Short Story: Investigation and Proceedings

I hate Tuesdays.

Think about every bad day you've ever had. Put them all together, and multiply by ten. That's Tuesday. Especially last Tuesday.

My name is Detective James Crowe, with Homicide in New York City's 13^th Precinct. I was sent to investigate a shooting at 2143 East 219^th Street, a drive by at a gas station. When I got there, I already knew it was going to be a bad day. It was Tuesday, after all.

Every investigation starts with what the suits call "communication skills". I sat in the car for a moment, collecting my notepad, tape recorder, and digital camera, and thought about what kind of problems I might run into.

On a good day, I might have to talk to someone who is hearing impaired. That in itself is a neat trick. It's not too bad, though, as most people with that particular disability are used to dealing with people who've never dealt with someone like them before. Generally, you can get away with just talking normally, as long as you have their full attention and speak very clearly.

Or, I might run into a gang-banger; some cute little twerp with a gun who thinks he's a tough guy. The problem isn't just their attitude, though. The problem is that they insist on using a cannibalized version of language that's indecipherable to a rational human. Oh, they can speak normal English. They just don't.

But the worst is when it's a kid. Children get shocked pretty easily, and that makes them unpredictable. You never can tell how they'll act or react, and they don't show the same cues as adults. You feel bad for them too, having their innocence cut short by seeing what they've seen - and then having to deal with a bunch of cops all day. That's tragic.

Turns out it was my lucky day. As I stepped out of my car, the Sergeant gave me the low down on the scene. We had three witnesses. One of each, representing all of my favorite groups. It was Tuesday, all right.

Before we went to meet the lucky contestants, we took a swing around the scene. It's always good to see what there is to see before you start asking questions. But you've got to be careful: everybody watches you when you first show up for an investigation. Witnesses, the other cops, more than once, the suspect himself, somewhere in the crowd, they all want to see what you'll do, what kind of cop you are. They're looking for information too, something they can use to their own advantage.

Me, I keep my body language muted. Let them try to figure it out. Keeping everybody off balance keeps them guessing, and that keeps me in charge.

If you're not careful, if you let your feelings show, or your confidence slip, they'll eat you alive. A suspect, if he's there, might try to intimidate you later. The witnesses might clam up if they get even the slightest hint that you're not the end-all be-all of authority. And having the other cops think you're a sissy doesn't help matters either.

I took a good look at the body. Some people call them 'victims'. I don't. All the victim-hood went out the them the instant their heart stopped beating. That's tragic too, but none of us can change the past, and it's one way I keep from taking things like this personally. You can't let it all get to you, or you might as well turn in your shield.

In this case, we've got a teenage African male; J'quan Jackson, if the ID isn't a fake. He took two bullets to the chest. A half-dozen more were lodged in the side of his black 1987 Pontiac Grand Prix. Well, ballistics' job would be easy enough.

On the down side, there was a blue bandanna tied around J'quan's right elbow. That marked him as a member of the Yeomen, one of the gangs in this neighborhood. On the one hand, that put the Greys, their rival for this territory, at the top of my list of suspects. On the other, that stuck me with over a hundred possible shooters.

And that wasn't the worst of it. Gang members developed a long list of enemies in very short periods of time. That's why their life expectancy runs into their 20's. J'quan might even have been shot by a member of his own group, for any number of reasons.

Hopefully, my witnesses might be able to shed some light on the matter. The Sergeant took me over to where they were waiting.

I decided to talk to the gang member first. Maybe he'd be able to help me cut down my list.

"What's you're name?" I said. I wanted to send a message that the sooner we got the crap out of the way, the sooner he could go. That was one of two things that worked on these guys. The prospect of getting 'the heat' off your back, quick and easy, sparked a little cooperation.

The other thing was loyalty to a 'brother.' I'd have to invoke that too, get it to work for me, if this was going to go anywhere.

My witness responded with something that sounded like it would be a curse, if only he applied anything resembling grammar.

"Listen, man," I said, "I just need a little bit of information so I can catch the bastard that shot your bro. You give me what I need, and you walk away. Ten minutes, tops - if you work with me."

Never say "we" to a gang member. That makes it into an 'us's' vs. 'you's', a situation that gang members instinctively rail against. You say "I", and you're just another cracker who'd just as soon not be on his turf. You won't get any respect that way, but that isn't what you're after anyhow.

"None o' yo ____'n bid-nez, pig," he said. It's amazing how much fervor goes into the pronunciation of those blanks. "We deal wit owa own, an' we will deal wit dis wit out yo."

Ah, he didn't want to be a 'sell-out'. If word got out that he helped a 'pig', he'd lose 'street cred'. Can't have that.

"Fine," I said. "You don't want to help, I can't make you. You'd think you'd want to see the guy that shot your bro go up, but that's on you. How about this: If you promise that you'll come tell a jury what you've seen today if I happen to catch this guy before you do, I'll promise to take my time tracking him down, if you know what I mean. What do you say?"

He smiled. I handed him a card with my number. "Call me if you see this going to trial on the news." I held out my hand, indicating that he was free to go.

The Sergeant gave me a look.

"Get the prints off the passenger door handle. Run the most recent. That'll tell us who this guy is, and where we can find him when we need him."

"But he didn't tell you anything!" the Sergeant protested.

"Actually, he told me more than I needed." He had too. His certainty over who to take retribution on confirmed that it was one of the Greys. Now I just needed specifics.

"But, how can you be sure that the prints will give us a hit?"

How did this guy make it to Sergeant? I wondered.

"He's a Yeoman, just like the corpse - and an old one, for them. Which means he's already got a rap sheet a mile long. He'll be on file."

"But..."

"I know he was in the passenger seat because he was the only passenger. Personality profile: arrogant. Therefore, he would not stand for riding in back unless somebody else were here that outranked him in their pecking order. And there's no way he's here by chance. Not with a gang. He and J'quan were up to something, and they got interrupted."

I looked back at the Sergeant. "Now would be good."

As the Sergeant scampered off, I moved on to the other man. This fellow was a middle-aged Caucasian, about 5' 6" and 180lbs, blue collar dress, brown hair and eyes.

"What's you're name?" I asked. Some tricks work on everybody.

"Huh?" he asked, visibly shaken.

That's right. Hearing impaired.

I looked up from my notepad and right into his eyes. "What's your name?" I didn't even have to shout, just give him a clear line of sight.

"Tom Harding," he said, "I-"

"Detective Crowe," I interrupted, "Where do you work, Tom?" When someone's shaken up, it always helps to ask about unrelated things. Reliable things, things that make sense in a world suddenly gone stark raving mad. It restored some stability to a mind that rather wished it weren't there just then.

We carried on for a few minutes, until I was sure that Tom felt a little better. As an added bonus, I now had a load of useful information about Tom, in case I ever needed it. I know he lost his hearing in an industrial accident, for example. An iron bar fell on his head ten years ago. The company paid for hearing aids, but his condition had gotten worse since then.

"What kind of car was the shooter in?" I asked. The abrupt change of subject threw him off balance, but we'd already built a raport, and startling people tends to induce honesty.

"A black SUV. Cadillac," he said.

"Did you happen to notice the tag?"

"What?"

"The plate. Did you catch the number?"

"No," he said, "Everything happened so fast..."

"Fine. Anything else you can remember about the shooters?" I deliberately used 'shooters' to see if Tom would correct me.

"There was only one. He was black, he used a pistol, and fired eight shots."

"Uh-huh. Anything else?"

"Yeah. He had a grey bandanna on his head."

Bingo.

The Greys got their name because they were the oldest gang in the area. Once, they were a family of thugs that worked for the mob. When John Gotti got put away, though, they struck out on their own. Free agents, as it were.

Now for the bonus round.

"Any tattoos, markings, or anything like that?"

"I couldn't see much. I was pumping gas, and it only went on for a few seconds. With my hearing, I didn't even notice the gunfire until... the glass broke..." He started sobbing.

I put a firm hand on his shoulder. "It's ok, Tom. I know it was terrible. But it's my job to make sure we stop this sort of thing from ever happening again. To do that, I need your help. It's very important, is there anything you remember that might help me find this guy?"

"A gold tooth," he said, getting himself back under control. "I remember looking up and seeing the man leaning out the window, gun blasting away, smiling. One of his front teeth was gold."

"Thanks, Tom." I sent him inside to grab a cup of coffee.

Now I had a chance, but I'd have to talk to the kid. It never ceases to amaze me the things they see, even things adults that are paying attention don't notice.

"Hello, Mr. Simpson," I greeted the kid's father, "I'm Detective Crowe. I'd like to ask your son here a few questions about what happened today."

"Of course," he said. Parents are either really easy, or really hard, depending on their feelings toward civic duty. At least that much was going my way.

"Hello...?"

"Billy," Mr. Simpson said.

"Hello, Billy. How are you doing?" Billy looked to be about nine.

"I'm ok." Simple, direct answers. He was either in shock, or just an introvert. Even kids that are brought up to trust police usually feel uncomfortable around authority figures with guns. I had to be very careful with my questions anyway; kids can be delicate.

"What were you doing this morning?"

Simple questions, simple answers. Billy was playing on the wrong side of the street, but he looked up when the gun started firing. He confirmed that the vehicle was a black SUV, but didn't see the shooter. He did have two things of particular interest to say, though: the driver was female and wasn't wearing a bandanna, and there was a passenger in the back seat with a camcorder.

I thanked Billy and Mr. Simpson. If there was somebody recording the shooting, that meant something. It was an induction; the shooter was trying to join the gang, and needed proof that he'd taken out one of the 'enemy.'

I went inside the station to wrap up. The sole attendant on duty had been making fresh coffee at the time of the shooting, and hadn't seen anything. He didn't speak English either. A translator would stop by to question him later, but we didn't expect anything useful from him.

On my way in, I noticed that the store only had a fake video camera. No power was hooked up. No help there.

I went over to the Sergeant, who was helping himself to some coffee. He let me know that the prints and bullets had been collected, and J'quan's mother had been called. We'd question her anyway, just in case, but she had to know that her son was marked for death the instant he put on that bandanna.

I took a flash disk copy of the photos the other investigators had taken of the crime scene with me, and went back to the office to fill out my report.

File number 08-0231-0800H

On February 31, 2008, at 08:00 hours, I, Detective James Crowe, responded to the Fruits of Hindustan gas station at 2143 East 219^th Street in New York, NY, in reference to a homicide investigation. The deceased victim was identified as J'quan Jackson, 23, of 2181 East 219^th Street, who was found dead upon the arrival of the paramedics with two bullets lodged in his chest.

Upon arriving, I spoke with three witnesses: Mr. Tomas Harding, 34, of 8139 81^st Avenue; William Simpson, 9, of 2142 East 219^th Street, and the passenger of the victim's vehicle, later identified as Mil'ha'jim Smith, 19, of 2187 East 219^th Street.

According to these witnesses, at approximately 07:40 hours on the same day, a Black Cadillac SUV came around the corner of East 219^th Street and 81^st Avenue, and a man inside, identified as a member of the gang called "the Greys" fired eight rounds from a handgun at J'quan. The shooter was an African male, wearing the grey bandanna of his gang on his head, with a gold front tooth. The vehicle was being driven by an African female, and another unidentified passenger rode in the back seat with a video camera.

Ballistics tests are being run on the bullets found at the scene, and results are expected this afternoon. The victim's mother has also been brought in for questioning.

The information given by the witnesses has shortened the list of possible suspects to three: all recent inductees to the Grey's gang; young men with gold false front teeth.

The motive of the shooting appears to be gang-related. Based on the presence of the video recorder, it seems likely that the shooting was itself a gang induction, which required that a member of a rival gang be killed.

The probable suspects are being rounded up, so that Mr. Harding, the most reliable of the witnesses, can attempt an identification of the shooter in a line-up. The investigation is ongoing.

It took the rest of the day for all of the information to come together. Mr. Harding did come down for a line-up, but none of the suspects seemed suitable to him. The photos of the crime scene were of no help at this stage of the investigation, and ballistics reported that the gun was a Remington T9, a restricted weapon in New York. Nothing showed up in our files.

At 15:00 hours, a call came in that changed the nature of the game. The 21^st Precinct had just found an abandoned Black Cadillac SUV. It was registered to a Mrs. Jane Weinstein of Long Island, who had reported it stolen from her driveway early the previous evening.

I headed for the 21^st immediately.

There was residue on the passenger door that turned out to have come from the discharge of a Remington T9. Prints came back negative for the three passenger doors, but the steering wheel got us a hit. Miss Shandrella Hamilton had been arrested twice before, on larceny charges. She was our driver.

By 17:00 we had a warrant for Miss Hamilton, and by 18:00, she was in custody, facing charges as an accessory to murder. The D.A. was willing to drop it down to a probation violation if she'd talk. She did.

At 20:00 we entered the home of Mr. Al'aaron LaBeuf, 18, at 8369 76^th Avenue with a warrant for his arrest. He was disinclined to surrender, and seized his own little sister, who must have been 16 at most, holding a Remington T9 to the side of her head.

"I'll kill her if you come any closer!" he screamed.

"Al'aaron," I said, as calm as could be, "You're in enough trouble as it is. You don't really want to hurt your own sister, do you? Come on, now. A life like yours, family is all you've got."

He responded with a string of curses, but the general point was that if he killed her, it would be our fault.

"Alright, listen, just put the gun down for a minute, and we'll talk about it."

"Ain't gonna be no talk, _____! Yo jes' gonna walk right back out dat door, an' neva come back!"

I couldn't get a clean shot with my Taser; one of the probes would hit the little girl. So, I kept his attention on me while I signaled behind my back to get a sharp shooter into position. Our suspect's back was to the window.

"You know that's not going to happen. Now, listen to me closely. There are only three things that can happen tonight. Two of them involve somebody dying, and nobody wants that.

"If you don't put down the gun, my sniper is going to have to shoot you. If you do shoot your sister, then we'll take you down anyway, and you'll have to live with killing her for nothing while you face two murder charges instead of one. She's your own blood, man! You do it, and you've got nothing left!"

"What's my third choice?" he asked, a bit more calm now.

"You put down the gun and come quietly. You work with us, fess up like a man, and you'll do a lot less time. And everybody will stay breathing."

"I don't like them choices," he said.

"Nobody does. But that's what you've got."

It took 15 more minutes to get him to put down the weapon, but he did. We cuffed him first, and read him his rights second. You could tell it was still Tuesday.

Ballistics found the gun to be our murder weapon, and we caught up with our videographer in fairly short order. All this gave LaBeuf time to meet with his court-appointed attorney.

During the interrogation, all this was brought up. We knew everything we needed to know, but a confession would have been better. He took the vulgar equivalent of pleading the 5^th for most of the questions. One, though, would stand out in my mind forever.

"Why did you threaten to shoot your sister?" I asked, "We both know you never would have done it."

He smiled. "Yo ain't got no idea what I is capable of. What is she to me? Just another little _____, waitin' to get stuffed in a dumpster. She'd be better off if I had."

At that point, his attorney advised him to clam up, which he did. I knew he didn't really feel that way, but he did think he had to play the tough guy, even now.

*Release Source: Detective James Crowe, Homicide, 13^th Precinct, NYPD

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Suspect in Gang Shooting Arrested After Stand-Off with Police

NEW YORK, NY-February 31^st, 2008: Police investigating a drive-by shooting that happened this morning on the corner of East 219^th Street and 81^st Avenue had a suspect in custody before the end of the day. But it was not without great difficulty; a hostage situation had to be resolved along the way.

Thanks to witness reports, police were able to locate the vehicle used in the shooting, and, from there, track down the alleged culprit. Once he was located, the suspect took his own sister hostage, demanding that the police withdraw so that he might escape.

Al'aaron LaBeuf, an 18 year-old member of "the Greys", who resides at 8369 76^th Avenue, is alleged to have threatened to shoot his sister with the very gun used in this morning's killing when police arrived to take him into custody. The stand-off lasted for less than an hour, and was successfully resolved by the Detective in charge of the investigation.

Said Detective Crowe of the hostage crisis: "I knew he wouldn't kill his own sister. When you're about to go up for murder, your family is all you've got."

Police found LaBeuf's prints on the vehicle used in the shooting, and ballistics tests showed that his Remington T9 matched the one that killed J'quan Jackson during the morning incident.

In addition to witnesses and the murder weapon, police have also taken LaBeuf's alleged accomplices into custody, and have confiscated a video tape that allegedly shows LaBeuf firing eight shots at Jackson.

Two of those bullets struck Jackson in the chest. No one else was injured.

LeBeuf was arraigned during that evening's session of Night Court, and pled not guilty. He is being charged with first-degree murder, conspiracy to murder, reckless endangerment, weapons possession, and menacing.

Gloria Goldstein has been assigned as LaBeuf's court-appointed attorney. "Despite the fact that the evidence is against him, I am confident that Mr. LaBeuf will be found not guilty," she said, "This is just another case of one of New York's white cops picking on a poor black guy."

Other charges are pending, and the suspect is being held without bail.

# # #

MEDIA CONTACT:Det. James Crowe, NYPD: 555-1212.

So now, here we are on the first day of the trial. And once again, it is a Tuesday.

Here's Ms. Goldstein, trying to convince the fine people of the jury that her client is just a poor victim of the system, even while he wears his gang bandanna right here in the courtroom. And we've got Mr. Fletch, the D.A., who has collected confessions from both of the defendant's co-conspirators. And the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, who look ready to eat lead and spit bullets, if I'm any judge. And, of course, your Honor.

I thank you for taking the time to hear me out. I realize my testimony has been quite long, but, I trust, informative. Both attorneys have copies of the two documents I've submitted, my initial police report, and my press release. I hope you find them satisfactory.

I'm sure you'll soon be listening to Mr. Harding's testimony, and probably a few "experts" who will tell you all about gang culture. Maybe we might even be lucky enough to be graced with the presence of Mr. Smith. And, of course, you'll be watching that legendary video and looking at the crime scene photos before I'm called back to the stand.

So, without further ado, I bid you all a good day. I'm sure you're dying to get to lunch.

Oh, I'm sorry. How rude of me. I think I covered "What happened last Tuesday?" pretty well, but do you have any other questions for me, Mr. Fletch?