Circle of Six (27 page)

I was deflated. This was a break in the case but an unusable one. Vito should have never been assigned to this case, in any capacity. As frustrated as I had become, I still kept upbeat in front of the ADAs. If I appeared to be out of control, they'd lose faith in the case. But I was too far gone to ever think I was coming back to this job after the case was either solved or shelved. I was leaving, but on my terms, and that was with an arrest number on the bottom of Cardillo's last five.

I went back to Victor Padilla and Ivan Negron. Padilla couldn't identify anyone, and Negron was iffy on photo arrays. One thing I noticed was that Negron and Padilla barely acknowledged each other's presence. A sad aftermath of the assaults, of their misdirected anger, was that they never worked together again. My original sixty-seven cops identified sixteen men on the scene. Of course, they wanted street justice, a
real
attack against the mosque.” I was sure to remove all pedigree information from the pictures before showing them. I now had to protect the Muslims.

As opposed to spinning my wheels, the films had catapulted me forward in the case. I had men positively identified at the scene. The film was dated and time-coded. No one could say he wasn't there the day of occurrence. Now I needed to turn one of those men, which was impossible to do without showing my hand. If I knocked on a door, I'd have nothing to offer in return for testimony. I'd have to wait until one of them came to me. This would prove to be sooner, rather than later.

I kept on debriefing arrested Muslims, all with the same results. There seemed to be an abundance of men in the city claiming to be Muslims once they had been fingerprinted. I started to receive calls from precincts outside the city: Yonkers, Westchester, Long Island, and even Connecticut. And I went to debrief every arrestee.
They all knew somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody.
The trips throughout the city and its suburbs really
started to take a toll on me mentally as well as physically. My days turned into nights, and my eight-hour tours were never shorter than thirteen hours a clip. Any extra time I compiled couldn't be claimed as overtime. My home life consisted of cold, late-night dinners, brief conversations with my very groggy pregnant wife, Lynn, four hours of sleep, and then I'd start it all over again. I was a hamster on a wheel.

I was tired. It was an early Friday evening, and I'd been working for the better part of twelve hours. I needed some downtime. It was Lynn's father's birthday; her parents were at our apartment for coffee and cake. The man loved Ferrara's cannolis. On my way back from a few debriefings in Brooklyn, I'd stop at the famous Little Italy pastry shop to pick up a box for him. I told myself I was shutting everything down for the evening. It was just going to be me and my wife and my in-laws. I was going to kiss my wife, hug my in-laws, have a moderately warm dinner, and relax. It was just what the doctor ordered.

And that's when I was confronted by my dangerous past.

The moment I walked into the shop, I noticed the diamonds hanging off their pinkies. Two members of Albert Victory's crew, drinking espresso. The one facing me broke off his conversation mid sentence. His partner, recognizing the blood in his eyes, turned around. There I was. I didn't look away; I just tilted my head at them in acknowledgment. I was aware of two things: the fifty-large that was still collectible for my head or any other body part that would indicate slow painful death, and my off-duty revolver, strapped to my left hip. The shop wasn't crowded, just enough people to give IDs to the cops. I smiled at the counterman, pointing to the cannolis and said, “I'll take a box.”

I didn't look back at
the boys
, though I did keep my eye on the mirror behind the counter for any sudden movements. Did I think the two wiseguys were going to clip me inside the tourist heavy, mob neutral pastry shop? No, I didn't. But I had to be aware, much the same way I was aware that the Muslims now knew who I was and what I looked like. The weird thing was that I was less afraid of all of them than I was of the men at One PP.

The counterman handed me the box, about to tally up the order. I jabbed my thumb back at the goodfellas and said, “It's on them.” He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and I didn't wait to see.

I dropped the box of cannolis in the car, eyeing the payphone on the corner. Vito was at the 2-5, and he usually waited for me to call before he signed out. The sudden pang of guilt made me reach for a dime.

He picked it up on the first ring. “There's one at the 1-3 Precinct, in the squad. What do you want me to tell him?”

I thought about Lynn and her parents, waiting to put the coffee on. My string of misses on these interviews was 100 percent. But the 1-3 was on the way home, five minutes from where I was. “Tell him I'm on my way.” I hung up, determined to get to the squad as quickly as possible, interview the—more than likely—non-Muslim, and be on my way home.

The squad was empty except for one detective beating the shit out of an old Corona typewriter. “I'm Detective Jurgensen from the 2-8 squad.”

He didn't look up from the typewriter. He plucked an unlit chewed-up cigar from an overflowing ashtray, jammed it in his mouth, and jerked his head across the room.

He was cuffed to a chair, thin, approximately six feet tall. His hair was closely cropped, and his eyes were attentive, quick, and intelligent. His skin was smooth, mocha colored. He looked young, about twenty-three, angelic, happy, at peace almost. There was something innately different about this young man.
Could he be the real thing?
He smiled as I moved toward him, and I felt the smile came from a real place, not something he was using for his benefit, or mine. “I'm Detective Jurgensen. How you doing?”

He nodded, keeping his eyes locked on mine. He was cordial and at ease. “I'm Foster 2X Thomas.”

There is never a right way or wrong way to debrief and interview someone. We're all blind, which is why we're asking questions. The trick is to fool the person you're interviewing into believing you have perfect sight. It's much like being a card shark or a magician; slight of hand, some smoke and mirrors, the suspension of disbelief, and a little luck will get you—hopefully—that much closer to the truth.

“I'm here to talk to you about what happened three years ago at the mosque.”

He slowly laid his free hand over his cuffed wrist. He seemed to be expecting me. He took a deep breath and said, “I know.”

I slid a chair very close to him.
Is he a plant? Is he going to give me false information? Am I being set up, or is he the man I've been looking for?
Fuck the foreplay. I decided to go directly for the cookies. “I know you were there that day.”

“Yes, Sir, I was.”

The excitement roared through me, but I couldn't let my emotions betray the truth that I was blind and lost. I had to relay an air of confidence, if not
for him, then definitely for myself. I tilted my head back at the arresting detective, then at his cuffed wrist. “What happened here, Foster?”

“I didn't have a proper credit card.”

He had been in possession of a stolen credit card. He hadn't denied the crime, just cleaned it up. That told me he was honest, wasn't looking for a break, and though he seemed apologetic, he maintained an aura of pride.

“I know exactly what occurred that day,” I said.

“I know you do.”

“Tell me what happened.”

He let out a deep breath, one that he seemed to have been holding for a long time. “I was in the bakery, preparing for lunch. I heard pounding on the stairs above us. That was strange, because no one was allowed to run up or down the stairway. Then there was a loud thud above, and someone screamed
Allahu Akbar
.” Throughout this description, Foster kept nodding to me as if trying to reaffirm what I already knew. So far, he hadn't lied. I nodded; he continued, “I ran into the vestibule and saw the policemen fighting with my brothers.”

He dropped his head, “I helped in defending the mosque.”

“Go on,” I said evenly. I believed he was sorry.

“After the guns went off, I ran into the bakery, and the rest of the brothers ran toward the back.”

He said
Allahu Akbar
, and he used the word
guns
in the plural, indicating more than one gunshot. He was there; I was sure of it. I had to break off the questioning. It was just a matter of time before the DT became inquisitive. I held up my hand for him to stop. This was going to take time. The last place I could do an in-depth debrief was a police precinct. “We're gonna take a ride, okay?” I didn't wait for his answer as I uncuffed his wrist. “Come with me.”

As I passed the cop on the Corona, I said, “I'm gonna borrow him for an hour or so, okay?” He didn't look up from the typewriter, grunted something inaudible, and continued banging away.

This was the closest I had been in two years. I tried not to think or get too far ahead of myself.

We stepped outside the precinct on Twenty-first Street. I didn't have a clue where I was going, and then it hit me—the FBI.

I wasn't afraid he was going to run. He was completely compliant. He followed me without saying a word and said even less as I drove to the first pay phone I could find, the box of pastries between us. I called Joe Pistone; thankfully he was working a late tour. I told him I was coming in. “Where you comin' in from, Rand, the cold?”

“I think so, Joe. I think so.”

If Foster 2X Thomas didn't understand the seriousness of the situation, he got it when we walked into the lobby of the FBI. His face was more of shock than fear. I moved to the security kiosk. I flashed my shield, “I'm Detective Jurgensen. I'm here to see Agent Pistone.”

I no longer had the need to cloak my name this was as real as it was going to get, or so I hoped, because I was running out of moves. I pointed to Foster, “He's also here to see Pistone.”

After signing in, we were led to a bank of elevators. The security man turned a key, and the elevator doors opened. We stepped in, the man slid his key into another pad, turned it, and the doors closed, taking us to an unknown floor. I kept it light in the elevator, “You hungry?”

He was nervous, “A little, Sir.”

“We'll order something here. Don't worry about anything. This is just going to give us more privacy to talk, you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I almost told him not to call me
Sir
. The doors opened to a glass-enclosed lobby where Joe Pistone was waiting. “He a prisoner or guest?”

“He's a guest, Joe.”

Pistone nodded and extended his hand, “I'm Agent Pistone.”

Foster hesitated then shook his hand. “I'm Foster 2X Thomas, Sir.”

Joe punched in some numbers on a keypad, and the glass doors buzzed
us into a large work area with dozens of cubicles. The thick carpets were royal blue. The walls were gleaming white. There was a lot of office chatter, but it was calm, not like the circus at any squad. We followed Joe into a small windowless conference room. “If you need anything, dial 208.”

“Joe, do you mind ordering us some pizza? Neither of us has eaten all day.”

I looked at Foster, “Pizza cool with you?”

“Yes, Sir,” he said sheepishly.

Joe said, “Pizza? You want I should get you a nice Chianti with that, maybe some garlic knots, a little antipasto?”

I smiled, “The pizza's fine, Joe.”

He closed the door behind him, giving us complete privacy. Foster was now visibly nervous.

I needed to ease into it. We small talked at first, then about his personal life: where he was from, was he married, did he have a girlfriend, where did he live, and whom did he live with. I wanted to develop a sense of who he was, create a personality profile. He'd be more comfortable when the food came. What I learned was very close to my first impression of him. He was a practicing devout Muslim. He made it a point to tell me he knew the credit card was dirty, and that he was prepared to make restitution for his crime. He seemed to be an open book, willing to share his personal thoughts and goals. He was an only, child living with his mother in the projects at 104th Street and Third Avenue. He had a girlfriend, Loretta, also a practicing Muslim, whom he planned to marry. He had a decent position at Mosque Number 7. He was a baker. The pay wasn't much, but he was getting training and experience. He said he understood that the mosque could appear to be extreme and militant to outsiders, but it created a disciplined work ethic and gave the members a sense of belonging to a powerful Imam—Farrakhan—in a chaotic time. I understood how disenfranchised inner-city youths could be attracted to that life. They were protected and given a purpose, something New York City was very thin on affording to poor kids.

The food arrived and we ate. I slowly began asking Foster about the day. He broke it down for me the way he had at the precinct. I tried to control my enthusiasm. He was exactly what I'd been searching for. He was intelligent, articulate, a member of the mosque in good standing, with a responsible position inside the facility, and most important—he was a witness to the crime. I thought,
what would've happened if I hadn't called Vito from the pay phone at Ferrara's?
Foster would've been processed and packed away.
I thought of the damning evidence he was going to provide. If I hadn't ventured to the 13th Precinct, this case might never have been solved. I became overwrought with anxiety,
stop thinking, Randy. You did go to the 13th. You do have a witness. The case is over. You're going home. Stop thinking. Stop fucking thinking!

It was time to get to the meat of the questioning. I asked, “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes, Sir, the honorable Elijah Muhammad,” when he mentioned this name he almost bowed his head with reverence. Elijah Muhammad was the head Imam of the entire Nation of Islam. Foster continued, “He states that we should always tell the truth, and Minister Farrakhan insists that we always speak the truth. I know you are someone of importance; otherwise we wouldn't be here. I would not lie to you, Sir.”

I leaned in close, not to intimidate him or anything, just to show I needed answers. “Did you shoot the policeman?”