Mission Flats

by Mission Flats

  Det. Gittens: Yes. In my opinion, Braxton was at the apartment alone that night managing the Mission Posse’s cocaine operation. The Narcotics team surprised him when they showed up at the red door. He was trapped inside. Braxton panicked, grabbed the gun, and fired through the door, then he fled down a back staircase, dropping the gun as he ran.

  ADA Boyle: And how certain are you of this opinion?

  Det. Gittens: Very, very certain.

  Transcript of Hearing on Defendant’s Motion for Court Order Requiring Prosecution to Disclose the Identity of the Confidential Informant ‘Raul.’

  Sussex Superior Court, March 7, 1988.

  Cross-Examination of Det. Julio Vega by Attorney Maxwell Beck.

  Mr Beck: Detective, can you describe ‘Raul’ for us? What does he look like?

  Det. Vega: Medium-build Hispanic male, medium complexion, brown hair, brown eyes.

  Mr Beck: Oh, come on, you can do better than that. You’ve met with him many times, right? Can’t you tell us anything particular about him? Does he have a scar? A tattoo, a lisp, a wooden leg?

  ADA Boyle: Objection.

  Judge: Sustained.

  Mr Beck: Do you even know ‘Raul’s’ name?

  Det. Vega: His street name is ‘OG,’ for ‘Old Gangster.’

  Mr Beck: But what’s his real name?

  Det. Vega: I don’t have that information.

  Mr Beck: You’ve known him for years and you don’t even know his name?

  Det. Vega: On the street, that’s not unusual.

  Mr Beck: Detective Vega, do you know what a buy log is?

  Det. Vega: It’s a log at the Narcotics unit where we keep a record of any drug buys we do. Mr Beck: So every controlled buy is recorded in the log, correct? Det. Vega: Every drug buy, yeah. It doesn’t matter if it’s a controlled buy or an undercover buy.

  Mr Beck: And what’s the difference?

  Det. Vega: Well, an undercover buy is just a drug purchase made by an undercover police officer. But we can’t do all our own buys, because the dealers get to know our faces. So we do controlled buys, which is where you get somebody to make the buy for you.

  Mr Beck: I see. So if you ever did an undercover buy yourself, you would have recorded it in the buy log, correct?

  Det. Vega: Correct.

  Mr Beck: And when you applied for the search warrant in this case, you stated that you made a buy at the red-door apartment that very afternoon, did you not?

  Det. Vega: I did.

  Mr Beck: And was that statement true?

  Det. Vega: Yes, it was.

  Mr Beck: But you did not record that buy in the log, did you?

  Det. Vega: I don’t recall.

  Mr Beck: Would you like to look at the buy log for August 17, 1987?

  Det. Vega: Yes.

  [Mr Beck shows the witness a log book marked Exhibit 14.]

  Det. Vega: I guess I did not put it in.

  Mr Beck: But you’re sure you made the buy? Det. Vega: I’m sure. Mr Beck: Well, if you made the buy, then you must have come away with some drugs, right?

  Det. Vega: Of course.

  Mr Beck: And this was . . . ?

  Det. Vega: Crack cocaine. We bought one bottle.

  Mr Beck: By a ‘bottle’ you mean a little plastic vial?

  Det. Vega: Yes.

  Mr Beck: And by department regulation, evidence like that has to be turned over to the evidence officer and logged in as well, right?

  Det. Vega: [No response.]

  Mr Beck: But you did not log this vial of cocaine into the evidence room, did you? Would you like to see the evidence log?

  Det. Vega: Sometimes—

  Mr Beck: Detective Vega, if you really made a buy from the red door that afternoon, why wasn’t the evidence recorded in the evidence log?

  Det. Vega: [No response.]

  Mr Beck: Detective?

  Det. Vega: Sometimes when we seize drugs we just throw it out so no one can use it. We didn’t have a defendant at that point. We needed the search to have a case. There was no case yet, so the drugs weren’t evidence against anyone. So I must have just tossed them.

  Mr Beck: You just tossed them. How often do you just toss evidence?

  Det. Vega: All the time. I mean, not evidence. We seize stuff – if there’s no case to tie it to, what else should we do with it? Leave it sitting there for some kid to find?

  Mr Beck: Detective Vega, let me pose a hypothetical to you. Let’s assume, just out of curiosity, just for fun, let’s assume there really is no ‘Raul.’ ‘Raul’ doesn’t exist.

  ADA Boyle: Objection.

  Judge: Overruled. Mr Beck, you’re on very thin ice.

  Mr Beck: I understand, Your Honor. Detective Vega, let’s assume there is no ‘Raul,’ just hypothetically. A couple of young Narcotics detectives hear a rumor on the street that somebody is selling crack from a certain apartment. It’s just a rumor, though. Maybe it comes from a junkie. Do you understand that premise?

  Det. Vega: Yes.

  Mr Beck: And does that sort of thing happen? You hear a rumor about drug dealing here or there?

  Det. Vega: Every day.

  Mr Beck: Every day, excellent. Now, these two young detectives know the information is true, the tip is correct. But the source is shaky. They know a judge won’t issue a warrant based on a tip from a junkie. But these two young detectives want to raid this place and shut it down, they want to get that warrant and get into that apartment, they want it so bad—

  Det. Vega: That’s not what happened.

  Mr Beck: I understand. It’s a hypothetical.

  Det. Vega: That’s not what happened.

  Mr Beck: Yes, I understand. We’re just assuming for a moment. These two young cops with the shaky tip, they need to dress it up a little in order to convince a judge to give them the warrant, right? So instead of saying, ‘This tip came from a junkie,’ they say, ‘This tip came from a guy named Raul, who is one hundred percent reliable.’ Maybe they even go the extra mile and they invent an undercover buy, just to be sure they get the warrant. Who’ll question it, right? It’s just another drug raid. How many drug raids do you make in a year, Detective?

  Det. Vega: Dozens, hundreds maybe.

  Mr Beck: So these officers, they lie to get the warrant. Not a big lie. After all, their hearts are in the right place. They know there really is a drug dealer behind that red door, right? It’s just a white lie. Do you know what a white lie is, Detective?

  Det. Vega: [No response.]

  Mr Beck: Detective, do you know what a white lie is?

  Det. Vega: It’s when you tell a lie for the right reasons.

  Mr Beck: Precisely. It’s a lie you tell for the right reasons. But then it all blows up. One of the cops gets murdered and suddenly everybody wants to know, Who is Raul? And where is the evidence from that undercover buy?

  ADA Boyle: Objection. If there is a question here, I wish Mr Beck would ask it.

  Judge: Sustained. Pose a question, Mr. Beck.

  Mr Beck: Detective Vega, my question is this: Wouldn’t that scenario account for all the irregularities in this case?

  ADA Boyle: Objection!

  Mr Beck: Detective, wouldn’t that explain why no one can find ‘Raul’ and no one can even tell us what he looks like?

  ADA Boyle: Objection!

  Mr Beck: Detective, wouldn’t that explain why the controlled buy never got logged in?

  ADA Boyle: Objection!

  Judge: Sustained! Mr Beck—

  Mr Beck: Detective, there is no ‘Raul,’ is there?

  Judge: The objection is sustained, Mr. Beck!

  Mr Beck: Detective, if there really is a ‘Raul,’ why won’t you produce him? Where is he? Judge: Mr Beck, I said that’s enough!

  Court Order Dated April 4, 1988.

  . . . It is hereby ORDERED that the prosecution locate and produce the witness referred to in court papers as ‘Raul’ within seven (7) business days. The prosecution will satisfy this order by the produ
ction of ‘Raul’s’ full name, date of birth, current address, Social Security number . . .

  Police Report Dated April 5, 1988.

  Reporting Officer: Det. J. Vega (badge 78760) Spent double shift (1600-2400, 2400-0800) searching for CRI ‘Raul’ but have been unable to locate him. Have informed ADA Boyle of this fact. It is my belief that ‘Raul’ has purposely removed himself from the area out of reluctance to become involved in the prosecution of Harold Braxton for the murder of my partner, Det. Arthur Trudell. This officer will continue the search.

  Court’s Memorandum and Decision Dated June 1, 1988.

  . . . Whether ‘Raul’ actually exists or, as now seems likely, he does not, the Commonwealth has committed deliberate and egregious misconduct depriving the defense of an essential witness and resulting in irreparable harm to the defense . . .

  It is therefore with a heavy heart that the Court reaches its decision.

  The indictment alleging that the defendant Harold Braxton did commit murder in the first degree against Arthur M. Trudell is hereby DISMISSED.

  News clipping: ‘Officer in Murder Controversy Retires,’

  The Boston Globe, January 17, 1992, page B7.

  Detective Julio Vega, the partner of slain Narcotics detective Arthur Trudell and a central figure in the controversial trial of a Boston gang leader for that crime, has quietly retired from the Boston Police Department. Vega was removed from active field duty following the dismissal of the Trudell case in 1988.

  According to a police spokesperson, Vega retired one day after reaching his fifteenth year on the force, a critical date for purposes of his retirement pension.

  The department provided no information as to Vega’s future plans or whereabouts.

  Vega, 41, could not be reached for comment.

  18

  A key scraping in the lock startled me, breaking the spell. A glance at the clock: nearly seven at night. Was that possible? Had I been sitting there for five hours? Lately I had begun to wear reading glasses, little wire-rimmed jobs with round lenses, and I twisted them off to rub-rub-rub my eyes like a kid. My muscles and spine and eyes all ached, but there was more than just exhaustion. Something in the Trudell file had spooked me. Something I could not quite name.

  More clumsy scratching at the front door lock. Then it was quiet again. Background noises sounded clearly – the buzz of fluorescent lights, the clicks and creaks of the building, a car horn.

  At the reception area, I coughed to test my vocal chords, then announced, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Who is it? Who the fuck ah you?’

  ‘Ben Truman.’

  ‘Ben Truman? Who?’

  ‘Franny, is that you?’

  ‘Yeah. Open the daw, would’ja?’

  I opened the door and there was Franny Boyle, the SIU prosecutor, a foggy-drunk look on his face. He clutched his keys in his left hand. His right hand shook visibly. Franny’s tie was stuffed in his coat pocket, and his shirt was open, revealing a frayed T-shirt collar. ‘You scared the piss outa me, pal,’ he grumbled. Booze had thickened his Boston accent, which I would not have thought possible. ‘Just gonna grab a little snooze here, a’right? I’m not payin’ for a cab and I can’t deal with the fuckin’ T.’ He brushed past me.

  ‘Sure. Whatever, Franny.’

  He shuffled down the hall. His thick torso rolled with each step so that he rocked like a little tugboat. ‘It’s alright, Opie, I do it all the time.’

  ‘You sure you’re alright, Franny?’

  ‘Swell.’

  ‘Where’s Caroline?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’

  ‘I was just . . . She didn’t say good-bye.’

  He stopped, then turned to face me. ‘Are you porkin’ her?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You sure, Opie?’

  ‘Pretty sure, yeah.’

  ‘Why aren’t you? You don’t like her?’

  ‘Do you always cross-examine people this way?’

  ‘She’s divorced. Did ya know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well it’s true.’

  Boyle nodded as if we’d just cleared up a misunderstanding, then he moved off again. At the conference-room door he stopped and stared. The file boxes – shit! Boyle regarded the conference table, piled with papers and boxes. Comm. v. Braxton was written on each box in thick Magic Marker. He puffed his cheeks with a sort of sigh. ‘What are you doing, reading that shit?’

  ‘Reading about Braxton, that’s all.’

  ‘You want to hear the truth someday, you come ask me.’

  ‘Sure, Franny’

  Boyle gave me an exhausted look and continued down to his office, where he promptly tumbled onto the couch. ‘Hey, don’t tell Caroline I said she was fuckin’ you, alright? She might take it the wrong way’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think she’d take it the wrong way, Franny.’

  ‘She’s not wild about me anyway. She thinks I’m crooked.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ I dragged an old wool blanket over him.

  ‘She hates me. She wants to get rid of me but Lowery won’t let her.’

  ‘Just sleep it off, Franny. I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.’

  ‘She told some people once, “Franny’s so crooked he has to screw his hat on.” Like it was a joke. She doesn’t think I know that, but I heard about it. She said, “Franny’s so crooked he has to screw a rubber on.”’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Yeah. Charming, isn’t she? It’s not true anyway’

  ‘About the hat or the rubber?’

  ‘You know what I mean. I’m not crooked. I’m not crooked . . .’

  I was prepared to reassure him again, but Boyle was asleep before I could get the words out.

  Back in the conference room, I gathered up the papers, put them back in the boxes, and moved the whole mess into Danziger’s office. Boyle’s snuffling snores carried from the next room.

  And then I had it. I saw the importance of the Trudell case.

  Now, when you’re exhausted, it’s easy to mistake ordinary thoughts for profound ones. This trick of the tired mind explains why our deepest insights always seem to arrive at three A.M. and why there is such exquisite, tantalizing pleasure in trying to recover those three-A.M. thoughts the next morning. It is a pleasant misperception to think yourself profound, and tired as I was that evening, well . . . I thought I understood the situation.

  The Trudell case – all the hidden acts and secret motives became clear. I knew that Raul did not exist – not the Raul described in the warrant, anyway. Detective Julio Vega had invented Raul as a well-intentioned scam to trick judges into issuing search warrants. The courts had insisted that Vega do better than the junkies and rats who fed him information on the street, so Vega invented the informant to end all informants, a street-corner oracle so reliable he could exist only in a judge’s fantasy. And then it all blew up. With one shot, Harold Braxton not only murdered Vega’s partner, he exposed the whole fraud. He converted a routine bogus search warrant into a cause. And he converted Julio Vega from an obscure and unexceptional cop to a bumbling, lying villain with his face on the front page of USA Today. That’s how Harold Braxton got away with murdering Artie Trudell.

  In Danziger’s office I stood in front of the photo of the original SIU team, the photo showing Artie Trudell with that big rump roast of an arm on Bobby Danziger’s shoulder.

  And I knew.

  With three-A.M. certainty, I knew how it galled Danziger to see Braxton on the street after he’d killed Trudell. I knew that was why Danziger had kept the file – he wanted to reopen the case. And I knew whom Danziger must have contacted. Not Franny Boyle or Martin Gittens, neither of whom seemed to be aware that Danziger had revived the old case. No, it had to be the only other member of the old guard who knew what really happened that night: Julio Vega.

  19

  It was not Caroline but a little boy who answered the door. He was nine or ten, and his manner
suggested that the doorbell had interrupted some very important activity in the life of a nine – or ten-year-old. Before I could open my mouth, the kid moaned, ‘Mom, there’s a cop here for you.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m a cop?’

  ‘You’re here to see my mom, aren’t you?’

  ‘Your mom?’ It occurred to me I might be at the wrong apartment. I actually checked the number on the door to be sure.

  Caroline came around the corner, wiping her hands on her jeans and pushing the hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. ‘Ben! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about something. I was looking through Danziger’s files—’

  ‘This is Charlie,’ Caroline interrupted, with a pointed look. ‘Charlie, this is Ben Truman. Ben is a friend of your Grandpa’s, and that’s why Grandpa’s in trouble.’

  The kid mustered a little wave.

  ‘Charlie, you know better than that. What do you do when you meet a new person? Go on.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes, then extended his hand. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Truman.’ He gave my hand a firm squeeze, just as Caroline had instructed him, I’m sure.

  ‘Ow, ow.’ I fell to my knees and grabbed my hand as if the kid had broken every bone from wrist to fingertip.

  Charlie’s eyes widened, then he smiled. Boys are nothing but very small men (and vice versa); the surest way to their hearts is through their egos. He stepped back and leaned against Caroline, who crossed her hands over his chest.

  ‘Go do your homework,’ she said, with a pat on his chest.

  ‘I don’t have any homework.’

  ‘Then go do tomorrow’s homework.’

  ‘How can I do tomorrow’s homework if I don’t have it yet?’ He twisted his neck to look up at her, but she would not listen to reason. Charlie emitted a world-weary groan, then padded off.

  ‘You can get up now, Ben. Male-bonding time is over.’

  ‘Male-bonding time is never over. It’s just suspended if there happen to be females in the area.’

  ‘That’s a terrifying thought.’

  I stole a glance around the room in which we stood. A stack of magazines threatened to slide off the coffee table – The New Yorker, Cosmo, People. Beside them were three copies of The New York Times, still in their blue plastic bags – where they would stay until the Danziger case was resolved, no doubt. An open can of Diet Coke. A Nintendo game. A Miró poster above the nonworking fireplace. In the corner were Charlie’s hockey bag and two sticks. A comfortable, familial clutter.