“But never for subversive activities. Anyway, demonstrations aren’t illegal.”
“No.” Yvonne remained cool although she was straining at the bit. “Some of her friends, though, that’s another story. You’ll see about five other names listed there. Two men, three women. We have IDs on all.”
Winnegar’s curiosity awoke. “Spill it, Yvonne.”
“One of the men is currently a stockbroker in La Jolla, California. Successful, divorced and presently living with a woman. Dropped all his old contacts, it seems. Grew to like capitalist ways, I guess. Him I write off.
“Another, one of the women mentioned, is now happily married to a foreman in a mill factory. They live in Bangor, Maine. Has three kids. Write her off also.”
“And the rest?”
“The last two other women are single, both residing in this state. One remained in Albany, and as far as we know the second is here somewhere in the city. Both are possibly lesbians. We think both were involved with Vanessa Santiago at one time or another, in one way or another, possibly as lovers.”
Yvonne referred to her notes. “Gloria Popolos, arrested for attempted robbery, questioned by the Albany police on numerous occasions, but released for lack of evidence. Called herself a political victim. Sally Cooperman, arrested twice, also robbery, but never substantiated, released. Also called herself political. Six months later wanted in Albany for aiding and abetting the leader of Los Campions, who’s currently serving time in prison. She was never found. File dormant. All this happened several years ago. Now Gloria Popolos keeps a very low profile, teaches in an Albany nursery. The other, Sally Cooperman, we haven’t traced yet. As for the remaining man … ” She paused. “Look at the name. He’s even in the photograph.”
Winnegar’s finger traced over the sentences, then stopped. “Jaime Morales DeVicente.”
“Does the family name set off any bells?”
“DeVicente?” He reflected momentarily. “Is he William DeVicente’s son?”
“Yes, captain. William DeVicente, special assistant to the governor. A real power behind the throne.”
“Jesus.” Winnegar fell back in his chair. “All right, Yvonne. This may lead to something. Give me motives. Political? Gay rights? Jilted lover getting even?”
She shook her head. “Don’t ask me to fit any pieces yet. I can’t. God only knows what the connection between Vanessa Santiago, Julio’s sister, the two other women, and Jaime DeVicente are. But every one of them had connections with Los Campions to one degree or another.”
“That still doesn’t prove them guilty of anything.”
“Right. Not a thing. Half the students on every campus have demonstrated for one cause or another. But these three — plus Vanessa — worked at it. Worked very hard at it. Practically made it a full-time career.” Winnegar took a drink of water. His throat was suddenly dry. “Where is Jaime DeVicente now?”
“We’re not sure. As of last year he was reportedly studying for his master’s degree in Mexico.”
“And the two women?”
“I can’t tell you that either.” She looked at Winnegar evenly. “But I intend to find out.”
“Did your junkie have contact with either of them?”
“If not personally, maybe by name. He knows his sister was a lesbian. Knew her political convictions, and her activities. My guess is that he believes one of them to be our Armageddon.”
Winnegar sat there stunned. All circumstantial, all hearsay. No real evidence of anything at all. Sheer speculation. Laughable in a court of law. Nevertheless, the closest thing to a quick break he dared dream. “Okay, DiPalma. Go to work. I’ll get you some backup.”
“Thank you, captain.” She began to rise, sat back down. “Just one last item, sir. Probably coincidence. A student named Gregory Minnow is scheduled to graduate from Albany State this year. His father was Harvey Minnow — the subway motorman.”
X
The room was small, a single window set high in the stone wall. It had no shade, no curtain. Thick mesh wire in a crisscross pattern covered the dirty glass. The view was the distant concrete wall: tall, massive, with a single tower at the end. The guard in the tower was a silhouette against the sky, standing a lonely vigil.
Strong late afternoon sunlight spilled down over the wooden table in the middle of the room. Apart from the chairs around it, the room was empty. No pictures adorned the drab beige walls. Nothing covered the wooden floor. A few dusty books sat in a corner, looking as though they hadn’t been touched for months.
Yvonne put out her third cigarette into a metal ashtray. A can of Coke rested beside her elbow. She sipped from it time to time. Waiting here was getting her edgy. She doodled restlessly on her note pad, drawing happy and sad cartoon faces. It seemed forever until the heavy steel door opened. A uniformed guard and a staffer from the warden’s office accompanied the prisoner inside.
Yvonne stood. She looked directly at the prisoner’s eyes. One flickered with life, the other remained dormant and glassy in its socket. She hadn’t known that Ruben Pulido had only one eye.
She indicated for the prisoner to sit. He didn’t seem cocky, didn’t seem shy or uncomfortable. He nodded and took a seat, clasped his hands in his lap and waited. He was a good-looking man, she noted. A few years younger than herself. His dark, curly hair was neatly cropped, prison style, his moustache pencil thin. He was slight in stature — she had pictured him to be heavier and bigger boned — and not at all menacing. Quite the contrary. He seemed quiet and introspective in his round metal-framed glasses. An intellectual.
“You can wait outside,” Yvonne said to the guard and the official.
“Let us know when you’re ready. Just knock.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
As soon as the door shut, she offered her guest a cigarette. He declined.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” he told her. “It’s pure poison.” There was only the barest trace of an accent.
“You’re right. Keep telling myself I’ll quit. Never quite do, though.” She smiled at him. He mocked a small smile back.
“Why am I here?” he asked.
Yvonne chose not to sit. She’d been sitting too much all day. On the bus ride up to Attica, waiting for the warden to see her, and now waiting for the prisoner. “You’re here because your name still carries a lot of weight and respect on the streets.”
He laughed. “Good to know I have friends. So now that I know why I’m here, why are you here?”
The dossier said he was charming and witty; quite bright and fast. Scored very well on a number of psychological tests. A born leader. Against her better judgement she was taking a liking to him.
“I’m here to ask you some questions, Ruben. I hope you’ll answer them.”
He looked her up and down. “Okay, pretty lady.”
She extended her hand. “My name is Yvonne. I’m a detective with the New York City police.”
His brows rose. “I figured you were a social worker. Gonna tell the board if I’m ready for parole.”
They both laughed. “You knew I was a cop. The warden told you. And from what I hear, you don’t need a social worker. You have a team of lawyers working on getting you out.”
“Asking for a new trial. Charging bias against the judge. She was a woman, too. But bitchy. Man, she could emasculate you in ten seconds flat.” He made a face. “I hate the way the bureaucrats work. Spinning wheels like they’re doing sixty, but look around six months later and they’re barely out of the driveway.”
“You’re right. I don’t like them either.”
He reached inside his gray shirt pocket, took out a pack of sugarless chewing gum. “Want a stick?”
“Thanks, no. I want to know about Los Campions de Liberdad. Your group.”
“Madre! Listen. I been all over this about five hundred times.” He chewed his gum savoringly. “You oughta know better than this, Yvonne — can I call you that? Good. Listen, I’m serving time up here for armed robbery. Seven
year sentence, gonna be cut to four if I’m a good boy and behave. Even if my Jew lawyers can’t get me off, I’ll still walk out in another year or two with good behavior.” He winked at her. “Take my word for it, Yvonne. You ever get yourself into some heavy legal shit, find a lawyer with a Jewish name. They got a thing about causes. And smart … ” He whistled. “Think maybe you could hustle me up a cup of coffee?”
She leaned against the table, no longer jovial. “This isn’t a bust, or a trial. I don’t care this much about how long you stay in Attica. Tell you what, though — give me a hard time and I’ll spread dirt out on you all over the street. Pass the word that you made a deal with the district attorney to cut your time. Chop off your balls. Ruin whatever reputation you think it is you have.”
He chuckled. “Lady, you must be one tough woman. My friends know who I am, what I stand for. Listen, I know something about the law. Been studying it. Fact is, if I say so you gotta have my lawyer present while you interrogate me.”
“Not interrogate, Ruben. Just a friendly chat. And you know you had the right to refuse to meet with me. You didn’t.”
He regarded her with cunning. “What’s in it for me?”
“Save a few lives. Maybe also stop your cause from looking bad in the press. Right now you’re nationalist crazies. Terrorists.”
His jaw firmed. “We aren’t terrorists.”
“Prove it.”
“Prove otherwise.”
She showed him a few of the clippings of the One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Street disaster. “A lot of people at P.D. think your group may be behind this.”
“Lady, this must be a joke.”
“Uh-uh.”
“We believe in a cause. Ever have one? Something you know is right for your people. The signers of the Declaration of Independence called it freedom. Freedom for America. Revolutionaries, they called each other.” He stressed it. “Revolutionaries. I want only the same for my people and country. Just like George Washington, okay?”
“So you consider yourself to be a patriot? A freedom fighter for your cause?”
“Damn right I do.” He stopped, grinned charmingly. “Lady, you’re good at your job. Real good. I start by telling you I won’t say anything, then — wham! Here I am shooting my big mouth off. You get a gold star for effort, lady.”
He began to get up. “But you can’t force me to say anything and you know it. Go ahead. Spread all the dirt you can. Tell the world what a shit I am. Traitor to my own people. Turned evidence to make it easy for myself. Lady, I don’t care.”
“I admire your tenacity, Ruben. Sit down, will you? I could use some coffee, too.”
She went to the door, asked the guard.
“Exactly why are you here?” asked Ruben when she returned.
“I’ll tell you.”
She sat opposite him, faced him evenly. “I need help — maybe yours. Someone out there is about to commit wholesale murder again. Maybe a psycho, maybe not. But I have some evidence linking One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Street with the group you once headed. If what you’ve said is true, it’s in your interest also. Clear yourself. No blame, no further investigation of Los Campions. We get off your back. Simple.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you this: We never planned or plotted anything like that. We didn’t try to achieve our aims through wanton violence against civilians. I might have taken on a cop if I had to … ” He smiled thinly. “But not just anyone who happened along. We were political. That’s all.”
“So was Che Guevara,” reminded Yvonne. “But ideals can change as frustrations grow. It isn’t easy bringing down the system, as you learned, Ruben. You’ve been out of touch for some time. What makes you think your friends haven’t started to see things a little differently?”
“I thought you were smarter than that. I made all the decisions. Including the clever one that landed me here. So I don’t even have someone to blame for that. No, they wouldn’t act on their own.”
She crossed her arms. “Perhaps, perhaps not.” She studied him, wondering if for the moment maybe they really did share a common cause. “I do need your help,” she told him honestly. “So if what you’ve said is true, it’s in both our interests. A renegade setting off explosives doesn’t help any cause — yours or mine.”
He considered for a time. “Los Campions had nothing to do with that subway. On that I’ll give you my word.”
“I’ll accept it. Tell me about Sally Cooperman.”
“Sally?” He shrugged. “Lots of guts. Always willing, hard working. I knew I could count on her.”
“For what?”
He glared. “Anything. Look lady, I didn’t say I wouldn’t speak with you. But don’t expect me to feed you my friends for dinner. Sally was a good kid. She believed in the cause.”
“A nice Jewish girl fighting for Latin freedom?”
“A bored Jewish intellectual searching for a cause. She latched onto mine.”
“Was she your girlfriend?”
“What difference does that make?” He paused. “No. She wasn’t. Anyway, she went off on her own a long time ago.”
“Gloria Popolos?”
“Did me favors. Her house was always open to my friends.”
“How about Vanessa Santiago?”
The guard came in with containers of coffee. Ruben drank his black, no sugar. “We were close,” he said softly.
“Lovers?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.”
“Yeah. We were lovers for a while. Big deal. Want a list of every woman I slept with?”
“I think you’re lying to me. Vanessa was a lesbian.” He was amused by her remark. “You sure you’re a cop? Vanessa loved life. She swung both ways. Never heard of that?”
“Did you know she’s dead?”
He put the coffee cup down. “I heard.” For an instant he seemed pained. “A shame. She had a lot going for her. Could have really made a mark. Such a waste to take your own life.”
“Any guess as to why she did it?”
“Naw.” He spoke quietly. “Who knows what drives people to do what they do. I was sorry to hear it. Truly sorry. But like you reminded me, I’ve been away from things for a long time. I don’t have any idea what was going on in her life.”
“How close did you work with Jaime DeVicente?”
“Ahh, our governor connection.” He found humor in it. “Kid wanted to prove something. Probably to his father, show the old man he wasn’t anybody’s puppet. He was hanging around most of the time, always asking Vanessa or Gloria if he could be of help. We let him lead a few marches and sit-ins. Student boycotts. Things like that. His name was important, that’s all.”
“Then you used him?”
“Sure. Why not? Got us into the newspapers, right? ‘Son Of Governor’s Aide Boycotts For Latin Freedom.’ Makes good press. We weren’t dumb, Yvonne. Wherever Jaime was, so were a couple of undercover state police. No way was the governor’s office gonna let this kid embarrass them. It was almost a joke how obvious these police clowns were. Jaime never was let in on anything meaningful. Too risky. Besides, his heart wasn’t really in it. He was doing it to make a few statements of his own. Last I heard, after he graduated he took off for Mexico.”
“To study?”
“Yeah — no. I think mostly to convince himself that he was a true Latino. Not a gringo ass kisser like his old man. They never got along.”
“Was there anyone ever connected with Los Campions who was in the service? Demolitions, maybe?”
“Sure, me. Army. Fort Bragg. But not demolitions. Special Forces. I jumped outta planes.” He said it with some pride.
“Anyone at all who had a good knowledge of explosives.”
“Any kid with a chemistry book can make a bomb, lady. I can buy nitroglycerin, plastique, anything I want, right out on the street. For cash, no questions asked. Lady, there’s enough stuff around for me to blow away half of Manhattan. Hell, greedy CIA operatives sold tons of plastique to Libya.
Did they care?”
He was serious, she knew. Availability was everywhere. “Being able to buy it is one thing, using it to kill indiscriminately is another.”
Ruben clasped his hands, rested them under his chin. “If a group wanted to — really wanted to — they could turn New York into another Beirut practically overnight. Load up a van with dynamite, hit the accelerator and ram the damn thing through Macy’s window. Believe me, the street would be littered with corpses. By the score. And that act could be repeated again and again, with no way of preventing it.”
“I think we’re up against something exactly like that now.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because your subway bomber was docile. Does things half way. Timid. Or afraid. I mean, why bother with a train that’s nearly empty? No zealot wastes their time. He wants martyrdom. Go out with a blast of glory. Walk into a packed Madison Square Garden with an uzi and a belt of grenades. That’s terrorism. Me … ” A small sardonic smile crossed his features. “Me they got for armed robbery. Gun wasn’t even loaded.”
“So what kind of person am I dealing with?”
He shrugged. “No one dedicated. But someone angry. I mean real angry. To do this you gotta really want to get even.”
“A grudge?”
“To my way of thinking a grudge is more personal. Beat on my brother, and I’ll cut your face. Simple. Biblical. An eye for an eye. But there are grudges and there are grudges. Someone got it in for the subway, man, they’re gonna take it out on the subway.”
Yvonne was impressed with his reasoning. Ruben was convincing. Or maybe too convincing. Certainly if he’d even suspected people from his group might have pulled this off he’d try to divert attention. Throw the blame somewhere else. If this is what he was doing, he was doing it well.
“Ruben” she said, and here she looked deeply into his eyes, “what does Armageddon mean to you?”
Black Midnight Page 9
