Mission Flats

49

The mallards in the Public Garden were agitated. From the little island in the middle of the lagoon where they were gathered came a cacophony of honking. The males in particular, with their shimmery green necks, were on edge. They ran at one another, braying and slapping the water.

Max Beck was watching them. He sat on a bench under a sagging willow, absently munching on a sandwich. The paper wrapper from the sandwich was tucked under his thigh to prevent it from blowing away. Beck seemed to have shucked his Defender of the Despised persona, with its strutting righteousness and combativeness, just laid it down on the bench beside him like a coat. Here by the duck pond, he became ordinary — an office worker creeping toward middle age, overweight, curly salt-and-pepper hair riffling in the wind.

‘Mr Beck?’

He startled. ‘Yes? Oh, Chief Truman, thank you for coming.’ He jumped up and cleared a space on the bench facing the lagoon. ‘Have a seat. You want a sandwich? I got you tuna-fish.’

I took the sandwich and turned it over in my hand.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘it won’t turn you into a defense lawyer.’

I sat down. ‘Do you take your lunch here a lot?’

‘Nah. I don’t usually eat lunch. There never seems to be time. I’m either in court or on the way to court. I have to watch it anyway.’ He patted his belly. ‘I picked this place because I thought we could be alone here.’

The ducks kicked up another round of honking. Rhonk rhonk.

‘They’re upset about something,’ Beck said.

‘It’s getting cold. They’re anxious to leave.’

I opened my sandwich and the two of us ate in silence. An awkward etiquette pertains at lunchtime meetings. It requires occasional conversational pauses for chewing, and it disfavors asking questions of someone who has just inserted a bolus of tuna-fish sandwich in his mouth. So Max Beck and I — strange bedfellows, unsure how to speak to each other — sat for a while eating our lunches.

‘Does anyone know you’re here, Chief Truman?’

‘No. On the phone, you said it was confidential. Besides, it’s not exactly something I’d brag about to my cop friends.’

‘Your cop friends think I’m one of the bad guys.’

‘They think you’re a devil worshiper.’

Beck grinned. Being thought a devil worshiper did not seem to trouble him. ‘Well then, thank you for coming. We’ll make this quick, before anyone sees you. Usually I’d call a prosecutor to arrange this. My client wants to surrender.’

‘So let him surrender.’

‘Well, that’s the unusual part. He wants to surrender to you.’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘He trusts you.’

‘He shouldn’t. Did your client tell you he broke into my hotel room last night with one of his goons and put a gun to my head?’

Beck shook his head.

‘Maybe I’m not the best cop for Harold today’

‘I see. But you haven’t taken out a charge against him, have you?’

I did not answer.

‘Harold said you helped get his daughter back.’

‘It wasn’t a big deal.’

‘It was a big deal to him. Chief Truman, Boston PD is on a rampage looking for my client. It’s important they not find him. Do you understand that?’

‘I think it’s important they do find him. There’s a warrant out for him.’

‘Yes, there is that. What I meant was, it’s important that Harold not be in their custody, that he not disappear into a holding cell somewhere or find himself being chased down some dark alley by a bunch of white cops with guns. This isn’t about the legalities.’

I bristled at the generalization. I was a white cop with a gun too. ‘Is this you talking or your client?’

‘My client and I speak with one voice.’

‘Ah. That’s the devil-worshiping part.’

Beck frowned. He broke off a piece of bread and tossed it on the ground, where the ducks pulled it apart. ‘My client asked me to deliver a proposal to you. He says he is willing to surrender on the warrant but only on two conditions: He’ll only surrender to you and only on the condition that he be taken immediately to Maine for trial. He is not afraid of a trial. But he doesn’t want Boston to have custody, even for one day, even one hour. He feels strongly about that, so that’s the way it would have to be.’

‘Otherwise?’

‘Otherwise Boston PD can keep looking for him, and when they find him Harold won’t surrender. Someone will get hurt.’

‘Probably Harold.’

‘Yes. Probably Harold. Do you take comfort in that, Chief Truman?’

‘Of course not. Are you that cynical about cops?’

‘Some cops, yes.’

‘Well you don’t know me. I haven’t earned that from you.’

‘No, you’re right. I apologize. My client feels he is in danger from certain Boston cops, that’s all I meant. Here, let me show you something.’

Beck put his sandwich down and wiped his hands on his thighs. He rummaged around in his briefcase until he found a letter on the District Attorney’s letterhead, three or four pages long, single-spaced. The word CONFIDENTIAL was typed across the top. The subject line read, Re: Agreement By and Between the Commonwealth and Harold Ellison Braxton. ‘Skip to the back,’ Beck suggested. Three prosecutors had signed the letter: the state Attorney General, District Attorney Andrew Lowery, and Assistant DA Robert M. Danziger.

‘Harold asked me to show that to you. Do you know what it is, Chief Truman? It’s a cooperation letter. Signed by Bob Danziger. Did you know Harold was working with Danziger?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t you find it strange that Harold would go off and murder a prosecutor who’s just given him immunity? Look here.’ He reached over and opened the letter to the second page. ‘Use immunity for Harold’s testimony regarding the events of August 16–17, 1987, the night Artie Trudell was killed. Do you know what use immunity means?’

‘Yeah, it means anything he gives them can’t be used against him, unless the state can show they had an independent source for the information. They can still charge him with the murder, but they can’t use his own words to convict him.’

I scanned the letter, which did not explicitly identify the crime Bobby Danziger was investigating. But it was obvious. ‘Jesus, Danziger actually flipped Braxton. He was using Braxton to reopen the Trudell case.’

‘Yes. And I’ll tell you what else that letter means. It means Bob Danziger didn’t think Harold killed Artie Trudell. You don’t give immunity to a cop killer, even limited immunity like this.’

‘I don’t understand. If Harold didn’t kill Artie Trudell, what would he know about the case?’

‘Chief Truman, Harold’s relationships with the police are complex. He’s not the monster they make him out to be. He’s helped out a number of detectives, including your friend Martin Gittens.’

‘Braxton was a snitch for Gittens?’

‘Is. Braxton is a snitch for Gittens.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Ask Gittens. They’ve both been in the Flats a long time, coexisting quite happily. I’m not saying they’re friends. It’s a business relationship: an exchange of values. Gittens gets information, Harold gets’ — he searched for the discreet word — ’room to maneuver.’

‘“Room to maneuver.” You mean Gittens has been protecting him. I don’t believe it.’

‘Not protecting him. He just helps Harold stay out of trouble. If there’s going to be a raid, Gittens may give him a heads-up, that’s all. It’s not so uncommon. Spies and counterspies.’

Beck must have seen I was flummoxed by all this because he fell silent while I took it in. To pass the time, he tore off a piece of bread and tossed it on the ground. He took care to leave it where a little finch could peck at it for a moment before the enormous honking mallards chased the bird off.

‘Understand what I’m telling you, Chief Truman, Martin Gittens is a good cop. He does what he has to do. He takes his information where he finds it. Gittens works narcotics cases, and the only people with information about the drug trade, unfortunately, are in the drug trade. What are you gonna do?’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, I kind of like him, as cops go.’

‘Did Gittens protect Braxton in the Trudell case?’

‘He warned Harold about the raid, yes. That’s why Harold wasn’t there. But after that, Gittens played it straight. When he thought Harold was the shooter, Gittens went after him harder than anyone else. It was Gittens who found the murder weapon, remember.’

‘With Braxton’s prints on it.’

‘Those prints were planted.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘Look, prints can be lifted. All it takes is a piece of Scotch tape and a little know-how. We had a forensics guy ready to testify those prints were put there, probably by some cop trying to shore up a weak case.’

‘So Braxton was Raul?’

Another theatrical shrug. ‘Who knows.’

‘Well what did Danziger want Braxton for? What was he going to testify to?’

‘Just that Gittens had tipped him off to the raid. That’s really all he knows about it.’ Beck fixed me with a look that approximated sincerity. ‘Chief Truman, Harold did not kill Bob Danziger. I don’t say he’s an angel, but he didn’t do this.’

‘How do I know that for sure?’

‘Because Danziger knew it. Danziger knew Harold didn’t kill Artie Trudell. That’s why he gave him immunity. Figure out what Danziger had, figure out how he knew.’

‘Well unfortunately I can’t ask Danziger, can I?’

‘He must’ve had something — evidence, a witness, something. My client trusts you. Harold asked me to show you this document for a reason: He wants you to trust him too. Not be his friend, not approve of everything he does, just trust him. Let him surrender.’

I tossed the rest of my sandwich to the ducks, who surged around it frantically. ‘Alright, how does this work?’

‘We pick a place outside the city limits, where Boston PD doesn’t have jurisdiction. Harold will surrender himself voluntarily to your custody. From there you would take him straight to Maine for trial.’

‘If I were him, I wouldn’t be so anxious for a trial.’

‘Chief Truman, if you were him, right now the trial would be the least of your worries.’