Brad Parks - The Good Cop

I went over and tapped on the plastic.

“Hi, sir, I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “We’re reporters with the Eagle-Examiner . Do you mind if we set up in your windows for a little while so we can watch for something on the street? It’s for a story we’re working on. We’ll be out of your hair quickly enough.”

I cringed at the “hair” part because for all I knew he didn’t have any under the turban. But he just shrugged at me. Maybe it was because he didn’t understand why the funny guy in the tie and his tagalong friend wanted to hang out in his store. Or maybe he was just a shrugging kind of guy.

Nevertheless, I felt sufficiently empowered to act like I had the run of the place. I surveyed the windows. One faced north, the other west. Each had a display in front of it, which meant we’d have to do a little shimmying to get access to the windows. Old magazines were the primary obstacle to the west. Chips and fried pork rinds blocked the way to the north. But beyond those impediments, the windowsills were broad enough that we would be able to stand there without disturbing any more than some dust bunnies. If we crouched, we would be out of the gaze of any curious casual shoppers who entered the store. We’d be functionally invisible.

I went outside to test the one-way glass, looking at it from a variety of different angles. It was good. I couldn’t see anything beyond my own reflection.

Returning inside, Ruthie and I reviewed our battle plan. He would take the north window, while I manned the west one, which would give us a fairly full panorama of the street, including all four corners of the intersection. We would each snap a few pictures whenever the action got close, but mostly we were there to observe. We would stay low, hidden in our little sanctuaries. And we would keep our mouths shut-because the glass was see-proof, not soundproof.

It was 5:14. Sixteen minutes to go. I made the call.

“Yeah, it’s Twan,” he said.

“Hey, you guys all set to go?”

“We good. You cool?”

“Yeah. We’re in the windows, but you won’t be able to see us. I’m behind an impressive collection of skin magazines, and I think Ruthie is well hidden by some Andy Capp fries. We’re good as gold.”

“A’ight.”

I ended the call, told Ruthie we were locked and loaded, then got settled into my little sanctuary, with dark glass to my left and seriously cheap particleboard-the backside of the magazine rack-to my right.

This was not the first stakeout of my career, but there was always a thrill to watching bad people do things they weren’t supposed to be doing. What kept it exciting is that, for as much as you might think you knew what was going to happen, the details could surprise you every time.

And, yeah, maybe it made me feel a little bit like a badass special agent, and maybe I liked that feeling. Especially when I knew, unlike those guys, I wouldn’t have to spend three straight days in a van, peeing in an empty Gatorade bottle.

We didn’t have to wait long. At 5:28 VWMT (Verizon Wireless Mean Time), Famous, Doc, and Twan made their appearance, arriving on foot from the west side, Ruthie’s window. Twan and Doc continued walking around to my side, whereupon they leaned against the window where I was set up. Twan rested one foot against the glass. Since I was now seated, the underside of his sneaker was practically at eye level.

I heard the bells clanging to signal that someone had entered the store. Then I saw Famous peering over me. Twan had obviously told him where he could find me, and he was checking to see that I was in place and didn’t have any photographic equipment in tow. I looked up at him and nodded, but he said nothing-he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy who was going to stop and inquire how my mother was doing. I heard the sound of his footsteps go over to the other window, where I assume he performed a similar inspection on Ruthie.

Famous went over to the Sikh in the box and said, “Get me some blackies.”

“Blackies” were Black amp; Milds, a brand of cigar popular enough in the hood that their white plastic filters were a familiar sight wherever fine urban litter could be found. After making his purchase, Famous went back out on the street, the bells chiming as he departed. He unwrapped his cigars, casually tossing the cellophane wrapper on the street, then extracted one and lit it. After taking one puff, he peeled off to the right, in the direction of Ruthie’s window. I didn’t know if Ruthie could still see him, but he was out of my line of sight. All I had to look at was the tread of Twan’s sneaker.

Then, no more than ninety seconds after Famous sparked his lighter, a Newark squad car came through the intersection and rolled to a stop in front of the fire hydrant on the corner outside the bodega. I felt a rush of nerves and excitement and, mostly, curiosity: Who were these guys, anyhow?

I expected the cops to leap out and toss Twan and Doc on the hood-to put on a good show, like Twan said they liked to do. But two cops exited their car in no particular hurry.

They were African American, medium height, fairly undistinguished in appearance. One had a mustache. The one without the mustache was darker skinned. I tried to press the image of their faces in my brain in case I needed to identify them from head shots. They were not yet close enough that I could see their name badges.

They moseyed over to Twan and began idly chatting, keeping their distance. It was like they were at a large family reunion, greeting some distant cousins. They weren’t too excited to see them, but they also didn’t mind stopping to gab for a while.

I was absorbed in trying to pick up any small piece of their conversation, concentrating so intensely on a futile attempt to read their lips that I only barely noticed when the bells on the front door of the bodega clanged again. Then I was jolted by the sound of a commanding, somewhat-familiar voice on the other side of the magazine rack, pointed down in my direction.

“Excuse me, sir, you’re loitering,” it said.

I looked up to see six-feet-eight-inches’ worth of Officer Hightower looming above me with a menacing sneer, pointing his gun at my face.

The call came in like all the others did. One, two rings-long enough to get it on the phone as a missed call-then a hang up.

The associates at Red Dot Enterprises, who were all sworn police officers working out of Newark’s Fourth Precinct, took turns manning the cell phone, almost like it was a pager in a medical practice. It wasn’t terribly onerous: there were ten associates altogether, so someone was always working anyway. Plus, there weren’t too many calls. Their business was based more on chance encounters than prearranged ones. The thug set wasn’t much for scheduling.

So when the second call came in from the same number, the officer testily called it back, starting the conversation with, “What’s up, Twan? I’m kind of busy here.”

“This ain’t Twan,” replied a hoarse voice. “It’s Famous.”

“Yeah, fine, what’s up,” the cop huffed. He knew Famous, or whatever he was calling himself now. His real name was Raynard Jenkins. He fancied himself a real tough guy, with his stone-cold stares and crossed arms. He was like hundreds of other corner boys, with a juvenile record far longer than anyone with that short a life should have. He was unlike most of the corner boys in that he had managed not to get arrested during his first eighteen months as an adult. He was smart that way. He was also smart enough to turn situations like this one-a couple of his boys striking up a relationship with a couple of overly trusting newspaper reporters-to his own advantage.

“Y’all got some people who don’t like you much,” Famous said.