The Blue Executions (23 page)

He still knew
that he had to be careful with Garret.  He was easily six feet-two inches tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds.  He didn’t want a physical confrontation.  Just a quick kill and an easy get away.

As he waited for Garret to emerge from the deli, he began to think about the letter
which he sent to McGregor early this morning.  Imagine how foolish he would look if he did not carry out the execution tonight.  He would have given them the name of his next target.  He realized that he should be more careful next time.  What if Garret called in sick or something? 
Yes, it was decided.
 
No more letters until after the execution; especially with Galvin up next.
  Galvin was going to be his biggest execution to date.  Daniel Long, Chris Tatum and Frank Garret combined did not get nearly the notoriety Tommy Galvin was getting.

Frank Garret exited the deli holding a coffee in one hand and a bag containing his dinner in the other.  Even if he was armed, he wouldn
’t have had a free hand to go for his gun.  Underhill stood less than a block away, allowing Garret to walk towards him. 
Dead man walking.
  This is his walk to his execution chamber and he doesn’t even know it. 
He might as well be walking surrounded by prison guards and shackled at the waist
.  Underhill held his revolver firmly in hand concealed by a newspaper on top of it.

Michael Underhill’s heart began to beat heavy against his chest.  He suddenly became conscious of his breathing.  As Garret grew closer, Underhill glanced at his watch; 2108 hours and 18 seconds.  The target was now a half a block away and closing.  Underhill sensed the moment as the two men were less than ten feet away.

*

Police Officer Frank Garret was a twelve year veteran of the NYPD and a married father of two boys.  He wasn
’t a standout cop in any way, but he wasn’t an empty suit either.  He wrote his summonses and made his share of arrests when he was still on patrol.  His entire career and life changed dramatically two years ago when he was involved in the controversial shooting of a man high on crack, who pinned him between his own police car and the stolen car which he had been driving.  Garret shot the man in self defense and the Grand Jury agreed—but it was against department guidelines to shoot at a car unless the occupants of the car were shooting at you.

At first there was little public outcry when the grand jury declined to hand down an indictment.  Garret figured it would have been much worse if the person he
had shot had been a minority rather than white.  Seemingly things were not going to be that bad for him until the newspapers starting digging into Garret’s background.  In his twelve years as a police officer, he had received nine civilian complaints; less than one per year.  Two of them, however, were substantiated—both for excessive force.

They also learned he had been the subject of three lawsuits, which the news reported had cost the city thirty-seven thousand dollars
to settle.  It had infuriated Garret when the papers used these facts against him.  The New York City Corporation Counsel, which represents the city in lawsuits, had settled each case out of court.  The explained that the settlement was far less than the cost of a trial and therefore cost effective to just pay out rather than go to trial.  The papers left that fact out.

Garret had been demonized by the media.  They portrayed him as a brutal cop, working outside the lines of the law.  The upper echelon of the department apparently decided
that he was a good sacrificial lamb.  The department had a way of every few years hanging a cop out to dry in order to appease the media and the often anti-cop public.  They public was calling for his termination and the department had said nothing in his defense.

Garret
realized in no uncertain terms that the department was turning their back on him once he was transferred from the Bronx, where he worked his entire career, to Manhattan Central Booking.  With his departmental trial set to begin next week, Garret realized that his days as an NYPD officer were most likely numbered.  He knew, as did everyone else, that he would be found guilty and terminated to appease the public. 

*

Garret took a sip from his coffee when the balding man with glasses first caught his eye.  There was something a bit off about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.  If Garret was with a partner and still on patrol, he’d probably stop this guy. 
He seems awfully nervous.

As he got closer the man was staring at him.  He noted the newspaper draped over his right hand. 
He was definitely dirty
, decided Garret,
but so what.
I don’t give a damn what he’s up to.  Why should I do another friggin thing for this city?

The man spoke to him.  “Pardon me officer; do you know where the nearest subway is?”

Before Garret could get the words out of his mouth he heard the shots.  He felt his chest cave in like it had been hit with a sledgehammer.  He tumbled backwards, his coffee falling to the ground in slow motion.  Garret looked up at the man, wondering why this was happening.  He couldn’t breathe.  His hands explored his chest, as he felt the blood draining.  He looked up, seeing the man flee on foot.  His mind thought of his wife of nine years and his twin boys, Michael and John.  He suddenly felt at peace as his eyes glazed over.  He could no longer fight the darkness.

*

Michael Underhill calmly got into his car and drove over the Brooklyn Bridge leaving Manhattan.  Once over the bridge, he parked his car on a desolate block on Prospect Street surrounded by grass fields on either side.  He exited his car to remove the stolen license plates revealing the real ones.  As he got back into the car, he could hear the sirens blaring on the other side of the bridge.  He took a deep breath and savored the sound of the sirens; they were music to his ears.  He got onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway headed toward his Bay Ridge apartment.

Another job well done
. 

*

Tommy Galvin and Laurie Bando sat far from the bar in a back room of The Shamrock House in East Durham, New York; the Emerald Isle of the Catskills.  Tommy felt lucky to have gotten a room in the heart of tourist season without a reservation.  They shared a pitcher of beer and some bar appetizers.  The bartender, coincidentally, was a retired NYPD detective and had recognized Galvin.  He gave Galvin the pitcher of beer on the house.  Galvin and Laurie Bando both needed to relieve some stress and therefore agreed not to bring their cell phones with them.  They decided that nothing could be so important that it couldn’t wait until they returned home.

Tommy took her hand in his.  “You know I can never repay you for what you did for me Laurie.  I owe you my life.”

“Tommy, don’t be silly, you didn’t do anything wrong.”  She took her free hand and placed it on his shoulder.  She looked him deeply in his eyes.

He was uncomfortable.  He didn’t think she understood.  He looked away from her; wanting to look anywhere but back into her eyes.  His eyes scanned from the picture of the thatched cottage hanging on the burnt orange walls to the exposed wooden beams hanging overhead.  He noticed one of the dimly lit wall fixtures had a bulb out.  Finally looking back at her, “being in the
right has nothing to do with it.  I’ve seen my job sell guys out dozens of times to stay politically correct.”  He squeezed her hand slightly, “you may not realize what you did for me, but I do, and I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

Laurie did realize.
But she would never tell him how close it came to an overzealous assistant taking the case who would have surely seen him indicted.  “Well you can start by asking me to dance.”

Galvin smiled and took her by the hand leading her to the spacious dance floor as the band played an Irish reel.  A quartet of young girls
, clad in Irish step dancing dresses danced away; their shoes tapping on the hard wood floors.  Their curls bounced as they floated through the air; their hands firmly at their sides.  Neither Galvin nor Laurie was nearly as accomplished as the girls, but they danced nonetheless.       

He knew
that Laurie was doing her best to make him feel better.  He just couldn’t concentrate on her right now.  As they continued to dance, Galvin bumped into a man playing darts in the corner of the bar.  The obviously inebriated man shot Galvin a dirty look.  Galvin, knowing the last thing in the world he needed right now was a confrontation of any kind, quickly apologized.  He needed to get some fresh air.

Laurie accompanied him to the parking lot.  Galvin leaned against one of the half dozen white columns supporting the overhang.  He looked up at the stars; there were more stars in the sky tonight than he had ever seen living in the city.  It was a beautiful summer night and not only was the bar and dining area packed, but there were also dozens of patrons outside the bar.  They sat on the benches under the overhang or just stood around talking—a few of them took this opportunity to have a smoke.   

He needed to get back to the conversation.  “Laurie, any other Assistant District Attorney would have indicted me…you know that.”  He shook his head and looked to the ground momentarily before once again meeting her eyes.  “My life would have been turned upside down…more than it already is.  You see how the news reports painted me.  They want to make this a race issue instead of seeing it for the facts of the case.  It sells papers that way.  A crack dealer high on drugs, dying in police custody is no story—a racist white cop killing an unarmed black man is.”

*

Laurie knew that Galvin spoke the truth.  She looked back into his eyes; they seemed soft and vulnerable to her.  She placed a hand gently against his face and softly caressed his cheek with her thumb.  As she started to speak, Galvin placed his forefinger over her lips. “Shh.”

She complied, giving the slightest of smiles.

“Laurie, I love you.”

She suddenly became aware of her own heartbeat and she could feel her face go flush.  She hadn
’t expected those words to come out of his mouth—not so early in their relationship.  She was at a loss for words.  His eyes were genuine; she could see that. 
I love you too
; she thought, but didn’t say anything.  Did he really mean it or was he so wrought with emotion over the past few weeks that he thought he meant it?  A tear began to well up in the corner of her eye.  She looked back and forth into each of his eyes momentarily before throwing her arms around him and slowly giving his a full kiss on the lips.

*

They entered the small motel room just before eleven o’clock.  There was certainly nothing fancy about the room.  It was on the small side with a queen sized bed, a single chair, a small round table in the corner and a twenty seven inch television set on the dresser.  While it lacked the amenities of a fancier venue it was perfect for them.

Laurie reached for the remote control and turned on the television.  Galvin shook his head and gently took it out of her hand, shutting the television off.  She protested slightly, “I just want to see the top stories on the news.  It’s almost eleven.”

“We agreed to leave everything behind us for just one weekend.  Besides you probably don’t get the same news up here that we do in the city.  We’re a hundred and fifty miles away.”

Laurie agreed and the two of them got changed and ready for bed.  Galvin set the air conditioner on high
; it rumbled to life, louder than most.  He then turned down the bed, waiting for Laurie to come out of the bathroom.  When she finally did, she crawled into bed next to him.  The two of them tightly embraced.  Galvin felt secure.  In his mind, he was a million miles away from South Jamaica, the media, and the NYPD.

*

Jay Meagher was filling a pitcher of a beer when the television above the bar caught his eye.  Although he was retired from the NYPD for over a decade, he would still feel that familiar ill feeling in the pit of his stomach when a cop was shot or killed.  Moving so far away from the city and not having worn a uniform in such a long time didn’t change the fact the Meagher, like most retired cops, were cops at heart for life.  He set the pitcher aside and made the television louder.  The late breaking story detailed the apparent ambush of a uniformed police officer in downtown Manhattan.  They mentioned that this was the fourth police officer killed in the line of duty this year and that the Police Commissioner declined to comment if any of the slayings were connected.

###########################

Chapter 13

“NO JUSTICE!”

“NO PEACE!”

“NO JUSTICE!”

“NO PEACE!”

It was one of the hottest days of the summer so far, with temperatures reaching into the upper 90’s.  At seven p.m. George Lambert had hoped it would start to cool off, but it was just as hot as it had been all day.  There was a threat of severe thunderstorms, but so far the skies were clear.  Lambert stood under the awning of the bodega located at the corner of Guy R. Brewer Boulevard and Foch Boulevard. The shade was not enough to cool him down.  There was sweat dripping from his hair under his uniform hat, running down his neck.  The t-shirt under his bullet proof vest was soaked with sweat.  He reached around the front of his neck, pulling the vest away from his body; he could see the steam rise.