The Family Snitch, page 3
The apartment was different without Mia around. Frankie felt shy, like she was a guest at a friend’s house. Al let her stay up late, watching TV in his big bed. He drank milk straight from the plastic jug. She never knew you could do that. Mia never did.
That morning, when Al went off to shower, she took the moment alone to wander around his room. The dresser was covered in little mementos of Al’s other life, the life he led when she wasn’t around: piles of loose change, stray toothpicks, a small box of liquor-filled chocolates. A paperweight caught her eye. It stuck out compared with all the other things, compared with Al. The sphere held two red roses suspended in resin, one large, one small. She smiled. She imagined the big rose was Al and the tiny one was her.
When she lifted the paperweight, a trifolded letter fell open. Frankie recognized the name signed at the bottom. It was the landlady, who lived with her son in the downstairs apartment. The words jumped out at her in a jumbled order. unpaid rent. final warning. eviction. This was private, the sinking feeling in her belly told her. She shouldn’t be reading this. She pressed the letter closed and returned the paperweight to its place.
That afternoon, as they wandered the aisles of a toy store, she didn’t let Al out of her sight. She listened for his footsteps behind her and waited for his cell phone to ring. He was always on the phone. When it rang, Al answered and lowered his voice; Frankie listened but couldn’t make anything of his murmurs. The music overhead was too loud. She closed her eyes and listened hard. Nothing.
The next stop was a small business park on the Southwest Side of Chicago, home to her dad’s bodybuilding gym: Al’s Gym. Frankie spent many afternoons working the counter. Even before she started kindergarten, Al would let her sit on the worn red stool and exchange dollar bills for Gatorades. Sometimes they took a nap on the old recliner in his office. With the lights off, she couldn’t see the bikini-clad women on the glossy calendars and magazine clippings that covered the walls. She didn’t like to look at them. Their chests looked like beach balls had been inflated under their skin. It looked like it hurt.
Once, Frankie asked her mom if she could go to the Gym for Take Your Daughter to Work Day. She thought it was cool. Her Daddy, as the Family called Al, was the boss. That made her the boss’s daughter; that made her special. But Mia said no.
She only ever saw a couple of members of the Family at the Gym. Al was one of ten children, five brothers and five sisters. Two of Frankie’s uncles had died, and her dad said they were in heaven. Her uncle Marco, Al’s youngest brother, worked at the Gym. He showed her how to use the PC in the office to play Pong.
Her aunt Connie swung by, too, from time to time. She was the baby of the Family. She wore glossy brown sunglasses and drove a silver car. She smelled like perfume and cigarettes. Frankie thought she was fancy.
Connie didn’t like the way Al decorated, either. Every time her aunt flipped on the office lights and looked around, she sighed and shook her head. “Oh, your Daddy,” she’d say.
After the Gym, Al cranked the truck window down and got on the highway. The wind roared in Frankie’s ears. They were going to see her grandparents, her dad’s parents. They had moved out of the South Side when Al’s dad retired. Now they lived in a ranch house on a quarter acre of land out in the sticks. The path to the front door was lined with garden gnomes, cherubs with their hands clasped in prayer, and Virgin Mary statues. Inside, she and Al made their way down the usual receiving line of aunts, uncles, and cousins, ending in the kitchen where Grandma Sonia held court, chain-smoking Pall Malls and watching TV.
Sometimes Frankie felt like she was playacting when she was with the Family, only she didn’t have the script like everyone else did. On her way out of the kitchen to play with her cousins, an aunt stopped her. “Frankie! When’s your Communion?”
Frankie shrugged. She didn’t know her line. She didn’t know what to say. This happened a lot when she was with the Family. That’s why everyone always said she was so shy. She wasn’t shy at home with Mia, or with Mia’s family. This place was different.
Frankie knew she was Catholic because Al told her so. She thought it was an inherited trait, like freckles or brown eyes. But she knew she was different from her cousins, who went to church and knew how to pray the rosary and other things she didn’t know. Once out of earshot of the adults, she asked her cousin what a Communion was.
“It’s like graduation from Sunday school,” he said.
“I don’t go to Sunday school.”
“Oh,” he said, before going back to his Batman figures.
After dinner came the invitation from her cousins, the one Frankie dreaded: “Do you want to sleep over?” “Yeah! Sleep over!” She hated sleepovers at Sonia’s house. She could never sleep. The austere portraits of Jesus and Mary in their gilded frames kept her awake. They watched her, and she watched them back. She didn’t know whether Al stayed or left during those nights. She was too afraid to notice. Sometimes she thought about all the things she didn’t know.
“Let me ask my mom.”
Frankie stood alone by the kitchen’s wall phone, dialed the number she knew by heart, and waited, clutching the phone’s receiver to her ear like a life preserver. Each ring seemed to spell out her fate: No one was home—No one would save her—She would have to sleep over —
“Hello?” The warmth of her mother’s voice dissolved the fear.
“Hi. Can I sleep over?”
“Of course you can!”
Frankie held her breath, letting the silence speak for her.
“Is that what you wanna do?”
She held on.
“Do you wanna come home?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” That was all she had to say.
“Okay. Then you can just tell everybody that I said Frankie’s gotta come home tonight.”
“Okay.” Relief washed over her.
“Are you okay? Are you having fun?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.”
Frankie heard the kids playing in the living room. It was time: her big performance, the small price of getting what she wanted. She fixed her face in the big mirrored wall next to the dining table. Brows furrowed, lips pursed. She had to look bummed, annoyed, disappointed. She practiced the words in her head. My mom said I have to go home. Through the reflection, her eyes fell on the room’s centerpiece: a white statue of Jesus dying in his mother’s arms. My mom said I have to go home. She glanced back to the mask she wore to make sure it was still there. My mom said I have to go home. Then she ran off to deliver the bad news.
Al kept the radio low on the drive back to the suburbs. Frankie laid her temple against the cool window and watched the sky. The leaves were turning. She closed her eyes and pretended to fall asleep. Whether she actually nodded off, she never knew, but the stop at the toll always jolted her awake. She listened to Al dig for change. The words returned to her suddenly—unpaid eviction warning eviction. She squinted her eyes shut. Frankie would never tell Al what she saw. She wouldn’t tell Mia, either. She knew this was a secret.
* * *
—
She’d all but forgotten about the letter by the time December rolled around. She was busy thinking about Christmas. Al took her to the Chicago Ridge Mall to buy presents for the Family. Frankie loved the colorful lights strung up along the concourse, the smell of warm cookies outside the Mrs. Fields store, the rustle of their shopping bags as they crossed the snowy parking lot.
She was excited for the holidays this year. What would Santa bring her? Last year, she had gotten everything she wanted: Connect Four, plenty of books, a Barbie keyboard—that Barbie keyboard —
A sadness was sweeping over her. Frankie tried to push the memory away as she buckled herself into the passenger seat. She tried, but it was too strong —
It had been last year, on Christmas Day, that she and Mia left Al. Her parents had that horrible fight after she’d opened all of her presents under the tree. She couldn’t stop it now, the flood of memory: Al rushing down the hal, Mia’s cries, her own tears that fell onto the white keys of that Barbie keyboard, the stubble on Al’s cheek as he kissed her good-bye —
Frankie blinked hard. She looked out the truck window. She focused on the snowflakes that floated past her. She didn’t want to remember right now.
Al switched on the heat, and Frankie reached for the radio dial. The Charlie Brown Christmas song was just starting.
Christmas time is here…
Al sang along in an earnest falsetto. Frankie giggled as his voice cracked and strained for the high notes. If his phone rang on that car ride, Frankie didn’t hear it. Her guard was down. Back at the Gym that afternoon, she and her dad wrapped presents in the office. They used the extra wrapping paper to fold airplanes. She watched them glide out of her father’s hand, sailing past the shiny ladies on the wall.
They flew pretty good, Al thought. Frankie thought so, too.
Chicago, January 2001
With one more push, the lock snapped. A man burst into the living room, a crowbar swinging at his side. A baseball cap obscured his face, save for a thick mustache and a heavy jaw. The guy looked like a cop, badged and armed, leather gloves. Probably DEA, or the narcotics division of the Chicago Police Department.
Two more men followed the Officer, same brimmed caps, same leather gloves, same gun belts. One of them held a pair of handcuffs at the ready, but there was no one home to restrain. Someone had left the lights on, but the apartment was empty. Just like the Officer had hoped. They weren’t there to make arrests.
The crew communicated in silent nods and pointed glances, resorting to hushed murmurs when absolutely necessary. They kept each other anonymous; they used no names; their CPD stars bore only badge numbers.
They all scattered, searching. They rifled through drawers, checked behind the stove. One of their police radios chattered in the background. The place was pretty bare even for a stash house, with hardly any furniture beyond the sofa and TV. And it was clean. When the Officer opened the fridge, a small package fell to his feet. Cash, bundled, wrapped in cellophane. He tucked it into his jacket and kept moving. He found another one taped to a cabinet under the kitchen sink. Altogether, it was maybe ten grand. He looked around the room. Where was it all? Where was the dope? Where was all the fucking money?
The Officer widened his search: the porch out back, the building’s basement. The others retraced their steps. They walked circles through the apartment. There was supposed to be more. Way more. For fuck’s sake, the Kid—a young dealer, their informant—said this guy had five keys of coke stashed at his place. So where was it all?
The Officer shook his head. This had happened last time, at the raid a few weeks before; they’d left empty-handed. The Kid insisted the money had been in there; the men had just missed it. The fixer, another dealer, vouched for the Kid; the crew trusted the Fixer. The crew wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
At the Officer’s direction, the men did another round, inside and out. They worked slower this time; they knew they weren’t finding anything more tonight. One of the men went to take a leak.
A cell phone rang out. It was the Sergeant, the leader of the crew. He was parked outside in a red Chevrolet, keeping an eye on the street, wondering what the fuck was taking so long in there. The Officer filled his boss in. They had looked everywhere—yes, everywhere. There was nothing left to find. And yes, he was sure. And yes, they checked the fridge. He snapped his cell shut. The other guys knew what that look meant. The three men left the apartment the way they came. Single file, back through the living room, out the front door. There were pry marks on the doorjamb, some cracks around the lock, but it closed shut just the same.
The unmarked car rolled up to the precinct at 51st and Wentworth, followed by the Cadillac. The Officer stayed behind the wheel while the other two cleared out, the man with the handcuffs lugging an old electric typewriter under his arm. They followed the silhouette of the Sergeant inside.
The Officer killed the headlights and swung around the block, pulling into the motor pool lot. He parked the unmarked car in its assigned spot, grabbed a stack of blank warrant forms from under the passenger seat, popped the trunk. Out in the dark, he ripped open a black duffel bag, shoved the papers inside, and rooted around for a screwdriver. The license plates came off; another set from the bag replaced them. He worked quickly and quietly, then joined the crew inside.
The table was littered with torn plastic and bills of various denominations. The other men had counted the cash and divvied it up. It was barely better than nothing at all. The Sergeant sucked his teeth. Something had gone wrong. They had never been this unlucky. But there was nothing they could do about it now.
Each man took his share and disappeared into the night. They’d regroup and try again soon. Their luck would turn.
The next morning, on the first of February, the Officer was arrested on his front porch. His name was Larry Knitter. He wasn’t a real officer. The star he’d worn didn’t belong to him. And the previous night’s raid? It was no raid at all. It was a robbery.
In reality, Knitter worked for the police department’s motor pool as an electrical mechanic. The man with the handcuffs and the typewriter—Matthew Moran—was a civilian, too. He’d worked for the Illinois Department of Professional Regulation.
Only the Sergeant was an actual cop. Eddie Hicks had joined the Chicago Police Department as an officer in 1970, working his way up the ranks. He spent most of the ’90s in the narcotics unit, before retiring from the force in the year 2000. During that last decade of his esteemed career in law enforcement, Hicks had another job keeping him busy. More of a side hustle, really. In the early ’90s, he and fellow CPD sergeant Larry Hargrove recruited Knitter and Moran, forming this tight-knit crew.
Hargrove retired from the police department the same year as Hicks. Unlike his partner, Hargrove also quit the crew. He moved out West with plans to enjoy his golden years—and his promised cut of the crew’s future proceeds.
Not Hicks. He left the force, but he kept working his dealer sources and planning future raids. Hargrove’s retirement meant that Hicks’s crew was approaching the twenty-first century short by one man. They had always been four. So they found a replacement and took him along for a ride on that last night of January.
That fourth man was nobody special. The feds didn’t know who he was; the complaint that led to the arrest of the original crew referred to him as an unidentified male. But it didn’t take long for them to figure it out. The guy was no cop; he had no ties to law enforcement or any governmental agency. He was just a guy who knew a guy: in this case, Larry Knitter. That was all Albert Fontana was. Just some South Side bodybuilder who wanted some easy money, a guy who was big and who knew how to keep his mouth shut.
* * *
—
Soon enough, the whole story made the papers:
Two veteran Chicago police sergeants allegedly teamed up with two police civilian employees to steal cash and cocaine from drug dealers for nearly a decade.
That about summed it up. The crew would impersonate on-duty officers with forged warrants to steal money and drugs from dealers around the city. They’d confiscate cocaine and gallon-sized plastic bags stuffed with tens of thousands of dollars. If a dealer wanted to hurt a competitor or avoid getting ripped off himself, he might give Hicks a tip for a cut of the profit.
The operation wasn’t unique. This was Chicago, after all. Corruption and crime ran deep in its DNA. You could trace it to its beginnings, long before Blagojevich or Capone, before the turn of the century. In the 1800s, the city was built on a swamp that turned streets to mud and collected sewage, poisoning the water. Architects jacked up the buildings and streets, raising Chicago out of its filth. While the feat was successful, it created tunnels below, where the city’s criminals and their various trades could remain out of sight. The city’s health thrived; so did its degeneracy. From these rotted roots sprang generations of duplicity and greed, upheld by Chicago’s finest.
The remaining members of the original group—Hicks, Moran, Knitter—were arrested on the day after the day gone wrong. Soon, Hargrove was, too. In hindsight, it was obvious that the drug house was a fake. There was no Kid; he didn’t exist. The Fixer, the dealer they trusted, had worn a wire. Concealed cameras caught them in the act. Hicks’s crew lasted longer than other rings of corrupt Chicago cops at that time. You had to give them that. But after nearly a decade, it was over.
The replacement, Fontana, stayed free for a while longer, until the feds identified the “unidentified male.” Knitter’s friend sure had some luck, didn’t he? The one time he goes on a ride, it ends up being a fucking sting.
Chicago, 2003
The trial of USA v. Hicks was supposed to begin on June 3, 2003, at 9:30 A.M., in Judge Andersen’s courtroom—but it didn’t.
In attendance that morning, along with their respective counsel, were four codefendants: Hargrove, Moran, Knitter, Fontana. The fifth—Eddie Hicks—never arrived. They waited. And waited.
“Let’s go on the record for a second,” Judge Andersen said. The court reporter typed along. “Let the record reflect that it is now ten twenty-five, and who has not shown up?”
“My client,” answered Hicks’s attorney.
“So, Mr. Hicks has not materialized today. And have you been able to locate him?”
No, the attorney had not. He called his client’s house—no answer. He called his job—he wasn’t there. Hicks was swiftly declared a fugitive; a warrant was issued for his arrest. On his WANTED poster, the FBI noted his aliases and that he was known to travel to Brazil.
