Badge of Evil Page 12
“I know the expression,” Bishop said, “but I literally held his fucking head to the fire. After you bailed on me when the fighting started, I took care of the thugs from next door. Then, in the little time I had before the mob overran the place and the cops showed up, I wanted to persuade that fat fuck that it was in his best interest to talk to me. So we had a brief chat over the kitchen stove.”
“And?”
“Well . . . ,” Bishop said, watching a vicious line drive rocket over the left-center-field fence. “Shit, did you see that shot? One of your girls hit that?”
“It was my daughter. Remember, focus. So what’d he say?”
“I can’t believe a girl hit that. I mean, no offense. Anyway, when I asked him why he’d immediately taken such a hard line, he said it was ‘my people’ who told him he better not talk.”
“Hold on,” A. J. said, waving one of his players over and telling her to bring the team off the field. Practice was over. “What the hell’s that mean, your people?”
“The cops.”
“He said the cops told him to keep his mouth shut?”
“Yup.”
“Okay,” A. J. said. “That takes this to a whole new level of strange. Did he say anything else?”
“No, that’s when all hell broke loose.”
A. J. told the girls to get all the gear together and then take a seat in the usual place. They dutifully rounded up three buckets of softballs, the bases, two mesh hitting screens, batting helmets, bats, orange cones, and some other miscellaneous items. Without being told, they picked up the empty water and Gatorade bottles and tossed them, and when they finished, they sat in a little circle on the grass in right field. A. J. went over what they needed to work on, told them what they had done well, and answered a few questions. Then he said he’d see them Friday.
With that, he turned to Bishop and Lucy and said, “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late for dinner. I’ll meet you at the house. Lucy knows the way. Annie,” he yelled to his daughter, who’d already rounded up several teammates she was bringing back to the house for dinner. “You ready? Good, let’s rock.”
None of them noticed the dark blue sedan with New York plates and tinted windows parked on the street just beyond the left-field fence. Someone inside was watching them.
11
“COMMISH, YOU SURE you don’t want me to drive? No? Okay. Lemme know if you change your mind.”
Lawrence Brock was on the New Jersey Turnpike heading toward Washington, DC. His moment had finally arrived. He was going to the White House to meet with the president, who was set to ask him to become the nation’s chief of Homeland Security. “A fucking cabinet post,” Brock kept repeating to himself. He still couldn’t believe it. There he was, with his GED and his murdered, drug-addict father, about to become a member of the president’s cabinet. God bless America. Even though he felt like he’d spent thirty years training for this moment—and it was part of his plan—he was still shocked and amazed that it was actually happening. Most of the candidates for these jobs were groomed to go this route from very early on. They went to the right schools, clerked for the right judges, worked at the right law firms and investment banks, and schmoozed the right political people. Brock’s resume included none of the classic qualifications. He was like someone from a parallel universe: the tatted-up bad boy the debutante takes home to meet her parents.
Of course, to see the president, he actually had to get to Washington, which, as he sat in turnpike traffic that was barely moving, was starting to look like no small task. A steady, heavy rain had been falling for several hours and the roads were a mess. Brock had already been in the car for nearly three hours and he was still only in some unidentifiably ugly part of South Jersey. Though he was in his personal car, a Lincoln Navigator, rather than his official city car, he had two detectives with him. Sam Cho, Brock’s number one and his main bodyguard, was, as usual, in the front passenger seat, while Chester Mickens sat in back. He’d brought them along more for companionship than anything else, and he hadn’t yet decided if the city was picking up the tab.
Brock had been the subject of Homeland Security rumors for weeks, at least a month or more before he’d initially heard from the White House. The first contact was an e-mail, which directed him to call someone on the president’s staff the next day. This message was very clear that no commitment was being made and he should tell absolutely no one, not even the mayor (who had virtually engineered the whole thing, collecting on the favors he was owed for tirelessly campaigning on behalf of the president in last year’s election). The exchanges between the White House and Brock rapidly progressed from an e-mail and a short phone call to a résumé, completion of a tedious sixty-four-page application, ten years’ worth of financial data, and excruciating details about every hangnail, hiccup, and untraditional event in his very untraditional life. Given Brock’s motley, unlovely background, this was a significant undertaking. The phone calls and paperwork were endless. He had spent nearly two hours on Sunday afternoon sitting in the back room at Fat Jack’s Steakhouse, talking on his cell phone to the Attorney General.
Considering how sensitive presidents had become to the embarrassment of having a nominee forced to withdraw as a result of some unexpected revelation, it was hard to believe that Brock could even make it through the background check. But there were two huge factors clearing his path. The White House staff naturally assumed that as New York City’s police commissioner, Brock had already been heavily scrutinized and picked apart by the toughest, most rapacious media in the country. More important, the president really liked Brock, specifically because of his up-from-the-streets, take-no-prisoners, regular-guy personality.
Sitting in the car, though, Brock wasn’t thinking about any of the messy details or the risk of exposure. He wanted to enjoy the moment. He was completely taken by what he’d achieved and exuberant almost to the point of being silly. He called his wife. Twice. “Hey, know where I’m going?” he asked her playfully each time. “That’s right, sweetheart, the fucking White House.” The he hung up and made the same call to Lynn.
“Commish,” the detective in the backseat said, almost like a child talking to his father, “tell us about that Washington Heights bust you made as an undercover where you scored ten million dollars’ worth of coke.”
• • •
When he finally arrived in the capital, after another five hours on the road, Brock was wiped out and happy just to follow the instructions the White House had given him. One of the absurdities of the appointment process was the obsession with secrecy. It was a strange little game. Names always leaked, official sources issued perfunctory denials, reporters continued the chase, and the White House struggled to thoroughly vet their candidates while trying to keep everything under wraps. He checked into the Marriott and went straight to his room. He had been told to stay there—no going out and taking the risk of being seen—so he made a few phone calls, ordered dinner, and watched TV. It felt good just to stretch out on the bed and relax.
A presidential staffer called around nine p.m. and told Brock to come to the White House the next morning at ten thirty. He was instructed to drive past the main gate, where there’d be a black Ford Taurus he was to follow. After a good night’s sleep, he showered, shaved, and dressed. He put on a simple but elegant dark blue suit, a white shirt, a pair of gold Statue of Liberty cuff links (he’d had a dozen pairs specially made for himself and the mayor), and a dark, muted tie. He had breakfast in his room, and at ten o’clock sharp, he went out to get the car.
When he reached the White House, he dutifully followed the Taurus onto the grounds through a side entrance. Someone was waiting at the door and ushered him straight to an elevator so no one would see him. Brock thought all the secrecy was amusing and totally unnecessary. The elevator opened onto the area just outside the Oval Office, where several secretaries sat. Brock had barely taken half a dozen steps out of the elevator when the president appeared, shook his hand, and told
him to come on in. The two men had met once before when the president visited New York. Now, as then, Brock was physically demonstrative with the president, grabbing his right hand in a bearish grip and using his left to squeeze the president’s shoulder. It was part of his working-class charm. His enthusiastic display of affection was the kind of thing real men—cops, mob guys, athletes, and soldiers—did with one another to show their camaraderie. The president loved it. It made him feel like he belonged, like he was one of the guys. Never mind that he was the most powerful man on the face of the earth. What the president craved was the kind of hairy, anti-intellectual, muscular, physical camaraderie shared by men like Brock.
When they walked into the Oval Office, it was not the size or the look of the room that overwhelmed him but the symbolism. Brock felt like he had penetrated the inner sanctum. After a few minutes of small talk, the president got down to business. He told Brock he was looking for someone to take over the Department of Homeland Security and asked if he was interested. “Yes, sir, I am,” he said. “It would be an honor to serve.”
There was no discussion of policy, no questions for Brock about where he stood on critical issues. This was not an interview about the finer points of protecting the First Amendment while engaged in crucial domestic surveillance, any more than it was about the nuances of border control and the question of amnesty for illegals already here. The president told Brock he had chosen him because the antiterrorism work he had done in New York gave him an understanding of the threats America faced in a way most people would never appreciate. “You’ve been on the front lines,” the president said, “and I believe that you can effectively communicate those threats to Congress and the American people.”
The president then paused and leaned forward. “Larry,” he said—Brock loved it when the president called him Larry—“I’m not looking for someone who’s going to maintain the status quo. We’re facing more serious threats and challenges than ever. I need someone to shake things up, to really give ’em hell. We’ve gotta step it up and take this thing to the next level.”
And that was it. That was the sum total of the conversation about policy. The remaining fifteen minutes or so were spent talking about how the White House worked and the chain of command. Then, right on cue, the president’s chief of staff walked in. Immediately, the president said, “I’d like to introduce you to the new Homeland Security designee.” Then he asked when they should make the announcement. “Let’s do it tomorrow, right after lunch,” the chief of staff said, “before it leaks out.”
“Tomorrow it is,” the president said cheerily. “Larry, get your wife and daughter down here, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Brock walked out of the Oval Office stunned. He was thrilled, but he was also a little nervous. He had just agreed to take on one of the most important jobs in government. He’d be responsible for 22 separate agencies with a total of more than 189,000 employees. And his job was to somehow use that lumbering, discordant bureaucracy to keep America safe. The chief of staff led him to a small West Wing office where he could sit down and make some calls. “There’s a list on the desk of the various congressional committee chairmen and their phone numbers,” he said. “You need to call and start romancing them. They’re a bunch of raving egomaniacs and if you don’t make them feel important they’ll make your life miserable. To be honest, they’ll probably make your life miserable anyway, but it’s always nice to begin on a positive note. Start with them and then you can move on to individual House and Senate members who can help you. Do as much of that today as you feel like and I’ll get you the details for tomorrow’s press conference. Let us know when your wife’s gonna get in, and we’ll get her picked up at the airport. Congratulations, Larry. Just remember, this is the high point. The nasty, partisan, ego-driven, mean-spirited Washington bullshit hasn’t started yet. But, believe me, it will. The confirmation process is grueling. Pace yourself.”
• • •
While Brock was at the White House meeting with the president, Andrea Jafaari was at the John F. Kennedy Elementary School in Queens. The fifth-grade classroom on the second floor, with its metal desks, Apple computers, and walls decorated with self-portraits the kids had drawn, had become her refuge. Here, surrounded by the energy and enthusiasm of her students, and the moment-to-moment demands of keeping them focused, she was able to forget—however briefly—that her son, Ayad, was lying in a hospital bed in a coma.
Andrea was a dedicated teacher who really cared about her students. She was strict but widely loved. If someone needed help, she stayed after school for as long as it took. If a student wasn’t doing his work, she called the parents. She took a meaningful interest in every one of the kids in her class. The students were mostly too young to understand what she was going through, but their parents and her colleagues were horrified. Unlike the rest of the city, which had branded her the mother of a terrorist, at school she received almost unanimous love and support. They refused to believe that their favorite fifth-grade teacher had raised a Muslim terrorist. When she told them it was all a horrible mistake, they took her at her word.
Andrea had an unusually light day. She had no after-school appointments scheduled and no meetings. She did have some tests to grade, but she’d do that at home. So when the final bell rang at three, her day was over. She taught in Woodside, and the drive to her Astoria neighborhood usually took about twenty minutes. But it had been pouring all day so traffic was slow. She was too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to care. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and thought about buying a pack of cigarettes. She’d quit years ago, but all week, ever since her son had been shot, she’d had this intense, unshakable craving. It calmed her just to think about taking a long drag, feeling the smoke go down into her lungs, and then slowly, soothingly exhaling a long funnel of smoke. One of Ayad’s doctors had offered her something to calm her nerves, to help her relax, but she wasn’t interested. She didn’t want to dull her senses. There were so many decisions to make about Ayad’s medical care and his defense; she needed to be as sharp as possible. It was all-consuming, the horror, the shock, the confusion. Andrea bounced back and forth uncontrollably between anger and overwhelming sadness. As awful as she felt, however, she tried very hard not to forget about her daughter, Mary, and the impact all of this was having on her. The kids at her high school were not nearly as understanding as Andrea’s coworkers.
As Andrea got close to home, she passed a bodega and then a supermarket and debated pulling over. The refrigerator was starting to look a little bare. Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. She circled her block for about ten minutes and finally found a parking spot right by the prewar apartment building where she lived. As she labored up the stairs to the fifth floor, she remembered hassling with the landlord over the rent when she signed her first lease fifteen years ago. It seemed like a lifetime. “I have an infant and a toddler,” she argued, “and there’s no elevator. How am I going to get a stroller up and down? Take fifty dollars a month off.” He refused, but she signed the lease anyway.
While she fumbled for her keys, she could hear Mary’s music blasting from inside the apartment. She’d asked her over and over again not to play it so loud. As annoying as this was, there was also something comforting in the fact that no matter how crazy her life had become, some things never changed. She opened the door and stepped into the small entry hall of the two-bedroom apartment. Andrea put her pocketbook and briefcase on a chair in the modestly furnished living room—which was where she slept on a pullout sofa, so the kids could have their own bedrooms.
Mary’s book bag and her jacket were, as usual, strewn on the floor where she’d dropped them. Andrea called to Mary to lower the music. Not surprisingly, there was no response. She yelled her name three more times. Nothing. Now she was getting angry. Just once, Andrea thought, can’t she be a little considerate? She stormed down the hall to Mary’s room, where she expected to see her on the phone and the computer si
multaneously.
Instead, she was stunned when she opened the door to find her daughter duct-taped to her desk chair, a sock stuffed in her mouth. A bald, swarthy man with square shoulders and thick lips was holding a knife to her throat. Andrea stood frozen in the doorway. Mary’s usually perfect hair was disheveled, her forehead glistened with sweat, and her pretty green eyes were screaming with fear.
Andrea’s stomach was suddenly all twisted up and she was having trouble breathing. She gagged a little and then gasped for air a couple of times like an asthma sufferer in need of an inhaler. The intruder, who Andrea thought had a frighteningly empty look on his face, almost like someone who was medicated, used his free hand to hit the remote and turn off the stereo. “Please don’t scream or make any sudden moves,” he said in a quiet, uninflected voice. “If you remain calm and do exactly as I say everything will be fine. Now, sit on the bed.”
Andrea stood there, still unable to move. She was desperately trying to process what was happening. The stranger, the knife, Mary bound and gagged. “Sit down,” he said much more harshly, this time in Arabic.
Though Andrea was American, she knew some Arabic from her ex-husband. Slowly, she sat on the edge of the bed. “What do you want?” she managed to ask, beginning to steady her breathing. She couldn’t stop staring at Mary’s wide, frightened eyes.
“What I want is very simple. I want time,” he said, keeping the knife pressed against Mary’s throat. “I need several days to help certain people return to their homeland.”
“I don’t understand,” Andrea said. “What’s that got to do with us?”
“To ensure their safe departure, I need to know your son will not interfere. I need to be certain he will remain unconscious for at least another three or four days.” As he talked, Andrea looked first into his dark eyes and then she tried desperately to take stock of the situation. Was there something, anything, she could do to make him go away? Her mind raced, but nothing made any sense.