“What the…?”
“The midnight shift comes on, and Connery, a white patrolman and a redneck from way back, is assigned to ride with a female partner. His usual partner was suspended in the latest scandal. The female is Jessie St. Juste, a Haitian who takes no shit from anybody. Connery is not crazy about it and neither is she, with all that’s been going on, but the sergeant gives them a pep talk after roll call and all goes well—until they get out to the parking lot to pick up their patrol car.”
“What happened?”
“They both insist on driving. She’s got the keys, he grabs them, she snatches them back and starts climbing into the driver’s seat. He drags her out by the hair, and they get into it. Major fistfight, rolling around on the ground, a free-for-all. She winds up with a gash on her forehead, his front teeth are loosened.”
I remembered Jessie St. Juste, a tall, muscular woman who had never driven until she came to this country. She had totaled a patrol car in training. In a way, I could see Connery’s point. “Who won?”
“A draw, though she almost bit off his trigger finger. It took seven of us to drag them apart. She kicked him in the crotch, and he was going for his gun.”
“They were in uniform at the time?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus, what a story that would have been if they’d wound up shooting each other.”
“Thanks a lot, Britt. The department is crumbling around us, and you’re thinking great story.”
“You know what I mean. What happened to them?”
“Both relieved of duty. Under investigation, probably will wind up with short suspensions. They’re trying to keep it quiet. The brass is afraid it will further erode public confidence in the police department if the story gets out. But it surely would have leaked anyway, without me telling you. The Miami Association of Women Police has filed a grievance, so did the Anglo officers’ group and the Black Police Benevolent Association. Did you hear, the Puerto Ricans have dropped out of the Hispanic Officers Association to establish their own group? They don’t want to be associated with the Cuban faction any longer. And the Haitian officers have splintered off from the black association.”
“This is all so crazy.”
“I know, I know.” Francie sighed. “How’s the trial coming?”
“I won’t see Janowitz’s story for the street until I get into the office. Why do you think they’re all still lying about a BOLO that night?”
Francie frowned. “Personally, I don’t think they’re lying. I think there was one, but I can’t say that I remember hearing it myself. I’ve tried to think back, but it wasn’t important to me at the time. I was on another call.”
“How can you say that, Francie? If there was one, it would have been on the tape. It’s not there.”
She frowned.
“All transmissions are on the tape, right?”
“No. Only communication between the dispatcher and officers in the field. Car to car isn’t on the tape.”
Something stirred in the pit of my stomach. “Then anybody out there with a police radio could issue a BOLO, and there would be no record of it?”
“They could, but it’s not done. It’s not procedure. According to proper procedure,” she said, “anybody who wants a suspect stopped or picked up gives it to the dispatcher, who broadcasts the BOLO.”
“But what if somebody didn’t follow proper procedure and put it out on the radio himself?”
Francie shrugged. “Then the troops on that frequency would hear it, although it would have bypassed dispatch and wouldn’t be on the tape. But that’s not supposed to be how it’s done.”
I was excited now. “But Francie, what if it was done? That would explain it.”
“That would explain it,” she echoed, looking thoughtful. “But who…”
“If somebody did it, why haven’t they come forward? There’s no excuse for Hudson’s death, but it sure would make the officers look a little less culpable. It could explain why they went after him. It would prove that it wasn’t just because he was a black man in a nice car; it would show that they really had some reason to think he was armed and dangerous. Otherwise, they just look like racist hoodlums.”
“Maybe that’s what somebody wanted them to look like,” she said.
“You mean they were set up?”
“Things are so crazy in the department,” Francie began slowly, then stopped and shook her head. “But it’s all too far-fetched. Why would anybody do that?”
“Unless it was somebody who was setting up D. Wayne Hudson, not the cops.”
“He didn’t seem like a man with those kinds of enemies. And it had to be somebody with access to a police radio—who knew our frequencies, unit numbers, and procedures.”
“So it had to be somebody on duty that night, right?”
“Not necessarily,” she said. “A lot of officers, and all of the brass, have their own radios. It wouldn’t have to be somebody who was actually working. But why, Britt?”
“Maybe just a bad practical joke. One that got out of hand. They didn’t realize that D. Wayne would get thumped.”
“But who?”
“You’ve got me, Francie, but you have to admit it’s a possibility.”
“Yeah. Let’s think about it.” She took off the sunglasses and folded them, her eyes speculative. “Strictly personal, Britt, and far more pleasant, I hear you’re seeing Kenny Mac, one of the homicide guys.”
“That’s around the station?” I raised my eyebrows.
“I heard him taking a razzing.”
“God, Francie, cops are worse than, than…” I groped.
“A bunch of little old ladies,” she said, finishing my sentence for me. “I felt sorry for the guy, given the current state of police-press relations.”
My face felt hot, remembering that first night with McDonald, and our post-coital banter about the police and the press.
“This is serious! You’re blushing, Britt!”
“I don’t blush,” I said. “It’s the sun.”
She laughed as we stood to walk back to our cars. “He’s a nice guy, gorgeous eyes, a real hunk, too. Hope it works out for you. By the way, I also heard about your encounter with Major Alvarez awhile back.”
“I figured. Gossip travels with the speed of light at police headquarters.”
“The man is nuts, Britt, totally unpredictable. I try my best to stay out of his way. He’s got a short fuse.”
“Don’t I know it” I nodded and rolled my eyes, remembering.
“I’m serious. His wife manages one of those walk-in clinics in Little Havana, the one at Ninth Street and Twelfth Avenue. She’s an RN. We’ve had a couple of calls out there in the past. Some kid broke in one night, looking for drugs. I heard Alvarez not only caught the kid but beat him half to death.”
“There was never a beef?”
“The kid came in through a skylight. Alvarez claimed he fell. The kid’s a junkie. He’s a major, with political clout. Who’s going to challenge his story?”
I drove back to the paper, my mind abuzz with the possibilities in the Hudson case, and wondering why McDonald never mentioned being teased about our relationship.
I scanned Janowitz’s story from Atlanta. Only one black selected for the jury, and he was an alternate. The fate of the Hudson cops would rest in the hands of an all-white panel. Our daily nuts-and-bolts coverage was thorough, but not front-page stuff. On television, however, everything was front page.
Night after night, we saw stills of D. Wayne Hudson, photogenic and smiling, with his beautiful wife and children. Footage of him in action on the football field, to the roar of a cheering crowd. Footage of his funeral. And once testimony started, with cameras in the courtroom, tape of the most damning moments presented by the prosecution. Dr. Duffy, the assistant medical examiner, on the stand, using a pointer to detail each injury on photos shot in the morgue.
Carpenter demonstra
ted how he helped smash the lights on Hudson’s car, then push it into the ditch. An officer witness demonstrated the blows that rained onto the head and body of the handcuffed victim. All were shown and reshown over and over again.
It certainly looked bleak for the defense. But I knew there are no guarantees with a jury, and the jury was not watching TV. If you read Janowitz’s copy carefully, the squadron of defense lawyers seemed to be making some points that might stick.
The Blackburns and the bodybuilders insisted that Hudson violently resisted arrest, that he never appeared seriously injured. That hospital personnel may have been responsible for the death by failing to recognize, diagnose, and treat his injuries sooner.
Meanwhile, I put out feelers by phone, since most cops did not want to be seen conversing with reporters, and even pumped McDonald about who might have broadcast a BOLO that night, either as a prank or for more sinister reasons.
Dan Flood proved more helpful than McDonald, who had actually talked to me more freely about cases when we were strangers. Now that we were lovers, he wouldn’t tell me a damn thing.
“It wouldn’t be ethical to tell you,” he responded to my simple question about an open homicide case one night on our way to a movie.
“I hate men with ethics.”
“It’s not so much ethics,” he said. “It’s known as covering my ass.”
“You’re overreacting, and it’s unfair to me,” I pouted. “This is reverse discrimination.”
“Ha, now you know how it feels. It’s just that if I’m accused of talking to you about police business, I want to be able to truthfully deny it. I don’t like being labeled the leak in the department,” he grumbled.
“Oh you poor baby,” I joked. “Sticks and stones…”
He didn’t laugh. He parked the Cherokee in the lot facing the Byron-Carlyle Theater, and we strolled across the street toward the box office. Suddenly, McDonald took his hand off my shoulder and spun away. “Be cool. Meet you back at the car,” he murmured, then went back to the curb and returned to the Cherokee via a circuitous route. He did not look back.
I wasn’t sure whether to follow, wait for him, or go ahead and buy the tickets. The movie would start in less than five minutes.
He must have seen something, I thought, looking wildly around; a suspect, or a missing car that homicide had been looking for. Nothing looked obvious to me. Annoyed, I marched straight back to the Cherokee. He stood beside it, trying to appear casual. “Walk on around the corner,” he said in a low voice, without looking at me. “I’ll pick you up there.”
“What is this? What’s going on?” He made a quick, impatient gesture. Feeling foolish, I trotted dutifully around the corner and stood waiting in front of a closed dry cleaning shop. The Cherokee came gliding around the block a few minutes later. He glanced furtively around as I climbed in. “What the heck is going on?” I demanded.
“We almost walked right up on them,” he said.
“Who?”
“You didn’t see them?”
“Who?”
“Lt. Simmons and his wife. They were waiting in line at the box office.”
“So what?”
“You know it’s not a good idea for us to be seen together right now.”
“You don’t want to be seen with me!”
“You know how things are at the department.”
“Yes, but this is ridiculous. Does this mean we have to sneak around like illicit lovers, as though we’re each married to somebody else?”
“That,” he said, grinning, “would probably be simpler than our current situation.”
“This is why we’ve been staying home a lot,” I said accusingly. “Am I dumb. I thought you just liked being alone with me.”
“That’s a bonus.” He squeezed my knee.
“What about the movie? The lieutenant and his wife are probably already inside.”
“We’d probably bump into them on the way out.”
“And maybe we could go have a cup of coffee with them, like normal people.”
He cut his eyes at me and turned right, onto Indian Creek Drive, toward my place. “Things aren’t normal right now. Let’s just rent a movie tonight.”
I sighed out loud. “I didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or eat a banana when you just walked away and left me in the middle of the street. That’s why you were so eager to go all the way across state to Sanibel, isn’t it? That explains that awful, dark Italian restaurant that’s suddenly your new favorite.”
“I’m sorry, Britt. But I’m studying hard for the lieutenant’s test next month, hoping to make the list. Being seen with you can’t do me any good. You know how cops are.”
“You can just tell them that we don’t talk business! God knows it’s true.” His face had darkened and looked set. “Are you really taking that much heat?” I asked more gently.
“If you must know, yes,” he said finally. “Check the glove compartment.”
I did. Atop the owner’s manual and car papers was a name plate, neatly lettered and constructed of heavy cardboard. Somebody had put a lot of effort into it. The name and the title had been carefully stenciled and filled in with a black felt-tip marker. JIMMY OLSON, Boy Reporter. I couldn’t help but whoop with laughter.
“Found it on my desk,” he said, controlling his temper with obvious difficulty.
“When?”
“Right after you broke that story on the fight in the parking lot.”
“I didn’t get that tip from you.”
“Nobody in the department believes that. Every time you write a story,” he shook his head, “everybody looks at me.”
“That’s ludicrous. I had sources before we started seeing each other. You were one of them,” I sniffed. “I still have the others. It’s not fair.”
“Tell me about it.”
The evening was not a total loss. Our lovemaking was passionate. The frustration of our situation only made me want him more. In fact, behaving like strangers in public and uninhibited lovers behind closed doors lent a clandestine sense of excitement to the relationship.
But when it came to talking shop, he was a sphinx. Thankfully, Dan Flood was back on the job, his speech still a bit clipped, but feeling fine, thank you, and looking good, having lost almost twenty-five pounds while unable to eat. We chewed on the question of who could have put out the BOLO, chatting on the unrecorded homicide line.
“What you have to consider, Britt, is why. If it was someone on the force, who would stand to gain by polarizing the department, by this scandal, by the guys being on trial?”
“I dunno,” I said puzzled.
“I don’t either,” Dan said. “But anybody could have. Uh oh, my partner, a guy you know, is getting pissed at me for spending too much time on the phone. Gotta go. But why don’t you check out the Thursday night poker players? See if they know anything.”
“The who?”
“For the past twenty years, a bunch of the guys have been getting together for a game. Whitaker, Alvarez, O’Rourke, and Duran are some of the founding members.”
“Who else plays?” I reached for a pencil and began to scribble on the notepad next to the phone as Flood rattled off names.
“Tell your partner hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Sure thing, toots.”
I got the distinct impression that he did not use my name because he did not want to be accused of talking to me. He didn’t even want McDonald to know.
I shook my head, hating all the secrecy and being treated like I was contagious. The names of the poker players were all familiar; they were cops who had been around for a long time. A few were old-time hard-liners who did not deal well with the press. I knew three of the others, Duran, O’Rourke, and Salazar, well enough to have their unlisted home phone numbers. Over time, as they ascended in rank, many cops became less paranoid about giving out their numbers. Two were lieutenants, another a captain.
/> They’re all buddies, I thought; if I use a shotgun approach and start peppering them with questions, word will quickly get back to all of them. I had to think this through and try to hit pay dirt on the first call.
I sat and studied the names. Lt. Sean O’Rourke’s jumped out at me. He was a smart man, good cop, loud and often boisterous, a bit of a drinker, and somewhat of a maverick. That had to be the reason he had not climbed higher in rank. I had called him at home a few times on breaking stories, and even relatively early in the evening his words had been slightly slurred, though he remained articulate. His dad had been an assistant chief on the New York City Police Department, a fact he was proud of. He loved police work, but exuded a sense of bitterness at the direction the department had taken. I knew he was eligible for retirement and thinking about putting in his papers. I had never known him to lie, which was why he often got in trouble with the brass. He hated politics and those who played it, loved the truth, and spoke out, often to the detriment of his career. He would loudly castigate his own men when they screwed up, but never allowed anyone else to criticize them. He was a real cop’s cop.
O’Rourke was beefy, with a chubby face, pale eyes, and a growing gut. I also knew that he’d been divorced a few years earlier after a long-term marriage, and had a son in college, studying engineering. Always alone at the functions I had covered, he was either carrying a torch or awkward about reentering the single social life. The times I had called him at home, he seemed to be alone and enjoying talking, keeping the conversation going far beyond what I needed for the story. I glanced at the accursed cuckoo clock. If I catch him at home, I thought, he’ll probably have had a few drinks by now. Loose, alone, maybe eager to chat.
“I need to talk to you,” I told him.
“Where’ve ya been, Britt?” His words seemed more than slightly slurred. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the Hudson case.” Nothing like getting right to the point.
There was a pause. I heard him breathing. “I was wonderin’ when you would catch on. This whole trial, it’s a crock of shit. Those poor bastards.”
“What do you mean?” I said, trying not to sound too eager.
Contents Under Pressure Page 25
