by Brad Parks
“Nah, we don’t write letters about You People anymore. We call in the National Guard and tell them you’ve just looted a liquor store.”
I was glad the waiting room was empty. Someone overhearing this conversation might take it just slightly the wrong way.
“Good point,” he said, returning to his usual voice. “Anyway, go on.”
“Okay, now let’s just say there was a circumstance where you needed someone in your neighborhood to cooperate with the police. What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t do nothing. Didn’t I tell you about the time-”
“Yes, but let’s not get into that,” I interrupted. Police were constantly harassing Tee on account of his fitting a certain profile. Tee kept his friends close and his lawyers closer.
“Let’s just say that despite your past experiences, you really needed someone to cooperate with the cops,” I continued. “How would you convince them?”
“I’m not sure you could. People hear you talk to the police around here, they start calling you a snitch and the word gets out. And you’re pretty much done, you know what I’m saying?”
“Okay, but let’s say you really, really needed someone to talk to the cops. Like, your life and livelihood were at stake. What would you do?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Money.”
“As in reward money?”
“Yeah. You got to make sure a brother gets paid,” Tee said. “When the police are coming with money, it ain’t just about what you can do for them no more. It’s about what they can do for you. As long as you’re ratting out someone who wasn’t no good anyway? If people hear you got paid, they okay with it. They figure you probably got some bills or you need it for, like, a family situation, you know what I’m saying?”
Reward money. Owen had mentioned it early on, and I had completely forgotten about it.
“What about with Hispanic people who might be concerned about their immigration status?” I asked.
“Money looks just as green to Spanish people as it do to everyone else,” Tee pointed out. “You just need to, you know, position it in the right way.”
“And how’s that?”
“Like it ain’t coming from someone like you. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“I’m not saying black folks and Spanish people get along great or nothing. But they see someone like me, they’re gonna know it ain’t no trick, you know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, yeah. So, uh, what are you up to this afternoon anyway?”
“I’m already grabbing my car keys,” he said. “Where are we going?”
I gave him the address on Ridge Avenue, then said, “But cool down for just a bit. I may need a little more time to round up all the necessary elements. Can you give me a half hour?”
“This ain’t one of those things where you really mean an hour, but you’re telling the black guy a half hour because you figure I’ll just be late anyway. Is it? Because I’m on to that trick.”
“No. A half hour. I mean it.”
“Okay,” he said. “See you then.”
* * *
My iPhone buzzed at me just as I hung up, telling me I had another e-mail from Lunky. But I didn’t have time just now to hear about why Nathan Zuckerman wasn’t really Philip Roth’s alter ego.
I had to assemble my team to approach the Alfaros. First, I rang Owen, asking him if he could quickly hustle some reward money from his bosses. He asked for fifteen minutes to get the proper approvals.
Then I called Tommy, giving him a brief rundown of all that had occurred-laying heavy on the part that Jackman would be in handcuffs by the end of the day-and telling him his translation skills were needed. I also told him if he helped me, I’d give him two tickets to a Broadway show of his choosing. I expected griping and moaning about being under orders from Jackman and all that. But he readily agreed. Tommy is a sucker for Broadway.
With my Alfaro Attack Team assembled, I turned my attention to the other critical piece: Jim McNabb. Judging that he had been allowed enough time to eat his share of potato salad and clear out from Nancy’s place, I called his cell phone. We exchanged greetings, and then I got to the point.
“Jim, you in a place where you can talk for a second or two?”
“Yeah, sure. I’m in the car. What’s up?”
“Well, I didn’t want to tell you about this at the funeral, but someone tried to have me run over last night.”
“Oh yeah? No kidding!” he said, sounding more excited than concerned.
I should not have been surprised this would have piqued Big Jimmy’s easily addled curiosity. So I gave him a full accounting of the previous evening, Nikki’s injuries, our trip to the hospital, and the visit from Detective Owen Smiley.
“So the cops are in on it, huh?” McNabb said, when I was through.
“They are now, yeah.”
“And that girl said it was a Cadillac Escalade?”
“Fancy killer, huh?”
“Yeah, real high class, this guy,” he chortled. “So what are the cops going to do?”
“I think they’re getting ready to make some arrests,” I said. “And it’s not just Jackman. There might be another guy involved. It looks like they both might have had a reason to want Nancy eliminated.”
“Yeah? Really? Who’s the other guy?”
“Gus Papadopolous. He owns a diner in Bloomfield. Ever heard of him?”
“No. How did he help Jackman?”
“I don’t know. It just seems like Jackman didn’t act alone, and I think Papadopolous might be the XFactor.”
I had reached my Malibu, still waiting for me faithfully in the parking garage, and started the engine.
“Jim, this thing has gotten … Well, it’s always been serious. But now it’s getting really serious. I know we said ‘off the record,’ and I intend to honor that as far as the newspaper is concerned. But this is a lot bigger than the newspaper, and it’s a lot bigger than you getting some heat with your board. At some point, we stop being a reporter and a source, and we start being responsible citizens with a duty to perform under the law. We’re talking murder charges, here.”
“You really think they’re ready to press charges?”
“Well, yeah … If I can establish that Jackman made those threats. I didn’t tell the cop about you by name, but I’m not going to be able to keep a lid on this forever. The cop told me the threats might be the key to the case.”
I had pulled out of the parking garage into daylight, turning back in the direction of Ridge Avenue.
“Yeah. Yeah, I see that,” he said, and I felt some relief. Logical arguments didn’t work with everyone, but they did work with guys like Jim McNabb.
“Look, I still want to be as sensitive as I can to your needs here. So let’s do it like this: you give me the name of that bar, and I’ll get a bartender who will be willing to tell the cops what he overheard. Then the cops will come looking for you. But in the meantime, you can lawyer up a bit. Your lawyers can insist that the cops only question you on very specific areas-basically, confirming what the bartender has already said. That way, the parts of your conversation with Jackman you’d rather not be known stay unknown. You follow me?”
I pulled onto Broad Street, which was getting sluggish with mid-afternoon traffic. I could hear McNabb breathing through the phone, so I knew I hadn’t lost the call. But I also knew I hadn’t won him over just yet. If I really needed to, I would threaten to give his name to the cops. He would know as well as I did the prosecutor’s office would hit him with a subpoena, and that would be the end of it. But I didn’t want to have to haul out that stick just yet. I wanted to give him a few more nibbles at what was, relatively speaking, a carrot.
“Jim, I need the name of that bar,” I said.
More breathing followed a sigh that had the full force of his gut behind it.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Look, let me take you the
re. I’d still rather handle this as quietly as possible. I don’t want you mucking around, making a lot of noise. I’m pretty sure the bartender who was there that night is working again tonight. How about you meet me after work and we’ll go there together?”
“Sure. That sounds fair.”
“Five o’clock okay?”
I thought about my date with the Marino sisters and their supersecret document, whatever it was.
“Better make it six,” I said. “I’ve got something else before that.”
“Okay. Six o’clock. You sure about all this? Them charging Jackman and everything? I can’t be sticking my neck out if they’re not charging him.”
“Yeah, Jim, I’m sure. Just relax.”
Soon, I hoped, we would all be able to relax.
The brick-throwing had been pure improvisation. He happened to have a few bricks rumbling around in the back of his SUV, left over from a landscaping project. He always kept twine in his glove compartment. The idea developed from there.
He debated whether to even bother but eventually decided it couldn’t do any harm. It might have been the final piece to convince Carter Ross to back off. What said you were dealing with an old-school tough guy-the kind who wouldn’t be afraid to follow through on his threats-better than a brick through the window?
He should have known better. Ross just didn’t scare that easily. Seeing Ross at the funeral-as apparently resolute as ever-made that altogether too obvious. This was the one reporter who wouldn’t quit until he was in the grave.
It was finally time to make arrangements for that. His first task was to find a place. He had a few spots in mind and the second one he scouted turned out to suit his needs. It was deep in the swampy reaches of the Jersey Meadowlands, the kind of spot where the mob had been stashing bodies for decades.
His next task was to retrieve his weapon. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives once estimated 87 guns a day are “lost” by gun shops-or stolen from them-putting an estimated 31,755 untraceable guns on the street every year.
He didn’t know what happened to the other 31,754 untraceable guns from last year. But he knew one of them had ended up in his possession: a Smith amp; Wesson M amp;P Compact.357 Sig, billed by the shady thug who sold it to him as a perfect firearm for personal protection and concealed carry. When he bought it, he hadn’t known what he would even use it for. But he figured it would be nice to have a little insurance, just in case.
Now it was time to cash in the policy. After the funeral, he drove home and clambered up to his attic, back to the medium-sized box in the corner labeled “Dad Sentimental” that he knew neither his wife nor children would ever disturb. He slit open the tape, pulled out some dusty photo frames and nicked award plaques he no longer needed, until he found the wad of old T-shirts he had used as a swaddle for the gun.
His old hunting knife-long and cruel and still sharp-had been wrapped in the same bundle, still in its sheath. He took that out as well, just in case, then continued digging until he found a box of bullets. The same thug who sold him the gun told him these rounds would have “the stopping power” he needed.
That assurance came back to him now, and he hoped it was true. He needed Carter Ross stopped.
CHAPTER 8
The call from Peter Davidson of the National Labor Relations Board came in just as I was arriving at the Alfaro residence. I slid my notebook out of one pocket and a pen out of the other as we went through the necessary exchange of hellos and gee-it’s-hots.
“So what can the National Labor Relations Board do for you today?” he asked in a friendly tone.
“Well, I understand you guys are investigating a case involving Nancy Marino.”
“What makes you think that?”
Oh great. It was going to be one of those interviews.
“Because you recently paid a visit to one of her employers, Gus Papadopolous at the State Street Grill in Bloomfield.”
“I see. Can I ask what your interest is?”
“I’m a … freelance journalist,” I said, which sounded strange coming out of my mouth after years of identifying myself as being a proud representative of the Eagle-Examiner. “I’m working on a story about Ms. Marino.”
“Okay,” he replied, without adding more
“What can you tell me about the case?”
“Not much at this point. We’re still waiting for certain elements.”
“What elements?”
“At this point, I’d really rather not say.”
“Does it involve Mr. Papadopolous or a fellow by the name of Gary Jackman, by any chance? Or someone else from the Newark Eagle-Examiner?”
“Again, I’d rather not say.”
“Why not?”
He paused. I watched the weeds outside the Alfaro household waving as a slight wind stirred. It was the first thing resembling a breeze in at least two days.
“Have you ever dealt with the National Labor Relations Board before?” he asked.
“Nope. This is my first dance with you guys.”
“Well, some background: the NLRB was created by Congress to uphold the National Labor Relations Act and see that it’s being properly enforced. We also enforce existing collective bargaining agreements. We’ve really got a fairly narrow mandate and this … this may be something that falls outside our purview.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m not sure I can say.”
“Oh. Can you at least give me some clue here? I don’t want to have to waste your time playing twenty questions.”
As I waited for Davidson to formulate his answer, I watched the white-haired busybody-the one who had warned me about the eee-legal ale-eee-ans living in the red house-walking along with a skittish white poodle, clearly a case of a dog resembling its owner. I wondered if the poodle was wary of nonpapered Chihuahuas.
“This may be something that ultimately involves another agency,” Davidson said at last. “And if that’s the case, I want to be respectful of that agency’s rules and procedures. And, frankly, without looking them up, I don’t even know what they are. But I don’t want to hand them a case that’s been damaged by media attention in some way.”
Another agency? Why, that must mean … Actually, I didn’t have the slightest idea what that meant. I was getting a whole lot of nothing and taking it exactly nowhere.
“Can you tell me what other agency?”
“Not … not without giving you too much of a tip about what’s going on.”
“Can you at least tell me why you threatened to subpoena Gus Papadopolous?”
“Who said I threatened to subpoena Mr. Papadopolous?”
“He did,” I said, leaving out the part that I only knew this because he told his daughter.
“Well … I won’t speak to any specific conversation I did or didn’t have with Mr. Papadopolous or any other witness. But I will say in general that when an employee makes a complaint, I try to investigate all aspects of the employee’s history. I like to get a sense of what kind of person I’m dealing with. It helps me understand where the complaint might be coming from.”
“So Ms. Marino made a complaint?” I said, latching on to the first bit of decent information he had given me. He forced out a dry laugh.
“I probably need to end this phone call,” he said. “I’m not trying to be evasive. I usually cooperate with the media. But in this case, I really just have to be careful about what I say.”
“Okay, do you have to be as careful with what you write down? Is this anything I can FOIA?”
The Freedom of Information Act-the most wonderful piece of legislation enacted by Congress since the First Amendment-had been a friend to me many times over the years.
“I can’t stop you from filing a request, obviously,” Davidson said. “But I have to warn you I would probably deny the request on the grounds that it might be used in an ongoing criminal investigation.”
“Criminal investigation?” I said. “What crime?”
He laughed again.
“You’re good. I really have to stop talking to you. You’re getting way too much out of me. I’m going to end this call now. If the National Labor Relations Board can be of future assistance, please do call again. But I just can’t help you this time. So I’m hanging up now.”
And, sure enough, he did.
Not long after the line went empty, I saw Tee’s boxy Chevy Tahoe roll up behind me. The first part of my attack team was in place. I got out of my car, feeling the heat envelop me, and went over to Tee’s driver’s side.
“I told you the black man could be on time,” he said, as his window rolled down.
“Yeah, you’re a real credit to your race,” I joked. “Mind hanging loose for another second or two? We need to wait for our translator, and I have another phone call or two to make.”
“Yessuh, Mistah Ross, suh,” he said, doing his Sambo impersonation. “You knows I’s a just happy to do whatever you be tellin’ me to do, boss. Whoooweee!”
“That’s a good boy,” I said, playing along. “Now you sit tight, hear?”
“Can I dance fuh yuh now, boss?” I heard him saying as I walked back toward my car. “I’s just love to dance fuh yuh!”
He rolled up his window, and I got back in my tepid air-conditioning and placed a call to Lunky.
“Hi, Mister Ross!” he said, with proper intern enthusiasm.
“Shh. You’re not supposed to be talking to me, remember?”
“Oh yeah, right,” he said, having hushed himself by at least fifty percent.
“Are you doing anything right now?”
“No,” he said glumly.
“You up for more civil disobedience?”
“Sure!”
“I need you to go over to the National Labor Relations Board office,” I said, giving him the address I had copied off Peter Davidson’s card. “File a Freedom of Information Act request for any documents pertaining to a complaint made by Nancy Marino.”
“I’m not sure that’s what Thoreau had in mind when he advocated-”
“Kev, I gotta run,” I said as another call clicked through on my phone. “Just trust me: all those transcendentalists would have been big FOIA fans. They just didn’t live long enough to know it.”
