‘Who’s this guy?’ I asked.
Caroline stood next to me. (She smelled faintly of soap and powder, and my eyes pulled toward her.) She followed my pointing finger to the big guy with the beard. ‘That’s Artie Trudell. He was killed a long time ago. Harold Braxton was charged but he got off.’ She continued to scrutinize the photo. ‘Look how young Bobby was.’
Robert Danziger must have been in his late twenties, early thirties when the picture was snapped. Not more than a year or two out of law school, with no idea what lay ahead. He probably felt bulletproof with the weight of Artie Trudell’s arm on his own bony shoulder. There was no way to predict the countless branchings that would lead to his own death. Was Danziger already moving inexorably toward that cabin in the Maine woods? Or was there still time to pursue an alternate fate? To leave the DA’s office, say, or stop practicing law altogether. Or simply to leave Boston – to remove himself from Harold Braxton’s murderous path. Every life carries an allotment of what-ifs, but the questions become more fraught when a life ends badly. Of course, no one predicts a bloody death for himself. We all expect to die in bed. But a percentage of us will not; a percentage of us will die violently or too soon. Those people are traveling along their own chain of incident right now, ignorant, free to alter their fate if only they knew it. We are all blithe and unaware, as Danziger had been when he posed for this picture twelve years earlier, and some of us will die just as he did.
‘So what does SIU do now if it’s not an anti-narcotics unit anymore?’
‘Complex investigations. We still do narcotics stuff, but we handle other things too. White collar, public corruption, gang cases, cold cases. We also handle cases where BPD has a conflict of interest.’
‘I thought cops were supposed to have a conflict of interest with bad guys.’
‘I mean where the cops are the bad guys.’
‘Oh.’
Caroline straightened the photo on the wall.
‘What about Danziger?’ I said. ‘What kind of cases did he do?’
‘A little bit of everything. When you’re in a unit this small, that’s how it works; everybody does everything. Bobby coordinated all the anti-gang stuff, but he took other cases too.’
She led me to a conference room next door to Danziger’s office. Manila folders and cardboard boxes were stacked along a wall. The waist-high pile of papers stretched six or eight feet across. ‘These are Bobby’s files, everything he was working on when he died. If Braxton had a reason to kill him, there ought to be something relevant in here . . . somewhere. It’s kind of a needle in a haystack.’
‘That’s not a haystack,’ I sighed, ‘it’s a farm.’
‘Well then, you should feel right at home.’ She smirked.
‘I’m from Maine, not Kansas.’
‘Whatever.’
I spent the rest of the afternoon in that conference room, sifting through Danziger’s case files. It made lurid reading. There were a dozen or so files involving police corruption of one kind or another – a cop charged with extorting blow jobs from prostitutes in the Combat Zone (the report quoted him, Don’t you say no, don’t you say no to me); a half dozen narcotics detectives who helped themselves to $30,000 from a stashpad in Mattapan; an evidence officer who got hooked on the cocaine that passed under his nose every day on its way to the evidence locker; another group of narcotics detectives who beat up an African-American drug dealer, only to find the dealer was actually an undercover Boston police officer (I’m a cop! I’m a cop! Look at my badge!). Among the crooked-cop files, there was one that stood out, not because it was so serious but because it was so trivial. Commonwealth v. Julio Vega was a perjury case in which the defendant pleaded guilty and accepted a year probation. The case had been closed five years earlier, in 1992, and the file jacket was empty. Why would Danziger still be monitoring a case so petty, years after it had been closed? I set the empty file folder aside.
The bulk of Danziger’s case load was in anti-gang prosecutions. So I began looking for defendants I recognized as members of Braxton’s gang: Gerald McNeese, June Veris, Braxton himself. The cases ranged from ordinary drug pinches to more chilling crimes. June Veris, the guy I’d seen dealing in Echo Park the day before, emerged as a particularly sinister character. In one incident, Veris had used a chunk of concrete to crush the hands of a member of the Mara Trucha, a Salvadoran gang. Both hands were reduced to a mash; all the tiny bones were shattered. The attack was payback for Mara Trucha’s selling rock in Echo Park, clearly Mission Posse territory. Veris was never prosecuted, because there were no witnesses, including, miraculously, the man whose hands were flattened. That pattern – an outrageous crime followed by an acquittal or even an outright dismissal of charges – was repeated over and over again. Whatever mayhem the Posse was responsible for, so long as they confined their activities to Mission Flats, charges were rarely filed. Witnesses who lived there simply refused to testify.
As the hours passed, my sense of outrage over the goings-on in Mission Flats began to wane. It became easier to blame the victims who would not come forward to testify. How could Danziger or anyone else help them if they would not help themselves? To judge by these documents, Braxton’s name rarely appeared in the files. Danziger had no open cases pending against him and none in the offing.
By two o’clock, my eyes were fogged over. Caroline came by to check on me and deliver a can of Coke.
‘You read enough police reports yet, Ben?’
‘Let me ask you something: Where do cops learn to talk this way? I alighted from my vehicle. Who the hell alights from a vehicle? Why can’t they just say they got out of the car?’
‘It’s cop-speak. All police reports sound like that.’
‘Mine don’t. My reports are beautiful.’
‘Chief Truman, you sound like a crotchety old Down-easter.’
‘I’m no Down-easter. Just crotchety’
She smiled, though it appeared to be against her better judgment.
‘Who’s this Julio Vega? There’s a file here with nothing in it.’
‘Julio Vega? Come here, I’ll show you.’
I narrated in cop-speak: ‘The law-enforcement personnel alighted from their chairs and initiated foot traffic to the office of the victim.’
‘Enough,’ Caroline called over her shoulder.
‘Sorry. It’s catchy once you get started.’
In Danziger’s office, she stood before the photo of the Special Investigations Unit circa 1985 and pointed to a handsome Hispanic man sitting in the front row, right next to Gittens. ‘That’s Julio Vega.’
‘He was a cop?’
‘He was in Narcotics in Area A-3, which is basically the Flats.’
‘Why did Danziger have a file on him?’
Her finger moved from Vega to Trudell, the red-bearded giant who had his arm draped over Danziger’s shoulder. ‘Vega and Artie Trudell were partners. Vega was standing right next to Trudell when Trudell got shot.’
‘Shot by Braxton.’
‘Right. Vega saw his partner get killed. It was a terrible case.’
‘What does that have to do with a perjury file on Vega?’
‘It’s a very long story.’
‘I’ve got time.’
‘It’s a big file, I’m warning you.’
‘How big could it be?’
Caroline’s mouth turned up in a smile. She looked like a cat who has just noticed the canary’s cage is open. She went to a cabinet and began unloading boxes, folders, transcripts, notebooks. We lugged the papers to the conference room, where they swamped the surface of the table.
‘I thought you said it was big,’ I cracked.
She left me there with the file on Artie Trudell’s murder, a case that had been closed nearly a decade. Why Danziger had kept all these materials – other than his friendship with the victim – I did not know. But I quickly fell to the task of sifting them and, out of old habit, trying to see the events in real time. To be there. I’d done s
imilar reconstructions before, as a would-be historian, before my life was interrupted – before my mother’s illness mooted all my own plans for the future. This was the essence of historiography, piecing together a moment in time from primary sources. I had done it a hundred times. When I was in school, it had all seemed like a very romantic adventure: I was a time traveler, riding the matrix of time and place. Poring over the ten-year-old file on Artie Trudell’s murder, that adolescent, almost physical sense of transport did not return, but some of the old pleasure did. For the next few hours I was lost in the events of a decade earlier. There was even a little flush of confidence about my abilities as a policeman, for what is a detective but a species of historian?
17
From the prosecutor’s file in the case of Commonwealth v. Harold Braxton (1987).
Transcription of Turret Tape, Area A-3 Station, August 17, 1987, 0230 hrs.
Unit 657 (Det. Julio Vega): I need an ambulance!
Turret: Identify yourself.
Vega: Bravo six-five-seven! Get an ambulance up here! It’s Artie! I need an ambulance right now! An ambulance!
Turret: Five-seven, I need your location.
Vega: Jesus, he’s dying! Artie!
Turret: Bravo six-five-seven, I need your location. Clear the air, please. Five-seven?
Vega: Fifty-two Vienna Road, five-two Vienna, third floor.
Turret: Acknowledge, five-seven. I need an ambulance, code seven, at five-two Vienna Road. All units, there is an officer down.
Unit 106: One-oh-six, adam-robert.
Turret: Alright, one-six.
No ID: We’re heading in there.
Unit 104: Four’s on the way.
Turret: One-oh-seven and one-oh-one, where are they? Acknowledge.
Unit 107: Bravo one-oh-seven. We’re on Mission Ave. We’re on the way. Adam-robert.
Turret: One-oh-seven, adam-robert. All units, five-two Vienna, third floor. Officer down. Hang on, Julio, the cavalry’s coming.
Unit YC8 (Det. Sgt. Martin Gittens): Yankee C-eight. Take me off at five-two Vienna. Charlie-robert.
Turret: Yankee C-eight, repeat, sir. Did you say you’re there?
Gittens: I’m here. I have the five car here with me too. I’m going in.
Turret: Detective Gittens, wait for arriving units, sir.
Gittens: [unintelligible shouting]
Turret: C-eight, I said wait for arriving units. Acknowledge, C-eight?
Gittens: No time. Tell Julio we’re coming up.
Turret: Gittens, wait. Gittens, go to channel seven, please.
Vega: Where’s that fucking ambulance!
Turret: Hang on, five-seven.
Memorandum Dated August 17, 1987.
To: Andrew Lowery District Attorney
From: Francis X. Boyle, Assistant District Attorney, Chief of Homicide Division
Re: Homicide of Arthur M. Trudell, #101, Preliminary Report
At 3:00 A.M. this date I was notified by the turret of a shooting at 52 Vienna Road in Mission Flats. I responded to the scene, arriving at approx. 3:30 . . . Numerous officers report shooter escaped through back stairway and has not been found. No I.D. or description of shooter available. Shooter was not seen because door remained closed . . . Det. Julio Vega of A-3 Narcotics stated he cradled victim’s head ‘to hold it together.’ Vega’s arms were covered in blood. He appeared to have dipped his arms up to the elbows in red paint. Vega was distraught and refused to clean his arms . . . Det. M. Gittens states he found a Mossberg 500 12-gauge shotgun in back stairwell of 52 Vienna Rd and no other guns in building after thorough search of all hallways, stairwells, and apartments. Gun sent for I.D. and ballistics.
Transcript of Probable-Cause Hearing in Mission Flats District Court, September 3, 1987.
Cross-Examination of Det. Julio Vega by Attorney Maxwell Beck.
Mr Beck: Detective Vega, what was your purpose in raiding the apartment at 52 Vienna Road, the so-called ‘red door’ apartment?
Det. Vega: My purpose? It was known to be part of a drug operation.
Mr Beck: Known by whom?
Det. Vega: It was common knowledge on the street.
Mr Beck: Yes, but how did you confirm it?
Det. Vega: I investigated, with Detective Trudell. We personally made two undercover buys there. Plus we had received information from a confidential and reliable informant.
Mr Beck: A tip.
Det. Vega: Yes.
Mr Beck: Now, this ‘confidential and reliable informant’ – when you applied for the search warrant, you did not identify this person for the judge.
Det. Vega: As I have the right to do. If I’d named him, your client would have killed him.
Judge: Detective Vega, please just answer the question.
Det. Vega: Sorry.
Mr Beck: Detective, in your affidavit, you did not reveal your informant’s name, did you?
Det. Vega: For the witness’s protection, I did not use his real name, no.
Mr Beck: Instead, you referred to him by a pseudonym, ‘Raul,’ is that right?
Det. Vega: Yes.
Mr Beck: And of course you know who ‘Raul’ is?
Det. Vega: Of course.
Mr Beck: So if you had to find him again, you could.
Det. Vega: Yes.
Mr Beck: And ‘Raul’ – whoever that is – gave you this case, didn’t he? He handed it to you on a silver platter.
Det. Vega: I don’t know about a silver platter. He gave us a heads-up about the apartment; he said Braxton was dealing out of there.
Mr Beck: And the judge took you at your word. The judge believed what ‘Raul’ told you, and he gave you the warrant, isn’t that right?
Det. Vega: That’s right.
Mr Beck: Now, after Detective Trudell was shot, you went in and searched the apartment, didn’t you? Det. Vega: Yes. Mr Beck: But you didn’t get a new warrant for that search, did you?
Det. Vega: We already had a warrant.
Mr Beck: The one that relied on the tip from ‘Raul.’
Det. Vega: Exactly.
Mr Beck: So if that warrant is thrown out, then everything you found in the apartment – the gun, a sweatshirt – has to be thrown out too?
Det. Vega: That’s for you lawyers to decide, not me.
Mr Beck: Well, then, let me put it in terms a non-lawyer can understand. If ‘Raul’ doesn’t exist—
Det. Vega: What do you mean ‘if he doesn’t exist’?
Mr Beck: If ‘Raul’ doesn’t exist, then the entire case against Mr Braxton has to be thrown out. Doesn’t that sound right?
Det. Vega: [No response.]
Mr Beck: Detective, do you want to tell us who ‘Raul’ was?
DA: Objection! The informant’s identity is privileged information necessary to protect the safety of the witness and other police-informant relation—
Mr Beck: Detective, who was ‘Raul’?
DA: Objection!
Judge: Yes, that’s enough, Mr Beck.
Grand Jury Minutes, September 21, 1987.
Direct Examination of Detective Sergeant Martin Gittens by Assistant DA Francis X. Boyle.
ADA Boyle: Detective, are you familiar with an apartment on the third floor of the Vienna Road address?
Det. Gittens: Yes, I am. It is a stashpad used by a gang called the Mission Posse.
ADA Boyle: Would you explain to the grand jury what a ‘stashpad’ is?
Det. Gittens: A stashpad is an apartment where drugs and money are kept to be used for restocking the street-corner dealers. To minimize risk, the managers only give the sliders – that’s the dealers – a little bit at a time, usually one bundle. A bundle is one hundred vials. They come wrapped in a long piece of tape, and the sliders peel off the vials one by one as they sell them. In this case, they were selling drugs directly from the apartment as well.
ADA Boyle: What else can you tell the grand jury about that apartment?
Det. Gittens: The apartment is known on the stree
t by its bright red door. Junkies sometimes refer to the crack sold there as ‘red door’ cocaine. The color is significant for two reasons. First, in this neighborhood red is recognized as the color of the Mission Posse. Only Posse members wear it, often with a red bandanna hanging from a pocket or worn as a belt. The use of red on the door is also significant because the crack sold by the Posse comes in vials with a red plastic top. That brand has the street name ‘red top.’ You hear kids talk about a ‘bottle of red top.’
ADA Boyle: And the red-top vial is recognized as the Mission Posse’s packaging for crack?
Det. Gittens: In this area of the city, yes.
ADA Boyle: Now, Detective Gittens, you personally responded to the scene on the night of the shooting, correct?
Det. Gittens: Correct.
ADA Boyle: Did you find any weapons there?
Det. Gittens: Yes, in the back stairwell I found a Mossberg shotgun. I submitted the gun for forensic analysis. Ballistics was able to confirm that the shotgun was the murder weapon. I.D. also was able to identify Harold Braxton’s fingerprints on the gun in four different places. I also found a hooded sweatshirt of Harold Braxton’s in the apartment. I recognized it as his by a distinctive rip and a logo for St John’s University.
ADA Boyle: Was the shotgun tied to Harold Braxton in any other way?
Det. Gittens: Yes, we later spoke to a witness who admitted selling it to Braxton several months before. The witness claimed he’d brought the gun up from Virginia.
ADA Boyle: Detective, based on all this evidence, do you have an opinion as to what happened at 52 Vienna Road last August 17?
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