The Blue Executions

by George Norris

  The man’s account said that once the man caught up with Mr. Jackson, the man began to pistol whip him for no reason. He had struck him about the head for close to a dozen times before pointing the gun directly at Jackson’s head. Mr. Walker explained that Jackson was just able to push the gun to the side as the cop fired. The bullet missed Jackson by inches and instead hit the ground next to his head. The cop then rolled Mr. Jackson onto his stomach and handcuffed him. Once he was handcuffed, the cop continued to strike him over the head with his police radio. Mr. Walker continued to explain that he and his friends were pleading with the officer to call an ambulance for their friend but instead the officer pointed his gun at them and said “Shut the fuck up or you’ll be next ni--er!”

  Williams then added a couple of quotes from other witnesses, Mark Jenkins, who works as a security guard for J.F.K. airport. “That cop was like crazy. I watched as he murdered my friend. I was helpless to stop him. What could I possibly do…call the police?”

  Lance Porter, who also works at the airport, added “after witnessing what he did, I’ll never be able to trust the police again.”

  The reporter was clear to state that all three of these hard working men gave independent, yet identical accounts of the incident, which is in sharp contrast to the official police version. Doris Williams went on for a few paragraphs opining how appalling it is to hear a member of the police department in today’s day and age, using the most offensive word imaginable to describe a member of the community in which they serve.

  When she was done editorializing, she returned to one final witness interview to drive home her point. She wrote of her interview with Sharlene Waters. Mrs. Waters, a sixty-two year old grandmother, admittedly only witnessed part of the incident. After hearing what she believed to be a gunshot, she looked out of the window of her second story apartment. She looked down onto the courtyard below where she saw the police officer strike the man in the head with a black object. She thinks it may have been his gun but she wasn’t sure. She also said that she remembered seeing the officer handcuff the man but she wasn’t sure if that was before or after the officer was beating the man.

  Williams’ article went on to identify the officer involved as Detective Thomas Galvin of the 113th Precinct Detective Squad. Galvin had been a member of the department for over ten years and had never had any disciplinary proceedings against him although he had been the recipient of numerous civilian complaints, Williams reported. None of those complaints had been substantiated by the police department.

  Courtney didn’t want to read any more. He pushed the newspapers aside in frustration. “What horse shit this is! What rocks do these people crawl out from under anytime something like this happens?”

  He took out a pen and pad from his desk drawer and scribbled the names;

  Darrin Jackson

  Tyrone Walker

  Lance Porter

  Mark Jenkins

  Sharlene Waters

  Courtney handed the list to Finch. “Do me a favor John. Have someone run these names through the system; have a triple I check done on them. I want to know any and every collar they ever took. See if they currently have any warrants or if they ever had warrants in the past. I want to know everything about them…right down to their driving record.”

  “Right away Chief,” as he took the paper from Courtney’s hand and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  No sooner did Finch leave the office than did Courtney pick up the phone and dial the number for the Deputy Commissioner of Public Information’s office. He summoned the Commanding Officer, Inspector Gerald Hartman, to his office in one hour. While waiting for both Finch and Hartman, Courtney took the opportunity to refill his coffee. He walked across his office to the coffee machine set on the desk in the corner. He filled the cup, adding two sugars. He took a sip; satisfied, he returned to his desk and once again browsed through the newspapers.

  Finch and Hartman arrived at his office within minutes of each other. He invited his men to take a seat to discuss the matter at hand. They each sat in the black leather chairs in front of his desk; Finch placing a manila on the edge of Courtney’s desk. Courtney looked at Finch, hoping for good news. “John, what did we find out about our witnesses?”

  Finch reached for the folder as he began. “We have no record of any kind on the elderly woman who was watching from the window.”

  Courtney was disappointed but not surprised. “The others?”

  Finch raised his eyebrows and nodded his head approvingly. He offered the manila envelope to Courtney which he accepted and began to peruse as Finch continued. “The other four, including our decedent, have extensive arrest records. All of them have narcotics related arrests, mostly sales and felony possession charges not far from where this incident took place. One of them, Mark Jenkins, also has an active case with Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. He’s currently out on bail awaiting trial for transporting guns up from Virginia.”

  Courtney listened—a slight smile coming across his lips. “Good. Anything else?”

  There was. “It seems Lance Porter and Darrin Jackson did time together in Elmira. Porter was in for a gunpoint robbery of a gas station; Jackson, for selling crack. They both were paroled in 2012. Jackson was a parole absconder and there was an active parole warrant out for him at the time of his death.”

  “This is exactly what I was hoping for,” declared Courtney. It was the best possible news that he could’ve hoped for considering the circumstances. He thought back to Doris Williams’ article. Hard working men, my ass!

  Courtney handed the folder over to Inspector Hartman. “Gerry, here is what I want you to do. I want you to discreetly leak this information to the press. Find a reporter or two that you trust to put this in print and put a positive spin on it for us…or at least a negative one for these so called hard working men. Am I making myself clear, Gerry?”

  “Yes sir, crystal clear Chief. I have a few guys in mind that I’m pretty sure we can trust.” Hartman took the folder with him as he exited the office. Finch followed closely behind.

  Courtney would not be easily defeated. Hartman was a dedicated cop and was carefully selected for the position he was in. This would not be the first time that Courtney had asked him to help in a character assassination and he was sure that it wouldn’t be the last. He’d have to see how things played out over the next few days, but he had a pretty good feeling that he’d reined this potential disaster in and brought it in, under his control. If only the cop killings could be this easy.

  *

  Brian McGregor threw down the newspaper in disgust. He looked over at Doris Williams, whose cubicle was separated from his own by a light brown hutch across the top of the desk. “I just don’t understand how you could write something so biased and unprofessional, Doris.”

  Brian McGregor and Doris Williams had disagreed many times over the years; especially when the issues generally split the public along racial lines. Williams had grown up in the south and was no stranger to racism. She had experienced discrimination in her Alabama high school, solely due to the color of her skin. She had also been told stories by her father of the ugliness that came along with the civil rights movements of the 1960’s when she was still young. Her father had been beaten by the police and thrown in jail unjustly on more than one occasion. It was throughout these formative years where Williams had developed a deep distrust of the police.

  “Don’t give me that nonsense, Brian. I was out there talking with these kids, you weren’t. This was a brutal attack by that detective and a young man is dead as a result. Besides, I printed both sides of the story. I gave the police department’s version and the account of the numerous eyewitnesses. It was objective. What more would you like for me to have done?”

  McGregor was quick to fire back. “You should have seen if there was any physical evidence to back up what these men were saying. They were clearly all friends.”

  He shook his head at her in disappointment
. “You, of all people, should know what happens in cases like this. The young men in that neighborhood already hate the police—they see them as an occupational force. All too often, they will make up stories so they can either have their five minutes of fame, or get the police in trouble. I’ve seen that happen a hundred times…I’m sure you have too.”

  “Spare me the theatrics Brian. Go read someone else the riot act,” scolded Williams. “Why the hell are you taking this so personally anyway? All I did was report on a story as the facts were told to me. It was responsible reporting and I stand by it one hundred percent.”

  McGregor just shook his head solemnly. “You just don’t get it Doris. This story is fanning the flames. You may have just put an innocent life in danger.”

  He wanted desperately to tell her about the Blue Executioner. Hell, he wanted to tell the entire city but he knew that he couldn’t. He also knew that he couldn’t tell her that he’d met the officer involved and didn’t believe him to be a racist by any stretch of the word. If he dared tell her that, she would undoubtedly accuse him of being blind to the truth due to his personal dealings with the officer.

  Their argument was ended by the ringing of McGregor’s cell phone. He stared briefly at Doris before answering.

  “McGregor.”

  “This is not an official phone call,” began the voice. McGregor immediately recognized it as that of Inspector Hartman, the commanding officer of the police department’s public information office. McGregor had received dozens of similar calls over his tenure with the newspaper. “Do you understand that Brian?”

  As always, he did. “No problem.”

  McGregor was quick with a pen and pad as Hartman gave a detailed account of the arrest records of the men who claimed to be witnesses to the incident in which Darrin Jackson lost his life. When Hartman was finished, he hung up the phone without as much as a good bye or an acknowledgement from McGregor. A strong feeling of satisfaction came over McGregor. He knew in his heart these men were not who they claimed to be if Galvin had been after them.

  He now had the facts on his side to write an article in favor of Detective Galvin and affirming that he had been acting properly on the night of the incident. Galvin had been trying to arrest a man wanted for absconding parole—he had indisputable facts and an unnamed source to back him up. He wanted nothing more than to shove the arrest records in Doris’ face but he would take the high road instead.

  McGregor got up from his desk and walked over to Doris’ desk. “Listen Doris, I’m sorry. You have the right to print anything you deem appropriate; freedom and speech and all.” He flashed her an insincere smile and chuckled. “That’s part of what our great country is founded on.”

  She accepted his apology and he had a feeling of elation invade his body as he began to write an article for tomorrow’s edition that would be quite contradictory to his colleague’s.

  *

  Michael Underhill read the morning newspaper as he did every day, seated at the small oak table in his kitchen. The room brightened significantly as he raised the window shade, allowing the morning sunlight to enter. He ignored the sensationalized headlines and instead sought out Brian McGregor’s column. He grew frustrated. Who gives a damn about the Board of Education forcing a principal to retire? Underhill scanned through the article as quickly as possible. His index finger moved along the column along with his eyes. Principal, twenty-six year veteran, full benefits, declined comment. Nothing!

  His frustration turned to anger. Once again there was no mention of the Blue Executioner. For the life of him, Underhill couldn’t figure out why the reporter had chosen to ignore him. His editor! Underhill nodded his head as he had his epiphany. That had to be it; his editor is not allowing him to run the story for some strange reason.

  He decided to call the newspaper later on to find out who the editor was. He would have to open an investigation into the editor to see why he would prevent McGregor from writing about his crusade to rid the NYPD of murderers among their ranks.

  Underhill walked into his kitchen and toasted a bagel. He poured himself a glass of orange juice while waiting for the bagel to come to a light brown. He put a liberal amount of cream cheese on before noticing the crumbs on the white counter top. He put the bagel and his juice aside and carefully cleaned every crumb before cleaning out the toaster and putting it away. Once the counter me his approval, Underhill got down on his hands and knees, seeking out any crumbs which may have fallen onto the yellow linoleum floors.

  Once the cleanliness of the kitchen met his approval, he gathered his breakfast and returned to the kitchen table. He refocused on the newspaper. The photo on the front page was that of police officers in riot gear outside the South Jamaica housing development. He wasn’t concerned with the story; he was drawn in by the officers in uniform. When am I finally going to be sworn in and get to wear that uniform?

  His investigator was on his side—the detective had even told him so. Still, he remembers being told to be patient. The appeal process was a long one and could take quite a while. Underhill slipped into his recurring daydream of his graduation day from the New York City Police Academy. Standing in full dress uniform, he’d render a crisp salute to the Police Commissioner; who would be honoring him for finishing as the valedictorian of his class. Underhill remained lost in his own world for nearly ten minutes before refocusing in on the newspaper.

  For the first time, he began to read the article. He carefully considered the statements given by the eyewitnesses. These were all hard working young men, it says so right in the article. They have no reason to lie. He decided that since the witnesses weren’t lying, the police must be. He glanced at the picture of Detective Thomas Galvin—a murderer. The cop must be punished he decided, but the legal system would have the first chance at him.

  Underhill stood up to retrieve a pair of scissors when he noticed the top cabinet was ajar. A feeling of anxiety came over him. How long has that been like that? It shouldn’t have been left open. He closed the cabinet and the feeling started to subside. He sat back down with the scissors and began cutting out the picture of Galvin. He took a quick look back at the cabinet making sure it was closed. After briefly studying Galvin’s image, Underhill placed the photo in his scrapbook. Detective Galvin’s day would come…just not for a long time.

  Underhill had more pressing matters at hand than a case he was confident would drag through the court system for the better part of two years. While he would be sure to keep tabs of the case, right now he needed to concentrate on Frank Garret. Underhill turned back a couple of pages in the scrapbook and circled Garret’s picture. He stare intensified as he once again drifted back to his own graduation day from the Police Academy. He wondered how long it would take him to attain the various ranks…not too long he was sure. He decided that he was going to be the youngest Police Commissioner in New York City history as he closed the scrapbook and refocused on the task at hand.

  *

  Laurie Bando walked into her office at a quarter before nine in the morning. With only a few weeks to go before the start of the Groff trial, she had a lot of work to do; there were dozens of witnesses who needed to be prepared for trial. She had scheduled to meet with two or three witnesses a day for the next week and a half. The trial that could be the stepping stone to launch her career was soon to commence but she was having a hard time concentrating on it. The argument that she’d had with Tommy the previous night kept marching into her mind.

  She’d been sure that he would have at least called her back, but when she hadn’t heard from him by midnight, her anger turned to frustration. She realized that she needed to put him and the argument out of her mind for now; she needed to concentrate on the trial. She had too much to gain from it than to let her personal life interfere.

  She felt confident about the trial—the evidence was strong and Detective Kuhn was one of the best police witnesses she had ever seen testify, but as any experienced trial lawyer knows, a trial by jury is a
lways a crap shoot. It was Bando’s experience that juries would sometimes acquit defendants for the strangest of reasons—some of which defy logic and evidence. She knew that she needed to stay on top of her game and she assured herself that she would.

  The two biggest obstacles which she would need to overcome would be the fact that Peter Groff had retained one of the top trial lawyers in the business and more importantly, that her star witness was a convicted drug dealer. She knew the silver tongued lawyer would have a field day with the witness. The truth was however, that she didn’t fear the lawyer in spite of his reputation and track record. She felt that she was just as good as him—if not better. She would take him on and beat him. In her heart, she knew that she would win.

  Bando sat down at her desk and took off her sneakers. She opened her bottom right drawer and removed a pair of black shoes—much more appropriate for the work day. They also matched the black skirt she wore with a light pink blouse. Bando removed a scrunchie from around her wrist and confined her long hair to a ponytail. Looking up at the calendar affixed to the corkboard above her desk, she saw the first of the two witnesses she had scheduled for today was not due in until noon. This would give her a chance to go over the questions she would ask them as well as try to anticipate what questions the defense would ask.

  “Did anyone order breakfast yet?” she yelled into the hallway.

  She recognized the voice that answered as Kenny Machado. Machado was the youngest and the newest member of the Integrity Bureau. “I was just about to call in the order Laurie. What do you want?”

  Bando retrieved a ten dollar bill from her purse and quickly made her way to Machado’s office. Machado sat at his desk reading the morning paper. He barely looked up at Bando when she entered, “The list is on Michele’s desk. If you could call it in, I’ll take a walk to the diner and pick it up.”

  Bando agreed, setting the ten dollar bill next to Machado, who was still engrossed in the paper. Bando dialed the number and was calling in the order when Machado closed the paper and stood up. Machado looked good today as he usually did, she thought. He adjusted his tie and placed his olive colored suit jacket on. He shook his head at Michelle Bauer, the assistant ADA who sheared his office. “I’m telling you Michelle, this is the case a career is made on,” he remarked as he added Bando’s ten dollars to the rest of the breakfast money he had collected from the office.