The Blue Executions Page 4

  “Listen. Detective Galvin…Tommy. I know you probably feel that I’m out here trying to make you guys look bad. I give you my word Detective, that’s not the case. I just want to do my story on how police do their jobs in minority neighborhoods. I don’t exclusively write negative stories on the police department. As a matter of fact, you and Paul here, you’ll determine the outcome of my story. We really aren’t on opposite sides. All I want is for you two to do your jobs as you normally would.”

  “So how come I can’t remember one positive story you’ve ever done concerning the NYPD?” Middlebrook pointedly interjected. It had been the first time all evening that Paul had spoken to the reporter, recalled Galvin; he found the question blunt, and was curious to see how the reporter would field it.

  “Because you choose not to. Many police officers—or people in any profession, for that matter—will only remember the bad we write about their profession. That’s what sticks in their mind because it makes them all look bad. When we praise people, they appreciate it, but they forget about it soon after. They don’t forget what hurts or offends them for a long time.”

  “I’ve read your column on numerous occasions,” replied Middlebrook. “Why don’t you refresh my memory? What articles have you written that were favorable to cops?”

  McGregor was swift in his response:

  “How about the fire rescue that rookie cop made last month while walking his foot post? Or how about the story I did on the Auto Crime Unit when they broke up and arrested members of a citywide carjacking ring. Then, there was the cop who walked in on an armed robbery when he was off-duty and had a gun battle with the robbers before he was able to arrest them. And, if you’ll recall, I never mentioned that the location was a known brothel. I’m not anti-cop, but if there is police corruption, you can be sure I’ll write about it. After all, that is my job.”

  Middlebrook didn’t seem at all pleased with the response. He’d figured McGregor had rehearsed it, possibly expecting the question or some other sort of confrontation.

  Galvin, on the other hand, considered what the reporter had said as he made a right hand turn onto 140th Avenue from Springfield Boulevard. He believed McGregor to be truthful. He studied McGregor’s reflection in the rearview mirror. His light brown eyes seemed honest; the eyes don’t lie. He could remember reading the articles that McGregor had mentioned and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Galvin offered. “I’ll pretend like you’re not here and I’ll go about doing things the way I normally would. All I want is that you treat us fairly when you write your article and make sure not to print our names, no matter what happens. Fair enough, Brian?”

  He once again looked in the mirror to observe McGregor’s reaction. McGregor put his pad down on the seat next to him and placed his pen behind his right ear; underneath his tight brown curly hair. He extended his hand to shake on the deal. “Fair enough,” agreed the reporter, apparently happy enough that he’d won over the support of at least one of the officers.

  Paul Middlebrook was not happy with this agreement. He’d only recently transferred to this precinct, and hadn’t even received his detective’s shield yet. He hadn’t been working with Galvin long enough to know him very well and had heard of Galvin’s reputation as a tough street cop. He hoped Galvin wouldn’t do anything in front of the reporter to jeopardize his eventual promotion. It didn’t take an awful lot to get in trouble on this job; even if you are just doing your job, reasoned Middlebrook.

  Galvin made his way towards Farmers Boulevard and made a right turn, heading north. He reached over the visor and retrieved a picture which he handed over to McGregor. “I’ve been looking for this guy for a couple of weeks now,” Galvin explained. “He shot a livery cab driver during the commission of a robbery. The cab was equipped with a camera and we have the whole thing on tape. He used to sling weed on 111 Avenue and Farmers. If we get lucky maybe he’s out there now.”

  *

  Middlebrook grew nervous as Galvin pulled the car over to the curb at 112th Avenue and Farmers Boulevard. He heard Galvin explain to the reporter that this was one of the worst drug corners in the precinct. Three young men were walking past—men who apparently recognized Galvin. Galvin called one over to the car. As the man approached, Middlebrook prayed that Galvin didn’t intend on randomly searching him. That would be a clear violation of the man’s civil rights, and in Middlebrook’s opinion, would be ill advised to do in front of their guest.

  The Police Department has been embattled as of late over stopping and questioning minorities; and with this precinct being almost entirely black, almost everyone they stopped fit into that category. The threat of a federal oversight was being battled in the courts right now and Middlebrook had no desire to be hurled into the middle of it by an article written by the reporter.

  *

  As the young man approached the car, Brian McGregor nervously compared the wanted photo to the man’s features. McGregor was a bit nervous, yet extremely excited. It must be him. Galvin said he sold drugs on the next corner. Why else would he be calling him over?

  Then something else crossed McGregor’s mind; if it was the man being sought, he’d likely be armed. “Is that him Tommy...the guy from the robbery?” McGregor asked in a barely audible voice.

  Galvin laughed under his breath at the reporter. Not only was he obviously scared but the two men looked nothing alike. “No, Brian. That’s not him.”

  “What up, Galv?” asked the man as he walked over to Galvin’s open windows. He was about eighteen; he wore his shoulder length hair in cornrows and had gold caps on his two front teeth. Galvin watched the other two males walk into a bodega on the corner as he turned to speak to the man he’d called over.

  “I don’t think your friends like me too much, Leshawn.”

  “Naw, man, one of their moms just asked ‘em to go to the store. We all took the walk.”

  Galvin studied the young man as he nervously bit his lower lip. He did so whenever he answered one of Galvin’s questions, Galvin observed.

  “I hope you’re not up to your old tricks again, Leshawn. You know the trial is coming up in a couple of weeks.”

  “Word to God, Galv. I ain’t dealin’ no more. You can search me up if y’want,” he offered, raising his hands over his head.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. But don’t let me see you guys hanging out all night. It wouldn’t look too good if I had to testify in front of a jury and tell them that I saw you hanging right on the same corner where I arrested you for possession of fifty-two baggies of crack and a loaded .380, now would it?”

  Leshawn Dawkins kissed his hand and held it up to the sky. “I ain’t dealin’ no more, Galv. That’s my word,” Leshawn swore, seeming earnest. He didn’t seem to want to leave—there appeared to be more on his mind.

  “Galv, man, I was wondering. You think if I give you some info, you might be able to tell the judge I be helping you out wit’ shit? Maybe I could get a play?”

  Galvin nodded to the man. “I can, but only if your information pans out and you don’t get locked up between now and your trial. And if you keep hanging out here, it’s only a matter of time before Narcotics bags you.”

  “True, but I ain’t gonna be hangin’.”

  “Okay,” Galvin said. “So, what’s your info?”

  Leshawn licked his lips before beginning.

  “There’s this kid. His name’s Jamel. He be hangin’ with this group of kids, call themselves the F and M Boyz. They out every night on Farmers and Merrick, near the Western Beef store. Jamel always be wearin’ a black an’ blue jacket and tan work boots. He usually be packin’ a joint. A two-five, I hear. But, if five-oh be clockin ‘em, he gonna jet.”

  “Well, if your info is good, you got my word I’ll mention it to the D.A.’s office. I can’t promise that they’ll reduce your plea offer, but I’ll give it a shot—but remember that’s only if you stay out of trouble.

  Leshawn
nodded. “You a’ight, Galv. You a’ight.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” said Galvin as he rolled away from the curb. Galvin was waiting for McGregor to ask him to translate what the young drug dealer had told him. He also decided not to make it easy on the reporter by offering up a translation; he would wait until the man asked. Galvin thought that his partner, who didn’t have all that much street experience, might be just as confused as McGregor.

  “So you would actually talk to the Assistant District Attorney handling the case on behalf of this kid?” queried the reporter. Galvin could see through the rearview mirror that he was scribbling feverishly on his pad.

  “Sure. Why not? Most people don’t understand—you’ve got to build a rapport with these kids out here. Any cop, who deserves his shield, will talk to the people on the streets. There’s a wealth of information out there on the streets,” he explained. “And if I give him my world that I’ll talk to the ADA if his information pans out, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do. If I lied to him—or anyone else for that matter—they would never give me information again. I’ve known Leshawn for a little over two years now and he’s given me information in the past which has led to arrests. Besides, no matter what I say, the DA’s office has the final say if they’re going to cut the kid slack or not.”

  McGregor seemed happy with the information.

  “This is the kind of story I’m looking to do, Brian. This is great. Now, the information he gave you…my guess is that a joint is a gun. But what did he mean that if a ‘five-oh was clocking him, he’d jet’?”

  Galvin glanced at his partner, who seemed just as interested in his explanation as the reporter. Galvin was disappointed—this guy didn’t have any idea what was going on in the streets and a phone call had gotten him into the detective squad. What a disgrace!

  “Once you’ve been out here for long enough, you pick up on all of the local slang,” explained Galvin. “Five-oh is their slang for the police—it originated from the television series Hawaii Five-Oh. When he said if we were ‘clocking him, he’d jet,’ Leshawn meant that if we gave Jamel a hard look, he’d run from us. So, basically, Leshawn was warning us that we’d be in for a foot chase.”

  “Don’t most of the people that you arrest on the street who are carrying guns or drugs run from you?” McGregor was curious.

  “Not always. If you know how to read them and if you employ good tactics, sometimes you can take them by surprise. If you do it correctly, you can be on top of them before they know what hit them.

  *

  After nine p.m., the precinct started to get busy. They had just left the scene of a shooting in the parking lot of a cheap hotel near the airport. Middlebrooks best guess was that it was drug related. Galvin and the reporter started to become relaxed and more comfortable with each other. There was even some unforced dialog. Middlebrook, however, was still skeptical as far as the reporter was concerned; he tried to stay out of the conversation unless he was directly asked a question.

  The radio then reported a man with a gun call in the parking lot of Baisley Park. Middlebrook perked up. “That’s not too far from here. Let’s go.”

  “Radio runs are for the sector cars. If I’m going to make a collar out here, it’s going to be on my own observations,” Galvin lectured. He explained his theory that officers in plainclothes details such as this shouldn’t chase the radio—the only reason they take a radio out into the field was in case they needed to call for assistance or assist another cop. “We can back them up, but it’s the sector car’s job.”

  Middlebrook didn’t respond. He noticed that the reporter was writing down comments in the back of the auto, and felt it was possible that Galvin had made him look bad in front of McGregor; he hoped that it would not be mentioned in the article. Despite what Middlebrook had heard about Galvin, he’d yet to be impressed by him.

  Once the radio run was marked as unfounded, they continued back on patrol. Middlebrook glanced over at his partner again, and noticed a strange look in his eyes as they drove slowly along Sutphin Boulevard. Something had obviously caught Galvin’s eye.

  *

  The man was about twenty years old, a light-skinned black man with a low haircut, wearing a green army fatigue jacket and blue jeans, Galvin noted. More importantly, he noted that the man was running across Sutphin Boulevard and turned onto Linden Boulevard with a McDonald’s bag in his left hand. His right hand was closer to his body than it would be normally and was not swinging as he ran. The man’s eyes met Galvin’s, and he ever-so-slightly touched the right side of his waistband and stopped running.

  Galvin quickly turned away from the man, not wanting to alert him. At that moment, Galvin saw a black Nissan Altima parked one block west of Sutphin Boulevard. The sole occupant of the Altima saw the unmarked auto and immediately drove away. Galvin saw the man who had been running stop dead in his tracks and look back at the unmarked auto. Galvin read off the Altima’s license plate, telling McGregor to write it down.

  “Why, Tommy? What’s going on?” McGregor asked. He’d noticed the way Galvin had been watching the man, but hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.

  “I don’t have time to explain right now,” said Galvin as he stopped the unmarked auto.

  “Yeah, just stay down,” added Middlebrook, although he was just as confused as the reporter.

  Brian McGregor chose not to listen, keeping his head up to observe what was going on. Galvin waited for the man to turn onto Linden Boulevard from Sutphin. Galvin slowly rolled down the window and addressed the man from about fifteen feet away—he looked extremely nervous.

  “Excuse me, sir? We just got a call on the radio about two Spanish guys stabbing a black guy on 114 Road, just off of Sutphin. We saw you running from there and thought maybe you saw something?”

  “Yeah, man, these Spanish dudes was kickin’ the shit out of a brother,” the man explained, seeming to relax. “I was runnin’ cause they started t’come after me.”

  Galvin felt confident that the man had bought into his story. At least he hoped that he did. The man was about five foot seven and couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds. Galvin was willing to be he could run like the wind. Galvin turned to Middlebrook.

  “Don’t get out of the car until I grab him,” he whispered. He then looked back at the man as he calmly got out of the car. He took a notepad from his jacket pocket.

  “I need to take your name and phone number down in case we make an arrest in this case,” said Galvin casually. “We need more people like you to come forward and be witnesses so we could put these guys in jail.”

  Slowly, Galvin walked up to the man, noting his trepidation.

  “Troy Evans is my name,” immediately responded the man. He rattled off a phone number that Galvin only pretended to take down. “Can I leave, now?”

  “Sure,” said Galvin, but as soon as the man turned to walk away, Galvin lunged at him and grabbed him by the coat and ordered him not to move. The male wildly swung his right hand at Galvin, but it was blocked; Galvin then landed his own quick right and added a knee to the groin before Middlebrook arrived to aid his partner in handcuffing the man. McGregor watched from the back of the car, still unable to understand what was transpiring in front of his eyes. He trusted Galvin’s instincts, though, and watched as Galvin removed a .45 caliber, semi-automatic handgun from the man’s waistband. He then picked up the McDonald’s bag, which had fallen during the struggle.

  “I knew I shoulda run, man, I just knew it!” repeated the man as he was placed in the backseat of the unmarked auto. Middlebrook joined him there as McGregor relocated to the front seat. Galvin got back in the driver’s side of the car and opened the McDonald’s bag.

  “How did you know he had a gun?” asked McGregor, eager for a good story.

  “The same way I knew he robbed the McDonald’s on Sutphin and Linden,” replied Galvin turning the bag upside down and watching a substantial amount of cash fall out. “Street smart
s. Any experienced cop could have sized up that situation. Right, Paul?”

  “Right you are, Tommy,” said Middlebrook, far too ashamed to admit that he had little more insight as to what had occurred than the reporter did.

  Galvin had just finished counting the six hundred and fifty-seven dollars that had been in the bag when the radio broke his concentration.

  “Units, be advised we are receiving a signal 10-30, robbery at gunpoint at the McDonald’s on Linden and Sutphin. The perp is described as a male black wearing a green army fatigue jacket and blue jeans. He’s armed with a large automatic handgun,” reported the dispatcher.

  Galvin picked up the portable radio.

  “Central,” he began, “Be advised, the 113 Squad has one under in regards to that robbery. Just have one unit respond to help us conduct a show up.”

  After being positively identified by the employees of the McDonalds, the man was becoming agitated as they drove to the precinct. “Listen, man, I can’t go back,” he said. “Can’t we make some sorta deal, man?”

  “What kind of deal?” Galvin baited. The comment had obviously piqued his interest. The man—sensing that he had nothing to lose—had to try to make the deal before the detectives found out about his past.

  “I was thinking—maybe you DT’S could keep that there money and let me bounce. Nobody would be any the wiser, man. Whadda ya say? That’s a lotta cheese there.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” explained Galvin, “I already told my dispatcher we had an arrest so now I’ve got to cut my boss in on it before I can cut you lose.”

  “Alright, officer,” the man agreed, although he sounded skeptical. It seemed to be his only chance. McGregor glanced at Middlebrook, suspicious and confused, but Middlebrook just threw him a wink when he was certain the perp couldn’t see it. McGregor just kept quiet.

  *

  The Internal Affairs Bureau had responded to the precinct shortly after Galvin had called to notify them of the impending bribery arrest. After being debriefed by Sgt. Polita, the Internal Affairs supervisor, Galvin was given a recording device, which he hid in the pocket of his jacket. McGregor, who had been allowed to stay and watch the interview, felt particularly impressed by the way in which the investigation was conducted—he felt that it was a good idea to get the man to repeat the offer on tape, especially since juries seemed to be growing less and less likely to believe police officers these days.