LATER THAT DAY
You don’t need to be a deeply religious man to admire St. Francis or, for that matter, throw a prayer his way. His goals were simple—help the poor and those in need. And those that followed in his footsteps executed the mission he laid out for them. During the height of the Great Depression, for example, the Friars doled out bread and alms, feeding as many as four thousand hungry and desperate New Yorkers in a single day. Toss in the fact that St. Francis is also the patron saint of animals, and that makes him my favorite saint. Not far behind him is St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes and cops—where I qualify on both accounts.
I often make it a point, either coming into the church or before leaving, to stop in the courtyard and reach a hand to touch the bronze statue of St. Francis. His right heel, knees, and hands all shine from the millions of fingers that have rubbed them over the years.
I sat in a pew in the back of the small church, taking in the beauty and the silence, as I contemplated the tasks before me.
I needed to either clear Randy Jenkins or prove to myself and everyone on my team that he really did commit the crime for which he stood convicted. The fact that an innocent man was possibly spending double decades behind prison bars sickened me. Anyone I slapped the cuffs on deserved it. I sent a lot of men to prison and a few to the morgue, but all had earned that fatal ride. And the fact that the hideous shadow of Eddie Kenwood hovered over this case made it that much more crucial I get to the truth of the matter. It is no secret that cops like me, Pearl, and Chief Connors harbor a deep dislike for the criminals that prey on the powerless, taking what little they have and leaving blood and ruin in their wake. But our hatred for dirty cops runs even deeper.
A hood does not take an oath to obey the law and protect the innocent from harm. But a cop is held to a higher standard, or should be. Once they cross the line and walk down a path that lines their pockets or inflates their reputation at the expense of those without recourse, they cross into my red zone. To my way of thinking, a dirty cop is the lowest and vilest form of criminal. He abuses the trust that’s placed in him by the public he has sworn to protect. Eddie Kenwood was now my enemy and I was his, and only one of us could come out of this battle unscathed.
The danger posed by the accounting firm that set my brother up also brought with it significant and potentially lethal challenges. Now, I wasn’t walking into that minefield blind. But these guys were pros and had been above the reach of the law for many years. The feds hadn’t been able to nail them, despite their best efforts. I had to wonder about the level of success I would have.
It was a company of tightly held secrets. And I was a man who feared his dark secret would one day be exposed. They would go to any lengths to keep their machinations off anyone’s radar. And they would not hesitate to bring harm to me or any member of my team. All to protect their profits.
And their secrets.
Would I be willing to do the same? How much did I fear the revelation that could come out about me while working this case? These people had the means to dig into my past. They would look to attack us at our weakest points, exposing parts of our lives that had for good reason been hidden away. Jack and my parents were the only ones who had known my secret, and now they were dead. I told Connie the reason Jack and I didn’t speak was that he had seen me kill a man. But I didn’t go any deeper into it than that and she didn’t ask. But that didn’t mean my secret was safe and tucked away forever. A long-held secret can be exposed in a blind moment, coming out and revealing itself when you least expect it. It was a fact I had chosen to ignore for many years. But I knew that at this time, with this case, against these particular adversaries, I could no longer allow myself that luxury. I believed without a doubt, as I sat there in that silent church, that what I had kept hidden for so long would soon be divulged to all who knew and loved me. I would be powerless to prevent it. I simply needed to learn to live with that sad fact.
I stepped out of the pew, genuflected, and walked out of the church toward the courtyard. I stopped in front of the statue of St. Francis and rested a hand on his knee. I said a silent prayer, asking for forgiveness and for courage. I stayed there for what felt like a long time, my eyes looking into the sculpted eyes of St. Francis.
I was a man of action and violence standing in a sun-drenched courtyard seeking solace and wisdom from a man of peace and love.