The Vigilantes

[THREE]

Matt Payne’s family had known Francis Fuller’s as long as Matt could remember. They had many connections, both social and professional, and while Payne did not actively dislike the man, he had on more than one occasion called him Five-Eff to his face-and that almost always had happened when Fuller was being a pompous ass.

Payne otherwise addressed Fuller as “Francis,” knowing full well (and purposely ignoring) that Fuller preferred the more masculine “Frank.”

Fuller boldly and shamelessly touted the fact that he traced his family lineage-and what he called its puritanical ways-back to Benjamin Franklin. Fuller fancied himself a devout Franklinite, mimicking his ancestor from his looks to his philosophical beliefs. Fuller regularly sprinkled his conversations with quotes from Poor Richard’s Almanac and other Ben Franklin sources. And like the multitalented Franklin, Francis Fuller was involved in all kinds of enterprises, private and public.

Payne somewhat begrudgingly admired Fuller for having built on the wealth he’d been born into, because he himself had enjoyed being raised, as he called it, “comfortably”-though certainly not nearly on the level of the super-wealthy Fullers-and he’d seen many others piss away vast sums of money that they had done nothing to earn and, he believed, thus did not deserve.

Fuller’s primary company-Richard Saunders Holdings, which he’d taken from the name Franklin had used to write Poor Richard’s Almanac-had many entities. There was KeyCom, the Fortune 500 nationwide telecommunications corporation that he’d built city by city by buying up local community cable television providers. And KeyCargo Import-Exports, which was one of the largest leasers of warehouse space at the Port of Philadelphia, which was easily visible from another of Fuller’s holdings-the Hops Haus Tower-which fell under his KeyProperties.

With so much financial wealth came a great deal of influence, and Francis Fuller had political connections from Washington, D.C., to Harrisburg to Philly’s City Hall and police department. He was more or less happy to share with all both his wealth and his opinions, though sometimes far more of the latter than the former. And in terms of the latter, Fuller was a devout believer in the Bible’s an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

And so Francis Fuller funded and personally promoted a nonprofit organization he called Lex Talionis, from the Latin phrase for the “law of talion,” which more or less translated as “an eye for an eye”-which, of course, was the meting out of punishments that matched the crimes. The logotype of Lex Talionis had the “o” as a stylized eyeball.

The offices for Lex Talionis took up half of the first floor of a five-story brick building on the tree-lined corner of North Third and Arch Streets. Fuller said he felt the location on Arch, in the historic section of Old City, with the Delaware River just blocks to the east and the Liberty Bell on display just blocks to the west, was more appropriate than any shiny marble-and-glass high-rise office building.

Francis Franklin Fuller V’s belief in the fundamental philosophy of Lex Talionis was strong and unwavering, and there was a good reason for it: Tragedy had struck him personally.

Five years earlier, his wife and their eight-year-old daughter had been driving home in the early evening of a rainy Saturday, when she had accidentally exited just shy of the Vine Street Expressway she’d been aiming for.

My dearest could get lost in a closet, Fuller later lamented, and that GPS street map in the dash of her Benz may as well have been a video game for all she knew how to operate it.

After getting off the expressway at Spring Garden Street, then driving east and crossing over the Schuylkill Expressway, she’d somehow, maybe because the rain was disorienting, made a wrong turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Shortly thereafter she’d found herself in the North Philadelphia West area, driving down the darkened streets of struggling and failing neighborhoods.

What had happened next was a matter of great speculation. It could have been because of the luxury convertible automobile she was driving. Or it could simply have been an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

According to two eyewitness statements, as the Mercedes waited for a traffic light to turn green, two vehicles flew up to the intersection and squealed to a stop alongside. The second car actually went up over the curb, striking a garbage can and newspaper dispenser box, knocking them over.

Angry words were exchanged between the occupants of the two cars-and suddenly a torrent of gunfire filled the air.

Then the first vehicle ran the red light, followed by the second, both racing off into the night.

The Fullers’ Mercedes-Benz did not move for a couple of minutes, even as the traffic light cycled to green and back to red. Then the car began to roll into the intersection, running the red traffic light and getting struck by an old pickup truck.

The truck did not kill them, although it struck the Mercedes-Benz hard enough to trigger its air bags. The Medical Examiner’s Office determined that both mother and daughter had died when struck by multiple hits of single-aught buckshot from a shotgun-or shotguns. The windows of the Mercedes, and certainly the soft fabric of the convertible top, were no match for the fusillade of lead balls.

The shooters were never caught, despite the extreme pressure Francis Franklin Fuller V placed on everyone from the police department to the offices of the mayor and the governor.

Frustrated, Fuller shortly thereafter announced his new nonprofit organization: “That night, I lost my wife, my child-my family. Sadly, it was a tragedy that could happen to anyone. And those responsible for such harm must be brought to justice and held accountable. To help the police and the justice system do exactly that, today I have established Lex Talionis in honor of my wife and daughter and all other victims in the City of Philadelphia.”

He explained that he had funded the organization with an initial endowment of five million dollars. From that, he said, “Lex Talionis will reward ten thousand dollars cash to any individual who provides information that leads to the arrest, conviction, and/or removal from free society of a criminal guilty of murder or attempted murder, rape or other sexually deviant crime, or illicit drug distribution in the City of Philadelphia. Lex Talionis will work with the Philadelphia Police Department and our courts to protect the identities of those providing the information, keeping them anonymous.”

Every week, usually on Fridays, he ran an announcement restating that message in Philadelphia’s newspapers and on its television stations.

“You don’t like Fuller?” Amanda Law asked Matt Payne.

“Sometimes I do. And sometimes, not so much,” Matt said, turning up the volume. “Here. Let’s see what he’s saying.”

Fuller’s voice filled the bedroom: “As my ancestor Benjamin Franklin wrote in the Year of our Lord 1734, ‘Where carcasses are, eagles will gather. And where good laws are, much people flock thither.’ And so tonight I am personally signing the paperwork for my organization”-he gestured grandly toward the cast-bronze signage listing all his companies that was embedded in the wall behind him, to the line that read LEX TALIONIS, LLC-“to transfer two ten-thousand-dollar rewards into two separate escrow accounts at PNC Bank. These will be payable immediately upon the determination of who is properly responsible for the apprehension of these evildoers.”

There was a smattering of loud applause in the background, and the cameras panned to show the people who were clapping outside of the police crime-scene tape.

Matt said, “Looks like Francis has the support of Batman and-what’s that other character there that’s the supervillain?-the Joker?”

Amanda looked at the screen and made a hmm sound.

“I think that particular Joker costume is supposed to be one of our distinguished city councilmen. You can tell by his trademark black bow tie that looks like a tiny cheap clip-on. And by all those exaggerated dollar-bill bribes-they’re stuffing his pockets to the point of overflowing. The handcuffs on his left wrist are a nice touch. Oh, and there’s a dollar symbol on his coat, kind of like the Riddler had those question marks.”

Payne recalled that the loud cries of corruption in City Hall were back in the news-if they’d ever really left.

Either way, to bow-tied City Councilman H. Rapp Badde, Jr., a thirty-two-year-old native Philadelphian who was alternately charismatic and arrogant, it was simply politics as usual. Which also meant shenanigans as usual, including the hiring of a twenty-five-year-old “highly regarded colleague” as his executive assistant and the use of funds from his election campaign for them to attend a conference on urban renewal in, of all places, Bermuda.

As luck would have it, someone happened to recognize the publicity-happy councilman during the trip. And when a photograph appeared in the news media of the councilman and his tremendously attractive assistant on the beach-wearing, as one TV news wag said, “nothing that could be considered business attire, unless they were employed in a strip club at SeaWorld”-citizens of Philadelphia were furious, perhaps the least happy being Badde’s wife of seven years.

Of course, the councilman, drawing on both his charisma and arrogance, repeatedly stated that it was all being misinterpreted, that the trip had cost the city not one red cent-his excess campaign contributions covered it. Then he spun the subject to what he and his able assistant had learned on advancing urban renewal and how H. Rapp Badde, Jr., was going to change Philly’s fortunes.

The behavior stemmed from the same sort of above-reproach attitude-from the hanky-panky to the deny-and-spin-that he’d learned from his father, Horatio R. Badde, Sr., who’d once held the office Junior now so desperately desired, that of mayor.

To Matt and countless others in Philadelphia, the good news in all this was that there was a genuine first-class person serving as Hizzonor. The Honorable Jerome H. “Jerry” Carlucci was no-nonsense to the point that his detractors-and quite a few admirers-claimed he governed with an iron fist. Unapologetic, Carlucci fought the culture of corruption in City Hall just as he had fought crime in the city before being elected to public office.

Carlucci had risen through the ranks of the Philadelphia Police Department, and he bragged that he’d held every rank but that of policewoman.

Payne said: “Or maybe, more appropriately, that dollar sign is also supposed to represent a scarlet letter for Badde?”

These days it’s easier finding a virgin in a whorehouse than an honest politician. He grunted to himself. An honest pol in or out of a whorehouse. With or without a scarlet letter.

Fuller could be heard speaking again, and the camera cut back to him:

“So, to all you out there who commit crimes, or you who are considering doing so, I share with you further wisdom of Benjamin Franklin: ‘Fear to do ill, and you need fear nought else.’”

There was more applause. Fuller paused, waved briefly to acknowledge it, then looked back into the camera.

His face turned stern, and he wagged the stubby fat index finger of his right hand as he went on dramatically: “Evildoers, know that you are being watched. Know that eventually you will be caught”-with all his right hand’s stubby fat fingers, he gestured behind himself, where the bodies had been dumped, never taking his eyes off the camera-“and know that you will be brought to justice. By God’s grace and by God’s words: As it says in Exodus 23:24, ‘Then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, foot for foot.’ Lex Talionis. Thank you.”

There was more applause, this time accompanied by whistles and cheers.

Matt sighed.

“‘Evildoers.’ Jesus! I’ve heard enough of that,” he said, thumbing the MUTE button on the remote.

After a moment, Amanda said, “Well, I can’t say I am opposed to what he’s trying to accomplish.”

Matt looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “But, baby, people just can’t take the law into their own hands. And that’s what he’s basically encouraging.”

She shrugged. “Sorry. I can’t…”

Of course she can’t.

Damn sure not after what she’s gone through…

He nodded thoughtfully and kissed her on the forehead.

The news camera now followed Francis Fuller as he walked inside the office building. Then it panned the cheering crowd, and in the process captured some of the news media.

Payne said: “Hey, there’s Mickey O’Hara. He’s working the story?”

A young-looking Philadelphia Police Department patrolman was going back under the yellow police tape next to O’Hara, who Matt noted was standing apart from the pack of reporters quickly scribbling on their pads. O’Hara had a camera of some type hanging from his right shoulder by a thin black strap. He held in both hands what looked like a cell phone, and he was tapping it with both of his thumbs.

Then Payne felt his phone vibrate again, and a new text message appeared in a box on its screen: MICKEY O’HARA AN OLD SOURCE JUST MENTIONED “POP-N-DROPS” TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW, DAMN IT, AND I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I DO… MEET ME AT LIBERTIES?

“Old source” my ass-it was that wet-behind-the-ears uniform.

The kid’s probably starstruck with Mickey and thought he’d show off how important he already is by sharing what’s supposed to be kept quiet.

Hell, Mickey will keep his mouth shut if I ask, and if he’s on the scene he probably has something good that I can use.

But Amanda is going to be pissed if I leave now to go work.

He heard her sigh, and when Matt looked to her, he saw that she’d read the screen.

He began to apologize: “I’m-”

“No,” she interrupted. “It’s okay. Really, it is. I can’t agree that bad guys should be off the streets and then expect you not to do your job.”

He kissed her forehead again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finishing the apology.

Then Payne texted “Liberties in 20” back to O’Hara.

Payne’s phone vibrated once, then again. The first message was from O’Hara, who’d simply texted “OK.” The second was from Tony Harris:

– blocked number-

YOU JUST SEE 5-F? I BET JASON IS FIT TO BE TIED. GOT TIME FOR A BEER? -TH

“My,” Amanda said, “aren’t you the popular one at this hour. Should I be jealous?”

Payne thought, What the hell, may as well kill two birds with one stone, and texted back: “Liberties in 20.”

She rolled over and began to slowly rub his belly.

Matt looked at her and began, “Speaking of killings-”

“You should go?” Amanda finished his sentence.

“No. What I was going to say is: I don’t see the rush.”

As she made another slow circle with her palm, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, as far as I can tell, there’s no reason to jump up and race anywhere. Mick can cool his heels with Tony at Liberties for ten minutes. And even if I do get a call about those pop-and-drops”-he reached for his cell phone and pressed a button to turn it off-“which will now go directly into voice mail, it’s my professional opinion that those guys who got popped will probably still be dead ten minutes from now.”

Amanda’s hand stopped. Matt looked deeply in her eyes.

“ ‘Just ten minutes’?” she said, her tone suggestive.

As he smiled and nodded, she pursed her lips.

After a moment, he felt her warm hand slide down his belly.

“I know a Ben Franklin saying, too,” she said.

“Yeah? I’m afraid to ask. Something to do with moderation or saving for a rainy day, or-worse-abstinence?”

Her warm palm moved smoothly and excitingly slowly until it was just below his belly button, then a bit farther down. He grunted appreciatively in anticipation-until her fingers suddenly gripped him by the short hairs.

“Ouch!” he cried out a bit dramatically when she pulled them. “What was that for?”

“Ben said, ‘Love, and be lov’d.’”