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WASHINGTON, D.C.—United Medical Center
The night had been long for Rudy Briscoe and it was still going strong and hard, blending right into Wednesday morning. At seven o’clock, Detective Hill arrived in his hospital room at United Medical Center where he was on his side recuperating from a gunshot wound to the ass. Looking at the detective slam a Washington Post on a bedside table, his mind ran quickly to understand how carrying a BB-gun could have led to being shackled to a hospital bed with policemen guarding the door. By the looks of the bags under the detective’s eyes, he hadn’t slept well all night, either.
Detective Hill had come to the hospital to get information on one of the known dealers that had also fled when the GRU pulled up on the scene at Forest Ridge Apartments. All of the detective’s evidence pointed to the assumption that Rudy was a member of the Forest Ridge Organization. Rudy didn’t even know there was a federal prosecutor determined to turn the street-level dealers from his complex into a wide-reaching drug conspiracy. Detective Hill had the pleasure to hint at that in order to transform Rudy into a confidential informant. Or else.
Without an introduction, Detective Hill said, “I know you’re in a bit of pain, but we need to talk,” flashing a badge. His voice was docile and low like a deep, dark secret. The detective was a lanky, but muscular man like an Abercrombie model.
“The cops shot me,” Rudy said childlike. He wasn’t as tough as he often portrayed around the way.
“I’m here to interview you.”
“For a job.” A smirk froze on his face.
“Maybe you know things. After all, someone must know who’s been supplying the Forest Ridge Complex in which you live with PCP and cocaine and guns. Someone must be trained you to sell the PCP.” The detective pulled an iPad from his bag, cued up a video, and showed the man in custody footage of a young man playing with a gun and selling drugs to a white man in a ball cap and shades. “That would be you and a unknown white male.” He let that sink in, and then said, “but before you get there, I better ask some preliminary questions.”
“Like?”
“Are you drugged from surgery?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Any drinks or drugs illegally used in the last twenty-four hours?”
“Just had one stick of the best purple haze,” the perp said, smiling. “That’s weed in case you didn’t know.”
“Do you understand what’s going on?”
“Nope.” And then, without prompting, he added, “Can I have a lawyer?”
“All right,” the detective said, stuffing the iPad back into his bag and grabbed the newspaper.
“What do you want to talk about, first?”
“Nah, man. You’re—”
“No, but I don’t need a lawyer.”
“You. Said that you weren’t coherent. You didn’t understand what was going on, so I don’t want to force you—”
“But I don’t understand. Why are they charging me with distribution while armed? That’s crazy. The gun was fake. I don’t need a lawyer. Read me my rights and let’s get this shit out the way. I ain’t got time to keep playing, I want to get to a bail hearing.”
“Well, I mean, first of all you already told me, you were under the influence of some fire purple haze.”
“Yeah, I told you the truth.”
“I understand. I understand.” The cop then added, “So do you understand what going on around you? Do you feel coherent?”
“Are you sure you understand? I asked because in your cargo pants pocket cops found $1,180 in cash, 16.9 grams of cocaine, 4.1 grams of heroin, sixty-eight methylone tablets, about fifty ziplock bags, a small digital scale, and a measuring spoon. If it walks like a dealer, it usually is. Keep that in mind before you answer my next question. Are you willing to converse with me?”
“Yes, I understand you probably want me to snitch on someone. I understand why you’re here. I understand all that.”
Detective Hill then, read Rudy Briscoe his rights, and he proceeded to orally waive them.
Rudy said, “I have a question.”
“What’s that?”
“What up with slim on the cover of the paper?”
“He has far bigger problems than you. He’s wanted for killing Chief Justice Weston. It’s been all over the news. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
Rudy furrowed his eyebrows. “You don’t recognize him?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“You just showed me making a sale to him on your iPad,” he said, pointing at the cops bag. “He’s the big spender addict that just moved into my apartment.”