Deadly Assets (24 page)

He handed one pack to Washington.

“There,” Payne said, smiling. “Now the Black Buddha cannot say I never gave him anything. And perhaps this will allow you to look favorably, if only a little, at my unfiltered wild ideas.”

Washington looked at the pack for a moment. On the front of the box was the logotype of the Philadelphia Police Department, and under that:
HOMICIDE UNIT COLD CASES
.

He pursed his lips and nodded approvingly as he glanced at Payne, then peeled off the cellophane wrapper.

“Read the back,” Payne said.

Washington flipped over the pack, and saw:

“Interesting,” he said, then opened the top flap and pulled out the stack of cards and picked one.

It was the queen of spades and, as was common to standard playing cards, the card's back was identical to all the other cards in the deck. In this case it was the blue uniform patch with gold stitching in the shape of a badge that read
PHILADELPHIA POLICE, HONOR, INTEGRITY, SERVICE.

The face of the card, as also was common to standard playing cards, had a black “Q” and a black spade in the upper-left and bottom-right corners. But instead of an image of a queen in royal garb, the center of the card had text and a color photograph.

Under the headline
UNSOLVED HOMICIDE
was the picture of an attractive brunette, under which was written “Jennifer Ann Dusevich, White Female, 32 years old, found 11/10/81 deceased in a wooded area of Point Breeze near the Delaware River just north of O'Maddie's Pub on State Road.” And then it repeated the cash reward and the police department contact information.

“Quite clever, Matthew,” Washington said, tucking the card back in the deck and the deck back in its box.

“Thanks. While modesty of course overwhelms me, I do think it is a brilliant idea. People with a lot of time on their hands—oh, say, bad guys, and people who associate with same—like card games, and while they're playing, they just might have their memories jarred. I'm having boxes of these shipped to our jails and prisons and to our parole officers, getting them literally into the hands of those who would know. The hard part was which of the hundreds of cold cases from over the years to feature. I've got another two sets of fifty-two cases ready to go to print.”

Washington nodded.

“I was about to ask,” he said, “if you paid for this. But here we have the small print: ‘This project funded as a community service by CrimeFreePhilly.com and PhillyNewsNow.com.'”

Payne said: “The families like that Dusevich girl's deserve knowing. She deserves it.”

Washington nodded solemnly.

“To coin a phrase,” he deeply intoned, “we do speak for the dead, don't we?”

Payne reached in the box and produced more cards.

He handed a stack to Washington, who saw that they were approximately the size of the playing cards but distinctly different.

“And I got the printer to throw in a bunch of Miranda cards for the unit,” Payne said. “After reading from them—‘You have the right to remain silent,' et cetera, et cetera—the miscreant then signs and dates it. And on the back, it's in Spanish. This way the rights can be read word for word off the card, then the suspect acknowledges that by signing off on it. No defense attorney would have a chance accusing one of our officers taking the stand that he hadn't read the doer his rights.”

Washington nodded, then said, “Very thorough. Excellent ideas. Your other stream of consciousness notwithstanding.”

—

And now, Washington realized, Payne was again explaining what else he had working that was above and beyond what the job required.

“First, Uncle Denny, I would not call the mentoring program ‘underground,'” Payne said. “Maybe a better description would be ‘below the radar,' which, for now at least, lessens the chance of retaliation from those who think, with their warped reasoning, that those trying to better themselves are traitors to those in the hood who don't.”

He paused, then went on: “And it's not about the money. It's about reaching the individual. These kids are terrified to go to school—if they even make it there. Fights break out if someone looks crossways at another, on a sidewalk or in a school hallway. And the troublemakers don't care if there's an officer there—getting hauled out of class in handcuffs just adds to their street cred. So, we give those who want to break the cycle a second, even third chance. Help them live to see age twenty—and hopefully thirty and beyond.”

“You're right, Matthew. We're doing more—have to do more, especially in today's lawless environment—than simply fighting crime.”

“And last thing I want is to take credit for it,” Payne said. “Lots of others are involved. Everyone just trying to reach out to those who have nothing, give them some hope.”

“Would these others involved include Francis Fuller?” Coughlin said.

Payne grunted.

He said: “Why would Five-Eff—”

“‘Five-Eff'?” Washington interrupted, raising his eyebrows. “Where have I heard that?”

Payne grinned and nodded, then explained, “I've never been a big fan of Fuller. I admire his ability to seemingly mint money, but not his method of doing it. He and I have had our differences for years. So while some call him Four-Eff, shorthand for Francis Franklin Fuller the Fifth, I added one more—”

“Ah,” Washington again interrupted, “I believe I know what your fifth
F
might be. And I remember why it's vaguely familiar.”

Payne smiled.

“Then I take it that you've heard of Fucking Francis Franklin Fuller the Fifth?” he said rhetorically.

That triggered a deep chuckle from Washington.

“Yes,” he said, “and I actually heard it from our beloved mayor.”

“And Hizzoner heard it from me,” Payne added.

“Did he really?” Coughlin said, his tone suggesting disapproval.

“It was a slip of the tongue for the mayor,” Washington said. “At least at first. After he realized he'd said, ‘Five-Eff,' he added, ‘That Matt Payne is a bad influence. He's used that enough that now I've picked it up. But I cannot blame him. Mostly because I agree with him. Five-Eff is . . .' And then he enthusiastically repeated the entire name.”

“And one of the reasons that I gave ol' Francis that indelicate sobriquet,” Payne went on pointedly, “is because his companies—and thus Five-Eff himself—shamelessly suck at the taxpayer teats. What did he get for building that shiny new high-rise over on Arch Street? The city and state kicked in some fifty million bucks for the development, on top of another fifty mil in tax abatements. Not bad for a guy whose personal fortune is some two thousand million dollars.”

“The argument,” Coughlin put in, “is that the building and the companies established therein are going to bring more jobs to our fair city.”

“Yeah. But to only Center City,” Payne said. “Meantime, today, with Philly having more people in deep poverty than any other major U.S. city, the only skills the thugs have learned revolve around selling dope—and worse.”

“You allow Fuller no points for the funding of Lex Talionis?” Washington said.

“The last thing that Five-Eff is, Jason, is altruistic. That bad-guy bounty of twenty grand that he pays is a personal passion for him. What happened to his family was absolutely terrible. But, as we all well know, that is what's happening every day to those trapped in Philly's decaying neighborhoods.”

Washington was nodding.

He said: “And his wife and daughter, caught in the crossfire, became collateral damage of what essentially was just one day's battle for turf. The next day comes another, and the next day . . . It is indeed tragic.”

“Which is why,” Payne went on, his tone bitter, “someone needs to get around the incompetents and thieves on the city council—the ones who would have us all be mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed a steady diet of manure. We need to connect directly with those who desperately need help. It's been more than a hundred years since that journalist—Lincoln Whatshisname . . . Lincoln
Steffens
—wrote about graft in America's big cities and said it was the worst here.”

“‘Philadelphia: Corrupt and Contented,' he called it,” Washington said.

“Exactly, Jason. And nothing's changed with that. A century later, look where we've come.”

Washington nodded again and thought,
No surprise he's taking this on personally. Matthew has always thought ahead of the conventional wisdom. The word
wisdom
being used loosely.

“Impressive,” Washington said.

“Don't encourage him, Jason,” Denny Coughlin said. “Matty's ego is enormous enough as it is.”

Payne looked at Coughlin. He saw that he was smiling.

Payne returned it, then said, “Thanks, Jason. But not really. More like just common sense. We're looking at it as another part of the business of fighting crime—that is, hopefully stopping future criminal acts. We know that our typical murderer and victim is a black male, eighteen to thirty-four years of age, with at least one prior arrest. If, instead of putting the guys on probation and then just throwing them back into their old hoods—where possibly, if not probably, they fall back into their old ways—if we can help them find suitable housing and learn a marketable skill, they may not commit a second—or tenth—crime. And/or get killed.”

“Seems like a long shot,” Coughlin said, “but a worthy one.”

“Something has to change,” Payne said. “Granted, the odds of failure are high for the hardest cases, but some, especially the younger ones, you can reach. And then there's Pretty Boy—”

“Pretty Boy?” Coughlin said.

“Detective Will Parkman—he got that handle from his fellow marines, who apparently have a warped sense of humor, as even he admits ‘pretty' is the last word that comes to mind when you see him. I give Parkman a world of credit. He quietly sponsors an academic scholarship in criminal justice at La Salle, and has arranged for others to sponsor ones there, and he mentors as many students as he can.”

He looked between Coughlin and Washington.

“That,” Payne said, “is the winning of hearts and minds, and more than one at a time.”

Payne then glanced over at the television screen.

“Oh, good,” he said. “Looks like it's showtime! Care to join me in watching all the rally festivities on the video feeds next door?”

[ ONE ]

North Twenty-ninth and West Arizona Streets

Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia

Saturday, December 15, 5:40
P.M.

Reverend Josiah Cross, in his signature flowing black robe and white clerical collar, stepped onstage just as the rail-thin Tyrone “King 215” Hooks shouted out the last refrain of his “Beatin' Down The Man.”

Using the profane language of the street, the rapper's song preached that they had failed at overcoming the oppression by The Man through peaceful methods and encouraged not only responding in kind in the event that The Man used violence—but also preached instigating it.

The oppression by The Man, according to the hip-hop lyrics, occurred every day in the form of any police action, but particularly a shooting—thus justifying the title and refrain of the song:

“To our brothers the fuckin' Five-Oh daily rains / Nothin' but nines to our young brains / We got to get beatin' beatin' beatin' / Get beatin' down the man!”

The music—mostly a deep bass beat blaring from the pair of heavily amplified speakers on either side of the podium—was replaced by loud applause and cheering from the crowd that packed the streets. Cross estimated there to be at least a thousand people, maybe even a couple of thousand.

Most of those in the crowd appeared to be in their twenties and thirties, about a third of whom were white, with the majority a mix of those with darker complexions.

Directly in front of the stage, facing the crowd and standing shoulder to shoulder, stood a line of a couple dozen people who wore over their coats and sweatshirts the white T-shirts with
STOP KILLADELPHIA!
in bold lettering on the front and back, the
STOP
printed in bright red ink and the
KILLADELPHIA
! in black. A cameraman from a local TV news station, moving slowly in a crouch down the line, captured video of them with Hooks strutting onstage in the background above them.

Hooks, now holding his chromed-mesh microphone triumphantly over his head, took a grand bow as Cross, his robe flowing, swept across the stage toward him.

Cross carried his own microphone and put it close to his mouth as he waved his free arm over his head to draw the crowd's attention.

He loudly announced, “Let's give Philly's favorite hometown artist another big round of applause for that very gifted performance.”

Cross, startling Hooks, then grabbed his outstretched hand and added, “Sisters and brothers, King Two-One-Five!”

Hooks recovered, and did a short celebratory dance that consisted of jumping up and down a few times, and bowed again.

Cross then proceeded to carefully tug him in the direction of the end of the stage. When Hooks felt the tug, but in the excitement of the moment did not initially move, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his rib cage. He looked at Cross, but could not tell if the elbow, hidden from view by Cross's flowing black garment, had been thrown intentionally or not.

As Hooks hopped down from the stage, Cross quickly swept back across it to the podium and placed his microphone beside the dozen others already there that belonged to the news media. Draped above and behind him, tied across the red faux pagoda roof, there was a white banner emblazoned with the same red and black
STOP KILLADELPHIA!
as the T-shirts.

Cross gripped the top of the lectern with both hands and quietly scanned the crowd, making eye contact as he did so.

As the people became more quiet, he then leaned forward.

“This, my friends,” he intoned in a booming voice, “is both a very sad day—we mourn those who were killed today and pray for their souls, and”—he paused as there came a wave of people saying “Amen!” then went on—“and it is an uplifting day because all of you have gathered here to help”—he gestured dramatically at the banner behind him—“to
Stop Killadelphia!
”

The crowd applauded. There were more amens.

Cross waited until the crowd again became quiet, then deeply intoned, “Seventeen thousand! That's how many citizens of this city have been shot in the last decade! They are our brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles—loved ones all.
Seventeen
thousand
in ten years! That equals four of God's children each day. Four a day, I say!”

Cross then formed an imaginary pistol with his thumb and index finger and, as he repeated
“Pow!”
two times, mimed firing at the line of people before the stage wearing the
STOP KILLADELPHIA!
T-shirts.

With the first
Pow!
the third person from the far end fell to the ground, his arms flailing in dramatic fashion. At the second
Pow!
a woman at the opposite end of the line dropped to the ground, her arms flailing also in dramatic fashion.

A couple of TV news cameramen from different stations swept in for close-up shots as this was repeated twice more.

“That was yesterday,” Cross then loudly proclaimed, and again repeatedly mimed firing with his imaginary pistol, only this time in rapid fire:
“Pow-Pow-Pow-Pow!”

And four more wearing the
STOP KILLADELPHIA!
T-shirts reacted theatrically as they fell to the ground.

“And that was today!” Cross said, his voice booming.

An anxious murmur arose from the crowd.

He paused, and slowly looked around at the people.

“And what do you think happens tomorrow?” he then said softly, drawing out the words as he dramatically raised both hands over his head. “Tell me what happens tomorrow?”

“Four more!” a middle-aged woman in the crowd yelled, smiling broadly at being so quick with her answer.

“No!”
Cross called out in almost a shout, pointing his finger at the woman.

Then he wagged his finger at the whole crowd as he went on: “Oh, no, no, no! That is what is expected. That is what's always been expected. And that is why we are here today—to Stop Killadelphia!”

He swept his arms, motioning toward the crowd as a whole.

“It is time for all of us to do something, not simply accept the same to happen again and again. It is time to rise up”—the eight people who had fallen to the ground after being “shot” now stood, arms held triumphantly above them, joining the raised hands of the others in the line—“and take back our neighborhoods, take back our city.”

There came another wave of cheers, and when that quieted, a chorus of amens could be heard.

“It's no news when I tell you that we're not safe on the streets of our neighborhoods, that we're not even safe in our own homes,” Cross said.

There was a murmur from the crowd and he saw a lot of people nodding in a solemn fashion.

“And why do you think that is?”

He gestured at the Stop Killadelphia! banner.

“I want you to think of something,” Cross then said. “There's no jobs here. No work. So our children, desperate, look for a way to make a buck. And that's what? It's drugs.

“Now, have you ever wondered what's the real reason why drugs are not legal? Have you?

“Yes, there's talk in City Hall about legalizing marijuana—even talk about cocaine—and selling it like alcohol, including those same folks in City Hall collecting taxes on it. But there's only just talk.”

He paused, looked across the crowd, then went on: “Think about this: Even though they have signed a city ordinance that lets you have up to an ounce of marijuana, you still get fined twenty-five dollars if the police find you with it. You get caught smoking it in public, it's a hundred-dollar fine. And if they catch you buying pot—and especially selling it—you're gonna get thrown in jail!”

He paused for a moment, then added: “So, it really ain't legal, is it? The Man, as King Two-One-Five raps, still be raining down on us.”

He swept his arms across the crowd.

“And do you want to know why that is?” Cross then said, carefully drawing out his words. “Well, let me tell you why. It's because illegal drugs is a way to keep our young men killing one another.”

A murmur rose from the crowd.

“That's right!” Cross went on, his voice booming. “They want us to stay here in the hood, selling to one another, getting hooked on smack and crack, and then either dying of overdoses, or going out in a gunfight.”

“Beat down The Man!” a young male shouted from the crowd.

Cross nodded as he added: “And when someone needs money, you don't see them going into Center City or out to the fancy Main Line. No, the home invasions are happening here.

“These crackheads and junkies, they go into the homes of hardworking neighbors who they know aren't going to call the police.”

He pointed off into the distance.

“Our neighbors over in Fairhill and other areas where people are coming to live from other countries, they are easy targets. They are getting robbed and raped in their own homes, but they don't report it because they're afraid to go to the police.

“And so every day four folks get shot. Every day! It's a Wild Wild West culture.”

He then grasped the lectern with both hands, leaned into the microphone.

He evenly added, “And, as I said for the last four years serving on the Citizens Police Oversight Committee, that Wild Wild West culture must stop! The police department must set the tone, make an example. And today I say that must be done now, beginning with the one we have come to associate with that Wild Wild West culture”—he pointed to the front of the lectern, to the poster that had been attached there—“Public Enemy Number One, Sergeant Matt Payne, the so-called Wyatt Earp of the Main Line!”

The crowd roared.

After a long moment, Cross motioned with his hands to quiet the crowd, then went on: “And to show my dedication to our cause, I am resigning from CPOC! I will not be part of the problem. I want to be part of the solution that we . . .
Stop Killadelphia!
”

The crowd roared again.

Just then, Tyrone Hooks jumped back onstage with his microphone—the crowd roaring even louder—earning him a glare from Josiah Cross.

“Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!” Hooks shouted into the mic, playing to the crowd, pumping his left arm in rhythm and encouraging them to join in.

“Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!” a few in the crowd chimed in.

“King Two-One-Five, sisters and brothers!” Cross said, trying to mask his displeasure while at the same time sharing in the applause, dramatically sweeping an arm toward him.

“Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!” Hooks shouted again, fist pumping.

There was applause, then the crowd enthusiastically pumped fists in the air and more began chanting, “Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!”

Cross went over to Hooks and again reached up and took his outstretched hand in his.

And then there suddenly came from somewhere in the crowd the popping sound of actual gunfire.

Both Cross and Hooks went down, crumpling to the deck of the stage.

People screamed and then began shouting as the crowd started fleeing in all directions.

Hands reached up and quickly pulled Cross and Hooks from the stage. They then disappeared with a small crowd through the red door of the ministry.

[ TWO ]

Philly News Now

Center City, Philadelphia

Saturday, December 15, 6:15
P.M.

Michael J. O'Hara was sitting at his office desk, his fingers flying over the computer keyboard.

He stopped for a moment, hit the keys that would save what he'd just written, then put his hands together as if in prayer and tapped his fingertips as he reread it:

O'Hara looked up and across the newsroom—past the plainclothes policeman whom Matt Payne had insisted sit on O'Hara for at least the immediate future—and over to O'Brien's desk.

He felt his throat tighten and his eyes tear up.

He swallowed hard, looked back at the computer, and angrily smacked the
ENTER
key, sending the article to the copy editor's desk.

Then he went to his backup e-mail program and opened the e-mail that he had forwarded there that morning, the one that had caused him to drive over and check on Tim O'Brien.