by David DeLee
Levy bristled, biting back the words “allegations of corruption.” She cleared almost as many cops as she found guilty.
“Bringing us to the morning of November twenty-seventh when Detective Levy was assigned to lead the shooting team tasked with investigating the death of DeShawn Beach at the hands of Officer Ben Stokes.”
No wonder Flynn came out of these proceedings spitting fire. Gregg might as well just say Stokes murdered Beach and been done with it.
“Detective, can you tell us, please, your findings with regard to this investigation?”
Levy leaned toward the microphone set on the table. “Can you be more specific?”
“You investigated the shooting, did you not?”
“We did.”
“Tell us about that. What investigative steps did you take?”
“My partner, Detective Frank Flynn and I, first interviewed Officer Stokes the morning directly after the incident. He refused counsel and did not ask for a union representative to be present during questioning. Both were his right, and he waived them.”
“During this initial interview, he admitted to shooting DeShawn Beach, did he not?”
“He did,” Levy said, quickly adding, “after explaining he mistook the suspect’s cell phone for a weapon. A cell phone found with him at the scene and later verified to belong to DeShawn Beach.”
“This story—mistaking a cell phone for a gun—does that seemed credible to you?” Gregg’s tone made it clear only a moron would fall for such a story.
“It does. Sadly, it’s not uncommon, especially when one takes into account the conditions that night. It was raining hard, the aftermath of near hurricane force rain and wind. The time of night. It was dark. Visibility was very bad. The stress of a foot chase. Yes, it is a reasonable claim.”
“It sounds like you’re making excuses for the officer’s actions.”
Levy squeezed her hands into fists. “I am not. I’m saying it was a legitimate claim, one we would have to investigate, which we did. The officer had to make a split-second decision—”
“Making a claim the victim cannot refute,” Gregg said over her.
“Unfortunately, no one can. That’s one reason these cases are so difficult to investigate.”
A juror held up his hand. A man in a suit who appeared to be in his early thirties, he’d been taking copious notes.
Gregg caught the movement from the corner of his eye. “We’ll handle questions later.”
“But,” the man persisted, “she said no one can refute the officer’s claim, but that young black kid who testified the other day—he said he saw everything. Which is it?”
“You’re referring to Kevin Wills,” Levy leaned into her microphone, doing her best not to smile.
“We’ll address any discrepancies once the detective’s finished testifying,” Gregg said.
Levy spoke over him. “Kevin Wills’ testimony was a lie.”
A gasp ran through the jury. Several of them turned to each other and spoke in hushed voices.
Joseph Gregg’s tanned face turned beet red. “Detective!”
“Kevin Wills recanted his testimony,” Levy said. “He admitted to police he wasn’t even there that night.”
“Stop this, Detective,” Gregg shouted. “You’re here to answer questions, not—”
“Answer this gentleman’s question? And an excellent one, sir.”
The man in the suit beamed.
“Wills testified under oath,” Gregg said. “He wouldn’t change his story. It would make him guilty of perjury.”
“He is guilty of perjury, and we’ve arrested him for it.”
“Why would he make up such a story?” Gregg asked, committing the lawyer’s cardinal sin. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.
“Because he was told to.” Levy wished Flynn could be there to see Gregg’s expression. “The story was completely fabricated. Concocted by the civil rights activist Theodore Goodall.”
A murmur raced through the seated panel. One of the female jurors called out, “Why would they do that?”
“We believe it was done to gain support for his position that the police were at fault. To make certain Officer Stokes looked guilty before a proper investigation could be completed.”
Gregg gripped the sides of the podium so tightly his knuckles blanched. “We’re going to take a brief recess at this point.” He waved at Levy to get up. “Detective Levy. A word.”
He headed for the door without looking to see if Levy had gotten up or not. He just expected it, she guessed. There wasn’t anything more she could do inside the jury room, so she followed him out.
The corridor outside was empty except for Prescott who sat on the bench waiting, the way Levy had the other day. She stood up and began to gather her things.
Gregg grabbed Levy’s elbow and spun her around. “What the hell was that?”
Levy yanked her arm away, fisting her hand. “How dare you.”
He snapped his hand back, realizing his mistake. “You tried to sandbag me in there. Why?”
“I told them the truth. Why haven’t you? Wills lied. You know it, but you didn’t tell them.”
“I was waiting,” he said lamely.
“Waiting for what? For them to deliberate? Until they voted a true bill?”
“Of course not. To avoid confusing them,” he said without elaborating.
“With what, the truth?”
“You went out of your way to make me look like an ass in there.”
“You did that all by yourself. We’ve been trying to tell you from the beginning to slow down. Give us a chance to properly investigate this thing before you went off guns blazing. But you rushed ahead, charged before you had a case. Now you’ve screwed yourself.”
“Wills’ testimony doesn’t change anything,” Gregg said. “Stokes was too quick on the trigger. Had no cause to believe his life was in danger.”
“Bullshit!” The harshness in her tone startled Gregg. Prescott, too. Levy’s two and a half-second brush with death at the K & D Salvage yard flashed into her mind. She rubbed her still sore ribs. “Unless you’ve been in that situation, you don’t know.”
“The public needs to be protected from—”
Levy cut him off. “You need to know the shooting team’s prepared to submit their final report to the department. In it we find Ben Stokes’ actions justified and in complete accordance with departmental policy and training. There will be no actions taken against Officer Stokes, and he will be returned to full duty forthwith.”
“How can you do that?” Gregg demanded.
“DeShawn Beach was caught committing a burglary. While it’s a tragedy he died as a result, he failed to comply with lawful commands given to him by police. He failed to comply. As far as can be determined, Officer Stokes followed proper procedure and protocol. In addition, the findings from our field interviews of his friends, family, co-workers, all came back the same. He’s not a racist. He’s not an authority junkie with a history of abusing his position, nor is he any kind of neo-Nazi. He’s just a cop trying to do his job and stay alive. A job you’ve made immensely more difficult for all of us to do.”
Levy pointed at the grand jury room. “I’m ready to share those findings with the jury. Are you?”
Gregg shook his head. Furious. “If I don’t indict Stokes, this city’s going to explode.”
“I think you underestimate this city. But either way, it will not be on the back of a good officer doing his job.” She looked at Prescott. “Besides, isn’t that for the grand jury to decide?”
He barked a laugh. “You’re not that naive, Detective. Are you?”
“Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just optimistic. But remember this,” she said, taking a step closer to Gregg. “I investigate people who abuse the power they have over others, counselor. Not just police officers. If you mislead that grand jury with lies and false testimony so you can force an indictment, I’ll make sure you face the Bar Associatio
n’s Ethics Board before you finish your first celebratory martini.”
“That sounds like a threat, Detective.”
“It’s not. Just a promise. One you can take to the bank.”
Levy walked away, her heels hitting the tile floor with the rhythmic tat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun. The elevator pinged and Levy stepped inside. She turned and stabbed the ground floor button, catching the smile on Brooke Prescott’s lips as the doors slid closed.
Homicide Division – Squad Room
7th Precinct – NYPD
Lower East Side, Manhattan
Friday, December 1st 12:15 p.m.
FLYNN WAS IN THE squad room fielding phone calls when Levy returned from the Grand Jury. The room was full to capacity and the activity level was high. Phones rang and the sound of keyboard tapping and papers spitting out of printers filled the room. Every desk was occupied, many by people she didn’t know. Harriman’s people, even more than the five he’s had with him that morning. Harriman and Whalen were deep in conversation near the Captain’s office door.
With the phone cradled between his shoulder and his cheek, Flynn called out, “How’d it go?”
“Let’s just say, you’ll be getting a Christmas card from Joseph Gregg long before I will.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Tell you about it later.” She put a rumbled brown sandwich bag on his desk. The bottom of it was dark with soaked through grease.
He finished his call and tentatively opened the bag. “What’s this?”
“Couple of slices of pizza. You like pepperoni, right?” She draped her trench coat over the back of her chair.
“Who doesn’t like pepperoni?” He pulled the greasy folded paper plates containing the slices out along with a stack of paper napkins. Levy opened up a bag of her own. “Where’d you go?”
“Ray’s. Where else?”
“On East Houston?”
“Of course.” Around a mouthful of pizza, she asked, “What’s going on here?”
As he ate, he wrote a note on a post-it note and handed it to a passing detective. “Give that to Whalen, thanks.”
To Levy, he said, “Other than the Seize the Day shell company used to pay Haywood and Walker, Harriman’s people are coming up dry. A few annoyances that will keep Goodall’s accountants and spin doctors busy, but no smoking gun. Harriman’s got a team at Block-by-Block where they’re interviewing employees to verify information they’re uncovering, but at the end of the day, I’m guessing it will be nickel and dime stuff. Greene sent a few of his IAB asshats over there, too.”
“What for?”
“Lend a hand since we’re short staffed with Toro or Lovato both out. In the category of giving the devil its due, the asshats actually did some good. They secured written statements from several employees who were present when Goodall pressured Kevin Wills to lie. Heard the whole thing, so we’ve got him solid on that. That’s something.”
“Falsely reporting an incident in the second degree is an E felony,” Levy said.
“Prescott’s advocating conspiracy and several inciting a riot charges based on Goodall’s inflammatory rhetoric prior to some of the violent outbreaks. She said she can make a case the rioting wouldn’t have happened or would have mitigated if not for the false statements.”
“Doesn’t help us with the murder for hire,” Levy said.
“No, and we’ve run into a snag there, too.”
“What?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.
“Access. It turns out a number of employees could’ve arranged the payments to Haywood and Walker.” He looked at Levy. “Harriman’s people are combing through the data now. They’re examining every bit of computerized records they can get their hands on to determine who actually keyed in the actual transfers. What terminal was used, that sort of thing. They’re also going through email chains, text messages, looking for any digitized communications that would incriminate anyone, possibly linking them to the deed. It’s slow going.”
“Do we at least have the number of personnel narrowed down?”
“Yes. But it’s a large number of people over several companies.”
Levy ate the last of her crust and dabbed her lips with her napkin as she gave the problem some thought. “There must be another, faster way.”
“Goodall could confess,” Flynn suggested, not being helpful.
Sonny Tillman strolled quickly into the squad room, having emerged from the hallway that led to the interview rooms. He spotted Flynn and Levy at their desks and veered in their direction. “Detectives?”
“Yeah, counselor, what is it?”
“Have you decided to drop these ridiculous charges against Mr. Goodall yet?”
“No. As a matter of fact, we were about to go in and formally arrest him and begin the booking process.” Flynn grinned, saying it. “Want to watch? It should be fun.”
“You are a very petty man, Detective Flynn,” Tillman said. “What ludicrous charges are we talking about? Specifically.”
“Conspiracy. Filing a false report, and several counts of inciting a riot.”
“That is beyond ludicrous.” Tillman pulled out his cell phone. “One call to the DA and we’ll see about this.”
“Bet she refuses to pick up,” Flynn said, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “Go on. Try.”
Tillman stopped dialing. “Why do you say that?”
“Because—” Flynn waved a hand to encompass all of Harriman’s people. “—these fine folks all work for the state. The Attorney General’s involved now. City politics don’t mean shit anymore, and my guess is Sylvia Pace is going to get as far away from this as humanly possible.”
Tillman blinked and slowly returned his phone to his pocket. “In that case, Mr. Goodall hasn’t eaten since early this morning.” He eyed the remnants of their recently consumed meal. The smell of the excellent New York pizza still lingered in the air. “If you’re going to charge him, I’d like to go out and get him something to eat before that.”
“Boxed lunches of cheese sandwiches are available to all prisoners,” Flynn said. “On the house.”
“We’ll pass.”
“Includes an apple and a drink.”
Tillman snapped the lapels of his overpriced overcoat. Indignant. “I’ll be back within the hour. No one is to speak to my client until I return. Is that understood?”
Flynn offered him a mock salute.
Tillman stormed toward the squad room exit. “Asshole.”
“Your client might be in booking by the time you get back,” Flynn called out. “Don’t let the door hit you in the—”
Tillman slammed the door behind him.
Flynn finished, “—ass on the way out.”
“Hey, Flynn.” The call out came from a cop named O’Brien, a patrolman pulled off desk duty downstairs to stand guard over Goodall while he was in interrogation and no one else was in with him.
“What is it, John?”
“Goodall wants to talk to you,” O’Brien said.
“Can’t. His asshole lawyer’s orders.”
“He understands that,” O’Brien said. “And I’m quoting here, ‘Fuck Tillman. Tell Flynn to get his white ass in here if he wants to know what’s what.’”
Flynn exchanged a look with Levy. She shrugged. They stood up and headed for the interview room together.
O’Brien put his hand up, stop sign fashion. “He said just Flynn. Alone. Said he won’t talk otherwise.”
Pissed, Levy started to object, but Flynn said, “I’ve got this.”
“Without a witness,” she said, “whatever he tells you can’t be corroborated. It’ll be he said, she said, if he recants later.”
“Without Tillman there it won’t be admissible anyway,” Flynn said. “But it could still be something useful.”
He went into the interview room, leaving Levy feeling very much left out. “Shit.”
She returned to her desk and started through the reports that were coming
in from Harriman’s team. Most of them were summaries with supporting data attached. Easy to go through and understand what they’d found so far.
There was some good stuff here, but like Flynn had said, other than the trail of money leading to Walker and Heywood, nothing she saw rose to the level of a criminal indictment. Goodall had been through financial scrutiny like this before. Though costly and annoying, he’d skated through basically unscathed.
Maybe this time would be different, Levy thought hopefully, but she doubted it. They’d need to focus their efforts on solidifying the connection between him and the payments made to Haywood and Walker.
Levy’s thoughts turned to her grand jury appearance, her confrontation with Gregg, and to Ben Stokes and his family. The man had been put through the ringer this past week and he hadn’t weathered it well. The truth was they still didn’t know what happened that night, except for Stokes’ version of events and what the physical evidence told them, which wasn’t much. Had he drawn too quickly? Had he issued the proper warning? Did he really mistake the cell phone for a weapon? All questions they would never really know the answers to.
Yet people are innocent until proven guilty, and proven beyond a reasonable doubt. That same standard applied equally to police officers as it did to civilians. She wished they had more, some definitive way to corroborate his statement, but they didn’t. It was what it was. She jotted a note to check in on the Stokes family later in the day to see how they were doing.
Before she was done writing, Flynn came charging out of the interview room. He slammed the door behind him. To O’Brien, he said, “Keep him on lockdown. No one goes in. I mean absolutely no one.”
O’Brien nodded.
Levy half rose from her seat. “What’s going on?”
“Tillman,” Flynn said. “Is he back yet?”
“I,” Levy looked around, “He just left.”
“Shit.”
“Frank. What is it?”
He called out, “Harriman, you still have people at Block-by-Block?”
The agent was across the room, leaning over the shoulder of one of his people, reviewing reports spread out on a desk. He straightened up. “Sure. About a half dozen still. Why?”
