“Let me guess—another new gang name I have to learn,” said Deacon sarcastically.
The mayor knew all too well that keeping track of street gangs in the city was like keeping track of restaurant openings.
“The Tombs actually broke off from the Broad Day Shooters,” said Saxon. “Apparently they didn’t do enough shooting for their liking.”
For better or worse, Saxon’s job required that he keep track of every gang. As well as what it takes to prosecute and convict them. He turned back to Tracy.
“You can’t do this, Mr. McKay,” he said.
“Do what?” asked Tracy.
“Substitute yourself as a witness for someone else. If this was a gang killing we can protect the boy and his mother,” said Saxon.
It was actually fun watching Tracy give the Look to someone other than me. He simply stared at Saxon long enough to make the words redundant. You can’t protect them any better than I just did.
“For fuck’s sake, Hank, what are you going to do? Arrest him?” asked Deacon.
Saxon was resolute. “If this were to ever go to trial—”
“Do you mean if the gang member who shot four members of a rival gang actually lives long enough to make it to trial?” said Deacon. “Is that what you’re worried about, Hank?”
There is no gambling like politics, said Benjamin Disraeli.
Deacon dismissed Saxon’s concern as fast as he dismissed Saxon himself, his frustration boiling over. Livingston was a mere bystander, too. “So what in God’s name just happened?” he asked Elizabeth and me. Mostly me.
“Remember the idea of taking the deck out of the Dealer’s hand? Someone beat you to it,” I said.
A gang saw an opportunity and grabbed it. Did one of them see or hear about the jack of spades before Lange’s body was discovered? Maybe. Better than maybe, even. So he posed as a serial killer to take care of his own business. Members of a gang can live—and die—with the threat of retaliation from the street, but at least they won’t have the police to worry about. Or so went their plan. After all, no witness would be foolish enough to come forward. You’d have to be sick in the head.
Or maybe just six years old.
Amazing. Tracy, without the slightest hesitation, was willing to do everything he could to protect Miles.
Your witness, Gateway Adoption Agency. Any more questions about Tracy being a suitable parent?
“One hell of an afternoon,” muttered Deacon.
Grim nods followed from Livingston and Saxon. Even Elizabeth bowed her head a bit.
Not me, though. I was practically smiling. Tracy had done more good than he realized.
Deacon glared at me. “What the fuck are you so happy about?” he snapped. “We just went down a dead end.”
“No,” I said. “It’s the exact opposite. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for.”
Chapter 64
TICK-TOCK…
His name was Jackie Palmer.
Back in the early 1970s, he was a member of the Black Spades, a gang that ruled the Bronx like no other before it…or after it. They were violent, extremely territorial, and built to last, with Palmer as one of their warlords.
But then Palmer got political.
Not run-for-city-council political. Instead he blew up an army recruiting station because of the way he thought the US government was exploiting African American soldiers in the Vietnam War. That kind of political.
Palmer had visited the recruiting station in the Bronx under the pretense of obtaining enlistment brochures. While there he asked if he could use the bathroom, where he allegedly planted a pipe bomb with a timer set to explode that evening after the station was closed. Allegedly.
What he didn’t know was that the recruiting officer was using the supply room as a bedroom for the night because his apartment was being fumigated. The officer was killed in the blast.
There were no witnesses, but a log sheet was recovered from the wreckage showing that the officer had listed “Jack Palmer” as the sole visitor to the station that day. More incriminating were the bomb-making materials the police found in Palmer’s apartment after they obtained a search warrant.
But none of that actually proved anything beyond a reasonable doubt, especially because this was before the days of sophisticated forensic evidence. Palmer never even admitted that he’d set foot in the station. Ultimately, no charges were filed.
One very committed detective, however, never let go of the case. Ten years later, courtesy of advanced CSI techniques, a hair sample from the station was shown to be a match with Palmer’s. It “positively” placed him at the army recruiting station. With no statute of limitations on murder in the state of New York, Palmer was arrested and tried.
He was found not guilty.
The case against Palmer began unraveling when his attorney successfully challenged the admissibility of the hair sample based on a technicality—the temperature at which it had been stored over the years. Still, the prosecution continued, abetted by a jury that seemed ready to convict regardless. That’s when it happened. Jackie Palmer came forward.
A different Jackie Palmer. But similar in many ways. He was black, roughly the same age, and lived in the Bronx. He claimed he was the Jack Palmer who had gone to the recruiting station that day. The reason he never came forward previously was that he feared he’d be charged with planting the bomb. He was terrified, he said. Of course, he was also lying.
No one could prove it, though, and that gave the defense just enough reasonable doubt to prevent a conviction. Palmer was a free man.
I remember reading about the trial in an article that discussed the various tiers of morality. In this case, someone was willing to obstruct justice in the name of avenging a perceived larger injustice. Vietnam, as it turned out. The Jack Palmer who took advantage of a common name and came forward had not only been a conscientious objector but also an outspoken critic of the war.
Funny how the mind works. Tracy was protecting little Miles Winston for all the right reasons. The poser in the Jackie Palmer trial was protecting the “real” Jack Palmer for all the wrong reasons. The similarity, though, was enough to trigger the thought in my head and make the connection.
The jack of spades is Jackie Palmer.
“Yeah? Who is it?” came his voice through the intercom outside the brownstone where he now lived, still in the Bronx.
“Detective Needham with the NYPD, Mr. Palmer,” said Elizabeth. “My partner and I need to speak with you immediately.”
That was the first time she’d called me that. Her partner.
Tick-tock…
We waited for that annoying yet still welcome sound of his buzzing us in. There was a time when Jackie Palmer would’ve probably told us to get the hell lost before ducking out via his fire escape. But that was decades ago. Jackie Palmer was nearing seventy now.
He wasn’t ducking anything anymore. “Suit yourself,” came his voice again.
Followed by the buzz.
Chapter 65