Devil's Corner Read online

  Vicki resumed finger counting. “And, three and four, the things I’d bet money on are that Jamal Browning was the boyfriend of Shayla Jackson, and that Mrs. Bristow gave the guns that Reheema had given her to the Cater Street dealers, in return for crack.” Vicki considered it, then decided she was right. Funny how that always worked. “It’s just too coincidental that the CI turns up dead in a houseful of fish-scale coke, and she happens to be the girlfriend of the dealer who sells to Cater Street.”

  “It’s a baby drug business, from the sound of it, and that’s a small world in Philly, believe it or not. Coincidences abound.”

  “Possibly. And we know that Reheema didn’t know Jackson or Browning.”

  “Wrong. You don’t know that at all.”

  “I do know it. I believe Reheema.”

  “Why?” Dan asked in disbelief.

  “Because she convinced me, and so did that stuff I saw about her on her bulletin board. And the fact that she didn’t know Jackson was corroborated by her boss.”

  “Jackson testified they were best friends.”

  “People lie under oath,” Vicki said, because Reheema had taught her such things.

  “And as between Jackson and Reheema, you believe Reheema, a known felon? Just because she ran track?”

  “It’s just a feeling I have about her. Reheema’s different. And she’s not a felon, because she wasn’t convicted.” Vicki sounded idiotic even to herself, and Dan’s mouth dropped open.

  “She pulled a gun on you, Vick!”

  “She thought I was trespassing.”

  “So? If you thought somebody was trespassing, would you pull a gun on them? Would you even have a gun to pull? Or would you run out and call the cops?”

  Vicki gathered it was rhetorical.

  “Of course not. But just as it’s second nature to you to call the cops, it’s second nature to Reheema not to. Her experience of the cops is completely different from yours. For you, the cops are saviors. For her, they’re enemies. You’re the enemy.” Dan nodded. “This is where Episcopal Academy comes in.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Vick, you’re a rookie in this subculture, for want of a better word. You come to it with new eyes, and it’s kind of exciting.”

  “It wasn’t exciting, what happened to Morty.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Dan flushed red, and Vicki regretted her words.

  “Sorry.”

  “What I meant was the whole gangsta thing. The jewelry, the coke, the nicknames.”

  “I’m not new to it. I saw it at the D.A.’s office.”

  “Not this. Not with stakes this high. If these boys get caught, they go away for life. The boys who play that, they’re a different breed. They’re what the NBA is to high school ball. They like the big money — tens of millions of dollars — and they kill for it.”

  “I know all that,” Vicki said irritably, but Dan leaned forward, intent.

  “No, you don’t. You bring this Main Line thing to it. You believe Reheema when she tells you, ‘No, I didn’t resell the guns, I gave them to my mommy.’ ‘No, I don’t know Jackson.’ You believe her because you tell the truth and you project that onto her. You believe her because you were raised in a world where people told the truth.”

  Obviously, he’d never eaten dinner at the Allegrettis’.

  “No offense, but you’re completely naïve. You can’t believe her. You can’t believe any of them. They lie to you all the time. Lying is a way of life for them, especially lying to you, an AUSA.”

  Vicki didn’t like this new side of Dan. “You sound racist. Everything’s ‘them’ and ‘they.’ ”

  “It’s got nothing to do with race. I know these people, the mentality.”

  “What people?”

  “People like my father.”

  It took Vicki aback. He never talked about his father. “How do you mean?”

  “A liar, a cheat. A bad boy who grew up not knowing how to make a dime, so he learned how to steal it. Scam for it. Smile for it. The guy could charm the pants off you and you’d never know they were gone until you looked down.” Dan shook his head. “How can I make you understand? My dad grew up in a poor neighborhood, just like your dad did. Some kids become straight arrows, like your dad. Go to school, make A’s, graduate. Others shuck and jive and look for the angles. The quick buck. They want to be a big shot. My dad’s as white as Irish lace, but he’s gangsta to the core.”

  Vicki felt moved by his vehemence but she couldn’t see it pertaining to Reheema. “I hear you, and I appreciate what you’re saying. But keep an open mind. There’s a person in there, even in the baddest gangsta. Even your dad.”

  “Not in my dad.” Dan smiled, without mirth, and Vicki got back on track.

  “Let’s assume Reheema is telling the truth. Look at the facts. There’s something we’re missing. Maybe Reheema doesn’t know Shayla Jackson, but Shayla Jackson knows her.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “You can know someone who doesn’t know you.” Vicki was thinking aloud, a bad thing to do in front of a boss but a good thing to do in front of scrambled eggs. “You see them around, and someone tells you who they are. You know them but they don’t know you.”

  “Okay, right. So?”

  “So assume that Shayla and Jamal are boyfriend and girlfriend, and Shayla visits him at Cater Street.”

  Dan arched an eyebrow. “How do you know Jamal goes to Cater Street? At his level, odds are he doesn’t go to Cater Street ever, and the runner in the Eagles coat delivers the crack to the store.”

  “Okay, well, let’s say once he does. Once, in the beginning, like when he’s scouting locations or doing whatever drug dealers do before they open a store.”

  “Usually, they hang the sign — Grand Opening.”

  “Right, the sign and the lights.” Vicki was too preoccupied to smile. “Or he drives by and he sees Reheema at Cater Street and she’s with her mother.”

  “Not Saint Reheema. People don’t buy crack with their mothers unless they use, too.”

  “Okay, let’s say that Jamal drives by the neighborhood with one of his underlings and he sees Reheema in front of her mom’s house, and he says to his pal, ‘Who’s that girl?’ ” Vicki could imagine the scene. “And the friend says, ‘That’s Reheema Bristow, and her mom buys from us.’ And Shayla’s in the car at the time.” Vicki considered it and decided that she was right, yet again. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not likely.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  “Yes.”

  Yay! “Then maybe it happened.” Vicki felt excited, but Dan looked dubious.

  “So why would Shayla Jackson frame someone she saw on the street, a total stranger, on a straw charge?”

  “I can think of one reason, but you won’t guess it because you never met Reheema.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s gorgeous. She’s stunning. She’s like Beyonce, only cranky.”

  “You mean the gun.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dan laughed. “So?”

  “If my boyfriend were showing an interest in her, or even asking who she was, I’d be worried.” Vicki felt thunderstruck; it made so much sense. Maybe she had actually deserved to get into Harvard. Or maybe she just knew a lot about jealousy. “If I were in love with someone, but he had his eye on someone else or started to stray from me, I’d hate her. I’d want her gone.”

  “You’re vicious.” Dan was oblivious, even for a man.

  “A straw charge is perfect, and Shayla would guess correctly that Reheema wouldn’t dime on her own mother.”

  Dan was listening now, cocking his head.

  “If Jamal started showing an interest in Reheema” — Vicki flashed on the bills on Shayla’s dresser — “that would threaten Shayla’s support.”

  “Not bad, but Reheema told you she didn’t know Jamal. Is she a liar?”

  “No, let’s s
ay she didn’t know him, but he knew her, like with Shayla. He doesn’t approach her, or even hit on her. Maybe he jokes about it or asks his friend about Reheema and Shayla finds out.”

  “That would be a very jealous woman.”

  “They exist.” Look across the table, pal. “And we know that Shayla and Jamal did break up, because she was forwarding bills to him. If she were still seeing him, she’d just give them to him.” Vicki felt excited. It was coming together, or at least part of it. “Shayla would know about the guns, because if Mrs. Bristow traded them for crack, they might find their way to Jamal. Or at least he’d know about them. If Shayla knew the guns had been bought by Reheema, she’d know enough to set her up for a straw charge. All it takes is a call.”

  “Not bad.” Dan reached for his mug, which was empty.

  “More coffee? I’m getting some.” Vicki started to get up but Dan waved her down.

  “Don’t, you’re caffeinated enough.”

  Vicki smiled. “So what do you think? Am I a genius or not?”

  “You’re a genius.” Dan was nodding. “I think it’s all very interesting.”

  “The question is, what do I do about it?”

  “Nothing,” Dan answered firmly.

  “What? Why? I have to call Bale, I should tell him.”

  “Tell him later. If you call him now and start talking like this, he’ll fire you for good. He didn’t sound happy last night, and Saxon will have called him already.” Dan relaxed back in his chair. “Lower the temperature of the situation. Let it sit for today. It’s Morty’s memorial, you know about that?”

  “Sure.”

  “That will suck.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mariella might be able to go, if she can get somebody to take her place.”

  I could take her place. “That would be nice.”

  “So I say, let it be. Let Saxon forget your conversation and let Bale cool down.”

  “But they should follow up.”

  “They will. If you figured it out, they can figure it out. They really are professionals, Vick. Tell them next week and let them take it from there.” Dan’s tone turned almost plaintive. “Get real, girl. You did great, but Jamal Browning is a killer. A bona fide killer. You’re out of your league.”

  Vicki knew it was true. She didn’t have the stuff to go after Jamal Browning. She couldn’t prove if he was behind Shayla’s murder or if someone else was. And she didn’t know if he or his underlings had anything to do with Mrs. Bristow’s murder. She knew only that she had the information that would support the wiretaps and surveillance that would lead to the truth.

  “Okay, I call Bale now and I’ll play it by ear.” Vicki rose to go to the phone, newly nervous. She couldn’t afford to lose this job, but she wouldn’t tell Dan her money worries. No one wanted to hear rich girls plead poverty. God bless the child. Vicki lifted the phone receiver. “I’ll apologize for what I said to Saxon, then if Bale sounds like he’s in a good mood, I’ll tell him the theory. If he fires me, I’ll shut up.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Should I stay or should I go?”

  Is holding my hand an option? Vicki thought, but what she said was: “Stay.” She picked up the phone and pressed in Bale’s cell. It rang a few times, then his voicemail picked up, so she left a message, and managed to avoid begging for her job.

  But she hung up with a bad feeling she couldn’t quite explain.

  PART THREE

  The soil is good, the air serene and sweet from the cedar, pine and sassafras, with wild myrtle of great fragrance.

  — WILLIAM PENN,

  in an early description of “Penn’s Woods,” the emerging colony of Pennsylvania and its capital, Philadelphia

  Q: All right. Now, at the time, were you all selling drugs?

  A: Well, at the time “G” had various corners that he was supplying, but there was those corners and I was selling drugs down the street from my grandmom’s house at the projects, 55th and Vine.

  Q: And when you say Gio had various corners, do you remember what the corners were that Gio had at the time?

  A: Well, back then, a corner called 56th and Catherine was one of the major corners and he was serving the guys on Ithan Street quantity, small quantities of drugs back then.

  Q: What does “serving” mean in the trade?

  A: It means when the guys buying stuff off you. Like you go to the store you buy something.

  Q: Uh-huh.

  A: They just call it serving. It’s slang like.

  Q: So if you were “serving” somebody that meant you were selling them drugs?

  A: Yes.

  — JAMAL MORRIS,

  United States v. Williams, United States District Court,

  Eastern District of Pennsylvania,

  Criminal Docket No. 02–172, February 19, 2004,

  Notes of Testimony at 255

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Vicki had never been to the wake of an officer killed in the line of duty and hadn’t realized that it would be a state occasion. At least a thousand mourners packed Prior’s Funeral Home in the Philly suburb of Fort Washington, filling it to capacity. The reception line flowed out of its largest viewing room, spilled into the hallway, and continued outside the funeral home, where massive loudspeakers had been set up. Top brass from ATF in Washington, masses of ATF, FBI, and DEA agents, politicians, U.S. Attorneys, several federal judges, squadrons of uniformed police, support staff, and more than a few reporters made up the massive throng, which was somber and businesslike in mood.

  Vicki had arrived early, and even so, stood in line, just outside the viewing room in the entrance hall. She had heard that only family was invited to the funeral tomorrow morning, and now she understood why. She couldn’t see the front of the viewing room for the crowd, and multicolored roses, carnations, calla lilies, and gladioli filled every available spot. A large ATF plaque covered with a crepe sash hung on the front wall. The scent of the bouquets thickened the air, commingling with mint aftershaves, heavy perfumes, and cigarette smoke every time the front door opened.

  Vicki counted herself lucky to be inside the funeral home at all, and the distance from the hallway to the main room gave her time to deal with the situation. For her, this wasn’t an official function, and she knew that Morty would be lying in a casket at the front of the room. The thought left her with a numbness throughout her body. She felt stiff in the navy wool suit, with a white silk blouse, which she wore under her down coat. She bowed her head to marshal her strength, hearing snippets of the conversations buzzing around her.

  “We don’t need Lawn Doctor, honey,” the woman in front of her was saying in a wifely tone, to a gray-haired man who was obviously her husband. “I don’t like those little green balls all over the lawn.”

  “They keep out the crabgrass and the dandelions.”

  “But I like the dandelions.”

  The husband chuckled. “I do, too. Have we met?”

  Vicki screened them out in favor of the couple behind her, also talking quietly.

  The man was saying, “The best was when he comes up with, ‘I make good choices, Daddy!’ At seven years old, can you believe that?”

  The woman answered, “Dave, how many times you gonna tell that story?”

  “As many times as I can,” the husband retorted, and they both laughed.

  Vicki looked up, wondering where Dan and Mariella were. Somewhere in the thick line of married people, standing two-by-two, like animals loading onto Noah’s ark. She scanned the crowd but didn’t see him. Or Bale, Strauss, or any of them. They’d be at the front, where there was movement, then the unmistakable sound of someone tapping into a microphone.

  “Sound check, sound check,” boomed a man’s voice, and the room quieted. “Thank you, people. Excuse me, may I have everyone’s attention?”

  Saxon. Vicki recognized that sonorous bass. She considered running for her life but angled for a better view, standing on tiptoe and coming between the married couple in front o
f her. Where were Dan and Dr. Bitchy?

  “Thanks to all of you for coming today.” Saxon towered at the head of the room, a big blond bear in dark suit and tie. “I thank you on my own behalf and on behalf of the ATF family, who gathers on this tragic occasion to honor one of our finest agents, Special Agent Robert Morton.”

  Vicki swallowed hard. Women sniffled, their heads bowed, and men in suits studied their wingtips. Everyone stopped talking. The only sound was the scratchy undertone of the microphone and the echo of Saxon’s voice amplified outside, slightly delayed.

  “I’d like to introduce the director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, here from Washington to attend in Morty’s honor. Director Louis W. Bonningtone.”

  Saxon moved aside for the director, a distinguished man whose short stature prevented Vicki from seeing him, given the heads in front of her. She tried to listen to his speech, which was generic, formal, and laden with government-speak, leaving her with the impression that the director had never met Morty in his life. Saxon retook the floor, and then Vicki could see the speaker again.

  “Thank you, Director,” Saxon began, shifting his weight. “I won’t talk long, though I wanted to reiterate how vital Morty was to the agency, how valuable his skills and his tenacity were, over seventeen years. Morty ran the Boston Marathon in his younger days, and I always thought of him as a marathoner, mentally and physically. And he was a handsome devil, even if he was too skinny for my wife’s taste.”

  There was laughter, and even Vicki smiled.

  “Morty never met a case that didn’t completely absorb him. If others were style, he was substance. He was the best of us, and we won’t rest as a family until we bring to justice those responsible for his murder.”

  At this, there was clapping, and Vicki wished she could believe it, and almost did.

  “Let me take a brief minute to introduce to you His Honor, the mayor of Philadelphia, then Ben Strauss, the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, and finally, Anthony Cardinal Bevilacqua, of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, who will pray with us. Mr. Mayor, sir?” Saxon gestured grandly to his left and the mayor stepped in front of the microphone, and a ripple of curiosity went though the crowd, acknowledging his celebrity.