“Okay.”
“And the other thing is, don’t jump to any conclusions. Don’t assume anything.”
“I’m not sure I know what that means.”
“It means don’t try to figure out what happened to Remsen and his men. In fact, don’t even think about it. No matter what you hear over the next few days, it’ll take time for everything to emerge. In the meantime, it’s not your responsibility. And you know nothing about it. Nothing. If anybody asks you about a stranger in the bar last night, you tell them you think there was, but you can’t remember anything specific about him. Just an ordinary guy. Did you hear fighting in the parking lot? Not really. You were busy. Stick to that, don’t draw conclusions, you’ll be fine.”
“All right.”
“Was there anybody else in the bar who saw anything?”
Janice thought for a moment. “By the time you left it was just me and Albert Collins. He’s not a problem. Albert is a little slow. Nobody will bother asking him anything.”
“Then you’re fine.”
She nodded. “All right. I got it. Thanks. How do you like your eggs?”
“Any way you want to cook them. One other thing.”
“What?”
“Do you have an Internet connection? I want to look something up.”
She almost asked Beck what, but didn’t. “My computer is in the living room. All I have is satellite out here. It’s slow, but it works.”
“That makes two of us,” said Beck.
56
This time Palmer, Ippolito, and Levitt met with the assistant district attorney, Frederick Wilson, in the precinct’s community affairs office on the first floor. The precinct commander, Dermott Jennie, was there, too. Wilson’s Asian assistant was not.
Juju Jackson had delivered four eyewitnesses, as promised, shortly before noon on Friday, in time for Palmer and Ippolito to prep them. The four did reasonably well when Frederick Wilson questioned them. One of the witnesses, Johnny Morris, actually sounded convincing when he claimed to have driven Derrick Watkins along 174th Street looking for Paco Johnson, and swore he saw Derrick shoot him. And he also managed to sound outraged when he told Wilson he saw James Beck shoot Derrick Watkins at the Mount Hope Place apartment.
The other witnesses followed Morris’s lead, backing up his claim that Beck shot Derrick Watkins, and swearing they heard that Derrick shot the guy who had been at Bronx River Houses.
Wilson didn’t bother pointing out he couldn’t use hearsay testimony, or pressing the witnesses on why they were all in the Mount Hope apartment, or on what had transpired at Bronx River Houses. He’d worry about all that if they were still around when it came time for a trial.
Ippolito ushered Jackson’s stooges out of the community affairs room where they had been meeting, and Palmer took over. He continued his presentation by pointing out there was a possibility one of the guns found at the Mount Hope Place apartment could turn out to be the murder weapon in Paco Johnson’s death.
Wilson asked, “How would you link the gun to Derrick Watkins?”
Palmer answered, “Trace the ownership. Maybe find people who saw him with that particular weapon.”
Wilson didn’t bother to argue the point.
Palmer continued, “We’re also working on obtaining witnesses who saw the initial altercation at Bronx River Houses.”
“Hopefully witnesses without criminal records.”
Palmer didn’t respond to Wilson’s gibe. He slid paperwork toward Wilson and said, “Here’s my affidavit identifying Ciro Baldassare as the man who fired on me at the Mount Hope murder scene. With the help of other detectives in the squad, we’ve identified him as an associate of James Beck. He’s still on parole. If nothing else, we can violate him right now for possession of a weapon and attempted murder of an NYPD detective.”
Ippolito returned to the meeting, but hung back letting Palmer take the spotlight.
“And here’s more information we worked up on known associates of James Beck. One of them is a man named Emmanuel Guzman. You can see his record there. He matches the descriptions provided by a witness who saw the shooting of Jerome Watkins on Hoe Avenue. We’ll follow up and see if she can ID Guzman.”
Palmer continued. “Here’s an image from a security camera in the Housing Authority parking lot near the scene.” He slid a copy over to Wilson. “The shorter man looks like Guzman. The taller black man we believe is an ex-convict by the name of Demarco Jones. Both of them served time with Beck. Both are still on parole. We should be able to get them locked up just on suspicion, and for being in the company of a known felon.”
“Where’d you get all this information on Beck and the others?”
“Most of it is from a report filed by a detective in the Seven-Six. There was a major incident with Beck last winter. Deaths, injuries, a fire. It’s all in there.”
By the time Palmer finished, Wilson had no choice but to agree he would get arrest warrants for Beck, Guzman, Jones, and Baldassare. But Wilson was no fool. He said, “Tell me gentlemen, putting aside James Beck, do you want these men arrested for parole violations, or the crimes you’ve accused them of?”
There was a moment of silence, and the wily Ippolito said, “Either, or. One way or another they’re off the streets.”
“Well, if you intend to convict them for new crimes, you’ve got a lot of loose ends to tie up. Particularly Beck. He’s not on parole. I’d prefer not to issue warrants and arrest any of them until you deliver everything you’ve promised.”
Palmer attempted to say something, but Wilson talked over him.
“Hear me out. Today is Friday. I suggest you take the weekend to get what we need to make these arrests stick. I need murder weapons, timelines, hopefully corroborating witnesses who aren’t known associates of the victim, witnesses or affidavits explaining how Beck tracked down Derrick Watkins. I’ll need the crime-scene report from the shootings on Hoe Avenue. And at some point, I’ll need an explanation as to why Watkins, Williams, Guzman, and Jones were all at the same location. And, of course, by the time we get to trials, if we get there, I’ll need more.”
Lieutenant Levitt broke in., “Mr. Wilson, it’s a complicated case, but we should get these men off the street and in jail as soon as possible. Right now you have more than enough to get indictments. We’ll have much more by the time you go to a grand jury. And everything we’ve promised by the time this gets to trial. We need arrest warrants to get things rolling.”
“You’ll have them. But let’s be clear. I am not interested in cases involving parole violations. I’m not interested in bringing charges against a dead man. Beck is the prize here, gentlemen. But he has no criminal record, and he’ll have first-rate representation, not some overworked Legal Aid lawyer. And there’s every chance a judge will grant him bail, which he very likely will be able to post. I want everything I can get before I have to arraign him.
“And, don’t forget, you could end up arresting these fellows in three different boroughs, so you’re going to have to coordinate with at least three precincts. And with whatever division chiefs are going to supply you with ESU, or whatever else you need.
“Not to mention, if I can’t get them all into the Bronx system, we could be arraigning them in three different courts. You’re going to need time to organize the arrests.”
For the first time, the precinct commander, Captain Jennie, broke in. “Agreed. We’ll pull everything together over the weekend, but will you agree to get us warrants Monday the latest?”
Wilson nodded. “Yes, depending on your progress.”
Frederick Wilson didn’t waste any time leaving. He shoved his legal pad and documents into his briefcase, said, “Stay in touch,” and left Levitt’s office.
As soon as the office door closed, Jennie said, “All right, listen up. The word has come from on high. The department wants to take down Beck. Obviously, certain people aren’t happy with him being a free man. So you two get out there and get as much done as
you can. Levitt and I will start coordinating with borough command and the detective division and everybody else we’re going to need. Where are you two going to start?”
Ippolito said, “Back at the Bronx River Houses for more witnesses.”
Palmer said, “And with CSU and ballistics.”
Jennie asked, “Do you need any more bodies on this?”
Levitt broke in, “I’ve got one other detective on the squad helping out. Mostly coordinating all the paperwork.”
“Ask for what you need to make this happen.”
With that, Jennie left.
Ippolito and Palmer exchanged surprised looks. Levitt said, “You heard the man. It’s on. Get to work and let me know what you need.”
Ippolito said, “Will do.”
“All right, I gotta meet with that parole division supervisor.”
Palmer asked, “Who?”
Levitt looked at his notes. “Walter Ferguson. Paco Johnson was assigned to him.”
“What’s he want? We interviewed him on the day of the murder.”
“He wants to know where we’re at. He’s got to file reports with the Department of Correction.” Levitt headed for the door. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll take care of it. Get going. Touch base with me by end of day.”
Levitt found Walter Ferguson sitting patiently on a molded plastic chair near Sergeant Clovehill’s desk. Levitt motioned for him to come to his work area.
Walter presented his identification and told Levitt, “Lieutenant, I appreciate your cooperation. I know you’re very busy. If you agree, I think the simplest thing to do is to give me whatever documentation you have and let me read through the material. And afterwards, a couple minutes of your time if I have any questions.”
Levitt thought about it for a moment. Ferguson seemed organized and reasonable. He decided the quickest way to get rid of him would be to do what he asked.
“Fine.”
Levitt gathered all the case material, including his notes from the Wilson meeting, and handed the pile to Ferguson. “We’re still in the middle of this. I’ll be here for another hour or so. You can take notes, but nothing goes out of this office. Everything stays between us and the Department of Correction. In fact, I’d prefer if you waited until Monday to file your reports.”
Walter nodded. “It’ll take me at least until Monday to prepare them.”
“Good. I’ll check with you if you have questions before I leave.”
“Thank you.”
Levitt escorted Walter back to Clovehill’s desk and told him to find Mr. Ferguson a place where he could work.
57
Beck parked his truck across the street from his Red Hook bar later than he had hoped, a little after three P.M. on Friday. The last forty minutes of stop-and-go traffic on the BQE had been excruciating. By the time he walked across the street and into his ground-floor bar, he still wasn’t able to stand up straight.
Demarco Jones and Willie Reese were in the barroom. Demarco said nothing, but Willie Reese reacted with concern and confusion when he saw Beck. Reese was a very large, muscled-up, menacing ex-con who at one time had gone head-to-head with Beck and had suffered a broken nose, cracked ribs, and nearly lost an eye.
“Yo, Beck, what the fuck?”
Beck wasn’t in the mood to explain anything. “There were six of them.”
Willie narrowed his eyes and frowned.
“Four dead, one in the hospital.”
Reese made a noise of approval, but he didn’t look any less concerned.
Beck made his way up to the second-floor loft, Demarco and Willie trailing after him.
Manny stood in the kitchen, as usual, cleaning and preparing food.
The Bolo brothers, Ricky and Jonas, were also hanging out in the kitchen area. They were wiry, compact men. Ricky, the more talkative, more animated of the two, stood describing a small piece of electronic equipment to Manny, whose disinterest didn’t dissuade Ricky at all. His brother, Jonas, stood leaning against the large island work counter, scanning the room as if he were casing it for a robbery.
Alex Liebowitz sat at Beck’s desk with Walter Ferguson, downloading photos from Ferguson’s smartphone.
Beck told everyone he’d be back and headed for the stairs at the west end of the second floor.
When Beck disappeared up the back stairs the others exchanged looks, but only Demarco spoke.
“He’s gonna tell us it looks worse than it is.”
After changing his clothes and dosing himself with pain relievers, Beck reappeared.
He headed toward the large rectangular dining-room table opposite the big kitchen area and waved for the others to join him. They assembled, bringing whatever material they had.
Beck took a seat at the head of the table. Alex Liebowitz and Walter Ferguson sat to his immediate right and left. Then Demarco and Willie opposite each other. Ricky and Jonas were next, facing each other. Manny sat at the other end of the table.
Beck asked, “Where’s Ciro?”
Demarco answered, “On his way.”
“And the girl?”
“Upstairs.”
“All right, so we have a lot of catching up to do. What’s happened since I left?”
Demarco started, but knowing Walter was at the table he spoke cautiously.
“I already told you we located Amelia. But here’s something you might be interested in. She can tell you how she came up with them.” Demarco slid two ledger books toward Beck. “These will give you an idea what Derrick Watkins was earning running his prostitutes. My quick run-through of the numbers puts his profits at about three hundred thousand a year. That doesn’t include what his brother was doing. And like I mentioned on the phone, those two were part of a much bigger crew run by a longtime gang leader named Eric Jackson. We got the rundown on him and his main enforcer, Whitey Bondurant, from a friend of Manny’s up in the Bronx. You might have known him. Benjamin Woods.”
“Yeah, I knew Big Ben. What’s he doing now?”
“Turned into a pastor. Has a storefront church.”
“God bless him.”
“If Derrick was doing three hundred K, Jackson’s whole operation could be in the millions. Be nice to get proof of that, but thanks to Packy’s kid we have something to go on.”
Beck nodded, adding the information Demarco gave him to what he had learned about Oswald Remsen’s prostitution business.
“Thanks. What else?”
Jonas Bolo spoke next.
“You asked us to track down a CO named Edward Remsen. He lives in the Norwood section of the Bronx. We made a few inquiries. He’s working today. His shift at Sing Sing ends at six. You want us to tail him from his job, we should leave now. Or, we can wait for him at his home address.”
Beck checked his watch. Nearly four o’clock. He assumed the last surviving Remsen might have already heard his father and brothers were missing. Once he found out they were dead, there was no telling what he would do.”
“Go now. You know where to pick him up in Ossining?”
Ricky spoke up. “Yeah, we know the lot where the COs park. Alex got the make and model of his car and his license plate. We should make it in time to catch him. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“Okay. Call me as soon as you do. And stick with him.”
Without another word, both Bolo brothers stood and left.
Alex Liebowitz began talking next in a calm, methodical manner, which contrasted with his disheveled appearance. Alex looked like a Brooklyn hipster—thick black eyeglass frames, shirt untucked, cuffs unbuttoned, skinny jeans—but he had none of the verbal affectations that plagued his generation. He never said “like” or “sort of” or up-talked. He had a hard enough time speaking slowly and carefully with a mind that moved at warp speed.
There was a stack of pages in front of him.
“Okay, so those IDs Demarco e-mailed me—I verified all the names, two of the addresses didn’t match. Did a quick search for arrest records. They
’re all in the system. Let me know if you want more.” He slid two pages to Beck.
“Next, here’s the information I got for Ricky and Jonas on Edward Remsen.” Alex slid two more pages toward Beck. “Home address, relatives, age, car registration, social security, credit history. No liens. No lawsuits. Not a deep dive. Again, let me know if you want more.”
Alex picked up another set of pages.
“I ran the names Jerome Watkins, Derrick Watkins, Eric Jackson, and Floyd Bondurant through three of the crime databases I can access. All of them are in the NYPD and FBI gang files. Bondurant and Jackson’s files go back to the mideighties. I can check more databases if you want me to, but bottom line, those guys are responsible for a lot of crime. If the Feds ever move on them and make a case, Jackson and Bondurant will go away for a long time.
“Last, here is all the information Walter brought in on the NYPD investigation into Paco Johnson’s murder. They wouldn’t let him make copies of anything so he took photos. I downloaded them and cleaned them up. He can tell you about it.”
Walter cleared his throat and leaned toward Beck.
“Alex helped me put together a summary page on top.” He waited for Beck to take a quick look at it. “Earlier today, I read through reports filed by Detectives Raymond Ippolito and John Palmer, and a page of notes about their meeting with an assistant district attorney named Frederick Wilson written by their supervisor, James Levitt. I’m not entirely sure Levitt intended for me to see his notes, but they were on the pile of documents he handed to me. As Alex said, I couldn’t make copies, but I guess Levitt figured an old civil servant like me wouldn’t know how to take pictures.
“Ippolito and Palmer were the two who interviewed me on the morning Packy was shot. Palmer seems to be the one writing all the reports.
“There’s also a ballistics report on the bullet and gun that killed Packy. And a preliminary report on the bullets that killed Derrick Watkins, but no match yet to a gun.”
“There’s also an initial CSU report and Palmer’s write-up on a shooting that took place on Hoe Avenue. Victims were Jerome Watkins and Tyrell Williams.”
Bronx Requiem Page 29
