“Jake, I got four years of backup time for CDW6 and selling. I can’t go back inside, too many enemies there. If you bust me, you know they’ll revoke parole.”
We sat staring at each other. Slowly, Carol emptied her pockets: Dexedrine tabs; “buck action” heroin caps; a small bag of white powder, and about two-hundred dollars, in mostly tens and twenties.
“How much are you dealing?”
“Not much. Just a little to my girls.”
“Are you packing? If you are, I’ll bust you.”
“No, no. I quit carrying.”
“Let’s go to the men’s room to continue this conversation. Now.”
As the door closed, exasperation filled my voice. “Goddammit, Carol, you’ve really put me in a bind. Didn’t you see me and Preacher?”
“Yeah, but I needed the money, and I didn’t think…”
“You sure as hell didn’t think,” I shouted. She was right about a parole revocation and time back in the slammer. Street people know the going rates in the court-and-correctional system better than most lawyers. If I busted someone like Big Carol, then it would cause ill will between the police and the patrons of these already tough bars. The lesbians would consider the bust as a hummer7 or worse as a double-cross in light of my special relationship with Big Carol. I began to wonder why I left the food.
“Okay, Carol, I got a deal for you on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. If I flush this crap down the toilet where it belongs, then I want two things in return. One, no more selling here or in the Zombies. Go to Bobbie’s house or whatever. Two, you owe me a big one, payable on demand – anything, anytime, anywhere.”
Sweat poured off Carol’s face.
“Thanks. Part two could be really rough, but I’ll take it. Deal.”
“I want to keep the cocaine because it’s related to another issue. I’ll say it came from a CI who can’t be compromised. It won’t come back to you.”
As I watched the last buck action cap disappear beneath the swirling water, I mulled over the reality that life on the streets requires a scorecard. Experienced officers understand the targets of police attention as law violators can sometimes negotiate their position with direct assistance or information on more serious crime. Trading down, as it’s known, doesn’t appear in police General Orders. At most it’s an entry in a pocket notebook.
“How come you didn’t bust her?” asked Preacher as we went back into service, easing into the evening traffic.
“I’m learning from you,” I replied.
The night seemed to pass slowly. Tomorrow, I intended to call Detective Lieutenant John Roberts about the cocaine. Tonight, it would stay in my locker, a serious rule violation. We wrote a few traffic tickets and separated a married couple who wanted to kill each other, just the bread and butter of routine police work.
At 1:00 a.m., I thought, “Just an hour to go.”
“Scouts 63 and 64, a robbery shooting, 6200 Georgia Avenue, outside the Club. Look out for a black male, medium brown skin, twenties, about six feet, short afro, wearing a long suede coat. Last seen running west on Rittenhouse. Code one. Homicide responding, 0110.”
“63 responding.”
“64 also responding.”
We were in 64 and close; it was a detailed lookout.
“Preacher, I’ve got a hunch. He could run north on Twelfth Street, with lots of houses on both sides. On the other hand, he could duck up into the cemetery next to the Methodist church. I think he’s going to the cemetery – no cars, no lights. I’d like to hike up there. Do you want to stay with me or check out Twelfth Street?”
“Let’s maximize coverage,” he replied. “Get out here; I’ll light up Twelfth Street. Be careful, Homicide is responding.”
“You, too.”
I turned around my cap, so the cap plate would not reflect light, and climbed up to the cemetery. The clear skies and full moon provided good light. I recognized him, walking slowly among the tombstones. The description was dead on. I circled behind and toward him. Then, I stepped on a dry stick. He half-turned toward the sound, and began to run.
“Halt, police. You’re under arrest!”
He responded by turning to fire two rounds at me. I heard the bullets whiz past me; one sounded like it hit a tombstone. Now, we were running at full speed through the cemetery. I screamed, “Halt, police or I’ll shoot” one more time with no effect.
It was my turn to use deadly force. To shoot a man in the back. I was furious at this killer for making me do this. I qualified Expert every year; I wouldn’t miss. Without thinking, I screamed as I took aim, “Hold it, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your ass away!”
He stopped and tossed down his gun. Out of breath, I raced up to him and knocked him down to the dirt, face up. Astraddle his chest, I grabbed his ears and began to pound his head on the clay, constantly cursing him as I gasped for air and pounded some more.
“Stop,” he said.
I stopped, and we stared at each other panting. Sirens wailed in the distance. Somebody probably found my empty cruiser with the car door open.
“Did you hear me the first and second time I said ‘Stop’?’”
“Yeah.”
“And the last time?”
“Oh, man. You stopped with all that ‘Halt police’ shit and said you’d blow my motherfucking ass away. I knowed you meant it.”
“You bet your life on how I told you to stop?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I hadn’t even searched him for other weapons. I rolled him over cuffed him and pulled out a second gun. The cemetery was filling with cops, so I yelled my position saying everything was under control.
Preacher was the first to find me. He had put out a 10-338 after hearing gunfire. Sergeant Townsen walked up and began to upbraid me.
“Goddammit, Stone! Why didn’t you just plant the mother-fucker? Preacher here reports two shots fired, and they weren’t by you, correct?”
“Correct.”
“I’m going to write you up for exposing yourself to hostile fire and not returning fire to protect yourself.”
Lieutenant Dominik had been listening and walked toward us. “You okay, Jake?”
“Yeah. A little rattled, but okay.”
“Back off, Joe. Don’t write him up for anything.”
“But he…”
“Do you see this white shirt with gold bars?”
“Yes, sir,” was the subdued reply.
Lieutenant Dominik gently pushed me away from the crowd. “Tell me what exactly happened.”
“It was a lesson in communication. During the chase, I told him twice to stop. After he shot at me, I drew a bead on his back. The light was good. I couldn’t have missed, but it was so hard to shoot a man in the back. I was putting pressure on the trigger, maybe two pounds or more, and then I just screamed at him, ‘Hold it, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your ass away!’ He stopped and tossed down the gun. I beat his head on the ground a few times, and he told me he had heard me the first time, but the last time he said, ‘I knowed you meant it’.”
“You did a good job, Jake. Townsen is old school. Do the paperwork and go home.”
Chapter 13
High Times
Barranquilla, Colombia, July 1969
With production at near maximum, Alvaro was in one of his rare good moods. All three Comanches, which were about two and one-half with downtime for maintenance, continued to bring cocaine to the waiting trucks in Florida. High-performance planes were maintenance hogs. Not that Alvaro worried about his Airframe and Propeller logs being inspected; he didn’t want to lose a load over the ocean because of mechanical problems. Pilots could be replaced. His new Maserati had arrived in Cartagena. In a couple of days, he would hit the straightaway on the autopista going west toward Ensenada, followed by the curves as it hugged the coast.
The flights had not encountered any problems. He and Marcus were a little concerned about the arrangement Ortiz had made with the two line boys in Matthew Town. While th
e solution was creative and plausible, and while the boys had sworn an oath of secrecy, Alvaro and Marcus understood the boys would eventually tell everybody. The extra money, a hundred dollars, seemed to strike a balance between flashy and motivational, ensuring fuel service to his planes at all hours.
The gringo’s demand for cocaine seemed insatiable. Tyrone sold from Richmond to Philadelphia as fast as they could deliver it. The Professor sold no product in Miami and was adamant about two things: (1) keeping the lowest possible profile; and (2) avoiding conflict with potential rivals. For example, they used a small airfield south of the autopista. A marijuana dealer, who plied his product to tourists in the Lesser Antilles, owned it. Alvaro and Marcus had met him to discuss joint use of his private airstrip. He seemed pleased to be contacted first and asked to work out a business arrangement, especially since cooperation was somewhat unusual among drug dealers. The airstrip already existed; additional money for three extra planes was gravy. An agreement came easily.
Yes, life was good.
Chapter 14
Narcotics Division
Washington, D.C., July 1969
“Detective Lieutenant John Roberts, please. This is Officer Jake Stone calling…Yes, he knows me…No, and I don’t want to speak to the sergeant. It’s a sensitive matter we have discussed before…Thank you.” Finally, the secretary dialed his line.
“Hello, Jake. Why are you calling the powder people?”
“I’d like to give you a bag of something, if you’re interested.”
“Quite interested. Do you have enough time left on your shift to go out of service and come to headquarters?”
“Yes. I’ll make a landline call to Lieutenant Dominik for permission, then I’ll see you in about twenty-five minutes.”
“Great. Thanks, Jake.”
Headquarters is located at 633 Indiana Avenue. It is both easy to find and to get lost in if you don’t know where the special units are: Robbery; Auto Theft; Homicide; Narcotics; and the shadowy Intelligence Division, among others.
“Nice to see you, Jake,” said Lieutenant Roberts. As I pulled out the bag of powder, Roberts asked if I had a copy of the 252 (arrest report) with me.
“No. It’s complicated.”
“Let’s go to my office,” said Roberts with a hard edge to his voice. I began to second guess the decision to break the rules. It was evidence – kept overnight in a locker. No paperwork or chain of custody. I promised Carol that I wouldn’t serve her up on this. Like all police departments, however, regulations exist with consequences for disobedience.
“You cut a deal on your own, and you’re not planning to tell me about it. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know you’re in deep shit, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take a seat and start talking.”
“Sir, I use a confidential informant with backup time. She is the most reliable and useful CI I’ve ever worked with.”
“Let me hazard a guess: Big Carol in the Zombies.”
I was thunderstruck. How could he know?
“Well, the look on your face tells me I’m right. And if I had been wrong, your next stop would be Trial Board. We know all about Big Carol, her criminal history, and your friendship with her. Why do you think they call us detectives?”
I knew he wasn’t sending me to Trial Board, but Roberts wasn’t showing his hand. He just sat back, studying me.
“We are also working Big Carol. It’s an ugly business, but we live on information more than street cops. You happened to tap one of our best informants, and we tolerated it because she helped you mostly with non-narcotic crimes.”
So, where is this going?
“Speaking of Carol, I have some very bad news, Jake. Early this morning, the Zombies’ manager found her by the trash bins with two in the back of her head, bound and gagged, with a canary in her mouth.”
We looked at each other. The bastards discovered her working both sides of the fence. I was sad and angry at the same time. Except for a few buck action caps, she didn’t deal heroin. Only the new cocaine crowd could be this brazen and cold.
I finally spoke, “What else do we know about the murder?”
“It’s really early. She was helping us with the cocaine problem, and they probably assumed that she was the leak. Homicide is handling the case and may want to question you about her friends, habits – anything that could be helpful. I’m sorry Jake.”
I nodded my head. Maybe Slim Jim was right.
“Jake, on a related matter, we are sure that cocaine is being distributed through an older, existing heroin network. Unfortunately, we have no idea who the big dog is. Hypothetically speaking, would you be interested in helping us root out this problem?”
“Sure, especially after the execution of Carol. Can you tell me more?”
“No. I want you to go back to your regular duties. FBI agents will be asking neighbors, the mail carrier, and others questions about you over the next few weeks. It’s similar to the background investigation you had to become a policeman, just a little more thorough. You cannot discuss this with anyone. If someone asks, say it’s a routine reinvestigation for your normal police work.”
I approached Mike in the locker room after the shift. “Got time for a beer at Gordy’s? It’s usually quiet at this time.”
“This sounds serious,” said Mike.
“Yeah. Ten minutes?”
“See you there.”
We found a corner booth. I recounted the lunch I had with Preacher and the arrangement with Big Carol. I also confessed about keeping the cocaine and the subsequent conversation with Roberts. I said nothing regarding her death – too soon.
“He cut you a break after all that?” exclaimed Mike.
“Yeah. And it gets stranger. He knew I got the coke from Big Carol, who is one of their CIs. They even have a file on our so-called special relationship. He or his boss requested the FBI to do a reinvestigation of me for a national security clearance, which means they’ll talk to you. I asked him to tell me what this is about, and he said no. He did say there is a cocaine problem in the city, and hypothetically would I be interested in helping? Finally, he made it clear that this conversation never happened. So, I can’t share details of future developments with you.”
“Jesus, Jake. Do you look for trouble or does it just gravitate to you? I sometimes think you’re an adrenalin junkie.”
“Aren’t we all? Maybe some are worse than others.”
Both of us drank our beers in silence.
“What now?” asked Mike.
“I’m to return to my regular duties and wait for a call, I suppose.”
“Jake, they’re going to ask you to go undercover, which is voluntary. You have two problems with that. One, is a lovely wife and solid marriage. Two, being a cop for a long time has made your face too familiar in too many places. Think about the number of times you’ve testified in court. This undercover crap is for fresh-faced rookies.”
“I hear you. Since when has anybody needed a national security clearance to work undercover?”
“Yeah. That’s true, Jake. I don’t know.”
Regular Duties
“Scout 62, a shooting, Willie’s Liquor Store on Kennedy Street; respond code one; an ambulance has been dispatched, 1412.”
“Scout 62 is 10-4,” as I flipped on the light bar, rotated to yelp, and listened to the four barrels open up on the interceptor engine. Expedite driving is dangerous; too many people with slow reflexes, who freeze, or don’t know left from right. I frequently drove with the outside speaker on and the mike nearby to give specific instructions to motorists.
Less than a mile to go.
A small crowd gathered on the sidewalk near the store. Standing nearby was a uniformed special police officer, we call them SPOs, hired by local merchants tired of the robberies.
“That’s Johnson,” said Grabowski, my partner. “Looks like he planted another one.”
“You know th
is SPO?”
“Yeah, he never misses. Kills a holdup man down here about twice a year. He’s armed and dangerous. Why don’t these assholes get the message?”
The ambulance had not arrived. I carried the first-aid kit through the milling people to the wounded youth. He was conscious, but had lost a lot of blood. Johnson had shot him three times in a running gun battle as he tried to escape. Two of the wounds were minor, one round, however, had nicked the brachial artery above the elbow. Fresh oxygenated blood was pumping out with each heartbeat. If I couldn’t control the bleeding, then his life would end in a few more minutes. Years ago, I had watched an SPO die of a minor-looking wound which had severed the femoral artery in the leg. Book learning comes alive on the streets.
He was going into shock from the blood loss. His condition left me no choice. I put on a tourniquet two inches above the wound and marked the time. Nerves and muscle below the tourniquet will be severely damaged if it remains in place more than thirty minutes.
The kid asked Grabowski, who was behind me, “Am I going to make it?” First-aid 101 emphasizes reassurance of the victim. Trauma and hemorrhagic shock are the leading killers of men under forty-five in this country.
Grab was slowly shaking his head from side to side.
“No way, kid.”
The ambulance soon arrived, and I gave them the information. Later, I would go to the hospital to interview the kid and make sure his room was under guard. SPO Johnson, pleased with his work, told us what we needed for the report.
Grab asked me if I wanted to join him for lunch next door in Fast Freddie’s Pig Pen (ribs and wings). I begged off and said I’d get a sandwich in the African restaurant across the street.
“Scout 64, take the school crossing at Fourteenth and Upshur, 1510.”
“Scout 64 is 10-4.”
“Scout 64 drop your partner and remain in service as a 10-99 unit.”
“Scout 64 copies.”
Grab gave me a hard stare. As a wagon man, he was a bit short on interpersonal skills.
“Sure, I’ll take it. But don’t leave me there holding my dick after the children are gone.”
White Death Page 7