“RUN”

I wasn't afraid he was going to run. He was completely compliant. He followed me without saying a word and said even less as I drove to the first pay phone I could find, the box of pastries between us. I called Joe Pistone; thankfully he was working a late tour. I told him I was coming in. “Where you comin' in from, Rand, the cold?”

“I think so, Joe. I think so.”

If Foster 2X Thomas didn't understand the seriousness of the situation, he got it when we walked into the lobby of the FBI. His face was more of shock than fear. I moved to the security kiosk. I flashed my shield, “I'm Detective Jurgensen. I'm here to see Agent Pistone.”

I no longer had the need to cloak my name this was as real as it was going to get, or so I hoped, because I was running out of moves. I pointed to Foster, “He's also here to see Pistone.”

After signing in, we were led to a bank of elevators. The security man turned a key, and the elevator doors opened. We stepped in, the man slid his key into another pad, turned it, and the doors closed, taking us to an unknown floor. I kept it light in the elevator, “You hungry?”

He was nervous, “A little, Sir.”

“We'll order something here. Don't worry about anything. This is just going to give us more privacy to talk, you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I almost told him not to call me Sir. The doors opened to a glass-enclosed lobby where Joe Pistone was waiting. “He a prisoner or guest?”

“He's a guest, Joe.”

Pistone nodded and extended his hand, “I'm Agent Pistone.”

Foster hesitated then shook his hand. “I'm Foster 2X Thomas, Sir.”

Joe punched in some numbers on a keypad, and the glass doors buzzed us into a large work area with dozens of cubicles. The thick carpets were royal blue. The walls were gleaming white. There was a lot of office chatter, but it was calm, not like the circus at any squad. We followed Joe into a small windowless conference room. “If you need anything, dial 208.”

“Joe, do you mind ordering us some pizza? Neither of us has eaten all day.”

I looked at Foster, “Pizza cool with you?”

“Yes, Sir,” he said sheepishly.

Joe said, “Pizza? You want I should get you a nice Chianti with that, maybe some garlic knots, a little antipasto?”

I smiled, “The pizza's fine, Joe.”

He closed the door behind him, giving us complete privacy. Foster was now visibly nervous.

I needed to ease into it. We small talked at first, then about his personal life: where he was from, was he married, did he have a girlfriend, where did he live, and whom did he live with. I wanted to develop a sense of who he was, create a personality profile. He'd be more comfortable when the food came. What I learned was very close to my first impression of him. He was a practicing devout Muslim. He made it a point to tell me he knew the credit card was dirty, and that he was prepared to make restitution for his crime. He seemed to be an open book, willing to share his personal thoughts and goals. He was an only, child living with his mother in the projects at 104th Street and Third Avenue. He had a girlfriend, Loretta, also a practicing Muslim, whom he planned to marry. He had a decent position at Mosque Number 7. He was a baker. The pay wasn't much, but he was getting training and experience. He said he understood that the mosque could appear to be extreme and militant to outsiders, but it created a disciplined work ethic and gave the members a sense of belonging to a powerful Imam—Farrakhan—in a chaotic time. I understood how disenfranchised inner-city youths could be attracted to that life. They were protected and given a purpose, something New York City was very thin on affording to poor kids.

The food arrived and we ate. I slowly began asking Foster about the day. He broke it down for me the way he had at the precinct. I tried to control my enthusiasm. He was exactly what I'd been searching for. He was intelligent, articulate, a member of the mosque in good standing, with a responsible position inside the facility, and most important—he was a witness to the crime. I thought, what would've happened if I hadn't called Vito from the pay phone at Ferrara's? Foster would've been processed and packed away. I thought of the damning evidence he was going to provide. If I hadn't ventured to the 13th Precinct, this case might never have been solved. I became overwrought with anxiety, stop thinking, Randy. You did go to the 13th. You do have a witness. The case is over. You're going home. Stop thinking. Stop fucking thinking!

It was time to get to the meat of the questioning. I asked, “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes, Sir, the honorable Elijah Muhammad,” when he mentioned this name he almost bowed his head with reverence. Elijah Muhammad was the head Imam of the entire Nation of Islam. Foster continued, “He states that we should always tell the truth, and Minister Farrakhan insists that we always speak the truth. I know you are someone of importance; otherwise we wouldn't be here. I would not lie to you, Sir.”

I leaned in close, not to intimidate him or anything, just to show I needed answers. “Did you shoot the policeman?”

He continued eating, “No, I didn't shoot the policeman.”

“Well, then, who did? I know you know, and you want to tell me, yes?”

“Lewis shot the policeman.”

I had a name. And Foster had a face to go with the name. “Lewis who?”

“Lewis 17X Dupree; he's the dean of boys.”

“Show me exactly what happened, what you saw.”

He stood with his legs spread apart. He bent down, pantomimed grabbing at something. “He was lifting the cop off the ground, like this, pulling at his gun. Then the gun came free. He pointed it at him—fired once—boom! Then he dropped the gun.”

I held up my hand.

Everyone assumed that the missing gun was Phil's, but Foster revealed it wasn't; it was Padilla's. I was convinced he was telling the truth, and convinced that I had my witness.

A lump developed in my throat. “I need to use the bathroom, Foster. Give me a minute.”

Inside the bathroom, I turned on the faucet, and threw cold water in my face. I started to hyperventilate. I knew it was over. Three years since his death, and we'd finally avenge his murder. I saw Phil's wife, Joy, and their children. They caught Daddy's murderer, they'd say, and the littlest ones might say, does that mean he'll be coming home? I began to cry. I thought of his Uncle Frank and Aunt Tessie. I saw Bart Gorman and the men of the 2-8, Sam DeMilia, and the rest of the patrol force. They'd finally be vindicated. Now they could go after the bosses, and then maybe they'd find their peace. Lastly, I saw them, the Muslims and the NYPD hierarchy in their illegal alliance. Our fearless leaders who'd tried their damnedest to place blame on anyone other than themselves, even on Phil. I saw Captain Josephs standing with Ben Ward. I began to laugh, saw Louis Farrakhan and Charles Rangel; I heard those words Albert Seedman uttered, this case will never be solved. I laughed harder. Laughing and crying, I was caught in a whirlwind of emotions.

Joe tapped on the bathroom door, “Rand, you all right?”

I straightened up, took a deep breath, “Yeah, Joe, I'll be out in a minute.”

I was going home, leaving the job in one piece. We were going to indict Dupree—we'd all breathe a little easier—that's what I thought as I walked out.

I smiled at Foster, “You did good, and I believe you've been truthful. Now I need you to continue being as truthful. We're going to talk with another man, maybe two, quite possibly three more men, and I need you to be as honest with them as you have been with me. Can you do that, Foster?”

“Yes, Sir, I will be as honest as I have been. I have nothing to hide or be shameful for.”

“No you don't, Foster, you really don't.”

I needed to make some calls. First, I needed to get Foster's statement on record with Van Lindt. It was 9 p.m. I knew he was long gone, so I'd have to call the cop who worked the security desk at the DA's office. I told the cop who I was, and to have Van Lindt—no one else—meet me back in the office immediately. I said I'd call back in ten minutes for verification. This was a mistake on my part. My name had become synonymous with this case. Every cop knew what my sole purpose was, finding the Cardillo murderer. And soon, everyone on the job would think I was coming in with a Muslim who was probably the shooter.

Then I called Lynn. I apologized to her father, and I told her I'd be home very late. As usual, she understood and hung up without further questions.

I called Vito at home. I told him. There was dead air on the line. Time passed. He cleared his throat and said, “Thank God, Randy. Now maybe he can rest in peace; now maybe everybody can.”

In the excitement, I forgot it was a Friday evening. I said, “Vito, when you go in tomorrow morning, tell Muldoon we got an eyewitness who will be giving a statement to the grand jury. Tell him I'll call him later in the day.”

I hung up and called the cop at the DA's office, who verified that Van Lindt was on his way in.

I asked Foster if he needed to make any calls before we headed back downtown. He said he'd already made a call. Another wash of anxiety, did he call the mosque? Did they know of his arrest, and would they be waiting at the Tombs for him? He said he'd only called his girlfriend, and that she would tell his mother. He had told me Loretta was also a practicing Muslim. It wasn't impossible to think she might've called the Muslims as well. Needless to say, the ride downtown had a nail-biting edginess to it. I didn't want to scare him, but I knew if the Nation of Islam found out, they'd stop at nothing to keep him from talking.

The uniform sitting at the ADA's security desk gave Foster a once-over. I didn't think much of it.

Van Lindt was waiting in his office, alone. This was a first for me, seeing Van Lindt dressed in something other than a Saville Row suit. He was now the dressed-down Ivy Leaguer: polo shirt, jeans, and penny loafers. This would give a sense of casualness to the questioning. Van Lindt started the way I had, creating a personal bond. He needed to understand Foster's reasoning for being there and what his motives could be.

There was a tap at the door, a male stenographer entered with a steno machine. I looked at Van Lindt, who motioned for me to leave the room. He didn't want Foster to feel he had to duplicate answers that he might have already given to me.

I placed my hand on Foster's shoulder, “Just tell it exactly the way you told it to me. You have nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of.”

I sat in the hallway for what seemed like forever. I knew Van Lindt's questions were going to be thorough, in-depth, and repetitive. I was wiped-the-fuck-out, but too wired to nap. After two hours of pacing, the door finally swung open. The stenographer hurried toward the elevator, and Van Lindt and Foster stepped into the hallway. Van Lindt smiled. He too believed in Foster.

Van Lindt said to Foster, “Sit down for a few minutes. I want to speak with Detective Jurgensen.”

I followed Van Lindt back into the office. He closed the door for privacy. He wasn't smiling anymore. “What, John, what? We got him, no?”

“It's Friday night. Grand jury doesn't open till Monday, which means you have to keep him alive for two more days.”

He was right. I knew what I had to do, and that was to sequester our prized witness in a locked box deep underground.

He opened his wallet, fishing out all his cash, forty dollars. He handed it to me and said, “Run.”

I took the cash from him, trying to think of a safe house. “I guess I'll take him to—”

He held up his hands. “I don't want to know where you're going. As a matter of fact, no one should know where you are till Monday morning.” He led me out of the office, “Just keep in touch, Randy.”

As we walked off the elevator into the lobby, there were two cops at the security desk. The one who signed us in nodded to the other one. He didn't look at me, just stared daggers at Foster, “That him, Jurgensen? He the one?”

I moved closer to Foster. “No guys, nothing to do with that. This is an old case, ancient history.”

They didn't buy it. Foster was scared and rightfully so. I moved quickly into the street. The harsh yellow streetlights cast ominous shadows down the narrow backstreet. My head was jerking back and forth. Who's out here? Vigilante cops, murderous Muslims, or uniforms from One PP? I felt my breathing quicken, felt the sweat collect just below my collar. I held onto his elbow and moved him quickly to the car. I locked the door, double-checking it. I removed my Windbreaker and my shotgun from the trunk. His eyes were wide with fear as I laid the gun on the backseat, “Don't worry, we're gonna be okay. We're going someplace safe till Monday.” I don't know how that made him feel, but it wasn't up for debate. I had to keep him alive till Monday. Once he testified in the grand jury, he'd become property of the DA's squad.