The Vigilantes

by W. E. B Griffin

  The shooters were never caught, despite the extreme pressure Francis Franklin Fuller V placed on everyone from the police department to the offices of the mayor and the governor.

  Frustrated, Fuller shortly thereafter announced his new nonprofit organization: “That night, I lost my wife, my child—my family. Sadly, it was a tragedy that could happen to anyone. And those responsible for such harm must be brought to justice and held accountable. To help the police and the justice system do exactly that, today I have established Lex Talionis in honor of my wife and daughter and all other victims in the City of Philadelphia.”

  He explained that he had funded the organization with an initial endowment of five million dollars. From that, he said, “Lex Talionis will reward ten thousand dollars cash to any individual who provides information that leads to the arrest, conviction, and/or removal from free society of a criminal guilty of murder or attempted murder, rape or other sexually deviant crime, or illicit drug distribution in the City of Philadelphia. Lex Talionis will work with the Philadelphia Police Department and our courts to protect the identities of those providing the information, keeping them anonymous.”

  Every week, usually on Fridays, he ran an announcement restating that message in Philadelphia’s newspapers and on its television stations.

  “You don’t like Fuller?” Amanda Law asked Matt Payne.

  “Sometimes I do. And sometimes, not so much,” Matt said, turning up the volume. “Here. Let’s see what he’s saying.”

  Fuller’s voice filled the bedroom: “As my ancestor Benjamin Franklin wrote in the Year of our Lord 1734, ‘Where carcasses are, eagles will gather. And where good laws are, much people flock thither.’ And so tonight I am personally signing the paperwork for my organization”—he gestured grandly toward the cast-bronze signage listing all his companies that was embedded in the wall behind him, to the line that read LEX TALIONIS, LLC—“to transfer two ten-thousand-dollar rewards into two separate escrow accounts at PNC Bank. These will be payable immediately upon the determination of who is properly responsible for the apprehension of these evildoers.”

  There was a smattering of loud applause in the background, and the cameras panned to show the people who were clapping outside of the police crime-scene tape.

  Matt said, “Looks like Francis has the support of Batman and—what’s that other character there that’s the supervillain?—the Joker?”

  Amanda looked at the screen and made a hmm sound.

  “I think that particular Joker costume is supposed to be one of our distinguished city councilmen. You can tell by his trademark black bow tie that looks like a tiny cheap clip-on. And by all those exaggerated dollar-bill bribes—they’re stuffing his pockets to the point of overflowing. The handcuffs on his left wrist are a nice touch. Oh, and there’s a dollar symbol on his coat, kind of like the Riddler had those question marks.”

  Payne recalled that the loud cries of corruption in City Hall were back in the news—if they’d ever really left.

  Either way, to bow-tied City Councilman H. Rapp Badde, Jr., a thirty-two-year-old native Philadelphian who was alternately charismatic and arrogant, it was simply politics as usual. Which also meant shenanigans as usual, including the hiring of a twenty-five-year-old “highly regarded colleague” as his executive assistant and the use of funds from his election campaign for them to attend a conference on urban renewal in, of all places, Bermuda.

  As luck would have it, someone happened to recognize the publicity-happy councilman during the trip. And when a photograph appeared in the news media of the councilman and his tremendously attractive assistant on the beach—wearing, as one TV news wag said, “nothing that could be considered business attire, unless they were employed in a strip club at SeaWorld”—citizens of Philadelphia were furious, perhaps the least happy being Badde’s wife of seven years.

  Of course, the councilman, drawing on both his charisma and arrogance, repeatedly stated that it was all being misinterpreted, that the trip had cost the city not one red cent—his excess campaign contributions covered it. Then he spun the subject to what he and his able assistant had learned on advancing urban renewal and how H. Rapp Badde, Jr., was going to change Philly’s fortunes.

  The behavior stemmed from the same sort of above-reproach attitude—from the hanky-panky to the deny-and-spin—that he’d learned from his father, Horatio R. Badde, Sr., who’d once held the office Junior now so desperately desired, that of mayor.

  To Matt and countless others in Philadelphia, the good news in all this was that there was a genuine first-class person serving as Hizzonor. The Honorable Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci was no-nonsense to the point that his detractors—and quite a few admirers—claimed he governed with an iron fist. Unapologetic, Carlucci fought the culture of corruption in City Hall just as he had fought crime in the city before being elected to public office.

  Carlucci had risen through the ranks of the Philadelphia Police Department, and he bragged that he’d held every rank but that of policewoman.

  Payne said: “Or maybe, more appropriately, that dollar sign is also supposed to represent a scarlet letter for Badde?”

  These days it’s easier finding a virgin in a whorehouse than an honest politician. He grunted to himself. An honest pol in or out of a whorehouse. With or without a scarlet letter.

  Fuller could be heard speaking again, and the camera cut back to him:

  “So, to all you out there who commit crimes, or you who are considering doing so, I share with you further wisdom of Benjamin Franklin: ‘Fear to do ill, and you need fear nought else.’”

  There was more applause. Fuller paused, waved briefly to acknowledge it, then looked back into the camera.

  His face turned stern, and he wagged the stubby fat index finger of his right hand as he went on dramatically: “Evildoers, know that you are being watched. Know that eventually you will be caught”—with all his right hand’s stubby fat fingers, he gestured behind himself, where the bodies had been dumped, never taking his eyes off the camera—“and know that you will be brought to justice. By God’s grace and by God’s words: As it says in Exodus 23:24, ‘Then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, foot for foot.’ Lex Talionis. Thank you.”

  There was more applause, this time accompanied by whistles and cheers.

  Matt sighed.

  “‘Evildoers.’ Jesus! I’ve heard enough of that,” he said, thumbing the MUTE button on the remote.

  After a moment, Amanda said, “Well, I can’t say I am opposed to what he’s trying to accomplish.”

  Matt looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “But, baby, people just can’t take the law into their own hands. And that’s what he’s basically encouraging.”

  She shrugged. “Sorry. I can’t. . . .”

  Of course she can’t.

  Damn sure not after what she’s gone through. . . .

  He nodded thoughtfully and kissed her on the forehead.

  The news camera now followed Francis Fuller as he walked inside the office building. Then it panned the cheering crowd, and in the process captured some of the news media.

  Payne said: “Hey, there’s Mickey O’Hara. He’s working the story?”

  A young-looking Philadelphia Police Department patrolman was going back under the yellow police tape next to O’Hara, who Matt noted was standing apart from the pack of reporters quickly scribbling on their pads. O’Hara had a camera of some type hanging from his right shoulder by a thin black strap. He held in both hands what looked like a cell phone, and he was tapping it with both of his thumbs.

  Then Payne felt his phone vibrate again, and a new text message appeared in a box on its screen:

  MICKEY O’HARA

  AN OLD SOURCE JUST MENTIONED “POP-N-DROPS”

  TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW, DAMN IT, AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I DO . . .

  MEET ME AT LIBERTIES?

  “Old source” my ass—it was that wet-behind-the-ears uniform.

  The ki
d’s probably starstruck with Mickey and thought he’d show off how important he already is by sharing what’s supposed to be kept quiet.

  Hell, Mickey will keep his mouth shut if I ask, and if he’s on the scene he probably has something good that I can use.

  But Amanda is going to be pissed if I leave now to go work.

  He heard her sigh, and when Matt looked to her, he saw that she’d read the screen.

  He began to apologize: “I’m—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “It’s okay. Really, it is. I can’t agree that bad guys should be off the streets and then expect you not to do your job.”

  He kissed her forehead again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, finishing the apology.

  Then Payne texted “Liberties in 20” back to O’Hara.

  Payne’s phone vibrated once, then again. The first message was from O’Hara, who’d simply texted “OK.” The second was from Tony Harris:

  -blocked number-

  YOU JUST SEE 5-F?

  I BET JASON IS FIT TO BE TIED.

  GOT TIME FOR A BEER? -TH

  “My,” Amanda said, “aren’t you the popular one at this hour. Should I be jealous?”

  Payne thought, What the hell, may as well kill two birds with one stone, and texted back: “Liberties in 20.”

  She rolled over and began to slowly rub his belly.

  Matt looked at her and began, “Speaking of killings—”

  “You should go?” Amanda finished his sentence.

  “No. What I was going to say is: I don’t see the rush.”

  As she made another slow circle with her palm, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as far as I can tell, there’s no reason to jump up and race anywhere. Mick can cool his heels with Tony at Liberties for ten minutes. And even if I do get a call about those pop-and-drops”—he reached for his cell phone and pressed a button to turn it off—“which will now go directly into voice mail, it’s my professional opinion that those guys who got popped will probably still be dead ten minutes from now.”

  Amanda’s hand stopped. Matt looked deeply in her eyes.

  “ ‘Just ten minutes’?” she said, her tone suggestive.

  As he smiled and nodded, she pursed her lips.

  After a moment, he felt her warm hand slide down his belly.

  “I know a Ben Franklin saying, too,” she said.

  “Yeah? I’m afraid to ask. Something to do with moderation or saving for a rainy day, or—worse—abstinence?”

  Her warm palm moved smoothly and excitingly slowly until it was just below his belly button, then a bit farther down. He grunted appreciatively in anticipation—until her fingers suddenly gripped him by the short hairs.

  “Ouch!” he cried out a bit dramatically when she pulled them. “What was that for?”

  “Ben said, ‘Love, and be lov’d.’”

  [FOUR]

  5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:45 P.M.

  Mrs. Joelle Bazelon long had lived with the dark fear, deep in her big bones, that such a terrible day would come. The dark-skinned, sixty-two-year-old widow—she was of Jamaican descent, five-foot-eight tall, and after a decade of battling diabetes, clinically obese—had prayed literally every night, down on arthritic knees, her Bible before her on the bedspread, that somehow she could figure out a way to run from it. Some way to pack up everything in time and move to a better place for her and Sasha, her just-turned-eighteen-year-old granddaughter.

  But that hadn’t happened.

  And now, standing at the kitchen sink on what so far had been a fairly pleasant Halloween, looking out the window as she finished drying and putting up the dinner dishes, Joelle Bazelon suddenly realized that time had run out.

  Earlier in the evening, she’d heard the doorbell ring again and again, the excited choruses of young children shouting, “Trick or treat!” and seen Sasha, her beautiful, slender, five-foot-seven teen, rushing enthusiastically to the door with the large plastic bowl of candies, then bending at the waist and complimenting each child on his or her costume as she put treats in their bags.

  The sequence of sounds had repeated until about nine o’clock, when the kids—even the older ones, a few in their middle teens who knew they really were too old to be trick-or-treating—had stopped ringing the doorbell.

  Sasha had then told her grandmother that she was going down the street to hang out with Keesha Jones, her friend since they were ten. Joelle was never completely comfortable with Sasha being out at night, especially late, but she reminded herself that the child was now eighteen, too old to be kept home, and Keesha lived just at the end of the block.

  About the only thing that Joelle could do was tell her to be safe. And, as an added precaution—so that when Sasha came home it would be easier, and quicker, to come inside the house—leave the heavy wrought-iron outer door unlocked.

  And now, from the sound of it, Sasha was coming home very quickly.

  Too quickly.

  Joelle heard the wooden front door fling open, making a stunning thud as its heavy brass doorknob smacked an interior wall.

  Then she heard a clearly terrified Sasha cry out, “Grammy!”

  Joelle got the chills. And when she heard a familiar male voice call out, “Trick or treat!”—the tone deeply threatening—her knees buckled.

  Xavier Smith! she thought, clinging to the lip of the sink to keep from falling to the linoleum floor.

  Ridgewood Street was in the Kingsessing area of southwest Philadelphia. Joelle Bazelon had lived there going on forty years, graduating from South Philly High, then LaSalle University with her teacher’s certificate, and ultimately being assigned to Anna H. Shaw Middle School, from which she’d now retired as principal.

  The school, at 5400 Warrington Avenue, was only a three-block walk from her row house on Ridgewood. She’d moved to the row house with her husband, Ray, whom she’d met at LaSalle, and later they’d reared their only daughter, Rachel, there.

  About the same time that Joelle retired from teaching, Rachel, then age eighteen, had become pregnant with Sasha. The father, a year older, had stuck around for about half the length of time it had taken him to cause the actual moment of conception.

  The Bazelon house—a modest thirteen hundred square feet total—became quite full.

  That had lasted for only just shy of a year, however.

  Ray and Rachel had been driving up from Delaware on Interstate 95 when their car’s front left tire blew out, causing the vehicle to roll over and strike a bridge support. They were killed on impact.

  Among many things, Joelle was tough. She had to be. And, as she had already reared one daughter and over the years taught countless other children, she had no problem with the idea of bringing up Sasha on her own.

  Yet over the years, despite Sasha proving to be both as sweet and as smart as her mother had been, rearing a granddaughter hadn’t been easy. As any single parent knew, the constant one-on-one time with a child exhausted energy and emotion. There had also been a money problem—Ray’s income went away shortly after his burial, and Joelle’s pension did not go as far as she’d have liked. Then came her health issues, including the diabetes and, because of her excessive weight, a heart condition, which not only further sapped her strength but also drained the savings account to pay for doctor’s bills and medications.

  And what put a painfully fine point on their problems was that southwest Philadelphia simply was no longer the same place that Joelle and Ray had first moved to twenty years before to raise a family.

  At first glance, Kingsessing appeared to be the same somewhat comfortable middle-class neighborhood. Most of the residents tried to keep the row homes tidy, the small yards trimmed and free of trash.

  But if one looked closely, the signs of quiet despair were present.

  Practically all the residences had something not one of them had been built with: burglar bars. The heavy racks of black wrought iron had been added house by hous
e over the last ten or twelve years.

  Some of the chain-link fences were even topped with razor wire.

  There was a creeping blight on almost every block: When houses burned down—not always by accident—the owners took whatever money the insurance company paid out and got the hell out of town. The city was stuck with the task of finishing off the destruction of the property, which more times than not left a dirt lot littered with rubble. A lot that oddly still had the five-tier set of concrete steps coming up from the sidewalk but leading to nowhere.

  When that happened to the house next door to Joelle Bazelon’s, she saw the writing on the wall. She planted a FOR SALE sign in the small ten-foot-square patch of grass that was her front yard.

  Joelle Bazelon found that she was not the only one who saw that the neighborhood was going to hell in a handbasket. Three other row houses were on the market within just two blocks of her address. They all offered essentially the same property, give or take a bath or bedroom.

  She’d listed the property through a realtor, setting the asking price at ninety-nine thousand dollars. And she never got a single offer. When she asked the realtor why not, Joelle was told that the price on one of the other row houses for sale nearby was being reduced by five thousand dollars every two weeks. Worse, it still wasn’t getting any reasonable offers.

  Joelle Bazelon had suddenly felt terribly trapped.

  She now knew that she’d seen the start of all this decline years before, back when she’d been principal of the middle school. She’d seen kids who were on the path to no good—and parents who didn’t care. And in the time since then, she’d seen plenty of punks from Shaw, from the neighborhood, who had gone on to cause trouble in high school or, worse, in one of the disciplinary schools that served as their last stop in the School District of Philadelphia.