Circle of Six (31 page)

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.

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?”

If he said yes, that was great. If he said no, it was just as good, because later he wouldn't be able to point the finger at Foster, or point the finger away from Dupree.

“Yes, I was there when the policeman was shot.”

I nodded, spun on my heels, very happy with the answer. The door closed behind me. I entered the stairway. Before I hit the fifth floor landing, I spun back around and ran up the stairs. I got to his door and knocked
three quick times. He opened it again like he was waiting for me. I said, “Get your coat. You're coming with me.”

He was cooperating now. Tomorrow he might not. There was too much at stake for me to wait and see what he'd do.

To the crimes of burglary, conduct unbecoming, and endangerment, I could have added kidnapping, because San-San was coming with me whether he liked it or not.

I saw Foster's head pop up when he saw who was with me. As we stepped out of the atrium, I grabbed hold of San-San's arm at the bicep. It was just a friendly reminder not to fuck with me. I wanted him to know that he
technically
wasn't under arrest, but that he could be. I saw San-San squinting to see who else was in the car. When he saw it was Foster, he remained as placid as he'd been throughout. I pointed with my finger to the locked back door. Foster almost jumped over the seat to open it.

Neither San-San nor Foster spoke much on the ride downtown. I was hoping San-San would become talkative with Foster, but no. He might have felt played, and Foster may have felt guilty for duping him. Now I had two under my charge, both somewhat at odds with each other and both with a price on their heads.

It was after one in the morning when I arrived at the DA's office. I circled the building twice before actually pulling into my
illegal
spot on Leonard Street. One thing was for sure; I was making the meter maid's job a lot easier. I had the uniform at the desk call Harmon at home. We went to the waiting room.

San-San sat on a wooden bench, legs crossed Indian style, hands clasped in his lap. He closed his eyes, rocking his head back and forth. I assumed he was deep in meditation or some kind of prayer. He stayed that way for the next three hours. Foster sat across from him, eyes closing. He'd been up as long as I had, thirty-six hours, though seven of them were in a horizontal position with an attractive woman. I stood at the door jam. Every time I felt my knees give out from exhaustion, I'd shake my head violently and slap at my cheeks.

Harmon made it in by four-fifteen. His chipper up-up demeanor helped some, but not much. He had coffee and doughnuts, which Foster and I devoured. San-San was completely unresponsive to Harmon's introductory questions.

The formal questioning wouldn't start until a stenographer arrived, but this wasn't good. Harmon wasn't having it. We stepped out into the hall, and
he whispered, “Rand, he's in some kinda trance. Got to get this guy with the program.”

I felt my teeth grinding in my head. “He's probably just a little overwhelmed, maybe tired. Why don't I take them both for a little air?”

I didn't wait for Harmon's response. I wasn't ready to let San-San drag his feet on this whole case. I stood between the two dozing men, and started clapping my hands together like a drill instructor. They both jolted. “Let's go, let's go. We're gonna get some air.”