A Sense of Justice

by Jack Davis

  But by far the most important feature of the property had nothing to do with the house itself—it was the Honda Civic parked in front.

  The two started planning in earnest. Not counting the eight first-floor windows they could see, there were three ways in or out: the front door, one in the back (assumed), and one on the side leading to the driveway and a detached, one-car garage. The grey cement walkway ran from the sidewalk to the main entrance. There was a screen door and what looked like an aluminum security door—not ideal for a fast entry. Both men knew it would be tough to get to the front door quickly without being seen from the front picture window; the side door was better tactically. Sitting in the car a block and a half away, they developed the raid plan. Complete, they called Kensington.

  “PJ, are these two Marine Corps recruiting posters standing outside my office yours?”

  Morley smiled at AUSA Chris Carpenter’s question. “Yeah, why?”

  “So, you approved the paperwork they put on my desk?”

  Morley’s smile receded. “No, Chris. I’m out of the office right now, I think it was approved by ASAIC Kensington. Is there a problem?”

  “PJ, you’ve never tried to slide anything past my office in the past, but thisss, ah, this paperwork. It’s shaky.

  “They claim to have seen the suspect,” there was a pause and the sound of papers shifting, “Anthony Chin-Lake moving boxes from his car into the house.”

  Morley cringed, knowing how convenient it sounded. The agents just happened to witness an act that could allow them to get a search warrant for the car and also the house.

  “Chris, if that’s what they’re saying and are swearing to, I can’t, ah, I—”

  “PJ, I’m not asking you to, but you need to know that if this goes to court, these two are gonna be grilled. A defense attorney will have a field day. Whatever you get in the house could be thrown out. Don’t you wanna wait and get more evidence and tighten this up?”

  “This isn’t gonna go to court. From what I know, the suspect is eighteen, he’s not a gangbanger. He’s not familiar with the system; he’s gonna shit himself when we pick him up. He’ll accept a plea deal, give us his source, and be put in some type of pretrial diversion.”

  “You sure you wanna take that chance?”

  “I don’t wanna put you in a bind, Chris, but I’d like to move forward on this one the way it is. I’ll personally see to it that nothing gets screwed up. I’ll be there for the raid.”

  There was a long pause. “Okay, I’ll push the paperwork through. I want you on-site when this goes down.”

  “I’ll be there. I’ll give you an update as soon as practical after we secure the place.”

  “Thanks, happy hunting.”

  Sean’s eyes brightened as PJ approached. “Did ya see me kick the ball out of our end that time.”

  “Yeah, you gave it a good boot. Is the coach gonna put you back in for the second half?” asked PJ, hoping the answer would be no.

  “Yeah, Carl has an upset stomach, so I’ll get to play the second half.” Sean beamed with excitement.

  “That’s great buddy. You gonna protect your goalie?”

  “Sure am, nothin’s gonna get past me.”

  “Okay, but if it does, remember what we talked about—don’t pout or hesitate, just get back in the play. You’re fast, you can catch ’em.”

  “I’m superfast,” said Sean as he began to run in place.

  “Yes you are.” PJ hesitated; his next sentence caught in his throat. “Buddy, something big has come up at work. I’ve gotta go back to the office.”

  Sean’s shoulders slumped and his chin hit his chest.

  PJ lifted Sean’s chin to try and look in his eyes. He felt tears on his fingers. “Buddy, I wouldn’t go if it weren’t really important. It’s a very important case. I’m sorry.” PJ’s eyes started to water, then he had an idea. “Hey, how about if I have Mom-mom tape the rest of the game and tomorrow when I get home we’ll go over every minute of it. We’ll have popcorn and look at everything you did,” PJ smiled, “good and bad.” How’s that sound?”

  A smile returned to Sean’s face. “There won’t be any bad stuff.”

  “We’ll see,” PJ said in a challenging voice.

  “There won’t.”

  Unlike earlier in the day when the situation was reversed, Morley knew exactly where Tommy Brown would be when he called him at 1755 hours. If Brown didn’t have something he had to stay in the office for, he would conveniently schedule phantom meetings with officials from other agencies in the late afternoon. Everyone knew he was leaving early to avoid the traffic. Mostly no one cared, but to Morley it was one more sleazy aspect of his boss to add to the pile. Morley saw leadership as a solemn duty, and anyone who abused authority wasn’t deserving of respect.

  “Tommy, you in the office?” Morley already knew the answer.

  “No, why? What do you need?”

  “Something’s come up over in Queens. We’ve got a search warrant to execute by twenty-one hundred.”

  “I’m heading to a DHS meeting in Midtown,” said Brown. Then after a pause, “It’s after five, you think we can make the time deadline, or should we wait and hit the place tomorrow?”

  Morley could tell his boss knew he should at least be in the office when his people were executing a warrant, if not on the street with them. He also knew Brown was on the other side of the Holland Tunnel and didn’t want to have to come back. He decided to play with him.

  “Judge says it should be done tonight, if possible. You want to come out with us or monitor from the office?”

  “Do you really think you can get everything in place to do it safely this late? I’m just worried something will get missed if we try and rush it and someone will get hurt. Go back to the judge and see if we can execute tomorrow.”

  “We’ve got everything in place already, Tommy. The teams will be at the rally point by eighteen hundred. Will your meeting be over by then?” Morley pictured a flustered Brown pulled over on the Jersey Turnpike not knowing if he was going to have to go back to the office.

  “Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier? Something like this needs to be approved by me before it goes to the US Attorney,” Brown said testily.

  “It came up late in the afternoon and…I couldn’t find you.” Morley thought the last part was a nice touch. Then he decided to let Brown off the hook, since he didn’t want the lazy oaf there anyway.

  “Why don’t we do this, I’ve seen Kensington around. I’ll see if she can take over here in the office as the field office sup. You go to your meeting and when you’re done, give her a call and she can bring you up to speed.”

  “That’s reasonable. I don’t want to have to cancel this meeting.” Then after pausing, “I’ll do that. Make sure Mallory calls me to let me know she can take it—and thank her for me.”

  Morley had long since stopped being surprised by the laziness of his boss. He hung up Kensington’s desk phone and smiled at her. “What’d I tell you?”

  Kensington shook her head in disgust. “So what’s your plan?”

  24 | Search Warrant

  Brooklyn, New York, 09/25/09, 2100 hours

  By the time Morley had completed the preliminaries, it was closing in on 2100 hours. The judge, who had grudgingly signed the search warrant, warned Kruzerski and Murray that the raid had to be conducted by nine or they would have to do it the following morning after six.

  Morley had always thought it odd that the judge didn’t have a problem authorizing armed men to ransack a house in the process of executing the warrant, but drew the line at disrupting the suspect’s sleep pattern by raiding in the middle of the night. He’d given up thinking about the incongruity of that aspect of federal rules while he tried to get the raid squared away. He reviewed the floor plan for the house, met the local NYPD counterparts, and provided assignments; all before the witching hour.

  At 2047 hours the undercover van carrying the entry team, side-door agape, skidd
ed to a halt in the Chin-Lake driveway.

  Morley was the first out. He carried an H&K MP-5 sub-machine gun, wore a load-bearing vest emblazoned with POLICE and SECRET SERVICE in large bright yellow letters. This was over body armor with shock plates. He was followed by Kruzerski, also with an MP-5; Murray, his MP-5 slung to allow him to carry the battering ram; and Tate with a Remington 870 shotgun.

  The follow-up team, consisting of agents Hogan, Fatchko, and Pencala, took up positions covering the front of the house. Police covered the back and far side.

  In spite of the thirty-plus pounds of gear, the group reached the side door in seconds. Morley, keeping his rifle trained on the door, gave three quick kicks with the toe of his boot. The door shook at the same time his voice boomed, “POLICE WITH A SEARCH WARRANT, OPEN THE DOOR!”

  “One thousand one. One thousand two…” At five, Murray destroyed the door with one mighty heave of the twenty-five-pound ram.

  The door shattered. Murray stepped clear allowing the team—weapons in firing position—to move into the house and start the process of clearing the first room.

  The process was as smooth as any play in sports: a six-four-three double play in baseball, a pick-and-roll in basketball, or a screen-pass in football. All relied on teamwork, everyone knowing what they were doing, practice, and as important as anything else, trust in each other. The only difference was that in this play if someone screwed up, the consequences were much more dire.

  The principles behind CQB—close quarter battle—were generally the same whether in Baghdad or Brooklyn.

  Morley moved in through the threshold and went right; this started the whole procession. Kruzerski went left. Tate, the least experienced of the four in this procedure, came next and stepped right. Murray, sans battering ram, stepped to the left out of the doorway.

  Less than three seconds after entering the house, two gun barrels had covered every part of the room.

  The yells of “CLEAR!” echoed four times and the men moved quickly and efficiently to the other side of the kitchen, Morley’s weapon covering the opening as the others took up positions.

  The group had just stacked on the opposite wall when a pudgy, red-faced man in his early fifties came rushing into view in the next room. Looking back over his shoulder he yelled, “CALL 911, CALL 911,” as he came through the living room.

  The man was obviously shocked at the sight of the four heavily armed men as he moved into his kitchen. In one motion, Kruzerski released his slung MP-5 and grabbed the man with both hands. With more brute strength than technique, Kruzerski used his powerful legs and the unwitting accountant’s momentum to physically lift him off his feet and slam him onto the linoleum floor.

  Nathanial Lake, now struggling for breath after having the air knocked from his lungs, clearly had no idea what was happening to his world as he was flipped, and his hands were zip tied behind him.

  Meanwhile, back in the land of the cognizant, the others moved into the next room. It was here that they came up against what would amount to the most formidable opposition in the house: Ms. Sue Chin-Lake. She too was rushing toward the kitchen. Cell phone in hand, yelling at her unseen husband, “You call 911. You call 911!!!”

  When Sue entered the living room, she encountered Tate. The agent had POLICE in large letters emblazoned across the front of his vest and Secret Service stars at three places on his clothing. To top it all off, he was yelling, “POLICE, GET DOWN! POLICE, GET DOWN!”

  To PJ’s amazement the woman’s reaction was not to comply or stop and analyze the situation. Her reaction was to strike out at the large man in front of her with his shotgun pointed at her chest. Later she would claim she thought he was a “home invader.” Later still, when the idiocy of the first statement had sunk in, she altered it to, “home invaders dressed as police.”

  Morley could see that Tate was stunned at the woman’s lack of recognition of the situation’s seriousness. He saw confusion on his friend’s face knowing he couldn’t shoot the diminutive aggressor. Tate was actually struck twice on the shoulder before Morley intervened. The next second Sue crumpled to the ground, the victim of a well-placed kick to the sciatic nerve in the back of her leg. She dropped as if her limb had been severed.

  An uncharacteristically speechless, Ms. Chin-Lake was zip tied and handed off to the follow-up team as the entry team continued to clear the house.

  The most serious, and potentially deadly, portion of the raid took place in the upstairs bedroom belonging to fourteen-year-old Tran Chin-Lake, Anthony’s younger brother. The teen, who should have been studying for an upcoming calculus test, was in fact playing a video game.

  Tran, propped up in bed, a blanket over his legs, was furiously pressing buttons on his black Xbox controller with both hands. The volume on his headphones was all the way up to allow him to hear his online adversaries. He wasn’t worried about his parents knocking on his door to check on him.

  Tran was suddenly stunned as two large men burst into his room, pointing real weapons at him. Tran’s reaction was instinctive—he had been doing something he shouldn’t have, he tried to hide the evidence by putting the controller under the blanket. Not hearing the shouts of, “Show us your hands!” from the agents through the din of the game noises, Tran gripped the controller tightly in both hands under the blanket.

  Having seen a dark handgun-sized object in the Tran’s hands for a split second before it was moved out of sight, and the target’s refusal to obey clearly given commands, Kruzerski and Murray started to take up the slack on the triggers of their rifles. Both were transfixed on the area under the blanket where the potentially lethal object was; neither saw the target’s face.

  “Stand down! Stand down!” came the command from Morley, who had been third in the stack for this room.

  Weapon trained on the teen, Morley took charge of the situation. The young man’s eyes met his. He gestured with his off hand to remove the headphones. Once Tran could hear, Morley continued in a reassuring but forceful tone. “Slowly take your right hand out from under the covers.” When that was complete, “Now your left, slowly.”

  Tran did as Morley ordered and put his hands over his head. In seconds, he was whisked out of his bed and was on his stomach and cuffed. Confused, he was led downstairs and placed on the sofa with his dazed father and irate mother.

  Anthony’s room was no surprise to Morley. It reeked of pot and was somewhat a cross between middle-class Goth and a small Best Buy store. Boxes of computer equipment were not only piled up in the closet and under the bed, but also lined one wall.

  Morley’s initial estimate was that there was at least $40K worth of electronics in plain view. He would later find out from Tate that plain view didn’t fit into the vocabulary of the Chin-Lakes. They “were not allowed to enter their son’s room without his permission.” Ms. Chin-Lake had defiantly proclaimed that she wanted her children, “to have a sanctuary that was completely theirs, a place. where they can be themselves without fear of people intruding on them,” she glared at Tate before finishing her diatribe, “and judging them, a place of solitude and serenity. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

  Tate’s response was immediate. “Congratulations, you’ve raised a felon with a keen sense of himself and his personal space. Normally that would be a good thing, but it may make the transition to prison life more difficult.”

  Ms. Chin-Lake scowled as Tate added, “I hope his cellmate had the same upbringing. You might want to give his therapist a heads-up on that one before their first Plexiglas counseling session.”

  The amount of electronics in Anthony’s room was by no means the most that Morley or the others had seen, but all knew that even a completely oblivious parent would have noticed this amount of…stuff coming into their house. There was just so much of it, and it was too big and bulky not to notice, the boxes being extra-large to make room for padding and cushioning.

  Talking with Nathanial Lake confirmed what the agents already believed: li
ke almost every other juvenile suspect, Anthony didn’t have a real job. He worked part-time at a local computer store.

  “Miraculously, on a paycheck that probably averages less than seventy-five dollars a week, Anthony is able to purchase five thousand dollars’ worth of computer equipment and a hundred dollars of iTunes every month,” joked Tate.

  Like most parents of the juveniles the agents came across, the Chin-Lakes were so self-absorbed or uninvolved they didn’t notice their child’s extravagant lifestyle, or worse yet if they did, they didn’t question it.

  While more introspective individuals may have seen the current situation as a negative reflection on their parenting style, the Chin-Lakes hadn’t reached that point.

  Shortly after Sue Chin-Lake was unceremoniously seated on the couch next to her still stunned husband and sullen younger son, her natural indignation started to come out.

  The “I want” to see the search warrant, your names, badge numbers, your supervisors, etc., was shortly replaced by the same requests preceded by, “I demand.” When these didn’t have the desired results, they were quickly followed by the standard “Nazi Storm Trooper,” and “I’m gonna have all your jobs!”

  Sue’s outrage hit the boiling point as the search moved from the suspect’s room to other rooms in the house.

  “You can’t enter that room,” she protested as Tate walked toward the first-floor master bedroom.

  “Us Nazis, we’re just following orders, ma’am, and the warrant says we can.” Kruzerski laughed.

  Sue turned beet red. “Fuck you. Fuck all of you.” Then, turning toward her husband she demanded, “Are you going to let them violate our bedroom?”

  “This has gone too far. You have no right to search our bedroom,” said the hen-pecked husband as he stood. “Stop this insanity immediately.” Still cuffed behind his back and trying to negotiate around the coffee table, he stumbled forward into Kruzerski.