Circle of Six, page 23
I began to travel up to Foster, bringing him with me to the ADAs offices and to my Hollywood office on Fifty-fourth Street. This would alleviate some of the tension he was feeling, and it would make him feel integral to the case. Foster had never seen the real-life semantics of being an NYPD cop and got a pretty stilted view of things. After hanging out with me, he assumed every B-movie cop flick was true. The lone detective out there, continually twisting in the wind, so on the edge, gunplay around every corner, him against the world; that's how he viewed the detectives who were assigned to him, and that's how he viewed me.
I began to show Foster the pictures from the news broadcasts. He began to pick out faces, giving me names, aliases, Muslim tags, where they were employed, and in some cases, addresses. And then it happened, he pointed to three very important individuals: himself, Lewis 17X Dupree, and a Muslim named Mitchell 5X San-San. That was huge to the case, because Foster said he was there, and the picture now verified that fact—Dupree, same scenario. When he pulled the picture of Mitchell 5X San-San out of the thick file, he said, “There's Mitchell, he's the caretaker of the Mosque. He was the one who mopped up the blood in the hallway, and he was the one who took the gun out.”
I felt as though I had been hit with a cattle prod in the ass, the stinging realization of ineptitude on my part. The biggest piece of information—where was Padilla's gun—had completely escaped me. I was so wound up in the shooter that everything else was lost on me. This was more damaging information, which could button up the case. I asked him, “How do you know he removed the gun from the mosque?”
“He told me he took it home with him. He said Captain Josephs told him that Minister Farrakhan didn't want the gun in the building. It had to be removed.”
I had to get what Foster had just said in the court documents. It showed a number of crimes committed by Farrakhan and Josephs. They could've and should've been collared for them. It just kept getting better and better.
After the stenographer took Foster's statement, Harmon smiled and said, “Well, Buddy, you know what you have to do now, don't ya? Bring this Mitchell 5X San-San on in. We have to get his testimony into the grand jury.”
I'd have to find him and subpoena him. If he refused to come in, I'd basically have to kidnap him.
That wasn't all I had on my plate. I had told Lynn the case was over. She assumed I'd be retiring in a matter of days. But with every new turn-of-events came more investigation and more surveillance. To keep everything running smoothly, I had to seriously subdivide my time between my pregnant wife, Foster, and the day-to-day business of the case. Foster hadn't seen his girlfriend in weeks, since before he was arrested—he needed to get laid. So I was now his chauffeur to her place. He had a voracious appetite for Loretta, so we went over there often, and that wasn't without its share of drama.
Loretta lived about twelve blocks from the mosque, so these little trysts had to be at night. She lived in the crime-riddled Wilson Housing Projects at 104th Street and Second Avenue—East Harlem. You could score anything in that neighborhood, from drugs to sex to babies to rocket launchers. We'd see plenty of sales on our way to Loretta's.
The buildings were massive in size, like giant gray cellblocks, eight in all, connected by poverty and a broken chain-link fence. I'd park my car as close to the projects as I could without being made. A white guy maxed out on adrenaline, hustling a black dude into the projects. It wasn't exactly covert. With my shotgun at the ready, we'd dash to the building. The first time we were in the urine-soaked elevator, I could tell that Foster was embarrassed for Loretta's living arrangements. He was a proud young man, something else about him I was beginning to latch onto. I tried to make smalltalk. I told him I was from Harlem and a little about how I grew up in a building not far from where we were. He didn't answer me. Maybe he knew what I was trying to do. Or maybe he was just thinking about Loretta, because I'd come to learn he truly loved her.
The apartment itself didn't have much furniture, but it was tidy. Inside the living room was a small couch, no television or radio, and a makeshift overstuffed bookshelf with lots of books on Islam and the Middle East. There was a beautifully-bound leather Koran positioned delicately on an end table. It seemed to be the focal point of the room. Two windows faced east. Underneath the sills were two worn prayer carpets. In between the carpets stood a tiny table adorned with candles and incense. Though Loretta was surrounded by hell, her living quarters were her and Foster's sanctuary, a place to be alone with their thoughts, ideas, and prayers. They were the real thing.
When Loretta saw Foster, she ran to him and held him. They hadn't seen each other in more than a month. I was already uncomfortable. After they kissed for a while, and I observed the room some more, Foster introduced me to Loretta. She was about five foot two, wearing a bathrobe and slippers. It appeared that she had just showered and had been prepping this moment for a long time. She was very pretty. Her hair was pulled back severely, accentuating her almond-shape black-as-coal eyes and high cheekbones. I remember thinking, Her eyes are sparkling. They look like black pearls. When she spoke, there was a lilt in her soft voice, an excitement. “I want to thank you for bringing Foster to me. I love him, you know.”
At that moment I felt so alone. I thought about Lynn, about missing the better things in life. We still loved each other, but I knew the life I was giving her was not the one she deserved. I needed to find Mitchell 5X San-San and end this thing.
Foster had his needs, but we were now in enemy territory. As wonderful as Loretta seemed to be, I still didn't trust her. She was going to have to earn that, just as I'd have to earn hers. “Where are your phones?” I asked. I was paranoid, but still. She could have ended us with just one call. At that point, I didn't know if the members of Mosque Number 7 had turned her.
“Just one in the kitchen,” she said.
“Do you mind if I check the bedroom?” I did, no phone. Lit votive candles and incense surrounded the bed, which was dressed in colorful silks.
Loretta offered me the couch. I refused. I pulled a clunky chair from the kitchen into the foyer. Loretta stayed in the living room, watching me, unsure, head cocked slightly to the left. Her smile now seemed forced. I assume she was sizing me up. Foster nervously hovered behind her, and there was that uncomfortable gap of silence. Loretta knew that I knew what this meeting was all about. We weren't trying to game each other. She finally said, “There is tea in the cupboard, and thank you, again.”
She turned and Foster followed her into the back room. Before he entered, he turned to me with a big sloppy grin. I sat in the hallway, shotgun in my lap. Nothing had changed since our first night together, except now Foster and I were friends, and this time it was Foster on the right side of that wall.
I didn't sleep much through the night. The chair wasn't built for comfort. And I figured if I went into the living room, I'd be that much closer to some very private moments.
I was dozing when Foster gently tapped my shoulder. He looked showered, shaven, and refueled; I was jealous. I was barely able to stand. I put my head under the faucet in the kitchen to wake up. A boost of adrenaline prepared me for the run back to the car. It was now daylight. I strapped the shotgun to my side, pulled on my field jacket, and we both ran.
Once Foster was safely in my car, I headed downtown to Harmon's office. He needed to start prepping Foster for trial, slowly working him through what was sure to be a grueling cross-examination. This was good, because I could keep Foster away from the two detectives at the motel, and I could do some work. Foster told me he thought that Mitchell 5X San-San had once been arrested. If he had, there'd be a one-on-one mug shot of him in the photo section at headquarters. BCI (Bureau of Criminal Investigation) would have his criminal history, complete with pedigree and address. Harmon also had to prepare San-San's subpoena, which I was going to have to lay on him.
When I came back from securing Foster with Harmon, I was hoping I wouldn't be ticketed. By then, I had collected fifteen and Muldoon still refused to give me a police plaque for my dashboard. He did say that he'd get me the money to pay them off, “It's in the mail,” but it never came. This time, when I got to my car, I had two more summonses, one for the illegal park, and another one for having my front tire on the sidewalk.
At One PP, I tried my best not to look anyone in the face, let alone announce my presence. The cop in the photo section knew exactly who I was, and he couldn't do enough for me. Getting a picture from the photo section usually took anywhere from an hour to a week, but this time the bald bespectacled uniform whooshed behind a series of Plexiglas shelves, and almost immediately returned with a clean one-on-one photo of Mitchell 5X San-San. He grinned and said, “I know you don't really wanna walk through this hellhole for the rap sheet.” He was right; I was dreading every second of being in the building, having to go to BCI to beg for the papers.
He laid San-San's rap sheet on the counter. I didn't have to go to BCI. I grabbed the cop by the shoulders, shaking him, “Oh, Jesus, thank you, Brother, thank you so much!”
As I turned to run out of the place, he said, “No, thank you, Jurgensen.” I stopped to look back at the black cop. I smiled, wanting him to know I appreciated his support.
When I got back to my car, I had another summons. I put it in the glove compartment with the others and started reading San-San's sheet, all minor incidents, no indication of violence. I hoped San-San was more like Foster than the rest of his buddies.
Now that I had San-San's picture, I had to take Foster back up to the motel, and I was going to call it a day. I was exhausted. I had to make up sleep lost in my night spent on the chair at Loretta's love nest. I'd scoop up San-San another day.
But once I got back to Harmon's office, he handed me San-San's subpoena and insisted that I serve it that night. My knees almost buckled. First I had to requisition a Kel set. Whenever a detective served a subpoena, the job insisted that we be wired with a Kel set (secret recording device), and a number of questions had to be asked of the person receiving it. Name, address, are you this person, will you come to court on such-and-such date, are you accepting this two dollars and thirty-nine cents for cab fare to court? Am I holding a gun to your head? This was to ensure that the subpoena had been served properly, and no person could say they never received it.
Foster finished with his Q-and-A and was placed back in my care. San-San lived in the projects at 186th Street in the Bronx. I wasn't familiar with the area; Foster was. He'd been to San-San's apartment before. That made my next illegal decision and act all the easier; Foster was coming with me.
On the way up, I felt my eyes closing. Then I began playing the potential dangers I could be facing with San-San and woke right up. Once turned on, the tape becomes an official court document. Everything on that tape would be used in court. San-San and I had never met. All I'd be to him was the man, rousting him for an inconvenient trip to court. What if he said something detrimental to me on that tape? What if he said nothing at all, but once at the grand jury decided to point the finger at Foster? I wanted this case to end. I couldn't take any further chances with fabricated stories that I'd have to thoroughly investigate. I believed Foster, and I knew that San-San—alone with Foster—wouldn't lie to him. I wanted to hear what he was going to say to Foster.
I wired Foster with the Kel. It was dangerous, but at that point, it felt like the case was just never going to end. But if Foster was hurt or killed in the process of working for me, wearing the Kel set, the case would evaporate, and I was going to jail. Wiring him up without the court's knowledge or NYPD's permission was against every penal law statute ever written. I had no choice; I wanted to get him into the grand jury without any pretense or bullshit, and this was the only secure way of doing it...more or less.
MITCHELL 5X SAN-SAN
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?”
