Читать книгу Corrupt City - Tra Verdejo - Страница 9

Around 8:15 a.m., the judge, who had a reputation for handing out harsh sentences, walked out of his chambers. He was six feet, five inches tall and weighed about two-sixty. His white beard matched his old, white, long hair. He barely smiled in a courtroom. A lot of protesters were against him hearing the case because he was rumored to be a racist, and Perry’s family was concerned they wouldn’t get a fair trial.

“All rise,” the bailiff said. “The Honorable Judge Henry J. Lewis presiding.” A few seconds later, he added, “You may all be seated.”

“Good morning to all. Counselors, are we ready? Mr. Johnson, you may call your witness.”

District Attorney Jonathan Johnson had over fifteen years of experience and had worked on more than a few high-profile cases in the past. He was considered a celebrity. He once graced the cover of Essence magazine, and was ranked number two on the top ten of single Black men in law. The smooth-talking prosecutor was the lead counsel on two cases that brought down The Young Kingpins, a million-dollar street gang in Spanish Harlem. He’d also taken down a few mob figures and dirty politicians. His resume had Perry’s family feeling confident. If anyone could get a conviction, it would be this man.

Mr. Johnson had a history of going for the maximum penalty without a second thought, and barely offered deals to offenders. In his first public statement about this case, he made it known he hated dirty cops.

African Americans all felt they had the right prosecutor. Whites, on the other hand, were bitter and had mixed feelings. Ever since the trial started, it had been a racial war. The courtroom was packed with angry supporters from both sides. Yet people of all colors were rooting for a guilty verdict. With the anger and tension across the courtroom, the smallest thing was going to set it off.

District Attorney Johnson got out of his seat and said, “Your Honor, I would like to call the state’s last witness to the stand, Mr. Donald ‘Lucky’ Gibson.”

The courtroom exploded, some cheering and clapping, others yelling and using obscene language.

“You fuckin’ nigger rat!” an officer in uniform yelled.

“How could you betray the brotherhood? We should hang you,” a White man dressed in a three-piece suit yelled.

A few supporters on Perry’s side were yelling at the officers. They couldn’t believe the trash coming out of their mouths.

The judge started banging his gavel so hard, court officers came marching in.

“Silence in my courtroom!” a furious Judge Lewis said. “Officers, get the crowd under control immediately. Whoever doesn’t obey my order, escort them out of my presence. I will not tolerate this behavior in my courtroom. I’m extremely shocked at the police department’s outburst. I’m sure Commissioner Fratt will be embarrassed when he hears of this. Any more interruptions and I will clear this courtroom. Mr. Johnson, will you please proceed?”

Extra security was on hand because of the high media attention. In fact, the media had been coming down hard on the NYPD. And some experts were saying the outcome of this verdict was meaningless because the court of opinion had already convicted the police officers.

It took about five minutes to get the courtroom back in order after a few were escorted out, one in handcuffs, but none of the officers were thrown out. Perry’s family was heavily protected by the Nation of Islam security, the FOI, the Fruit of Islam, known to provide excellent protection.

Perry’s mother, not rattled by the mini outburst, sat there motionless as she held her husband’s hand. She didn’t even look toward the altercation. Her only concern was getting justice for her baby who was gunned down by those dirty cops.

Once there was silence, the trial proceeded.

“I would like to please the court and call my final witness, Mr. Gibson, to the stand,” Johnson said nervously, hoping another outburst didn’t occur.

Lucky came in the courtroom from the back, from where inmates entered. As he walked to the stand, you could tell he was a buff brother. Lucky’s suit didn’t hide his biceps, which were huge. He was known as a weightroom rat, and it was obvious. He didn’t have that prototypical cop look. At six foot, one, and weighing about two hundred and twenty pounds, he looked more like a professional athlete going to a business meeting, or a superstar rapper. His jewelry and swagger gave the impression he was a street cat, not a detective. Which was probably why he made one hell of a detective. His thuggish appearance was so believable.

As he was walking with swag toward the stand, he turned to the crowd. He couldn’t believe the amount of people in attendance. Then he turned toward the defense table, where his former partners were all sitting. He slowed his walk and gave each one of them eye contact. He read through their eyes. He knew they were all nervous. Lucky smirked at them because he knew his partners had searched hard, hoping they could kill him and prevent this day from ever happening. But he laid low right under their noses. He’d never left New York. He was hibernating, cooking up a plan of his own.

“Mr. Gibson, we don’t have all day,” the judge snapped. “Please sit down, so we can proceed.”

After Lucky sat down, a few police officers stood up and walked out as he was being sworn in. One of them said, “Die in hell, rat!”

The DA waited for the officers to exit before he began his questioning. “Can you please state your name, for the record?” Mr. Johnson said.

“My name is Detective Donald Gibson, but everyone calls me Lucky,” he said as he slouched on the chair. Lucky had a laid-back demeanor about him, like an old-school pimp, but without the funny-looking hat. His body language was hard to read.

“Why do they call you Lucky?”

“In this line of work, I’ve brushed death a thousand times,” he replied as he looked at his former partners. “I’m lucky to be alive right now.”

“Tell us about your resume, Detective.”

“I have worked for and dedicated my life to the NYPD for the past fifteen years. I started in 1991 as a street-walker. I was a rookie straight out of the academy at twenty years old. I’m now thirty-five. I’ve always wanted to be a cop. It was a childhood dream of mine. I was hoping by being an African American police officer, I could change the bad image in my community.

After my second year on the force, I was promoted. I was transferred from the Twenty-fifth Precinct to the Twenty-third Precinct, still in Spanish Harlem. I was assigned a new partner and given a new police cruiser. After four years of protecting the streets of East Harlem, I finally made homicide detective in 1999. After I solved a few murder cases in Queens and I received guilty convictions in all, I was assigned to a special elite unit called Operation Clean House.”

“Mr. Gibson, can you please explain to the court the qualifications needed in order to be even considered for such an elite team?” Johnson asked.

“Sure.” Lucky turned toward the jury. “To be honest, the qualifications are not written in stone. I was told, because of my excellent performance, great attitude, distinguished record, and high conviction rate, it made me an easy candidate. Like I stated earlier, I dedicated my life to the badge. For me it was a way of life, not a job to pay bills.”

“So, is it safe to say before you joined Operation Clean House, you were an honest police officer?”

“Yes.”

“I object, Your Honor. He’s leading the witness,” Defense Attorney Matthew shouted it.

“Overruled.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Donald, for the past three weeks, the jury got an in-depth explanation of why we are here. Today, they will get a chance to hear the truth about what happened to Perry Coleman.”

“I object, Your Honor. Is this necessary? Are you going to allow the counsel to make a mockery of your courtroom?”

“Mr. Johnson, please ask your question. Save any additional comment for your closing statement.”

“Donald, do you consider yourself a dirty cop?”

“I object!” Matthew interrupted again. “He’s leading the witness.”

“Overruled. Mr. Matthew, I’m eager to hear the truth.”

“What kind of police officer are you?” Johnson asked again.

“By the book, until I joined Operation Clean House. I mean, I’m a man, and I take responsibilities for my actions. I knew what I was doing was wrong. Operation Clean House was like a crackhouse. It’s impossible to live in a crackhouse and not smoke. I became part of the environment.”

“Donald, let’s start from the beginning. Take us back and tell us about your first day in Operation Clean House.”

Lucky reached for the cold water in front of him and slowly sipped it, hoping it would prevent the sweat from pouring down his face. He was about to commit suicide by testifying against his former employers. He finished the glass, cleared his throat, sat up, and began talking.

“I remember my first day on the job. I received mixed feelings from my new partners because I was the only Black guy on the team. They didn’t hide how they felt about my presence either. I extended my hand out to all four men in that room, and only one of them shook my hand, Detective Michael “Tango” Scott. Tango became my closest friend on the squad, but died in the line of duty. His cover was blown in one of our many dangerous assignments. My other partners are all sitting right there.” Lucky pointed at the defense table. “Captain William ‘Tuna’ Youngstown, Steve ‘Loose Cannon’ Stanley, and Jeffrey ‘Speedy’ Winston.”

Captain William “Tuna” Youngstown had been in the police force for close to forty years. He was six foot three and weighed two hundred and ninety pounds. He had long blond hair, which he kept in a ponytail, and evil dark brown eyes. He looked more like a bouncer at a nightclub than a police captain.

Detective Jeffrey “Speedy” Winston, a ten-year veteran, was five feet nine and barely weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. He was built more like a sprinter than an officer. His low-cut hair and clean-cut attitude gave away his military upbringing.

Detective Steve “Loose Cannon” Stanley, a seventeen-year veteran with tattoos all over his body, didn’t look like a cop. Just less than six feet tall, he looked more like a biker or the leader of a dangerous gang.

“My first assignment was taking down a notorious heroin gang called M&M, which stood for Murderers and Millionaires. The captain wanted to throw me in the fire quickly and test my ability. Since we were going after a Black gang, I was made the lead detective, even though I was basically a rookie on the team. I guess they wanted me to fail and throw me off the team.

“Michael and Jeffrey were going in as undercover drug addicts, and my job was to infiltrate their operations. M&M was making about twenty to fifty-thousand dollars a day in the Bronx. They called their product ‘cliffhanger.’ Fiends were dying off this powerful drug. There was no cut—straight, raw dope. A violent drug war started behind the success of cliffhanger. Bodies were dropping daily because other drug dealers were losing profit. The city was losing control on the war. The mayor called our captain and told us to take down M&M at whatever cost.”

“The mayor of this city said, ‘at whatever cost’?” Johnson interrupted.

“I object, Your Honor. That’s hearsay, third-party speculation.”

“Sustained. The jury will ignore that last question. Counsels approach.”

After counsels approached the bench, the judge said, “Don’t you dare implicate our great mayor through a third-person statement, Mr. Johnson. Your action could lead to contempt of court, and you could be disbarred in the State of New York. Are we clear?”

“We’re clear.”

Johnson didn’t like that the judge came down hard on him, but he understood. This case wasn’t about the mayor. He walked back to the center of the courtroom and proceeded.

“Let’s get back to M&M. Please continue, Mr. Gibson.”

“M&M was a gang that was well organized. Their leader, Money Mike, was a smart criminal. We label these individuals as organized thugs. He ran his operation out of one building on 139th Street and Third Avenue. He had so many lookouts, his team barely got arrested. Tango and Speedy, I mean Michael and Jeffrey, never got a chance to buy from the dealers directly. M&M would have the neighborhood kids deliver the drugs back and forth from the building and serve the addicts.

“These kids were making anywhere from one to three hundred dollars a night. That’s more than what an average cop makes today, or even their own parents. These kids were not going to school. M&M basically ran a twenty-four-hour operation. Anyway, after ten months of surveillance, we had nothing on M&M, not one wiretap, only a few photos. We arrested a few members with bogus charges, but they didn’t talk. That was strange because usually there is always one who wants to talk, but not this crew. Not even the little kids we arrested would talk. We were up against one of the most loyal organizations in history.

“This made our job a lot harder because we rely on information to solve at least ninety percent of our cases. From the intelligence we gathered on M&M, we only knew who was calling the shots, but there were six to seven other members who were still a mystery. We didn’t know their ranks or true identities. Truth be told, we could have been wrong about who was calling the shots. We needed to come up with a better strategy. Meanwhile, the crime rate was rising like the sun. This is when I first learned that our department worked under a different set of rules.”

“What do you mean by ‘a different set of rules’?”

“We did as we pleased. We didn’t report to no one. Don’t get me wrong, we were good at our jobs. We just took the law into our own hands, even if that meant planting drugs, tampering with evidence, assault, or murder. Whatever it took to get the job done, we did it.”

“Murder? Do you mean others besides Perry were innocently murdered as well?”

“Yes.”

You could hear the oohs and ahhs all across the courtroom.

“The only reason why this case is getting national attention is because Perry didn’t have a criminal record and was a working parent. Had he had one felony, forget about it.”

Matthew quickly stood up. “I object. The witness is using the stand as his personal platform to speak for his personal feelings. I move that the witness be removed, and I ask that his testimony be made inadmissible. It is obvious his intent is personal.”

“Overruled.”

“Your Honor, but this witness has a personal vendetta against my clients.”

“I said overruled,” Judge Lewis shot back in a slow, loud voice. “Your objection was heard and denied.”

“Okay, let’s get back to M&M. Donald, please continue,” Johnson said.

“Since we couldn’t get close to M&M, we decided to set up one of their key members. M&M ran Patterson Projects, but they had beef with their neighbors, Mott Haven Projects. We did a sweep one night in Mott Haven Projects and locked up about ten members of the RSB, which stood for Red Slab Boys, a crack gang. That same night, we pulled over Money Mike’s black Mercedes Benz, and one of M&M’s key members happened to be driving his car.

“We later learned he was the captain of the crew. His name was Derek Bailey, better known as Thirty-eight. He loved and used his .38 handgun so much, that became his nickname.

“That night when we pulled him over, we didn’t care about the gun or drugs. Around that time, a gun charge against a high-profile criminal was like a misdemeanor charge. Money Mike would have spent good money on attorneys to get his captain out and charges dropped. All we wanted was for Thirty-eight to spend one night in jail, so we made up a story about an arrest warrant, took him to Central Booking, and we locked him up. I was undercover in the cell waiting for him, so were the ten RSB members we picked up. The plan was to drop Thirty-eight off in the cell, and when all hell broke loose, I’d jump in and help him out.

“The plan was perfect because not a minute went by after the CO closed that cell before one of the Red Slab Boys approached Thirty-eight and started swinging. Ten against one is no match for any one, so within seconds, Thirty-eight was on the floor getting stomped. Since they all had their back toward me, I jumped toward them and pushed the whole pile toward the metal bars, and Thirty-eight was able to get back on his feet. We were both swinging to save our lives. After the correction officers saved our butts, the RSB boys were moved to a different cell, and Thirty-eight thanked me. He wanted to know why I helped. I told him because that’s how I get down, and by his reaction, I knew I had him in my pocket.

“The following morning right before Thirty-eight’s court hearing, we had a few COs from Rikers Island come in and scoop me up, making it seem like I got transferred to there. Before I left, Thirty-eight told me to look him up when I got out. I told him once I posted bail I would. I waited a week before I went to Patterson Projects, looking for him. When I got there, it was like they were expecting me. They were showing me a lot of love for helping Thirty-eight. That same day, I was introduced to Money Mike and the rest of the crew, and Thirty-eight spoke highly of me.

“Within days, I knew their whole operation. Five months later, I had a wiretap on the whole organization. With my intel, we were able to identify all the top members and their ranks. We knew where the stash house was located, their connections, plus drop-off and pickup locations. I had so much information on them, we didn’t need a snitch for this case. It was a slam dunk.”

“Impressive. So what happened next? Did all the members from M&M get convicted?”

“No.”

“What do you mean? I can’t believe you. Why not?” Johnson fired back with a puzzled face.

“Deals below the table were cut. Information was leaked about how we illegally arrested Thirty-eight. A lot of charges were dropped, and my evidence was not admissible in the court of law.”

“You mean to tell me the wiretaps were not accepted?”

“I had Money Mike on tape ordering hits and talking about his operation. I recorded meetings between all the members and Money Mike. They were all incriminating themselves, talking about murder, kidnapping, and money laundering. You name it, they talked about it on my wiretap. We all heard the tapes together.”

“Donald, can you please clarify for the court who you mean by ‘all of us’?”

“I’m referring to my partners sitting over there. We all heard the tapes together. We played those wiretaps over and over, like a Marvin Gaye record.”

“So everyone from M&M walked, how?” Johnson asked.

“Not everyone. But Money Mike only did eighteen months, and four others were sentenced to only two to six bids. I don’t know how, especially with all the evidence we had, but you would have to ask my former employers sitting over there why.” Lucky pointed at his former partners.

“So you are testifying today that there was foul play?”

“I object, Your Honor. This testimony has nothing to do with the current case. This is an irrelevant testimony.”

“I agree. Counsel, get to the point,” the judge stated.

“I’m just trying to bring to light the criminal behavior of these police officers, including Donald Gibson himself. Donald, you may continue,” Mr. Johnson said.

“I recorded those wiretaps myself. I felt betrayed. Everyone in my department turned their heads. I risked my life, and it seemed like no one cared. A few days later, our captain called a meeting to discuss our new target. I tried to ask about the M&M case, and he snapped at me. They wanted me to turn my cheek like they did. At first I couldn’t, but after a while, it became old news, and I just went with the flow.”

“So just like that, you were given a new target? Who was the new target?”

“This delivery service company located in Manhattan, called Mr. G Express. We got a tip they were delivering cocaine all over New York.”

“Who provided the tip?”

“We used to pay all our informants lots of money if they provided good information.”

“How much did it cost for this tip?”

“Around twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand? Wow! Where did the money come from?”

“Like I said, we were governed by a different set of rules. We never once turned in drug money we seized, not once.”

“I object, Your Honor,” Matthew yelled. “This is all speculation.”

“Overruled.”

“Go ahead, Donald, finish what you were saying,” a cocky Johnson said.

“We never turned in confiscated drug money. We created our own budget. For example, once we paid this informant on a tip about a Dominican crew smuggling drugs through fifty-four-foot trailers coming up from Miami. We infiltrated the buy. We confiscated 450 kilos of cocaine, over fifty brand-new guns, and 1.5 million dollars in cash. We only reported the 400 kilos and the guns. We never turned in the money.”

“What happened to the money and the fifty kilos of cocaine?”

“We split the money. Tango was no longer with us at the time. We each took $200,000 for our personal use. We put the other $500,000 in the budget along with the drugs. In our line of work and how deep undercover we worked, we needed to produce cash, drugs, and guns quickly, so I will say at times, it was necessary to have that amount of money and drugs. We abused the system, using and keeping a lot of money for our own personal use.”

“No one ever questioned your team or made you guys follow guidelines?”

“No. It was like we were given the green light to do whatever we wanted.”

“Whatever happened to M&M?” a curious Johnson asked.

“Karma. Money Mike was murdered, and his crew fell apart.”

“What about the Mr. G delivery business? Who led that investigation?”

“Loose Cannon—I mean Steve. I don’t know how or why, but I kept my mouth shut. We didn’t call him Loose Cannon for nothing. We spent about four months trying to find a lead, but we couldn’t. We really thought we were taken for a ride by the informant. We followed every delivery boy on foot, bike, and car. We had nothing, until we illegally got access to Mr. G’s computer and his network.”

“What do you mean by illegal access?”

“I object, Your Honor. Witness is testifying to a third-party conversation.”

“Overruled. This is all credible testimony.”

“I don’t know how Steve got the access. I just know he showed up with a disk full of information. Mr. G’s computer became our personal informant. His company seemed legal, at least to the naked eye. We couldn’t digest all the computer language, and he had a bunch of codes and passwords, so we hired an ex-con computer geek, and he was able to hack the files. We’d found the break we needed.

“One of the first things we noticed was, Mr. G had another warehouse we didn’t know about. This warehouse was located in Long Island City, Queens. That same night, Jeffrey, Steve, and I watched the new warehouse all night. About four in the morning, the main gate opened up, and a white van with tinted windows drove out.

“We followed the van all the way to East Harlem. The van stopped at 110th Street and Lexington Avenue. We parked on 111th Street. Five minutes later, we noticed a Hispanic man walk up to the van, and an exchange was made. We thought we were following the van because they were making a drop. Come to find out, the driver was a heroin addict just out buying a quick fix. We pulled the van over right before he jumped back on the FDR Drive on 116^th Street and Pleasant Avenue. We arrested the driver, and if my memory serves me correctly, his name was Robert, yeah, Robert. We were hoping the van was dirty, but it wasn’t. All we had on Robert was the few bags of heroin. He was not cooperating either. We needed him to talk, so we started offering him all kinds of deals.”

“What kind of deals?” Johnson asked.

“Money. We started at a thousand and offered as much as five thousand, but he didn’t want the money. All he wanted was his heroin, so Steve went into the captain’s office. Ten minutes later, they are letting Robert shoot dope right in the interrogation room.”

“Donald, you mean to tell me you guys let a heroin addict shoot up just to get information out of him?”

“We did whatever it took to solve a case. I didn’t agree with it, but it worked. Robert gave up all the information we needed. Even though we had Mr. G’s files, we still couldn’t read them correctly. Mr. G had a very large clientele list, and Robert helped us figure out who were the cocaine customers and who weren’t. His VIP customers either owned or ran Fortune 500 companies. He was averaging about one million dollars a week, since he didn’t deal with small-time customers. To buy drugs from him, you also had to use his mailing services. That’s how he was able to stay under the radar and make his business look legit. We also learned he made out-of-state deliveries as far as California and Las Vegas. He was larger than what we’d originally thought. Robert agreed to wear a wire, but things got ugly quickly. Two days later after our meeting with him, he was found dead in an alley, and Mr. G disappeared.”

“What do you mean, he disappeared?” Johnson asked.

“He was gone. After Robert got murdered, Mr. G and his files disappeared.”

“Wait a second, Donald. How can your main suspect, his operation, and all the evidence you had on him disappear?”

“That’s a good question.”

“What do you think happened?” Johnson asked.

“I object, Your Honor. He’s not an expert witness. He is asking him for his opinion.”

“Overruled. Though he’s not an expert, he was part of the investigation and has firsthand knowledge on the matter. I think his opinion does count in this matter.”

“When we started to carefully read the list and check out some of these VIP customers, too many important names were surfacing. We are talking CEOs, VPs, and politicians. My honest gut feeling, these people were able to pay their way out.”

“I object, Your Honor. Witness is speculating, based on hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

“You didn’t make any money off these deals?” Johnson asked.

“Not off the Mr. G case. I never received one dime. I was told to erase the whole operation from my mind.”

“By who? Who said erase it from your mind?”

“My captain.” Lucky pointed at William.

“How much money you think they made?”

“I object, Your Honor!” Matthew shouted.

“Withdrawn, Your Honor,” Johnson shot back before the judge gave his ruling. He walked back to his desk and consulted with his assistants. He was getting ready to ask about the night in question.

Lucky took advantage of the break and poured himself another glass of cold water. He knew the heat was coming.

Johnson waited for Lucky to finish his glass of water before he proceeded with his case.

“Mr. Gibson, tell us about the night Perry Coleman died. What really happened? Do you remember that night?”

“How can I forget? It still haunts me at night. Anyway, we were all having drinks at this strip club called Tops Off. We normally hang there when nights are slow.”

“Were you guys drinking while on duty?”

“Yes, we arrived around seven p.m. It was Captain William “Tuna” Youngstown, Steve “Loose Cannon” Stanley, Jeffrey “Speedy” Winston, and me. We didn’t leave till we heard the call. We were drunk and high off cocaine. All of us were.”

“While still on duty, you guys were high and drunk?” Johnson asked as he turned to the jury.

“Yes, that was a regular routine for us. We got a call about a robbery on 103rd Street and First Avenue. By the time we arrived at the scene we didn’t see any perps. We had a description on the suspect, a young Hispanic male in his early twenties, wearing a red shirt with blue jeans.

“We drove around the area for about fifteen minutes, but we came up empty. Steve was pretty upset about it. He was having a blast at the strip club and didn’t want to leave. He kept repeating to himself, ‘Someone is getting locked up, and I don’t care who.’ While we were sitting at the light, he yelled, ‘What’s that?’

“We all looked toward our left and we saw this Black male wearing a white shirt with black jeans walking out the store. He was reaching for his cell phone, not a gun, and he clearly didn’t fit the description. I was driving, Captain was shotgun, and Steve was sitting behind me with Jeffrey to his right. Steve and Jeff were the first ones to jump out the car, with the captain right behind them. All three had their guns drawn, yelling for Perry to get down on the ground.”

“Wait a second, Mr. Gibson. Are you saying that Perry never shot at the officers first?”

“Correct. Perry never shot at us, because he never had a gun.”

The courtroom erupted again. This time, it took about fifteen minutes to control the crowd. Everyone who supported the Colemans was on their feet, demanding and screaming for justice. The police officers in attendance were still sticking up for their brothers and began arguing with a few protesters.

Through the ruckus, you could see Perry’s mother still in her seat, her head down. She was in tears and crying out for help under her breath.

“Why, sweet Jesus, my Lord and Savior, why did you have to take my son away?”

By the time the mayhem was over, the courtroom was half-empty. A few more protesters were arrested.

During the disturbance, Lucky had looked over at his old partners and read the lips of his former captain.

“You are dead.”

Lucky just smiled and gave him the middle finger.

Once order was restored in the courtroom, the judge banged his gavel and said, “This will be my last warning. One more, and I will empty the courtroom and postpone this case. Mr. Johnson, you may continue.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Lucky, please continue. What happened next?”

“I parked the car right in the middle of the street. When I jumped out, I noticed Steve approaching Perry and he was discharging his weapon. The captain and Jeffrey followed like a domino effect. They were also firing their weapons. As I’m running toward them, I was able to stop both the captain and Jeffrey from shooting. Steve stopped only because he ran out of bullets. I was in complete disbelief because I knew we messed up pretty bad. As I’m yelling at the Cap and Jeff, Steve, who I thought had had enough, was trying to reload his weapon. The Cap tackled him to the ground and was able to calm him down for a few seconds.

“Meanwhile, Jeff ran back toward our unmarked car to retrieve a .357 revolver we kept in the trunk for dirty work. The serial number was scratched off. He took about four to five steps back from the car and shot at the back driver-side window twice. He then ran back over to Perry and placed the .357 in his hand. As soon as I approached Jeff about his actions, other units showed up to the scene. It was too late.”

Lucky stopped to wipe a tear coming down his cheek. He looked around and Perry’s family was also in tears. A few jurors had watery eyes as well.

“Mr. Gibson, did you discharge your weapon?”

“No.”

Matthew shouted, “I object, Your Honor. Our forensic witness made it clear that there were other shells found on the scene. This witness is committing perjury.”

“Your Honor, their witness also confirmed those shells did not come from Donald’s service nine-millimeter weapon.”

“Overruled.”

“And are you positive Perry never had a gun that night?” Johnson asked.

“I’m positive. We planted the gun. We shot him first and continued to shoot him while he was on the ground.”

The crowd started whispering. Lucky’s testimony was firing them up again. Even the judge thought another eruption was about to take place, but everyone kept their cool this time.

“What made you come forward?”

“Even before the shooting, I was having a hard time sleeping. It almost felt like I was in too deep to turn back. I wanted out, but I couldn’t find a way, but this case here is my way out. When Perry was killed, I realized then how important it was for me to stand up and come clean. These past few years, I have nothing to be proud off. I wanted to give back to New York. I have taken so much as a dirty cop. Hopefully now, I’m able to rest in peace in the afterlife.”

“No more questions, Your Honor. The State rests its case,” Mr. Johnson said.

Judge Lewis looked at his watch. “It’s now eleven thirty in the morning. Let’s break for lunch. I will see everyone back in here at one p.m. Mr. Matthew, you will get a chance to cross-examine the witness at one p.m.”