Bronx Requiem(44)
“While another guy was shooting at you with a twelve gauge? Careful, John.”
“I saw what I saw, Ray. And it all lines up. Beck is connected to Paco Johnson. We know that from Lorena Leon. Paco Johnson threatened Derrick Watson. We’ll get a half a dozen witnesses at the Bronx River Houses to verify that. Watkins, or one of his guys, popped Johnson. Beck does Watkins in revenge. All the dots connect.”
“Yeah, well the first dot we gotta establish is Derrick Watkins puttin’ a bullet in Paco Johnson. You do see the challenge here, right John?”
“Tyrell will back me up.”
“You can’t put all your eggs in that broke-ass basket.”
“It’s a start.”
“Okay, John, just be realistic, okay? We got a long ways to go before we convince an ADA on this mess. And don’t forget now you got a shitload of bosses looking over your shoulder.”
“Agreed. Absolutely. But if we make good on all this, it’s going to be good for us, Ray. Real good. The links are there. Stick with me, big guy. We are going to make out great.”
Ippolito smirked, taking note of the word we, and not believing for a second that Palmer meant anything other than me.
25
The cell phone alarm signal started slowly. It wasn’t until it reached its fastest, most insistent beeping that John Palmer finally forced himself out of a deep sleep.
He rolled over and sat up on the cot in the 42nd Precinct bunk room. He cursed, rubbed his face, stood up wearing only his boxer shorts and socks. The dark room felt airless. He shuffled into the precinct locker room, rinsed his face in the sink, washed his armpits, and splashed water over his torso. He used paper towels to dry off.
He padded to his locker, slathered on deodorant, and dug out a fresh shirt, before climbing back into his rumpled suit. It was almost 11:30 P.M. He’d slept for two and a half hours. It would have to do.
As he made his way into the precinct, Palmer wondered how Ippolito had done shepherding the case along. Ippolito lived to complain, but he knew how to get things done. Palmer hoped he had gotten a statement out of Tyrell Williams. If Tyrell had balked, there were ways to coerce him. He could threaten to lock up Tyrell as a material witness. There might be some outstanding warrants on Tyrell he could use for leverage. Or, if things had really blown up, he’d turn the tables and arrest Tyrell for the murder of Derrick Watkins. Tyrell might figure the charge would never stick, but at the very least it would mean a long night at Central Booking. Then arraignment on a murder charge, or on conspiracy to commit murder, which would certainly convince a judge to send him to Rikers without bail.
Palmer had plenty of ways to keep Tyrell on the team. But when he walked out into the detective’s work area, he saw Tyrell sitting next to Ippolito’s desk, with Ippolito diligently typing on an old IBM Selectric. A legal pad with Tyrell’s written statement sat on Ippolito’s desk.
Palmer walked up to them and asked, “How’s it going?”
“Good,” said Ippolito. “It took me awhile to get to this, but we’re almost done with Mr. Williams’s statement.”
“Great. Great. How’re you feeling, Tyrell?”
“Like shit, man. All they would give me was goddam Tylenol. I wanna get the f*ck out of here.”
“Absolutely. As soon as possible. So where are we, Detective Ippolito?”
Ippolito leaned back from the typewriter and pointed to a file folder sitting on the mess of paperwork littering his desktop. “Detective Witherspoon has a rather extensive file for you, Detective Palmer.”
“Good, good. And do we have an ADA heading our way?”
“As we speak.”
“Okay,” said Palmer as he picked up the Witherspoon folder. “We’ll get a copy of your statement, Tyrell, meet with the assistant DA, and we’ll be all set. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Tyrell made a face to show he knew Palmer was bullshitting him.
Ippolito stood up and said, “Tyrell, I’m gonna talk to Detective Palmer for a second.”
Ippolito walked a few desks away, Palmer following him, asking, “Jeezus, Ray. What the f*ck’s taking so long?”
“Waiting for you so you can see this mutt’s record before you jump in with this *. John, this skel’s sheet goes back to when he was thirteen.”
“Shit. Anything horrible?”
“Define horrible. He’s been arrested for drugs, assault, possession of an unlicensed firearm, for which he did a mandatory twenty-four months.”
“Anything else?”
“Of course. There’s also a bunch of charges before he turned eighteen, which are sealed.”
“Okay, so just the one prison term, right? C’mon, that’s not so bad. It’s the same for plenty of guys in his neighborhood. He’s never testified before, has he?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Good. We got that going for us.”
“John, that’s not exactly the point. You gotta see Witherspoon’s file on James Beck. His conviction for killing a cop in a bar fight was overturned. Completely exonerated, plus he got a couple million in damages. Technically, he’s clean. As far as the system is concerned, he has no criminal convictions. Nuthin’. Not even a parking ticket.”