Raymond Ippolito drove. John Palmer sat in the passenger seat, trying to match names in an NYPD file with names on an FBI organizational chart of Bronx gang members. In a horizontal line under mug shots of Eric Juju Jackson and Floyd Whitey Bondurant, identified as Sovereign Commanders aka The Chosen, were eight squares. Two of the squares had the names and pictures of Jerome Watkins and Derrick Watkins, labeled Harrod Avenue Villains, and underneath them a vertical list of twenty-two names.
Ippolito glanced occasionally at Palmer with growing impatience.
“Is that crap showing you anything you really need to know, John?”
“Visual aid, my man.”
“For who?”
“Jackson.”
“That’s part of your pitch?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re only going to get one shot at this, John.”
“That’s the twentieth time you’ve told me that. Where are we meeting him?”
“Chinese restaurant over on 180th. It’s a place where I can set up something like this.”
“Why?”
“There’s a back room that won’t be wired.”
“You sure?”
“As sure as I can be of anything. I know the owner a long time. Don’t fuck around when we have to prove we aren’t wired. Jackson knows the drill.”
“Okay. What about Bondurant? He gonna be there?”
Ippolito turned to Palmer. “I sure fucking hope not.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because he’s a homicidal maniac. You ever see that big nasty-looking fucker coming at you, you pull and shoot, no questions asked. I’m serious. He’s the enforcer who makes the whole operation what it is. He kills people. That’s what he does.”
“You really think Jackson can deliver?”
“He can if he wants to. But understand one thing, John.”
“What?”
“Once we let this shit out of the tube, we can’t put it back.”
“Yeah. Well … I’d say it’s already out.”
“True.”
Ippolito turned onto 180th Street and parked illegally a few cars away from the Chinese restaurant. He didn’t bother to put any identification on the dashboard. Even the dumbest traffic cop would figure out it was an unmarked police car.
Palmer checked his watch. Exactly eight o’clock.
As they headed for the restaurant, Ippolito told Palmer, “By the way, John…”
“What?”
“Try not to stare at Jackson’s face.”
“Why?”
“He’s got bad skin.”
“How bad?”
“Horrible bad.”
“Shit, now you tell me.”
The Chinese restaurant was only half full when Ippolito and Palmer entered. The host shook hands with Ippolito and said nothing. He led them through the dimly lit restaurant, the air heavy with the scents of old-style Cantonese cooking, to a back room set up with a table for four.
Eric Juju Jackson sat alone at the table, an untouched plate of beef with oyster sauce in front of him. He sipped from a cup of tea. Even doing something as prosaic as sipping tea, Jackson seemed menacing.
He stood. Without saying a word, he looked back and forth at Palmer and Ippolito. Palmer laid his folder on the table. He and Ippolito emptied the contents of all their pockets. They took off their jackets, draping them over chairs. They proceeded to unbutton their shirts, pull them free of their pants and lift them up. They turned around so Jackson could see they weren’t wearing any wires. They unbuckled their pants and dropped them so Jackson could see their bare legs held no wires or recording devices.
Jackson, who wore a plain blue oxford button-down shirt and black jeans, did the same for them. Palmer tried not to stare at the ravaged skin across his back and shoulders. It looked like someone had taken an ice pick to it.
All three zipped and buttoned and buckled, put everything back into their pockets. Palmer and Ippolito sat on either side of Jackson, who still didn’t say anything, or look at them.
Ippolito said, “This is my partner, John Palmer.”
Jackson made a nearly imperceptible nod.
“I think we have an opportunity to help each other out.”
Jackson continued looking straight ahead, as if he held the detectives in such contempt he refused to look at them.
“Why you think I need your help?”
Palmer spoke up. “Because there are a number of investigations focused on people connected to you.”
“I got no people connected to me.”
Palmer didn’t hesitate. “Well, both the NYPD and the FBI say you do.”
Palmer slipped the 11 x 17 FBI organizational chart of known Bronx gang members from his folder and placed it on the table facing Jackson. Many of the names were highlighted in yellow. He paired the chart with pages of NYPD files with many of the same names highlighted in yellow.
Jackson glanced at both as if they had nothing to do with him.
Palmer didn’t try to convince Jackson. He simply said, “Those are the people under FBI and NYPD investigations. Here is a list of the federal charges they’re drawing up.”
He laid a typewritten page on the table listing: money laundering, prostitution, exploiting minors for the purposes of prostitution, transporting minors across state lines for purposes of prostitution, conspiracy, racketeering, tax evasion.
“I’m sure they’ll include more charges when they start petitioning the federal courts for warrants. As usual, the Feds will cast a wide net. They’ll invoke RICO statutes. They’ll arrest everybody connected to those crimes, including you.”
Jackson said nothing.
Palmer continued. “That’s their side of it. Our side is investigating two murders connected to you involving people on those FBI charts. Warrants are in process. Unfortunately for you, Mr. Jackson, once we start making arrests, it’s going to prompt the Feds to move faster than they might ordinarily. They won’t want their targets to end up in state courts. They’ll rush to get warrants, subpoenas, pull in witnesses, and push for indictments.”
Ippolito added in a friendlier tone, “Look, Eric, the FBI has a big hard-on these days about getting convictions on prostitution of minors. Operation whatever. What is it, Detective Palmer?”
“There are several operations in place. All run by their Child Exploitation Task Force. They have a lot of resources they’re focusing on the east coast these days.”
Jackson finally responded, still looking straight ahead.
“FBI ain’t going to find a damn thing on me. All that RICO shit starts with finances. Ain’t no financial records connecting me to anything. No way are they gonna prove any exploitation of any minors by me.”
Ippolito said, “Maybe yes, maybe no, Eric. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is very good at tracking money. Be that as it may, once they move, they’ll grab everybody. They don’t even need warrants to start pulling in witnesses. They start squeezing some of these dipshits around you, threatening ’em with no-bullshit for-real sentences of thirty, forty years’ hard time in a federal penitentiary, these kids are going to fall over each other trying to make deals. It’ll be a race to see who flips first. The FBI will have their choice of rats telling them what they know, whether they know it or not.”
Jackson finally turned to Ippolito. “We got ways of dealing with that shit, too.”
Palmer leaned in now, getting to it. “Okay, fine. Let’s say you do. So the sooner you know when this is going down, the sooner you know who’s going to get pinched, and the sooner you can make plans to deal with it.”
Ippolito took note of how quickly Palmer had volunteered to give Eric Jackson names of people to kill, and when to kill them.
Jackson had heard Palmer, but wanted to make sure. “What exactly are you saying to me?”
Palmer answered, “You’ll know when subpoenas are going to be issued, schedule of arrests, grand jury indictments, and the names.”
“From the Feds?”
“Yes.”
“How you going to get all that?”
“Same way I got the org chart.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
“You’ll believe it when you see it.”
“And you saying this is coming down because of some murders you investigating?”
Ippolito spoke up. “Yes. Shit’s gonna hit the fan once we start making arrests.”
“What’re these murders you talking about?”
Palmer said, “On Tuesday, an ex-con named Paco Johnson got released from prison. Mr. Johnson had a run-in with one of your associates, Derrick Watkins, who subsequently shot him. As a result, friends of Paco Johnson tracked down Derrick Watkins, and shot him. We have reason to believe those same friends of Paco Johnson shot and killed two more of your men earlier today, Jerome Watkins and Tyrell Williams. We’re investigating all four of those murders. They’re all connected.”
“Who are these people you talking about? The friends of that convict.”
Ippolito held up a hand. “Hold off on that for a second.”
For the first time since they’d sat down, Juju Jackson looked back and forth between the two detectives, almost catching Palmer, who had been sneaking glances at his ravaged skin.
Jackson said, “All right. Let’s cut through the bullshit. You got information I might be interested in. What do I got to do to get it?”
Palmer concentrated on looking directly into Jackson’s eyes, and made his pitch in a low voice.
“Okay, bottom line. The friends of Paco Johnson we’re talking about are part of a crew run by a guy named James Beck. We had Tyrell Williams lined up to testify that Beck shot Derrick Watkins. We believe Beck, or one of his crew, shot Tyrell this afternoon to eliminate him as a witness. We need a witness to replace Tyrell. Preferably someone who was at the location on Mount Hope Place where Derrick got shot. We also need a witness to corroborate that. We also need witnesses to testify that Derrick Watkins shot Paco Johnson, providing a motive for Beck and his men to attack his crew. We need a minimum of four witnesses who can stand up.”
Jackson took a sip of his tea. Palmer and Ippolito waited for a response.
After a few moments, Jackson said, “All this shit you telling me about federal investigations, we all know ain’t worth all that much. There ain’t one dollar they can trace back to me. Maybe knowing who they’re coming after might help me tie up some loose ends, but ain’t no big deal. Like I said, I got ways of finding out who’s thinking about turning rat and taking care of it.”
Ippolito and Palmer waited. Jackson pushed his cup of tea away.
“But this other thing? I can’t have no crew from somewhere coming in here shooting my people. Can’t have it. I appreciate you giving me a name. But I ain’t going to say any more, ’cept I think it’s best if you gentlemen go do what you have to do, and I do what I got to do.”
Ippolito said, “Eric, why make life hard? You really want to start from scratch on this? We can tee up these guys for you.” Ippolito leaned toward Jackson. “Hey, I know what you’re thinking—fuck these cops. Let ’em close their own cases. I get that. But let me tell you, it’s better for all of us if we wrap up these homicide investigations quickly. Yeah, it’s good for me and my partner. But it’s good for you, too. We put this shit to bed fast, maybe the Feds go back to chasing their tails, and it’s business as usual.”
Jackson nodded. Thinking it through.
“Eric, trust me, if we don’t make these cases, nobody is going to cry over some poor ex-con. And definitely not over fucking Derrick Watkins, or his brother, and that other mook, Tyrell. We keep gettin’ paid.
“You, on the other hand, you’re going to be out there all on your own, my friend. The Watkins brothers are connected to you. Their whores are connected to you. If the powers that be decide your time is up, it’s up. And whoever these guys are coming after your people, they ain’t amateurs. What’s it been? Couple days and they’ve already taken out both the Watkins brothers? Plus Tyrell. Who knows how far they’re gonna take this little vendetta? Better we work together to put all this to sleep.” Ippolito shrugged and sat back in his chair, trying to look nonchalant. “Join forces. Faster, easier, simpler. Divide and conquer.”
“Divide how?”
Palmer chimed in. “There are four guys on this crew shooting your people. You give us witnesses who will let us take down Beck and one other guy on his crew. We give you leads on the other two. That’s two for us, two for you. Take yours down however you want.”
“How you know it’s only four guys?”
“We know. There have connections, but it’s only four involved in this.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Seems like they’re pretty good at what they do.”
“And you know where to find the other two shooting my people?”
“Absolutely.”
“Plus, I get a heads-up on the FBI thing.”
“Yes.”
Jackson nodded to himself. “When you need these witnesses?”
Ippolito spoke. “We’re meeting with the assistant district attorney tomorrow at one. We need four witnesses at the Forty-second Precinct by noon, latest, so we can prep them.”
Palmer added, “Preferably four with fairly clean records who can take direction.”
“And when do I get the rundown on Beck’s crew?”
Palmer continued, “Just to be clear. We get Beck and one of his guys I can identify. You get the other two.”
“But I gotta have information and whereabouts on every fucking one of them. You guys don’t nail Beck and whoever, I got to be ready to defend myself.”
Ippolito closed the deal. “All right, Eric, we see four stand-up witnesses by noon tomorrow, we’ll give you everything we can on Beck’s crew, plus keep you ahead of the Feds. But—you give us a few days to arrest Beck and the other guy. After that, everybody does whatever the fuck they want.”
Jackson said, “Today’s Thursday. So by Sunday, I’m free to go.”
Ippolito said, “No. Today’s shot. We need until Monday, earliest.”
Jackson nodded, leaned toward Palmer and Ippolito, and said, “I don’t like sitting on my hands.”
“You’ll have the info on that crew tomorrow. If I were you, I’d use the time to make a plan. Monday is reasonable.”
“All right, fuck it. And remember, you two don’t hold up your end, my witnesses gonna get real hard to find. And if you do find ’em, they’ll have amnesia.”
“Fair enough.” Ippolito stood. He knew when to end the meeting. “Nice talking to you, Eric.”
He and Palmer put on their jackets and left without another word.
Thirty seconds after they left, Jackson took out his cell phone to call Bondurant. The cops had no idea who had really shot Derrick Watkins. He wanted to make sure Bondurant had found the girl, or was close to it. He waited for Bondurant to pick up. He didn’t.
He wondered what the hell was going on.
“Whitey, call me.”