No Truth Left to Tell

by Michael McAuliffe

  “Someone’s gotta do these cases. If the cops are criminals, who’s going to stop them?”

  “There’s no way they’ll work with us for years after this. We’ll be persona non grata on every joint task force in this part of the state.”

  “I don’t give a shit. I’m fine taking them down a notch or two. We can’t ignore the truth.”

  “Fuck, you sound just like Rush.”

  Gill stopped the fast-forward and pressed play, but the tape recorder produced only a high-pitched hiss. She slapped the tape player, her version of a punch, and again pressed play.

  [Three rings.]

  SUB #2: Yeah. [Crackling on line.]

  SUB #1: You near Columbus?

  SUB #2: Man, you know I ain’t up there.

  SUB#1: If I knew, I wouldn’t ask. I hear littl’ Richard went to get on with Angel.

  SUB #2: I seen ’em ’round. Somethin’ might be up. Ask Peterson, but don’t say nothin’.

  SUB #1: I might could get on a [unintelligible] myself.

  SUB #2: Why Sarge upset?

  SUB #1: He’s gettin’ some shit from up high in the tower ’bout evidence. McCarron know his work. Them papers are butt clean.

  SUB#2: That’s not it. The paperwork might check out, but if they start lookin’ on shelves, they gonna be problems.

  SUB#1: No fuckin’ way they know to check.

  SUB#2: Just sayin’, it’d be fucked up if they knew.

  SUB#1: Don’t get your panties all twisted.

  SUB#2: Later. When you go on clock?

  SUB#1: Eleven.

  SUB#2: Remember to screw ’em, before [unintelligible] fuck with us.

  Call ends with click.

  Mercer looked up from the carpet to give Gill a thumb’s-up sign. No question about it—the call was dirty. But there was more on the tape.

  Seven digits dialed. Line then rings twice.

  SUB #3: What up?

  SUB #2: Nothin’. Remember you an’ the hood dude awhile back? Kind that got extra hate on you. I saw some shit on the news sayin’ it’s two years on and all’s quiet.

  SUB #3: That’s fuckin’ prehistoric, bro. I [unintelligible] him for talkin’ trash. Motherfucker called me a nigga. Find out, the prick is Klan. Even had the pointy hat.

  SUB #2: Was he wearin’ it?

  SUB #3: The hat or his shit-eatin’ grin? [Laughter.] The dumbass costume was boxed up, but I put the hat on him. I left that cracker cuffed to a chair for the takin’. Little shit peed in his pants an’ spit up about them crosses.

  SUB #2: Plain fuckin’ felony stupid. Klan man in a hood left in the hood. [Laughter.]

  SUB #3: They sent him away to the federal zoo. Had to get me some protection ’cause the fucker got a big mouth. Hey, what ’bout—

  Click.

  Gill and Mercer stared at each other from opposite sides of the desk, both at a loss for words, as if they had just seen a one-eyed alien playing in the neighbor’s sandbox.

  “What the hell—”

  “Play that again.” Mercer’s facial muscles twitched as he glanced at the office door to make sure it was closed. He walked over and locked it.

  “Where did that come from?” Mercer asked after they had replayed the tape. The call had no documentation announcing its existence and no notes to explain it, but there it was, a newborn left in the firehouse entry.

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember that,” Gill said, embarrassed at her apparent omission. She struggled to make any sense of what they had just heard. “Really? How did I record that? Must have come—I remember flipping the switch, but that—I’ve never heard that conversation before.”

  They remained seated and, for different reasons, unsure of what to say or do next.

  “I know what they’re talking about,” Mercer finally said. “One night two years ago, the Klan burned crosses around Lynwood trying to start a race war. A federal task force investigated it, but the case went nowhere. After awhile, only a couple of agents were left working it, including me.”

  “That was before I got here.”

  “The Klan hit most of the town’s minorities—a home in Mooretown, the NAACP, a synagogue, the local courthouse, and some sort of mosque. Had everybody on edge for months.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “Everyone gets hurt when those places get targeted, but one victim, a nice old black grandmother, she had a heart attack.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Honestly, I lost track of her. Rush took a particular shine to her and her family. A Klan leader confessed and was convicted after a trial. He never ratted on his lackeys, and we couldn’t make any more cases.”

  “So these two were talking about that?”

  “I think so, but doesn’t matter. Case is closed.”

  “Didn’t Rush try that?” Gill asked.

  “With Kris Battle, local AUSA. She’s gone now—offer from some big-time firm in Houston. Too much money, I guess, not to go.”

  “Or too good to stay,” Gill opined. “Didn’t Rush get threatened during that trial?”

  “He did. The US attorney even put a marshal’s detail on him.”

  “Figure you’d be the one threatened.”

  “A bigot doesn’t believe blacks are worthy. A person got to have lighter skin color to disappoint.”

  “What? Rush turned his back on his race.”

  “He acted like the threat didn’t bother him.”

  “Too manly?”

  “Not the way you’d think. He definitely rubs some folk the wrong way. He’s basically an ambitious egghead trying to be a normal guy, but it doesn’t always work.”

  Mercer didn’t mention that Rush wasn’t his torchbearer of choice for racial violence cases in the Deep South. The guilty verdict had tempered Mercer’s early harsh judgment, but it lingered, like a cough one couldn’t completely shake in winter.

  “Rush seems OK,” Gill said, “for a lawyer.”

  “I’d have to admit under oath that he’s good in front of a jury. Very good.”

  “Ever think it’s not ambition that’s driving him?”

  “You’re more generous than—”

  “Truth is, everyone’s incomplete, so we try to fill up what’s missing with something.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “Lee, you got to tell him. No way you can hide this conversation from Rush.”

  “Why not?” Mercer asked. “It’s not hiding if it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do, and for a more pragmatic reason: Rush tried the Klan case, and he’s on this case too. If the discussion about the evidence is dirty, he’s going to hear it, right? The Klan part is practically spooning that earlier call. No way he misses it. You got to know that.”

  “That conviction put the lid back on a resurgent Klan before they could move on to more ambitious stuff,” Mercer said. “When the grand dragon got sentenced, this whole town exhaled.”

  “I’m not arguing with you. It’s just you have to include Rush in this discussion.”

  “Why revisit it?”

  “Maybe it’s all good, maybe not, but he’s got to know.”

  This conversation grabbed Mercer like a falcon seizing its prey. His instinct as an agent told him to run away, and run fast. Exploring the dark recesses of this unintended find could only end in distress for the Klan’s victims. To Mercer, it was less a crisis of conscience than a simple assessment of consequence. The reality was, a braggart’s comments about the Klansman weren’t supposed to be recorded on the intercept.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think about it, and then call him.”

  She didn’t just sound like Rush, Mercer concluded; they were products of the same trust in the truth. And that wasn’t his experience.

  33

  US ATTORNEY REVISITED

  Rush was one of the Washingtonians who ventured out in the nation’s backyard throughout the year regardless of weather or political intrigue, and
he completed his usual loop, one that took him to the vast expanse of the Mall, with its long, wide stretches of grass, its slope rising to meet the base of the Washington Monument, and back. For Rush and thousands of his compatriots, the National Mall was their communal reason to sweat with civic inspiration.

  After the run, Rush stopped by the basement cafeteria for coffee and a prepackaged sandwich. He avoided his would-be inquisitors lounging at the far table because he didn’t want to explain or defend himself. The intercept hadn’t uncovered the officers’ secrets—at least not criminal ones—and time was running out. Rush had heard chatter that the US attorney was questioning the continued commitment of resources in the wiretap—resources was code for a concern about the US attorney’s relationship with the local police department. After all, Cristwell was an honorary parish sheriff, with a badge on his credenza to show for it.

  Rush viewed the US attorney with a mixture of irritation and awe. The grand dragon’s conviction had created immense goodwill for Cristwell from the minority community in Lynwood. He played the case with the hand of a seasoned politician and hadn’t committed his senior talent too early in the investigation. Only after the Klansman’s confession did Cristwell—then considering a run for Congress in the Third District—wholly commit his office to the case. His assignment of an up-and-coming black assistant to co-try the case with Rush was strategic, and everyone knew it, but Rush didn’t mind. He appreciated a deft move when he saw one.

  To show his gratitude, the US attorney nominated Rush, Battle, and Mercer for the DOJ Director’s Award and even attended the awards ceremony in DC. After the case, the US attorney treated Rush as one of his team. Nothing fosters the warm bonds of friendship like success, thought Rush.

  The police investigation now tested those bonds.

  After getting coffee, Rush waited for the US attorney in the Criminal Section’s conference room. Cristwell was in Washington for meetings with the Executive Office for US Attorneys and wanted to talk with Rush privately. Cristwell bounded through the doorway and sat at the head of the conference table with hands clasped.

  “Adrien, what’s the status of our cop caper?” the US attorney asked.

  “We’re up on a wire with several lines. We’ve been going for twenty days, so another report’s due soon. I’m getting with Mercer next week to review the call logs and see where we’re at.”

  “How’s Mercer doing?”

  “Not sure I understand.”

  “He got a big-ass legacy to live up to, his father and all.”

  “He’s not overjoyed we’re up on a cop wire, but he’s gettin’ it done.”

  “What’s your sense of it all? Judge told me he was fine with signing the thing, but he figured we might be digging too near a gas line.”

  “It’s sure as hell a close-knit group. They stick together. RAID’s been off-site for years. It’s a classic—a small, insular group gets powerful tools to fight crime but becomes isolated, and with no real oversight, it goes rogue. Whatever their initial motivations might have been, at some point, they became what they were fighting.”

  Rush watched the US attorney for any sign of what was to come. He was afraid it was judgment day for the wire, and the Criminal Section likely would defer to the US attorney about ending it.

  “The informants all said the same about what the officers were up to—ripping dope, skimming cash and weapons, and lying to cover it up,” Rush continued. “No way we can build a chargeable case using only the informants. That’s the obvious upside of the intercept. With evidence from the wire, the jury will hear that these cops aren’t just compromised, they’re ordinary criminals.”

  “This venture could cause a complete meltdown with the locals,” the US attorney cautioned. “Does anyone over at Lynwood PD know we’re lookin’ at their folks?”

  “No, sir. Remember, we decided not to tell anyone there—not even internal affairs—because of the risk of disclosure.”

  “I don’t want this exploding in my telegenic face, Adrien. I really don’t.”

  “It’s a righteous case, sir. This isn’t an excessive-force case where we don’t know whether there’s even been a crime committed, much less whether we can prove it or get a jury to convict. We got a boatload of predication. The targets are in the deep end of the cesspool.”

  “But you’re telling me the pool—as of today—is thick as pea soup and we can’t see nothin’, correct?”

  “That’s why we got the wire. We’re still in the chase.”

  The US attorney measured out his words now, much like he had during their first conversation together, way back on Lynwood’s town square.

  “If the wire doesn’t produce irrefutable evidence against these officers soon, we shut it down,” the US attorney instructed. “If your front office gets a burr ’bout it, you let me know before everyone starts screaming. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “See that? I’m learning to be a good goddamn team player.”

  “I see that,” Rush responded, “a little.”

  “If this dies before dawn,” the US attorney continued, “make sure the notification letters to the targets get put off indefinitely by the court. I don’t need them local cops knowing we were listenin’ in.”

  “I understand,” responded Rush, relieved the case would survive the meeting.

  “How ’bout gettin’ a southern supper somewhere? We can gossip about the unlucky bastard the president will tap as the new deputy attorney general.” It was just like the US attorney to speculate about presidential intentions over his beloved meal.

  Despite having just finished his sandwich, Rush obliged. “Of course. But can we skip the gossip, unless it’s about me?”

  “Rush, I didn’t realize we’re potential competitors,” the US attorney teased.

  The US attorney’s comment stayed with Rush long after their meal ended. Rush had been too prudish to ask more about it then, and weeks later he still didn’t know what the US attorney was actually saying about the upcoming nomination for deputy attorney general. Time would tell, but maybe Cristwell was indeed a man on the move.

  34

  THE ROAD AHEAD

  “The report’s due soon,” Rush said again, like a mandatory mantra, “so we need to review the excerpts.”

  He had dogged Mercer about the report during several recent telephone calls. The two had moved beyond their mutual skepticism of each other—mostly Mercer of Rush—but they still orbited the planet at different speeds.

  “I’ll get with the monitors and listen to the flagged calls,” Mercer responded.

  “Shouldn’t I listen to them too?” Rush asked. “We should review them together to know if the sum is greater than the parts.”

  “I wouldn’t get too excited,” Mercer cautioned. “I don’t anticipate a bounty.”

  “We gotta keep on the path,” Rush said. His optimism was as shallow as a puddle after a passing sprinkle, but he needed to put on a good face for Mercer, and for himself. “You seem unusually Eeyorish today.”

  “This isn’t what I thought I’d be doing when I joined the bureau. I’m a CPA, not a voyeur.”

  “Don’t go all sideways on me,” Rush said in mock exasperation. “I thought agents loved wiretaps and surveillance and undercover work. All that cloak-and-dagger crap.”

  “Not when it’s tripping up cops.”

  “We’re not creating any crimes; we’re simply listening to what they’re saying.”

  “Give me a violent racist and I’ll lead the charge, but tagging police by going through their soiled laundry, well, that’s not my—”

  “Lee, let’s talk ’bout this when we’re together next week,” Rush interrupted, hoping Mercer’s reluctance wasn’t coming from other agents working the intercept. “Come to think, I didn’t get the last set of the logs. Send them?”

  “I’ll see.”

  “In a sealed envelope by overnight,” Rush said, stating the obvious. “We also need to get a grand j
ury going.”

  “If the investigation stays alive long enough to present any evidence to one.”

  “Lots of folks are getting anxious about the intercept. Evidently, that now includes you.” Rush was worried that he was losing Mercer. “Something big’s gonna come of all this, so stay the course.”

  “You’ve no idea how complicated that might get,” Mercer muttered as the call ended.

  . . .

  During the Klan case, Rush always was on edge while he was in Lynwood. The anonymous extortionate threats and the suspicious men at the Twins didn’t create his doubts about the place, but they had personalized them. But with the Klan case over and Daniels in prison, Rush’s time in Lynwood now focused on the police corruption probe, and his silent fear about the Klan receded.

  He had to decide whether to start presenting evidence in the police probe to the current grand jury—which was about to end after an eighteen-month term—or ask the court to impanel a new one. A new group of grand jurors, told from the start their mission was to investigate police officers, might work better than the current crew, however fond he was of them. New grand jurors also might be more willing to view police officers as suspects instead of partners. But impaneling a special grand jury would need the approval of both the chief judge of the district and the US attorney, neither of which was a certainty.

  Rush took his usual route to his temporary office, his mind already at the desk. The short burst of a siren startled him, and he looked up to see a parish deputy’s car lights in the mirror.

  “License and registration.”

  “Sorry about that, Deputy,” Rush said. “Car’s a rental.”

  Rush turned over his Virginia driver’s license and the rental agreement from the glove compartment.

  “Turn the car off.”

  The deputy walked back to his patrol vehicle, sat, and talked to the dash. After five minutes of talking and writing, he returned and handed back the license and agreement.

  “What’s that there?”

  Rush looked down and realized he was still clutching his DOJ credentials. “My credentials.”