The Fence: A Police Cover-Up Along Boston's Racial Divide (15 page)

When they got back to the Cortee’s, Mike and Craig jumped from their cruiser to help the others canvass the scene. Mike was wearing the three-quarter-length black parka he’d borrowed from his nephew over a black hooded sweatshirt. He’d left the wool Oakland Raiders skullcap in the cruiser. It turned out the gunfire happened in a dead zone—a spot along the street where no officer saw what exactly happened. Mike and Craig tried talking to the patrons leaving the club, asking what they saw, who fired the shots. They studied faces, looking, said Craig, for “someone who looks suspicious.” At one point, Mike spotted Dave Williams, and Dave spotted him. They knew each other pretty well and ate together sometimes at Carney Hospital. They exchanged a quick greeting.

No one was having any luck getting a lead on the shooters. The club’s patrons were looking to avoid the police, not talk to them. “No victims came forward. No witnesses came forward,” noted the spare police incident filed later about the shooting.

“Everybody just kind of got in their cars and left,” Craig said later. Within minutes, the cops found themselves standing there looking at each other. It was quiet in an eerie sort of way.

The street was empty and the gang unit was empty-handed.

“We didn’t get anybody,” Mike said. “People were just pretty mad.”

CHAPTER 7

The Murder and the Chase

O
n Wednesday, January 25, in Providence, Rhode Island, residents were abuzz about a videotape that captured a police officer kicking a black man on the ground during a disturbance at a rhythm and blues concert. The response by city leaders was swift and decisive. The Providence police chief suspended the officer without pay while the apparent police brutality was investigated, and he did not mince his outrage: “I’d like to fire him if everything is as it appears to be on that tape,” the chief said.

On Wednesday, in Boston, the city’s mayor, Tom Menino, was trumpeting new crime statistics showing a marked drop in homicides, aggravated assaults, auto thefts, and burglaries. The eighty-five murders in 1994 represented a 13 percent decrease from the ninety-eight murders in 1993. The mayor called Boston a “safer city,” although residents of Roxbury and Dorchester told reporters they still lived in fear.

Ironically, on that same day, Boston’s police commissioner was finalizing disciplinary action in a tragic controversy hounding the department. The previous March a botched drug raid had resulted in the death of a retired minister. Using a no-knock warrant, heavily armed officers from the SWAT team and the drug unit barged into a fourth-floor apartment in Dorchester. The only person inside was the seventy-five-year-old Reverend Accelyne Williams. Officers chased the minister, wrestled him to the floor, and handcuffed him. The frail Williams suffered a heart attack and died. The stunning mistake made national headlines. The minister’s widow sued the city for $18 million. Ending an internal investigation that fingered breakdowns in supervision, Commissioner Paul F. Evans was busy preparing for a press conference during which he would announce the suspension of a lieutenant and reprimands for two other supervisors.

Earlier that very morning, around two o’clock, after gunshots sent patrons of the Cortee’s scattering into the night, either running on foot or riding in cars past onrushing teams of gang unit and other Boston police officers, Lyle Jackson and his two friends headed over to Walaikum’s Burger.

To get there, Lyle’s friend Stanley drove his Hyundai up Washington Street and came within a block of where Mike Cox and his family lived on Supple Road. Stanley continued on past a high school, past Castlegate Street, and past a fire station. Washington Street then emptied into the Grove Hall section of Roxbury. The three turned right onto Blue Hill Avenue, passing the red-brick Muhammad’s Mosque #11, the Boston headquarters for the Nation of Islam founded in 1954 by Malcolm X.

The drive was no more than a half-mile long. Walaikum’s was now practically in front of them, just a block up Blue Hill Avenue—451 Blue Hill Avenue—across the street from a hairdresser’s, a fashion store, and a used-furniture shop. Walaikum’s was a hole-in-the-wall with a shabby storefront. On each side of the entrance, two air conditioners stuck out of the front wall. The neon sign hanging above the store was hokey-looking—three palm trees swayed into the squiggly letters spelling “Walaikum.” The door opened into a small room. Directly ahead was a counter where food orders were placed amid the racks of bread. To the left, four tiny tables and a bench were squeezed together, and, to the right, another counter where patrons could stand and eat. The only telephone was in the kitchen.

Lyle and his friends found the restaurant filled with other young people who’d piled out of the Cortee’s. Lyle ordered chicken wings and a hamburger. He was a steady customer and recognized many of the faces in the crowd, but mostly by nicknames, like Flavor and Pooh. The atmosphere was charged and noisy. In the kitchen, owner Willie Wiggins worked furiously to turn out the orders. In the crowd, Lyle’s hamburger accidentally got knocked to the floor. He went to the counter to order another. Everyone was still talking about the gunfire at the Cortee’s. “You can’t go out anymore,” joked someone near Lyle. “It’s getting like New York around here.”

While many clubgoers resurfaced at Walaikum’s, the contingent of Boston police hung around outside the Cortee’s, the sizzle gone from their night. The flat mood was apparent in the conversation on the police radio channel. “Okay,” Craig Jones muttered in a monotone, “what’s the game plan?” The gang unit supervisor, Sergeant Ike Thomas, replied, “The game plan? They took our ball and bat.” There was radio silence—the equivalent of no comment. “Everybody into the base,” commanded Thomas.

The gang unit and other police officers began clearing the scene.

Dave Williams, meanwhile, made his way back to the station in Dorchester, where he ran into Jimmy Burgio in the parking lot, pumping gas into his cruiser. They got to talking. Williams mentioned he was thinking about sitting on a house off Bowdoin Street, not far from the Cortee’s, known for late night parties and trouble. “See what was going on,” Williams said. Burgio was interested and agreed to ride along with him though they’d never teamed up before. Burgio left his cruiser in the lot and climbed into Williams’s. They didn’t bother telling their sergeant about their plan. Before driving back across the district, they swung by a Dunkin’ Donuts for two coffees to go.

Elsewhere, Richie Walker was no longer torn about being tied up with a speeding car arrest and not ever making it to the Cortee’s. He overheard the sour turn of events. Walker now sat with the Peugeot awaiting a tow truck so he could clear the scene, return to the station in Mattapan, and write up the paperwork on his arrest.

In yet another part of the city, Kenny Conley and his partner, Bobby Dwan, operated on a different radio channel and hadn’t even heard about the failed mission at the nightclub. But they were coming off their own small setback—the fruitless hour-long stake-out of a building to catch a supposed drug shipment to apartment 3. The tip a worried tenant had given them proved to be nothing. It was 2:07
A.M
. when they took off.

Within a minute of leaving, Kenny and Bobby overheard that another patrol car had stopped “suspicious persons” in the parking lot of a liquor store several blocks away. The radio chatter included mention of drugs and prostitutes. It was no big deal, really, but Kenny turned the cruiser in the direction of Blanchard’s. “We like to outnumber them,” Bobby said, “so we swung over.”

By 2:30
A.M
., the dozen or so members of the gang unit had filed into their office in a nondescript building on Warren Street. “Lick our wounds, so to speak,” said Mike Cox. The unit was not accustomed to coming up empty. “We were usually pretty successful, you know, working a Friday or Saturday night and arresting two or three people for doing things,” he said. “To work with that many of us together and not get anybody, and when you hear shots fired—it was more than frustrating.”

The office was located upstairs in the two-story brick building with tinted glass. Warren Street ran north from Blue Hill Avenue in Grove Hall to Dudley Square, where the Roxbury police station known as B–2 was located. The building was also about equidistant between Walaikum’s and Winthrop Street where Mike grew up.

Mike and the others talked a bit about what went wrong, but mainly began to “break down” for the night so they could head home. Some of the guys sat at desks, others were in the locker room or the bathroom cleaning up. They filed some paperwork. Before leaving, each would leave behind the keys to their unmarked cruisers.

It was pretty quiet, except for occasional crackle and buzz from the handheld radios they usually kept clipped to their belts. Most were turned to channel 3 because that was the channel covering Roxbury and Dorchester, the busiest areas in the city, crime-wise. The office had the feel of a losing team’s locker room. There was no way around it: Hip-Hop Night had been a bust.

“What a waste of time,” Mike said.

This much they knew.

What they didn’t know was everything was about to change.

Smut and Boogie-Down were already standing at the bar when Smut heard Tiny and Marquis outside Conway’s looking to be let in. Smut went to the door. He was thinking the shooter at the Cortee’s must have been Little Greg even though he had not gotten a look inside the car. “Tiny had no beef with anyone else.” Smut opened the door and Tiny rushed inside all hyped up.

I told you, I told you, Tiny said. Talking fast, he told Smut and the others he’d seen Little Greg in the front seat, next to the driver. I told you he was up to something, he said.

They all had a drink. Smut was feeling drunk—not staggering drunk, but a mellow, feel-good buzz. He wanted things to settle down. Most of all, he wanted to call it a night and get home to Indira. But his interests had to be melded with the crew he was with—that’s just how it worked—and a roundabout conversation ensued as they debated a plan that would respect everyone’s needs. In the end, they settled on a plan that seemed logical to them—at least for that hour of the night.

Tiny felt he needed to get Marquis home. But that meant driving all the way back up Blue Hill Avenue to get to where Marquis was staying near Dudley Square. Smut felt a similar obligation to Boogie-Down. “He’d been riding with me all night,” Smut said. “He was my responsibility.” Boogie-Down’s destination was close to where they’d just been; his girlfriend’s apartment was walking distance from the Cortee’s.

But the last thing Smut wanted to do was to head back up Blue Hill Avenue, only to turn around and drive back down to get to Indira’s. It was all so circular—so Smut had an idea. He suggested that since Tiny was going to be making a big loop to drive his younger brother home, he could take Boogie-Down too.

Smut and Tiny got into a little argument. Tiny didn’t like the idea. He chided Smut, saying Smut was always trying to get out of giving rides home. He also played the birthday “card,” reminding Smut it was his birthday. Tiny said if Smut wanted him to give Boogie-Down a ride home, Smut should ride along. You roll with me, he said.

The guilt trip worked. The foursome left Conway’s. Smut followed Tiny to Tiny’s mother’s house, where he left his car and jumped into the back of the gold Lexus. Tiny took advantage of the pit stop to run inside to retrieve a silver 9mm Ruger semiautomatic pistol he had hidden there. With the added protection, they took off. Smut was riding in the backseat behind Tiny, and Boogie-Down was behind Marquis. There were now two handguns in the car: Tiny’s silver Ruger and Boogie-Down’s.

The ride actually went quickly. Few cars were on Blue Hill Avenue at two o’clock in the morning. Smut was slumped in the backseat, tired and boozy, and he slumped even further when Marquis announced he was hungry and wanted to go to New York Pizza. Smut was not interested in making any stops besides the mandatory dropoffs. He was glad when Tiny vetoed the pizza joint: too far out of the way. But then someone said Walaikum’s was up ahead and that it would be open.

Walaikum’s was also in the heart of that night’s darkness—near the Cortee’s, near Castlegate Street, and near where Little Greg lived around the corner.

“Dudes wasn’t thinkin’,” Smut said later.

Tiny slowed as he drove past the restaurant, made a U-turn, and parked a couple of car lengths from the entrance. The four climbed out of the car—the menacing-looking Boogie-Down in brown boots and hat, hunched in his tan jacket; the beefy Marquis, the tallest, in his black hoodie sweatshirt; Tiny with his braids and gray sweatshirt; and Smut, the shortest, in a brown leather jacket. They saw the restaurant was crowded—standing room only. When they got to the door, Smut muttered to himself, “Man, fuck this.” Boogie-Down went ahead, Tiny and Marquis near him. Smut turned and figured he would just wait for the others to get some food.

Smut then noticed Tiny tensing up. Someone standing by the entrance had casually asked, “Waz up, Tiny, waz up, Marquis?” Tiny flipped out on the kid. What the fuck, saying my name out loud like that. What the fuck you thinking?

Tiny was hissing at the kid in a hushed, angry tone. Smut didn’t understand why. The only thing he could think was Tiny was acting tough in front of Marquis. Smut stepped back toward the Lexus. Tiny began stuttering, and Smut saw his eyes darting between inside the restaurant and out. That’s him, Tiny was saying excitedly. That’s him. Tiny was indicating a husky black guy standing at the counter at the front of the line. That’s him—Little Greg’s driver, he was saying. Marquis pulled out one of the guns. Boogie-Down was already farther inside, heading toward the counter.

Several teenage girls by the door later said the first sound they heard was the ratcheting of a handgun’s slide, as if it was jamming. The clicking sound made the girls jump off their stools, and their sudden, spastic movements rippled through the crowd. “He’s packing! He’s packing!” someone was shouting. Walaikum’s erupted in pandemonium. Patrons were diving onto the floor looking for cover behind the few tables and chairs. Those by the entrance rushed to escape outside.