I saw the newspaper caption beneath the cover photo:
Brooklyn youth executed in a crowd of hundreds. The bold assassin caught on film in the above photo. State senator outraged. Story on page 3.
Bad detective flipped the table, pushed me out the chair and onto the floor. I didn’t resist. He swiftly grabbed the chair I had been seated in and got ready to crack it over my head. The dirty detective laughed. The good detective intervened, stopping the bad one by separating and distancing him from me. The dirty detective threw the chair into the wall. Yeah, this is personal for him, I thought. Maybe the missing drugs under his watch would catch him a bullet in the back of his head.
“Take a break,” the good detective told the bad one and the dirty one. They both slammed out the door.
Good detective picked up the chair. “Sit down,” he ordered me. I sat. Then he picked up the table. Next, he picked up the pad, pencil, and newspaper. Lastly, he placed all of the drug dealer photos back on the table.
“Last chance,” he warned me. “I’m sure they’re preparing to move you. I can stop them from putting you in that cell. I can even let the judge assigned to your case know just how helpful you were to us, if you make the smart choice. Think about it.” He left.
Cuffed, I was still able to slide the Sunday paper over so I could read it:
Senator Montgomery, a liberal Democrat who supports legislation for minority youth recreation, was rebuffed last night when an event he organized and sanctioned went haywire. It was a perfect day of sunshine and summer heat. A lineup of stellar performances and the excited crowd of thousands enjoying and cheering for hours ended in a chaotic and tragic melee. New York Police Department says groups of youth gangs began firing gunshots randomly into the air and others threw bricks and bottles at the police from the rooftops. In the confusion, one man focused and then executed another with a 9-millimeter, the same weapon used by the police department, and in the presence of the Housing Authority police, the NYPD and hundreds of spectators including the state senator. Despite the strong police presence, the assailant somehow managed to escape into thin air. The weapon used to murder Lance Polite, age 19, has not yet been found.
The police conducted a full sweep, arrested 89 mostly juveniles, and the homicide investigation is ongoing. Community parents are outraged. However, only 18 parents showed up to protest in front of the 73rd Precinct late last night.
Many parents interviewed last night say their children are minors being held and questioned without parents or attorneys present. The district attorney has issued a statement raising the capture of the murderer to top priority. He said, “The State of New York is populated by millions; 95 percent of them are law-abiding good citizens. We will never and have never tolerated murder, and we won’t rest until the assailant is apprehended, tried and convicted of this violent, unconscionable heinous crime.”
If I ripped the cover photo of myself out of the newspaper and laid it across my chest, or taped it to my forehead, it would probably be the only way the stupid cops and dumb detectives could “capture” me. I smiled.
Even though I was in the same room with them, and one of them actually had my photo in his hand on the cover of his newspaper, they were that slow and blind. I knew I could get away from these narcotics detectives. They had nothing drug related to hold me. They were betting I’d break down from their high-pressure performance and their bluff.
I knew I might even get away with the murder that I had planned to take responsibility for, but . . .
The good detective busted back into the room, interrupting my thoughts.
“Stand up!” he yelled. He was fired up about something. Now he had a style change. “Holy fucking . . .” He grabbed the Sunday Daily News off the table. He was staring at the front page. He took a quick look at me and began flipping the pages. I counted: one, two, three. He was reading. Then, he looked my way again. He walked towards the camera and stood in front of it like he was blocking it from capturing any images. He waved me to move toward the back corner. I did. He moved behind the camera, shouted, “What the fuck!” and kicked the camera from behind with full force. It didn’t fly off the tripod but it did topple over. He kicked it again like it was a soccer ball, then picked it up from behind, pressed a button on the camera, and removed it from the tripod. He shot out through the door with it in his hands. I didn’t know what was happening now. He left without giving me one of the commands they seemed to like to give. I was still standing in the corner. Before I could do anything else, he rushed back through the door without the camera.
Suddenly he grabbed the vacant chair from under the table and jammed it underneath the handle of the door. He yanked the table from its position and moved it to the side, away from the darkened window.
“Over there!” He pointed, speaking not aloud but only through gestures, ordering me to move. I did. He moved the chair I had been sitting in for hours to the side where he had placed the table. He struck the same pose as if he was the executioner in the Daily News photo. Then he nodded his head for me to do the same. I didn’t. I just stood, my expression blank. I was realizing what was happening now. This idiot finally somehow put it together that it was me in the photo, or at least he suspected that it was me. He wanted me to pose so he could be sure. I’m not no fucking model. I don’t pose. He was just staring at me now, not like he was actually looking at me, but was in some deep thought.
“Put your hands down!” he shouted aloud. But I was hands down and cuffed, still standing. He ordered me to sit by pointing to the chair that he moved into the corner. I sat. He scribbled on the notepad and handed me a piece of paper. I didn’t reach to accept it. I looked down. He had written, “Don’t talk.” I read it, but didn’t touch the note or react to his strange message. Why would he be instructing me not to talk, when I had not said one word since I was cuffed at the train station? He put his whole hand over his face and ran it through his hair and back over his face again. Crouching down suddenly, he removed his right shoe, stood, and smashed himself in the face with his shoe heel. After a pause, he snatched up the newspaper, folded it, and shoved it underneath his armpit. He began putting everything back where it had been moments ago—the table, the chairs, the photos, the pad, the pencil. He crumpled up his “don’t talk,” note and stuffed it in his pocket and left.
“Walk,” he said to me when he returned. He led me out of the room down some corridor. I thought I was headed back to the holding cell. A few stray cops watched the path we were taking. None of them were the same ones from earlier today. A couple of them paused their own steps to observe us instead. One of them smirked at me. I figured they all suspected now that I am “the executioner” in the news photo, not the drug dealer they was thirst for. My face remained blank.
The good detective opened a door and nodded me in, then closed it behind us; there was nothing but walls—no table or chairs or cameras or windows or clocks or photos. He reached into his pocket. Out came tape and gauze. He began wrapping his own hands like a fighter does before he puts on his boxing gloves.
“You and I are on the same side,” he said to me. “I gotta beat you to convince them that I’m a part of their team,” he said strangely. So you stay still and let me fuck you up for show. Don’t you dare move,” he said forcefully through clenched teeth. “It’s nothing personal.” He punched me in the side of my head. Instant headache and a burning feeling, first time ever I let any man get at me like that. I had no idea what this had to do with the murder I committed or the punishment that I expected.
“There’ll be some pain and a little blood, but you’re my guy,” he said, punching me full force in my ribs. “They got nothing on you. Believe me, it’s better that I beat you than if I let them loose on you.” He punched me in my jaw. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You and I are gonna do great things together.” He landed one in my stomach.
I tasted blood in my mouth.
“You should’ve screamed. I wouldn’t’ve had to make you bleed if
you’d shown some fear and humility.” He hit me again. I didn’t scream. “Good enough,” he said, unwrapping his hands and pushing the used gauze and tape back into his pockets. “Good boy! Good boy! Good boy!” he shouted. Yet he wasn’t talking to me. I was right in front of him. Still silent. Still standing. He walked out.
I spit out the blood. Needed water. Wanted food, but didn’t need it yet. Every few minutes the door would open but only enough for whoever to see in, and not for me to see out. Then it would close. I was leaning on the wall; felt the side of my head swelling and the tightening of my jaw.
Now we were in an unmarked car, just him and me. “You eat pizza?” he asked me. I didn’t respond. He drove past a pizza joint, a regular dollar–dollar-fifty place. He didn’t stop, just drove around the side and then zoomed down the back alley until he was in back of the store.
There was a heavy metal door, no knob or handle. Obviously it had to be pulled or pushed open from the inside. He did a rhythmic knock. The door eased open. “Yeah, yeah,” he said to a fat guy wearing a greasy long apron. The guy didn’t answer, turning his back and walking in the opposite direction of where the good detective was leading me.
Another back room with a table and four chairs, a tablecloth and no windows, some shelves packed with huge cans of tomato sauce, olive oil, jars of peppers, and sacks of onions and sleeves of garlic. There were crates stacked to the ceiling with bottled water, soda, and juices.
“Grape soda?” the detective asked me while reaching into the crate. I didn’t answer. “Probably not. Everybody else your same kind chooses grape soda. So you probably don’t want that. I told you—me and you are friends from now on. You should stop that silent-treatment bullshit and recognize who’s on your side.” He grabbed a can of Coke for himself, pulled the top, and gulped it. He let out a foul-odored burp. Then he set his can down and removed his gun from the holster.
“Easy, I’m not gonna shoot you.” He used his gun to point out the small bathroom. “Go clean yourself up,” he said, referring to the blood he punched out of me. I was still standing there.
“Oh, oh yeah. We’re friends,” he said, putting his hand to his head like he had forgotten. But his gun was still in his hand. “I’ll uncuff you. You play nice,” he said.
I went to the bathroom hands free. “Leave the door open,” he said. I did. I take it they all like to watch, or at least hear the sound of a man pissing in the toilet or taking a dump.
Water going over my head and face, and water in my palms, naturally moves my mind to making prayer. However, I was bloody in an unclean space, a single-toilet bathroom, with the filth of men impossible to ignore. It was not a praying place. Still, I washed myself as much as I could. I was thinking, but couldn’t predict what exactly was next.
Pizza, ziti, meatballs . . . the works were delivered to the back room without me ever seeing or hearing him request or calling in the order. The aroma of oil and vinegar, on a fresh green salad with olives and green peppers and a pile of onions, the scent of butter and oregano on Italian bread, and a small Italian feast was spread out on the table.
“Eat first—you gotta be hungry,” he said. His gun was lying on the table where his fork would normally go, the barrel facing me. I waited for him to start eating, and then figured if the food was poisoned, he wouldn’t be eating it. Besides, it did not seem like murdering me was his objective. He also did not make any threat over the food like the other cop did over the burger. Lastly, he seemed more worried about me trying to escape than anything else. He wasn’t holding me into position by aiming his gun at my head. But he didn’t know that whether he held me at gunpoint or kept his loaded weapon laying on the table facing me, I could easily relieve him of his gun and end his life. Murdering cops wasn’t my objective. But he didn’t know that, either.
Water first, plenty of water, and then I threw down the salad and next the pizza. I would have preferred peanut butter or chicken for protein and strength, but I was in survival mode. As he gobbled down the beef meatballs stuffed inside the thick white bread and smothered with mozzarella cheese over which he added Parmesan, I could see why most of these cops end up as sloppy fat-asses.
“Here’s the deal. I don’t know what you did earlier yesterday night.” He let loose a loud burp. “But I do know you came out of the spot we’ve had under our surveillance for a good while. It’s a major operation. Me, I’m a ‘special cop.’ I guess you could understand me if I say it that way. Internal Affairs—I watch over the officers in my precinct. So I got double duty, double the responsibility. I have to be the good narcotics detective who investigates all of the drug lords and teams, and then I gotta catch all of the cops and detectives who aren’t good and who are not doing their jobs in the way I know they intended to do it at first.” I noticed he described the dirty cops as though they were really good guys. He didn’t call the dirty cops criminals.
He leaned back.
“I’m gonna let you walk out of here. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that photo of you in the Sunday paper. I’m gonna do what no officer who wasn’t a ‘special cop’ would ever do, or could ever do. I’m gonna let you get away with murder,” he said, the wrinkles on his forehead deep and his face serious and stern.
“What you’re gonna do for me is step right back into your crew, report to your bosses. Show ’em how I fucked up your face for remaining silent. Regain their trust and loyalty and work for me. It’s a real job. You’ll make real money. You’ll collect information and feed it back to me,” he said, staring into me for a reaction before chomping down on his meatball hero.
“I’m not looking for none of your little hand-to-hand friends. I’m looking for three things: the top-level dealers, suppliers, distributors, and any officers—their faces, names, or better yet badge numbers—who you might notice along the way who are talking, meeting, or even arguing or fighting with anyone from your team,” he said and then farted.
“What the fuck is that look?” he asked me. “That’s the same smirk you made when you were reading the article about the murder you did. I saw you smirk,” he said. “That’s how you told on yourself,” he emphasized, getting more and more vexed. So now I knew that back at the precinct he must’ve been watching me reading the article in their interrogation room, through the darkened glass.
I didn’t answer back. In my head I was thinking, This is fucking crazy. I didn’t say one word to him or anyone else. This dude was trying to recruit me to be an “informah,” on the crew I don’t know, don’t work for, and don’t care shit about.
“There will be times where you’ll wear a wire,” he said, licking tomato sauce off his fingers. “No one will notice it. We’ll put it on you nice the first few times. After that, you’ll know how to wear it right on your own. This way, we can pick up on conversations, keep track of your location, and even save your life if you are in danger. That’s what I mean when I say, ‘I’m your friend. You’re my guy.’ ” He leaned back on the two back legs of his chair.
I was solemn-faced. I wasn’t responding. He brought his chair back forward. He grabbed a napkin and his gun. He was wiping his mouth with the napkin with the gun in his hand, giving me the understanding that it could “accidentally” go off at any moment. If it hit me, it was just a mistake, he would say. Or he would say that I lunged at him, tried to take it from him. He would say he was scared for his life. He would make people believe it. The authorities would back him up the same as if they were here in the room with only the two of us. I knew.
“It’s a small stack of ‘get out of jail free cards’ for you. If you get picked up, since you’re my guy, we’ll let you walk. You might have to show up in court, go through the motions bam-bam-bam, but of course you’ll walk. You’re on my team and anything you do to further my goals was just that, you doing your job.” He throws his hands up, clutching his piece still in his right. “You’re not responsible.”
Done eating, I’m good now for at least twenty-four more hours, I thought to myself
.
“I know you make more money with your crew than you ever could with me.” He brought both hands to his chest, gesturing. “But you’re gonna accept this offer to beat twenty-five years to life for the murder you committed,” he said, attempting to threaten me with the murder I was prepared to confess to when I entered the train station on my way to turn myself in.
Twenty-five years to life hit my head and my heart hard. Twenty-five years to life. There’s no way any judge would give me twenty-five years to life for merking a sucker like Lance Polite, the child molester, rapist, I said to myself.
“You got a pretty little girlfriend tucked somewhere I’ll bet. Right now, you make the money and she sucks your dick. Go to prison, you’ll suck the dick and she’ll make the money,” he said.
I could tell he had used these words on many men before he tried them out on me. I’m sure nine times out of ten he broke them . . . all the way down.
“One call to the 73rd Precinct,” he said, stone-faced, holding his Glock like it was a telephone, “where that murder occurred, and not only officers, but their captain, the district attorney, your state senator will be all over you.” He stood. He began pacing around the table with his weapon on ready. He tried to make eye contact with me but I didn’t allow it. He kept walking round, then he stopped right behind my back. I didn’t turn, didn’t flinch. I don’t like dudes, civilians or cops or gangsters, who pull their piece and don’t fire. I hate a dude who keeps speeching with a loaded weapon in his hand. I don’t respect that. If I pull it, I fire it till the deed is done.
My silence, I know, caused the good detective’s doubts and his threats and his offers to intensify.
“See, the thing about my offer . . .” He paused for effect. “Either you take it or you get locked up for so long, you’ll forget what your mother looks like,” he said, moving his talk from my “girlfriend” to my mother. He was searching hard for an opening, a vulnerability, a weakness in me.
A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) Page 8