I taped the transmitter, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, just below his waistline. I ran the wire up his side, taping the mike just below his collarbone. Even if they hugged, San-San wouldn't detect it. Foster was excited that he was actually going to wear a wire, just like they did in the movies. He was as cool as a cucumber, or at least projected as much. I drilled him on what he should say, without tipping San-San off. I quizzed him over and over, and his responses never wavered. Foster was a natural UC, natural undercover cop, and a natural partner. He was one of the better ones I ever worked with, and without a single day of training.
We waited till nightfall, and then had to wait another three hours until the square in front of San-San's building was free of people. Reluctantly, I sent Foster in ahead of me. Foster rode the elevator up; I took the stairs. I took the stairs three at a time and beat the elevator. The hallway was clean and clear. Foster stepped out nodding and grinning at me. He appeared confident, walk-in-the-park calm. I slunk back into the stairway, leaving the door slightly ajar, the shotgun at the ready. I heard the gentle tapping on the door. I was light-headed and dizzy from lack of sleep. I knew I wasn't thinking clearly. I wanted to pull him from the door. I saw this going terribly, saw the case disintegrating, saw me on the wrong end of the judicial system. Worse than all of this, I saw Foster hurt. I was about to jump out, when San-San's door suddenly opened. There was no greeting; the door opened and closed. I wasn't sure if he even allowed Foster to step in. I peeked into the hallway; he was on the inside—no turning back now.
Suddenly, I had visions of an FOI prayer meeting, led by Captain Josephs, happening at that very moment inside San-San's apartment. I moved to the door, pressed my ear to the jam. I heard them talking in normal tones. They seemed to be the only two in the apartment. I breathed easier, though not much. I tried to decipher what was being said. After a while, I heard footfalls approaching from inside the apartment. I ran back to the stairwell. The apartment door opened and I heard both men say, “Shalom Allah Alekhem.” Then the door closed. I heard Foster move to the elevator, just as I had asked him to do. He coolly stepped in and descended to the lobby. Again, I beat him down and to the car.
He was safe; that was the most important thing. Now, what did he say? Inside the car, I saw him nonchalantly walking toward me; he wasn't followed. My hands were wet and shaking as I pulled the recorder out from under the seat. I rewound it to the beginning and hit play.
Foster's voice was as clear as a bell. He began with small talk, luring San-San in. I was amazed that there wasn't a hint of fear in his voice. San-San's voice came in clear, responding to Foster. He said, “They be looking for you, Brother Foster, and they ain't playin'. We ain't even supposed to talk about you inside or outside the mosque.”
San-San went on to talk about how he thought they were going to hurt Foster. Then Foster took over the questioning. He asked, “What did you do with the cop's gun?”
“What Captain Josephs told me to do; I took it out.”
“You have it here?”
“Hell no. Threw it off the bridge. Why you asking me all these questions? You know that's what he told me to do.”
“I wanna know where it is, because now all this is on me. The police know everything.”
“They know about Brother Dupree?” I heard Foster moving, the microphone was rubbing against his clothing.
“Everything, they know everyone who was there that day.”
“They gonna arrest us?”
“No, they only want Brother Dupree.”
“They gonna come get me?”
“We all have to go to court and tell them what we saw. It ain't no big thing. You just gotta tell them the truth, just like Minister Farrakhan always tells us to do.”
I took a deep breath, clicking the recorder off. This was rock-solid evidence. It was over; he would be the corroboration Harmon would use to blow the defense apart. Foster entered the car; I smiled and so did he. I grabbed his shoulder. “Good work, Foster. Good work.”
It was time to deliver the subpoena to San-San. Foster removed the Kel, handing it over to me. We agreed I'd lock Foster, in the car and he'd hunch down in the seat. I then handed him the ignition key. I told him to listen to the Kel set. If he heard anything going down, he was to drive to the nearest payphone, call 911, scream ten-thirteen, and give the address. If anyone approached the car, he was to drive to a predesignated spot around the corner. As I crossed in front of the car, his voice barely audible from within, he said, “Be careful, Randy.” I gave him a thumbs-up as I headed into the darkness.
I knocked and it opened almost immediately. Up till then, I'd only seen San-San in the news photos, so when he appeared in front of me I almost asked him if his father was home. San-San was at best five foot three, maybe 125 pounds. He looked up at me with no discernable expression. I asked, “How you doing? I'm Detective Jurgensen of the 2-8 Precinct. Are you Mitchell 5X San-San?”
He nodded as if I was a waiter, asking if he wanted a refill. Any other case, I would've found this weirdness odd. I asked him again, because I needed his response on tape, “Can you please give me the respect of responding to my question?”
In a monotone voice he said, “Yes, I'm Mitchell 5X San-San.”
I handed him the subpoena. “I am handing you this subpoena from the Manhattan District Attorney's office. It states you have to appear in the morning at 9 a.m. Are you accepting this subpoena?”
I didn't wait for his answer. I handed it to him, then raised my eyebrows, awaiting his response. San-San wasn't the brightest star in the sky. His mouth seemed to open slightly, but no words came out. I twirled my finger, trying to coax something, anything. “Are you accepting this subpoena? Yes or no?”
He slowly nodded his head. “Yes, I'm accepting the subpoena.”
I lifted my hand and said, “Good-bye.”
I turned to walk away, but then I had an idea. I'd ask him something. In either case, however he answered, it was a win-win for us. “Tell me something, Mitchell, were you at the mosque the day the police officer was shot?”
If he said yes, that was great. If he said no, it was just as good, because later he wouldn't be able to point the finger at Foster, or point the finger away from Dupree.
“Yes, I was there when the policeman was shot.”
I nodded, spun on my heels, very happy with the answer. The door closed behind me. I entered the stairway. Before I hit the fifth floor landing, I spun back around and ran up the stairs. I got to his door and knocked three quick times. He opened it again like he was waiting for me. I said, “Get your coat. You're coming with me.”
He was cooperating now. Tomorrow he might not. There was too much at stake for me to wait and see what he'd do.
To the crimes of burglary, conduct unbecoming, and endangerment, I could have added kidnapping, because San-San was coming with me whether he liked it or not.
I saw Foster's head pop up when he saw who was with me. As we stepped out of the atrium, I grabbed hold of San-San's arm at the bicep. It was just a friendly reminder not to fuck with me. I wanted him to know that he technically wasn't under arrest, but that he could be. I saw San-San squinting to see who else was in the car. When he saw it was Foster, he remained as placid as he'd been throughout. I pointed with my finger to the locked back door. Foster almost jumped over the seat to open it.
Neither San-San nor Foster spoke much on the ride downtown. I was hoping San-San would become talkative with Foster, but no. He might have felt played, and Foster may have felt guilty for duping him. Now I had two under my charge, both somewhat at odds with each other and both with a price on their heads.
It was after one in the morning when I arrived at the DA's office. I circled the building twice before actually pulling into my illegal spot on Leonard Street. One thing was for sure; I was making the meter maid's job a lot easier. I had the uniform at the desk call Harmon at home. We went to the waiting room.
San-San sat on a wooden bench, legs crossed Indian style, hands clasped in his lap. He closed his eyes, rocking his head back and forth. I assumed he was deep in meditation or some kind of prayer. He stayed that way for the next three hours. Foster sat across from him, eyes closing. He'd been up as long as I had, thirty-six hours, though seven of them were in a horizontal position with an attractive woman. I stood at the door jam. Every time I felt my knees give out from exhaustion, I'd shake my head violently and slap at my cheeks.
Harmon made it in by four-fifteen. His chipper up-up demeanor helped some, but not much. He had coffee and doughnuts, which Foster and I devoured. San-San was completely unresponsive to Harmon's introductory questions.
The formal questioning wouldn't start until a stenographer arrived, but this wasn't good. Harmon wasn't having it. We stepped out into the hall, and he whispered, “Rand, he's in some kinda trance. Got to get this guy with the program.”
I felt my teeth grinding in my head. “He's probably just a little overwhelmed, maybe tired. Why don't I take them both for a little air?”
I didn't wait for Harmon's response. I wasn't ready to let San-San drag his feet on this whole case. I stood between the two dozing men, and started clapping my hands together like a drill instructor. They both jolted. “Let's go, let's go. We're gonna get some air.”
Foster sat in the back, San-San to my right. I leaned across San-San's chest, dangerously close, locking the door. I keyed the ignition and revved the car four or five times before slamming it into gear. As we landed back on all four wheels in the middle of Centre Street, both of them secured their seatbelts. Canal Street was coming up on us fast, a yellow light about fifty yards out. By the time we crossed the four lanes, it was dead red. I was a man possessed—really, I was a man exhausted. I reached under the seat, pulling out the recorder. I snapped it on. Foster and San-San's voices were nearly drowned out by the car horns shooting past us in the night. I didn't wait for him to speak. I snapped the recorder off, jamming it back under the seat. I saw my destination approaching, an all-night grocery store at the next big intersection, Fourteenth Street. As we neared the red lights at the intersection, I noticed San-San's mouth hanging open, as if he wanted to scream, but couldn't muster any action without peeing in his pants. He grabbed hold of the metal dashboard. Just before the intersection, I yanked the wheel hard to the left. Both of them bounced hard off the side panels. And then, for added effect, I hit the brakes, lurching them forward and back into the headrests. I put the car into park. The show hadn't even begun yet. I dug into the small of my back, ripping out my handcuffs. I grabbed his wrist, snapped one on him, the other on the steering wheel. I pulled the keys from the ignition, kicked open the door, and headed into the grocery store without saying a word.
Minutes later I emerged from the store with a brown paper bag tucked under my arm. Inside the car, I unhooked San-San and dropped the bag into the backseat. Both of them couldn't stop staring at it. I spun in the seat, pointing in Foster's face, “Don't go near that bag!”
I took the corner on two wheels, heading for my next destination. I saw San-San nervously eyeing the bag.
I turned onto the southbound lane of the FDR Drive. There it was, the Brooklyn Bridge. I gunned the engine, heading for the off-ramp. At that time of night the bridge was desolate. I came to a stop, not quite on the bridge, not quite on the ramp. I turned the ignition off, reached into the backseat for the bag, and casually walked to San-San's door. Opening it, I coldly said, “Get out.”
San-San turned to Foster. “Randy, c'mon Man, please, this isn't the way. He's going to tell you what you want to know. Aren't you, Mitchell?”
San-San was about to speak. I didn't let him. I grabbed his wrist, pulling him onto the overpass. I dragged him to the side of the road. We looked down; 100 feet below was the off-ramp to the FDR Drive. He was stammering. I still wouldn't let him speak, “Shut up and watch!”
I opened the brown paper bag and pulled out a cantaloupe. I held it over the thin metal railing, “Look down, Mitchell.”
He did. I let go of the melon. It took a few seconds before it exploded onto the pavement. Next I pulled out a large tomato. Then a head of lettuce. All to the same effect. He was almost crying with fear. I looked into his eyes and said, “We're going back to the DA's office, and you're going to do what?”
He stammered, “Tell them what I was told to do.”
I put my finger in front of his face. No other words were necessary.
Back at Harmon's office, the stenographer was unhappy. When he saw me walking in I must have still looked crazy, because he swallowed whatever comments he'd rehearsed. Harmon didn't say a word, probably for fear at what he might become aware of. The three men disappeared into his office to begin his Q-and-A, which would last about three hours, just in time for the grand jury.
Harmon stepped out of the grand jury beaming. San-San not only told the jurors what he had done, but he gave up what he knew on Josephs and Minister Farrakhan. He said that Josephs inquired about the cop's gun. He told San-San that Minister Farrakhan wanted the gun out of the building, which is when he took it upon himself to take the service revolver home, where it remained for a number of days. About one week later, Josephs approached him again with more questions from Minister Farrakhan, who was beginning to insulate himself behind Josephs. San-San told Josephs he had thrown the gun off the 138th Street Bridge into the Harlem River.
This established a number of crimes against Josephs and Minister Farrakhan—top five: larceny, possession of stolen property, hindrance, obstruction of justice, and impeding a police investigation. I knew that neither of those men murdered Phil Cardillo, but they were covering for the shooter—Dupree. My objective was to use those crimes against them. I was going to the mosque to either confront Josephs or Farrakhan, didn't make a difference who I grabbed up first. I was going to break it down for them in the language that they both inherently understood—street language.
They could either give up Dupree for the murder or get collared themselves. I saw the case finally starting to take form. The house of cards was beginning to cave in on Dupree, and I was going to be there when it did. Harmon, however, didn't quite see it as black-and-white as I did. He felt that once I sent a flare over their heads, both of those men would vehemently deny the charges to the press, making martyrs of themselves. It would let them know what San-San had given up in the grand jury. No doubt Josephs would coerce San-San into changing his testimony. That would taint his prior testimony. What we had at that moment was a uncoerced witness to a cover-up by members of the mosque. He was given to us by our star witness, Foster 2X Thomas, which only strengthened Foster's credibility, which is what our whole case was based on. I agreed and let it go—for the time being. If only we had been allowed to do our jobs on April 14, we wouldn't have been in this fucked position.
After the grand jury, Foster and San-San were brought to a midtown hotel by Nick Cirillo, who was charged with their well-being while I went home for some sleep.
When I got home, Lynn rushed to me, her eyes red, appearing as sleep-deprived as I was. I realized that what I was going through, she was going through as well. She hugged me and said, “Randy, thank God. I was so worried.”
She didn't let go, not for a while. Her grip was tight, too tight. She was scared, scared for me, scared for us, and scared for our unborn baby. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I didn't recognize the man who, with a confused look, stared back at me. He was old, haggard, skinny, and pale. I wondered, how can she love this man? She released her grip. I felt such sorrow for her, such guilt at turning her life into a series of sleepless weeks strung together by terror and angst.
“When was the last time you slept?” she asked. I shook my head, not really having any conception of time. She pulled my field jacket off, rolling it up into a ball. She unhooked my shotgun and placed it on a high shelf in a closet. She guided me to the couch, sat me down, and removed my shoes and socks, throwing them into the growing ball of dirty discarded clothing. Lynn, when it came right down to it, was as maternal and nurturing a woman as one could ever find. I married well, I thought. In a matter of minutes, I was in the shower; sweat, and street soot made the water brown. I scrubbed as hard as I could, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the dirt and guilt that had overtaken my body and mind. I was living on my last nerve. I didn't know how much more I could take.
After the shower, Lynn heated up a dinner for me. Though it was probably day-old food, it tasted fresh and delicious. We didn't talk at all during dinner. Lynn quietly sat next to me, gently rubbing the back of my hand. I needed this time-out, needed to put my brain on pause, and just feel Lynn breathing next to me. Then she placed the dishes in the sink and led me into the bedroom. We lay on the bed, and remained in that same prone position, holding onto each other tightly for the better part of ten hours. And when I awoke, life seemed so much better.
I whispered, “The end is near, Lynn. We are so close, so close to ending this, and then it will all be better. This I promise you.”
She whispered back, though it was more a plea than an affirmation, “Before the baby is born, Randy.”
I squeezed my eyes closed, because I knew what I was about to say was probably a lie. “Yes, Lynn, I promise, before the baby is born.”