True to the Game II
Page 17
Dickie Davis shook his head. “None, sir.”
“Why in the hell did you two try to play Starsky and Hutch, and go at it alone?” the captain asked angrily. “Why didn’t you go through the proper channels, and set up a proper operation, so that you could have enough officers to back you up? What, do you two think that you’re Don Johnson and Phillip Michael Thomas now?”
“We were under time constraints, sir,” Detective Ellington told him.
“Bullshit!” Captain Holiday told them. “This had the makings of a long-term operation. You just told me you wanted to roll up the entire organization, Sergeant!”
“Yes, but the window for meeting with the girlfriend and obtaining this information was narrowing, sir,” Davis added. “We used the CI’s arrest as an excuse for the meeting. He was asking her for money, and talking to her about moving on after the death of her husband, and trying to gain her sympathy and trust, sir.”
Captain Holiday shook his head. “I’m too old a cat to be fooled by a bunch of kittens; this thing stinks. The whole damn thing stinks to high heaven. Let me tell you all something, and listen up real good. I’ve got a pissed-off mayor, a super-hot city councilman, and a furious chief chewing on my ass. I’ve got Internal Affairs looking into this whole incident. One thing looks suspect, and I’m collecting your badges, and having all of your asses thrown in jail. Is that clear?”
Detective Ratzinger, Detective Davis, and Sergeant Ellington all nodded.
“If the press gets wind that this was a police operation, and that this guy was killed while working undercover for the department, your careers are effectively over,” Captain Holiday told them. “And I’m going to hand them your asses. And they are going to crucify you. Or what’s left of you, because the department is going to run for cover, and let them know that this was an unauthorized operation.”
Captain Holiday leaned back in his chair and examined the three officers standing before him. Something was fishy. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the whole damn affair stank. He blew a giant circle of cigar smoke into the air toward them and frowned.
“Get the hell out of my office,” Holiday told them.
THE VERDICT’S OUT
Jerrell wrapped his arms around Gena and pulled her close. She rested her head against his shoulders and closed her eyes. The wind blowing on her face felt good to her. It felt relaxing, purifying almost. She was happier than she had been in a long time. She had her a good man, a new apartment, two cars, plenty of money, and a baby on the way. Life couldn’t have been better for her.
Jerrell turned her face toward his and kissed her deeply, passionately. She felt his kiss work its way from her lips through her body, and all the way down to her toes. She became lost in it.
The park was empty today, with one or two others milling about. Most of the usual parkgoers were at work at this time. So they pretty much had the park and all its greenery to themselves. It was the benefit of not having a regular nine to five. They were free to do as they pleased, whenever they pleased.
“Want some more cake?” Gena asked.
Jerrell waved his hand, turning down her offer. “No thanks, baby. I’m pretty full.”
“What?” Gena asked with a smile. “You didn’t like my cake? I made it just for you.”
“No, I loved it,” Jerrell told her. “I loved the whole meal, baby. I ate like a pig, don’t you think?”
Gena’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-hun.”
“What? Are you trying to get me fat or something?” Jerrell asked playfully. “What are you going to do when I try to climb on top of you all fat and greasy and stuff? Are you still going to give me some loving?”
Jerrell tickled her side, and Gena tried to knock his hands away.
“Are you still going to let me work that thang?” he asked, while still tickling her.
“Maybe,” Gena said, laughing and fighting his hands away.
Gena grabbed a slice of cake and smeared it onto Jerrell’s lips. She leaped up from the picnic blanket on which they were lying and took off into the park. Jerrell leaped to his feet and chased her.
Gena cut through the playground area and stopped just on the other side of a large, colorful slide. Jerrell chased after her, and she quickly raced to the other side of the slide.
“You aren’t going to catch me,” Gena told him.
“That’s only because you got me full,” Jerrell told her, while breathing heavily. “I have another idea.”
“And what’s that?” she asked.
Jerrell turned and raced back toward their picnic basket. On the way he turned and shouted in her direction. “I’m going to drink up all of the Moët!”
Gena took off running toward the picnic basket. She arrived just after he did and dove on top of him. Jerrell dropped the bottle and grabbed her. Together they rolled around on the blanket until he found himself on top of her, staring into her eyes. Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed her passionately.
It was as if they were kissing for the first time, Gena felt. She had become turned out on him more than anything else. His sex was good, real good, and like a magnet. She kept wanting more and more of him, all of him that she could get. And it wasn’t just the sex that she was falling for; he was a protector. He had vowed to protect her and kept telling her he would keep her safe and he’d never let anyone cause her any harm. She loved hearing how she’d be protected, and more than just being lost in his arms, she found herself lost in him. She couldn’t believe that she could feel this way again, but in a way, she had a deep, caring love for Jerrell. It wasn’t driven by passion, but it was driven by a yearning to just be loved.
She could definitely see herself spending the rest of her life with this man. She could definitely see herself waking up in his arms, cooking his meals, and having his children. For the first time in a long time, she could honestly say that she was genuinely happy.
United States District Attorney Paul Perachetti strolled into the room wearing one of his usual three-thousand-dollar Armani suits. He looked the part of a district attorney. He was tanned and toned, with graying sideburns and an always fresh haircut. He looked more like an expensive Mafia lawyer than a district attorney. His Rolex watches, dark Italian suits, and the Cadillac Seville that he drove certainly made it seem as though he were mob-affiliated, not to mention the fact that he was Sicilian through and through.
The gathered officers, detectives, and agents all spoke in hushed whispers, wondering why they had been summoned to the federal building today. Many guessed that it was another major operation that the Feds wanted them to take part in. The fact that there were several assistant United States district attorneys whispering in the ear of the district attorney made them all nervous. And the fact that there was a United States district judge and a United States magistrate in on the whispering made the entire affair seem even more ominous. Even the FBI agents were nervous.
“What do you think it is?” Detective Davis asked his partner.
Letoya shook her head. “I don’t know. Whatever it is, it can’t be good.”
“All these damn Feds in one room makes me nervous,” Dickie said.
“We’re all law enforcement officers,” Detective Ellington told him. “Besides, the Feds look like they are nervous too.”
There were about fifteen United States marshals inside the room already when another fifteen to twenty walked into the room and stood at the rear, as if they were guarding the door.
“What the fuck’s going on in here, Sergeant?” DEA agent Stacey Wynn asked Letoya.
She shook her head. “Hell, you’re a Fed, you should know more about this than I do.”
Up front, the district attorney finished speaking with one of the deputy district attorneys, the federal district court judge, and the federal district court magistrate. There were lots of whispers and nods exchanged. The district attorney turned toward the room full of law enforcement officers and cleared his throat. Instantly, the room grew deathly silent.
“Gentlemen, and ladies, as most of you know, my name is Paul Perachetti, and I am the United States district attorney for this district. I know some of you, and some of you I’ve seen your face a time or two, but haven’t had the pleasure of getting to know you. I asked you all to come here today so that I can look you in the eye and give you my deepest and most sincere apology, and express to each of you my personal regret.”
Murmurs echoed throughout the room, as the gathered law enforcement personnel wondered what the district attorney was talking about.
“Recently, we conducted a multiagency operation in this city that resulted in numerous arrests,” Paul Perachetti continued. “We seized hundreds of weapons, millions of dollars in vehicles, jewelry, and other personal property, and were able to remove hundreds of drug dealers from the street.”
The gathered law enforcement agents broke into applause.
Perachetti held up his hand to silence them. “During the course of this event, we gathered numerous pieces of evidence, the primary evidence being electronic pin gathering, telephone monitoring, video surveillance, and wire recordings gathered by a confidential informant. This evidence was in the hands of a federal agency and has unfortunately been mishandled. I apologize to all of you who worked so hard and made so many sacrifices to gather this evidence. I take full responsibility for everything that has happened, as I should have shown more diligence in safeguarding this material, instead of delegating that duty. I am the United States district attorney, and the buck stops here. So I want to personally apologize to all of you.”
Agent Wynn raised his hand.
Paul Perachetti pointed toward him. “Yes, Agent Wynn?”
“What are you saying?” Agent Wynn asked. “Are you saying that all of the electronic surveillance evidence is missing? Is it lost, misplaced, or what?”
Paul Perachetti cleared his throat. “What I am saying is that the evidence was mishandled, and that all of the recordings have been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” another agent asked.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know all of you, and I regret that fact,” Perachetti told them. “So, I would ask everyone to state their names and the agency they work for, when they ask a question. That way I know who I’m talking to, and I can get to learn your name, and be able to put a face with your name in the future.”
“Matthew Sauls, FBI,” the agent stated. “So, when you say destroyed, do you mean literally destroyed, like it’s been smashed or something?”
“Good question,” Perachetti told him. “When I say destroyed, I mean that the evidence is no longer usable. The disks have been somehow magnetically wiped clean.”
Letoya lifted her hand.
“Yes?” Perachetti asked, pointing to her.
“Sergeant Letoya Ellington, Philadelphia Narcotics Division,” she told him. “Wiped clean? All of them? And how did this happen?”
“The disks were stored in a metal cool storage unit, and on the other side of the room, Federal Security Police were using a large X-ray-screening device for security purposes,” Perachetti explained. “Apparently, the device emitted some sort of magnetic current that found its way into the metal storage container in the next room and cleared all of the disks. That’s all I know.”
Another agent raised his hand.
“Yes?” Perachetti asked, calling on the gentleman.
“Anthony Hopkins, Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. Sir, how the hell did this happen?”
The United States marshals in the rear of the room stirred uneasily. That was when Sergeant Ellington realized why they were there. They were there for the protection of the district attorney.
“No one ever thought that the placement of this new cool storage locker would be affected by the magnetic radiation being emitted by the scanning device on the other side of the wall,” Perachetti explained. “This is a new storage device, just purchased and installed by DEA, and this had never happened before. It was just one of those things that no one could have foreseen.”
“Sir, what does all of this mean?”
“I’m sorry,” Perachetti told him. “Your name and agency, please?”
“Oh, sorry,” the agent said sheepishly. “Cody Coil, DEA. Sir, what does all of this mean in layman’s terms?”
“It means that we have lost all of our evidence,” Perachetti said matter-of-factly.
“Agent Nick Best, FBI, sir. Have we tried some deep data recovery on the disks, sir?”
Perachetti nodded. “The disks were sent over to NSA, so that their technicians could work some of their magic on them. NSA couldn’t get it done. They recommended the Navy’s cryptologist, so we sent the disks over to the Navy. They couldn’t recover any data, so we sent them over to NASA, and still no luck. We have pretty much exhausted all resources. We even had a guy over at CIA write a special recovery program, and that fell through. The data is irrecoverable.”
“Joseph Cannon, FBI, sir. So what does all of this mean?”
“I’m glad you asked that question, Agent Cannon,” Perachetti told him. “The bottom line is, we have no evidence to try the accused with.”
Murmurs shot through the room.
“Sir, Nick Best again. Are you saying that they are going to walk?”
Agent Cannon raised his hand.
Perachetti called on him.
“Sir, we still have the confidential informant,” Agent Cannon said. “His testimony before the jury, as well as any new evidence that he could gather from new communications intercepts . . .”
Perachetti looked down and shook his head. “Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the confidential informant that was utilized to gather most of the evidence in this case was killed a few nights ago, in what appeared to be a random homicide.”
“This is bullshit!” Agent Anthony Hopkins shouted. “We busted our asses, risked our lives, and now you are telling us that these scumbags are going to walk!”
“Gentlemen, you all have my sincerest apologies,” Perachetti told them. “I know the amount of energy, the amount of sacrifice, and the dedication that you all put in to the case. I want to assure you that my office will do all that it can to salvage this case. I just wanted to let you know where we stood, and to apologize to you personally.”
“Fucking DEA!” several agents shouted anonymously.
“Hey, fuck you!” a DEA agent shouted.
“Gentlemen, please!” the judge shouted. He had heard enough. He had an evidence hearing coming up, and he knew that many of the defendants’ attorneys would be pressing him to proceed, and pressuring the district attorney’s office to share the evidence that they had against their clients. Pages and pages of blank transcripts would not do the trick. He faced the unpleasant prospect of having to rule in the defendants’ favor, based on the lack of evidence. He would have to kick all of them back out onto the streets.
A dead confidential informant, the judge thought. How convenient. How fucking convenient. He wondered if the officers and attorneys working this case could screw things up any worse than they already had. Cluster fuck was the term that entered into his mind.
YOU LOSE TO WIN
Gena was seated on the floor of her new apartment, pulling out the home décor accessories that she had purchased from Neiman Marcus, Crate and Barrel, and Fortunoff’s. Packaging paper that had been used to wrap the various porcelain, crystal, and ceramic items was scattered throughout her living room. She couldn’t believe that she was finally at this point in her life.
Markita stepped over several of the valuable items as she made her way into Gena’s kitchen for another glass of soda. Tracey was seated at the glass breakfast table unwrapping more of Gena’s little odds and ends and wiping them clean with a slightly damp cloth.
“Girl, you want something to drink?” Markita asked, holding up a bottle of Sprite.
“My doctor said sodas are the worst. Dr. Amerson said to only drink water,” Gena told her.
“What about juice?” asked Tracey.
“Oh, Lord, here we go and you ain’t even out the first trimester yet. I can see this gonna be a long nine months. I’ll just be glad when my little godbaby gets here,” Markita told her.
“Our little goddaughter!” Tracey corrected her.
“What makes you so sure that it’s going to be a girl?” Gena asked.
“How did he have your legs up when you got pregnant? That will tell you right there,” Markita said in all seriousness.
Gena and Tracey broke into laughter.
“What the fuck are you talking about now?” Gena asked.
“Girl, if the nigga had ya legs straight up in the air and he was digging up in that shit deeper than a muthafucka, then it’s a girl,” Markita explained. “If you was riding him or if he had you doggie style when he nutted, then, it’s a boy.”
“How in the fuck do you figure that?” Tracey shouted. She and Gena were laughing their asses off.
“Kita, where do you get this shit from?” Gena asked.
Markita nodded. “All right, just watch, you’ll see. Y’all ho’s think that Markita don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, but I do, and when I try to tell you something you don’t wanna listen.”
“Whatever,” joked Tracey.
“Look, Gena, do you want some juice or what?”
“Yeah, dag!” Gena told her.
Markita grabbed a glass from the counter and poured Gena some orange juice. She placed the OJ container back inside the refrigerator and then turned toward Tracey. “Do you want something to drink while I’m over here?”
Still laughing, Tracey shook her head. “No, I’m good.”
“Y’all ho’s gonna learn to pay attention when I’m trying to tell y’all something,” she told them both, pointing her finger at them, while taking the glass of orange juice to Gena.
Gena and Tracey continued laughing. Finally, Gena held her arms out toward Markita.