TWO HOURS LATER
“Last I counted, there were six,” I said. “All young black men with multiple priors on their jackets. All second-tier offenses, none coming close to a murder. And each case was closed out by Detective Eddie Kenwood.”
“They were all in their early- to mid-twenties by the time their case got to trial,” Pearl said. “And they all got hit with the two-five-to-life sentence.”
“DNA cleared them of the murders,” I said, gazing down at the folders, “and then the city doled out anywhere from three to six million in tax-free cash to make up for the error of their ways.”
“Now, from what I read and hear, the DA is going to look into all of Kenwood’s closed homicides,” Pearl said. “And if my count is on the money, that number totals out to fifty-six.”
“And they’ll fall on the chief’s desk,” I said. “He’s short on staff as is. Toss that pile on top of the cases they’re already working, plus the new ones sure to come in, and he’s on a heavy overload.”
“Sounds like he could use some helping hands,” Pearl said. “Now, I know the way it usually works is he comes to us with a case. Am I right on that score?”
I nodded. “For the most part. Look, for all I know, he already pulled a case from the pile with us in mind. If anyone hates dirty cops more than you and me, it’s the chief. He’ll find his way to us. Then we’ll get our chance to butt heads with Kenwood.”
“But that’s just it, Tank,” Pearl said. “I don’t want us to get just any case off the pile. I have a specific one in mind.”
I took a sip of wine and stared at Pearl for a few seconds. I had not seen him like this in a long while. He was usually one to keep his emotions in check, but I could tell from his manner that this was more than another case to him. This one was personal.
“Tell me what I need to hear, Pearl,” I said. “Tell me which case it is you want us to go after.”
“The young man’s name is Randy Jenkins,” Pearl said. “That is, if you can still be called young after doing seventeen years in prison. He was convicted of first-degree murder. Vic was a woman name of Rachel Nieves.”
“He confessed to the murder?”
“Written up by Detective Eddie Kenwood himself,” Pearl said. “He was a perfect target for Kenwood. Randy had multiple priors and he knew the victim. They had shared a pipe or two together, maybe more than that. Not sure.”
“So, there’s a signed confession, drug use, and a possible sexual relationship between doer and the vic,” I said. “That’s what we’re looking at?”
“That’s right,” Pearl said. “That’s what’s in the reports, and that’s what the jury seen and heard. Didn’t take them long to convict. They weren’t in the room long enough to order lunch.”
“He put up any kind of a defense?”
“There wasn’t much family money for a decent lawyer,” Pearl said. “There was the usual spiel we’ve all heard hundreds of times—the confession was coerced, and he would never hurt the victim; he had feelings for her. But it all fell on deaf ears. Kenwood, as you can well imagine, took the stand and did a full Bogart. He had the judge and jury eating out of his hands. Hell, by the time he was done, even Randy’s lawyer was convinced the boy was guilty.”
“Then why are you convinced he’s not?” I asked. “Look, there’s no love lost between me and Kenwood. And truth be told, his cases always seemed to have a stench about them. But before I go in and see the chief and ask for this particular case, I need to know we are truly looking to clear an innocent man.”
“Randy’s street name was TB,” Pearl said. “He was a chunky guy with a taste for candy and ice cream. He wasn’t a banger, not in a way you and me would define the word. Not even close. But in his neighborhood, in those days, there was only one way to go—you played along to get along. On those other priors in Randy’s rap sheet, there isn’t any doubt as to his guilt. He was all the things they said he was when it came to those crimes. But I can swear on any Bible you got handy that he wasn’t a murderer.”
“How do you connect to him?” I asked.
“Randy didn’t have much in the way of family,” Pearl said. “His grandmother worked two, sometimes three jobs to earn the paycheck of one. I knew his uncle, and when he was healthy, he would ref some of the high school basketball games. But he didn’t last long enough to help keep Randy on the right side of the law.”
“And his mother?”
“Dead.”
“Any brothers or sisters we can reach out to?”
“They’re scattered all over the country,” Pearl said. “And if we found any of them, doubt they would care much. The only one who did was Mo Hastings.”
“I remember him,” I said. “Worked for the parks department. Used to be a gangbanger back in his day but got scared straight and stayed that way, far as I know.”
“He did,” Pearl said. “And he tried to help steer as many kids out there as he could away from a wasted life. He spent a lot of time with Randy. Gave him a place to sleep when he needed one, bought him a meal here and there. Had me talk to the boy a few times, using me as an example of the kind of life you can have if you can beat the street.”
“What was your read on Randy?”
“Tried to come off as tough, like all street kids do,” Pearl said. “But I didn’t buy it. Deep down, he was scared of what he didn’t know. He was looking for the easy out, because that’s what they see each and every day. Fast money, flash cars, quick scores, and all the drugs you can pump into your body. He was polite enough, but I knew my words didn’t make a dent.”
“Mo didn’t seem to have much luck in that department, either,” I said.
“It wasn’t from lack of trying,” Pearl said. “He did as much as anyone could, and it broke Mo’s heart when Randy was sent away on the murder rap. He kept telling me there was no way that boy killed that girl. No way.”
“Did you look into it?”
“As best I could,” Pearl said. “Jury says guilty and the judge slams that gavel down, there isn’t much anyone can do. Even back then, signed confession and all, something about the case just didn’t feel right. But who was I to go up against the great Eddie Kenwood?”
“You still keep in touch with Mo?” I asked.
“We would meet now and then,” Pearl said. “Less and less as the years went on. He came to see me a few times in the hospital when I got hurt. But back then, as you well know, I wasn’t much in the mood for visitors.”
“With good reason,” I said.
“Then, when news broke about the DA unwrapping all of Kenwood’s cases, Mo gave me a call,” Pearl said. “He asked if I would take a look at the Randy Jenkins case. He had heard that me and you take on a job now and then, and he asked me to make it right. I told him I would.”
“Where’s Mo hang his hat these days?”
“He lives in the Bronx,” Pearl said. “Up near Tremont Avenue. But he won’t be there long.”
“Why not?”
“He’s got cancer,” Pearl said. “Terminal. He thinks at best he’s got one month left, if that.”
I nodded and stayed silent for a few moments. “You ever reach out to Randy over the years?” I asked.
“I went up to see him a few times,” Pearl said. “But after I got shot up, I stopped. That guilt’s on me. I write him letters every few weeks, but that don’t help ease the burden.”
I sat back and closed my eyes. “None of the weight is on you, Pearl,” I said. “If Randy is guilty, then it’s on him. If he’s innocent and locked in a cell for no reason, then it’s on Kenwood.”
“There’s only one way for us to find out,” Pearl said.
“I should go upstate and visit with Randy. Get his side of the story. You good with that?”
“Was counting on it,” Pearl said. “So, you’ll ask the chief for the case?”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said. “Rest easy on that score. And there’s someone else we should have a sit-down with, someone I never thought I would see again, let alone go up against.”
“Kenwood,” Pearl said.
I stood and looked down at the scattered folders. “That’s right,” I said. “Eddie Kenwood. Mr. Homicide himself.”