop him from seeing once again the neighborhood and the people that had provided the impetus for so much change in his life. But The Ridge had changed more than he could have imagined. As he cruised slowly past the seventeen hundred block, it was boarded-up windows and gutted-out buildings that prevailed: a tragic sight. A street that once clamored with people, business, and hustle was almost deserted.
“Hey, Stern,” an old man yelled out of the side of his mouth.
Yari stared at the unfamiliar face.
“It’s me, Frank.” Frank the refrigerator man, his family’s old nemesis, held himself wearily against rusted gates.
“What happened to you?”
“I had a stroke a few years ago.” The once-powerful man spoke in stutter-step.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” Yari replied with genuine regret.
“No, I deserved it. I fucked over everyone and I got my just desserts.”
“That’s not true, Frank. Most people in this neighborhood could never have afforded washers, dryers or iceboxes if it weren’t for the used ones you sold. Besides that, who else would lug those things up three flights of steps through hallways so narrow their knuckles scraped against the walls?”
“Well, maybe you right.” Frank strained to stand a little taller. “But why come back here? Ain’t nothin’ but sufferin’ goin’ on.”
“I had to see for myself what became of the place and people I knew. But it looks like a war zone here.” Yari gazed out at the blight. Gone were the open-air fruit stands with hucksters calling out prices in falsetto voices; gone, the racks of kitchen wares and dry-goods set out proudly on the sidewalks to tempt would-be customers; gone the wide-hipped mothers with children in tow who pointed urgently in the direction of bewitching smells and alluring colors; gone, the butchers in their long white smocks placing thick cuts of bleeding beef into boxes of shaved ice; gone, the bustle of delivery trucks loading and unloading; and gone, the stroking hands on a little boy’s head by merchants who saw in him a brighter light than the one filtering through the inner city haze.
“How could so many people and businesses just leave after decades of living and working together?” Yari asked.
“After the riots, the city talked about rebuildin’ the area. ‘Regentrification’ they called it.” Frank slumped onto a hardwood stool perched out in front of his used appliance store. “They sent people from the housing authority down here, along with city Councilmen and State Senators. They talked an’ promised for years but we never seen a dime. They was just puttin’ on a show for the media and them cameras. There was no way they was gonna spend millions on us to make our lives like theirs.
“After that, it just got worse. Young fellas seein’ things on TV they couldn’t have and all. Lots of ‘em came back from ‘Nam, almost getting killed for their country, then couldn’t even get jobs. It made ‘em a lot more angry, and a lot less patient. They w
as robbin’ stores, roughin’ up customers and shop owners. When some of the businesses closed up, they ganged up on the ones left.
“Soon,” he said, sweeping his hand slowly across a mostly barren landscape, “this was all that was left.”
“What about our neighbors?”
“Izzie got broke into so many times at the pharmacy, he finally quit in 1970. Mark Aaron got beat real bad last year. Now he’s crippled up, living in Ft. Meyers, Florida.”
“How about my man Reggie?”
“Reggie Martinez died at home after they couldn’t do no more for him in the hospital. It weren’t a big left hook, but the cigarettes that got ‘em.” Frank flipped the conversation around. “We miss your dad. How’s he doin’ up at the Downingtown Farmer’s Market?”
“He likes it up there, Frank. No break-ins, no muggings, no iron gates. Nobody even carries a gun.”
“No way!” Frank could sooner believe in the Land of Oz than a world without guns and protective bars.
“What about my old partner Slim?”
“Slim been deliverin’ for some big department store but he’s also been goin’ to night school. Says you motivated him to do that.”
“And how about you, Frank?”
“I be sad, for the buildings and for people that waited with hope in their hearts. But I know the reality of the ghetto; it was never goin’ to happen, so nobody should really be disappointed.”
The pain inscribed in burned-out structures was too much for Yari. He’d had enough of Ridge Avenue. It was time to take the next step on the road to redemption.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Downingtown, Pa
As Yari advanced toward Stern’s Dry Goods in the Downingtown Farmer’s Market, he could see his mother going over the ledger. She looked stronger, more focused than the last time he had seen her.
Yari reached out tentatively for his mother’s shoulder. She turned around with an air of confidence that emulated Sam in his early years. Irene smiled brightly but did not raise her voice or lose her composure. “Hello, son. Welcome home.”