Corrupt City Saga

Book 3: Corrupt City

by Tra Verdejo

Genres: General Fiction; African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Meet Donald “Lucky” Gibson. He’s considered one of the best detectives around, until he joins his new unit, a team of corrupt cops who are just as bad as the criminals they are supposed to be catching. Lucky soon falls into the trap and becomes one more thug with a badge. Years of abusing his position have led to an out of control cocaine habit, the loss of his family, and a love affair with a young runaway prostitute, but Lucky has had enough. After an innocent black man is killed by his white partners, Lucky testifies against them. He uses the media to expose his dirty team, including his captain and the commissioner. Now Lucky is a marked man, and even the mayor wants him dead. Corruption does not begin to describe what the law enforcement and government officials represent. With trickery in each chapter, this must-read novel will have you cheering for the bad guys, while wondering who can be trusted, who is behind the foul events that unfold, and where the corruption will end. You won't be able to put this book down until you discover all the answers. Welcome to Corrupt City Saga, where you can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys, and every character is a suspect. Tra Verdejo is entering the street lit scene with a raw style that will quickly put him on top.

Release date: August 1, 2015

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 480

Sample

10/22/2003

“Damn, we have been out here for like forty-five minutes, Toothpick. What’s taking them so long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they changed their minds.”

“Changed their minds? We have a bag filled with money. How can they change their mind? It’s too late for that. They got fifteen minutes, or we out.”

Cash and Toothpick had placed an order for two kilos of cocaine and four guns, two of which were semiautomatic rifles. They were getting a bit nervous waiting for the drop. All kinds of scenarios ran through their heads, and they were hoping they weren’t being set up.

“I hope they’re not trying to pull any funny moves, ’cause I have a full clip,” Toothpick added.

They both took a deep breath and leaned back on their seat, both exhaling like two little bitches. They were in the Hunts Point area of the Bronx, parked in an empty parking lot behind a large agriculture warehouse between Garrison and Longwood Avenue. It was close to midnight on a breezy Friday night, and there wasn’t a soul in the area. That’s how cold it was. But it still felt strange because, usually, you would see at least a few crackheads roaming around. To the criminal-minded, it was one of those perfect opportunities to pull off a hit—no witnesses, and in the middle of nowhere.

After another twenty minutes went by, they finally decided to leave. In all honesty, they both were nervous and thought it was a bad idea to meet there, anyway.

“Fuck this! They’re not coming. Let’s go,” Cash said as he turned the car on.

“Wait. Look. Here they come.”

Cash looked to his right and saw headlights approaching. The lights blurred both their vision, and they couldn’t see the car. Both Cash and Toothpick placed their hands on their guns, just to be on the safe side. As the car got within twenty feet, they finally had vision on it but couldn’t see inside because of the dark-tinted windows.

After the car pulled up parallel to theirs, the passenger lowered his tinted window and told Cash, “Follow us.”

“First of all, who the fuck is you?” Cash shot back. “And where is Scratch?”

The window from the back started to roll down, and that’s when Toothpick pulled his 9 mm. He cocked it back so quickly, the window only rolled halfway down and stopped.

“Chill, Toothpick. It’s me, Scratch. I’m in the backseat. It’s all good. Put the gun away. Just follow us. We know a safer place. This shit here looks too creepy.”

Toothpick lowered his gun and told Cash to follow the car. For a moment there, it almost got ugly. Toothpick was seconds away from pulling the trigger.

While they were following the car, both of them were quiet, their minds were heavy with suspicion. Not knowing where they were going added to the suspense. They could be driving to a setup where more goons with guns could be waiting for them. This criminal life was full of surprises, and your reflexes had to be quick in order to survive. Second thoughts would get you killed in this game. Your first instinct was the first and only rule to live by.

Toothpick and Cash both knew something was wrong, but they were both strapped with loaded guns, so they risked it anyway, knowing the odds were against them. They knew it was a big mistake, but once you’ve committed and you’ve passed a certain point, there is no turning back.

They got off at the Castle Hill Avenue exit. They parked across the street from Castle Hill projects and both looked at each other.

“Toothpick, how in the fuck is Castle Hill projects safer?”

They both laughed.

“I don’t know, but we about to find out. These cats are fuckin’ amateurs, but keep your eyes open. Don’t even blink.”

As Cash was parking, Scratch jumped out and walked up to their car.

“Toothpick, you come with me. We’re going in this building behind me.”

“Scratch, what’s up with all these last-minute changes? You sure you have the bricks and the guns? Don’t fuck with us.”

“Toothpick, just trust me on this one. Calm down. We’re going inside to my cousin’s apartment. That way, you get a chance to check everything out while I count the money.”

“A’ight, cool. C’mon, Cash, grab the money.”

“Just you, Toothpick. Your boy has to wait in the car.”

“C’mon, Scratch, that’s my partner, we roll together. I’m not going upstairs alone.”

“Listen, either you come alone, or the deal is dead. It’s your decision. My driver is also waiting in the car. Don’t worry, your partner will be okay.”

Toothpick looked at Cash and waited for his approval. Once Cash nodded his head, he jumped out of the car with a bag of money. Toothpick kept looking back as he walked with Scratch, making sure no one was following.

As soon as they got in the building and pressed for the elevator, two gunmen emerged from apartment 1B. It happened so fast, Toothpick didn’t have time to react or reach for his weapon. They pulled him inside the apartment, took his gun, and threw him on the floor.

Scratch leaned over him as he pressed the cold barrel against his cheekbone and asked him, “How long have you known your boy outside?”

“What the fuck is going on here, Scratch? Are you crazy? We are boys. What’s going on? Why are you asking about Cash?”

Before he could answer, about five to six shots rang out. Toothpick knew those shots were intended for Cash. He wanted to break loose and reach for his other gun, but he had to play it cool and wait for the right moment. There were three people in that apartment with guns in their hands. He wasn’t stupid.

“Were those shots? What the fuck is going on here?” Toothpick asked with a clueless expression, trying to work his way out.

“Answer my question. How long have you known Cash?”

“Not for long. My cousin set me up with him when I came home two years ago. Why?”

“Cash is police. He’s undercover. Please tell me you are not a cop as well.”

“A cop? Get the fuck outta here. Cash can’t be police, and if he is police, your boy just shot him. Why the fuck is you still here? That means police was either following us or on their way here. We need to bounce the fuck outta here. Let me go. You know I’m not a fuckin’ pig. Get off me, nigga. I’m not trying to get locked up today. Let’s bounce and handle business another day.”

Scratch looked into Toothpick’s eyes for about four seconds and couldn’t read any lies. He believed him and decided to let him go. “My bad. I had to make sure,” he said, helping Toothpick up and giving him his gun back, but with the clip and the bullet in the chamber. “Nowadays, you never know who’s undercover. Wait about fifteen seconds after I leave before you bounce. We’ll make the deal another time. Keep your money. No, as a matter of fact, give me this fuckin’ money. Next time, pick a better partner,” Scratch said before running out.

Toothpick waited for about five seconds before he reached for his second gun and ran out. He kicked open the front door of the building so hard, he got the attention of Scratch and his boys. By the time they realized where the noise came from, Toothpick was already approaching, shooting rounds from his 9 mm Glock. Instantly, he dropped two of them with single shots to the head. Now it was just Scratch and his driver left.

It was an all-out war at one o’clock in the morning in the middle of the streets in the Bronx. Half the neighborhood was up watching the action from their windows, some ducking bullets. These projects were known for their high crime rate, but neighbors never saw anything like this.

Toothpick was in the battle of his life. He had to run for cover behind a parked car when Scratch’s driver pulled out a MAC-11 and emptied the entire clip at him. Bullets were flying all around Toothpick. All he could do was stay put and pray they didn’t go through the car and hit him.

He caught a break when the MAC-11 went silent for a few seconds because it ran out of bullets. As soon as he heard a pause in between shots, Toothpick jumped up, quickly let off two shots, and ducked back down. He’d shot the driver in the neck and shoulder.

Scratch realized he’d lost his crew. Now it was just him left. But he was still hanging, going out like a soldier, letting off rounds from his .40-caliber. When he noticed Toothpick reloading, he jumped in the car and tried to make a quick getaway.

Before he was able to switch gears, Toothpick ran up on him and pressed the hot barrel on his temple and yelled, “Freeze, muthafucka! You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law—man, fuck that! And fuck you!”

Toothpick, whose real name was Donald “Lucky” Gibson, shot Scratch twice in the head then quickly ran toward his partner, praying for a miracle.

“Nine-one-three, nine-one-three. Officer down! I need a bus, and I need it now, goddamn it! Now! Officer down, I repeat, officer down. I’m on Castle Hill and Randall Avenue!” he yelled.

When he got to Cash, real name Michael “Tango” Scott, he was still breathing, but there was blood everywhere. He noticed Tango had been shot a few times in his chest. When they took this undercover assignment, they knew they couldn’t wear a vest. Tears overcame him because he knew his partner’s destiny.

Tango kept mumbling for Lucky to call his wife. “Please call her. I want to hear her voice before I die.”

“You are not going to die. Help is on the way. Hang in there,” Lucky replied, reaching for his cell phone.

Lucky started dialing the number, the phone rang once, and his wife, Tammy, answered. When he went to pass the phone over to Tango, he was already gone. He didn’t know what to do. Should he hang up or tell Tammy what happened? He couldn’t hang up because Tammy knew his phone number.

“Hello,” Lucky said, sounding like a scared little boy.

“Hello, Lucky? That’s you? What’s going on? I hear sirens in the background. Where is Michael? What’s going on, Lucky?”

“Tammy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” a teary Lucky said.

Tammy became hysterical because she knew it only meant two things—he was either in critical condition or dead. “Lucky, goddamn it! Tell me the truth. What happened to my husband? Is he okay? Oh, please, God, help me. Please, God.”

“I’m sorry, Tammy, our cover was blown, and Tango, I mean Michael, didn’t make it.”

The phone went dead.

Tammy had yanked the cord from the socket. She was throwing a tantrum at the house. Her twin boys, only eight years old, woke up asking their mother what happened and why she was crying. She was speechless. She didn’t know how to tell them their daddy was never coming home.

Meanwhile, back at the crime scene, Lucky, still in shock, was trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Two questions kept bugging him. How did they know about Tango’s identity? And why was it taking so long for backup to arrive?

Lucky was starting to get a major headache and was feeling weak. He dropped to one knee, and that’s when another cop at the scene noticed Lucky had also been shot. They rushed to his aid and treated his wound on the spot.

He was hit on the side of his stomach, a flesh wound, nothing serious. His adrenaline was running so high, he’d never felt the shot. After a fifteen-minute conversation with his captain, he finally agreed to get in the ambulance and head to the hospital as a precaution.

The Present (2006)

Lucky woke up sweating and out of breath. He was dreaming about the night, Tango, was killed. That was one memory he would carry with him for the rest of his life. Till this day, he suspected it was foul play that led to Tango’s cover being blown.

Today was a big day for Lucky. He turned on the TV and listened to the news reporter, while getting dressed for court.

Those three officers were confident the charges would be dropped until Donald “Lucky” Gibson reappeared and agreed to testify.

Meanwhile, it was pandemonium outside the courthouse. There were news stations parked everywhere, and reporters were interviewing anyone who wanted to get in front of a camera. The crowd was asking the same questions over and over. “Will this be the case that will rock the state of New York and shine the spotlight on police brutality? How many more innocent bodies need to drop? Better yet, how many more minority bodies need to drop?”

Inside the courtroom, there were barely any seats available. The NYPD tried to take up most of the seats to prevent supporters and protesters from entering the courtroom. Court officers had to ask police officers to move to the right side of the courtroom or exit.

Police officers were not happy, and some even argued their point. The police department knew their future relied on the verdict of this case. Though the evidence against these three cops was not in their favor, they strongly supported their own. The cops involved were all suspended with pay, which was nothing but a paid vacation.

The people demanded more severe punishment, not a slap on the wrist. However, Mayor Ralph Gulliano and Police Commissioner Brandon Fratt made it their business to point out that Perry Coleman had a criminal record on file and the people shouldn’t rush to judge and crucify these officers who were doing their job. Both the mayor and police commissioner received harsh criticisms for their stance. Blacks and Hispanics were not shocked, because the lack of support in their communities had always been evident.

The mayor tried to smear Perry’s image. Perry Coleman had been working at the same job since he was nineteen years old and had no record of felonies or misdemeanors. They were referring to a juvenile robbery charge. Perry and a few of his high school friends got caught running out of a store with jewelry when he was fourteen years old. Part of his plea bargain was that his record would be sealed, which meant closed, and would never resurface again, after he completed eighteen months of probation. But the following night after Perry was killed, newspapers were already printing stories about his juvenile record, hoping the court of opinion would at least convict him of being a thug.

The public didn’t care about what he did when he was fourteen. He turned out to be a good human being and role model to others. Perry was a manager at a furniture store and was a year away from earning his bachelor’s degree in business communication. He was survived by his wife, Kim Blackburn Coleman, and their three-year-old son, Perry Coleman III. Perry’s family promised that his name would never be forgotten and that his story would be told across the world.

Perry’s mother, Laura, said it the best. “You can’t change destiny, but you sure can change your life. My son is a prime example that one mistake shouldn’t ruin your future. Perry was a great son, father, and husband. He worked extremely hard to stay positive and keep his family happy. Now, because of racist, trigger-happy cops, my son is no longer alive. We will carry the torch from here and educate the world, not just on police brutality, but on racism as well, because it’s still alive in our communities, in our everyday lives.”

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 asked.

“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 streetwalker. 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 foot 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 abo