Page 140 of Witness 8

The north part of the neighborhood, where I was headed, didn’t have much in the way of culture apart from the old piano factory and the Steinway mansion, which was now an arts center on 41stStreet. The garage faced the Bowery Bay Wastewater Treatment plant. There were a lot of commercial buildings here – construction-vehicle hire, ironworks and garages.

It was almost ten p.m. when I pulled in at the side of the curb. The garage roller doors were open and I could see light spilling onto the sidewalk. No one was around. You didn’t walk these streets at night. The nearest living soul was probably three blocks away.

A quiet place for a meeting.

I got out of the car and picked up the two envelopes from the passenger seat and took them with me. I stood outside the garage, taking time to make sure I was seen. Buchanan and the rest of New York’s Finest would be on edge and I didn’t need to give them any more of an excuse to pull a trigger in my face.

A tall, thin man in a denim jacket came to the entrance and beckoned me to come inside. Before I could walk underneath the roller doors, he put his hand out to indicate I should stop. He reached behind his back, and I tensed. He had a long black device in his hand, which he switched on. A hand-held metal detector. He ran it over me and I held my arms out. The device beeped as it passed over my jacket. He felt the inside pocket where the device had registered my phone. He took the phone, made sure it was turned off and left it on a small table just inside the entrance. The metal detector wasn’t just to sweep for guns or knives. They weren’t worried about that. They were worried in case I was wearing a wire. He continued to move the metal detector over me. It beeped over my chest, in the exact place someone would wear a mic. I didn’t move.

‘Unbutton your shirt,’ he said, stepping back. This time, he dropped the metal detector, hitched up his jacket to hold the .22 revolver he had tucked into the waistband of his pants. With one hand, I unbuttoned my shirt to reveal the Saint Christopher’s medal I wore every day. He swiped the medal, it beeped. He let go of the gun. Ran the detector over the envelopes I’d brought. Satisfied, he nodded and gestured I should go on inside.

I left my phone on the table, and walked into the garage. Soon as I stepped inside, the thin man hit a button on the wall and the roller doors began to come down. As they rattled closed, I felt the sudden urge to duck and run back out before they clattered shut.

Instead, I got a hold of myself and studied the garage. It was a large rectangular space, lit only by a single bulb in the center of the room. Racks of tools on the wall to the right. The other threewalls held steel racks of tires. There were two inspection pits cut into the concrete and they had been covered with steel plates. Some jacking equipment and car lifts stood on the left side of the space.

An aluminum table had been placed below the single bulb and a very large man sat on one side of it. A metal folding chair faced him. I’d never met Buchanan, but knew him by reputation. He had been a brutal patrol cop, with a string of excessive-force complaints. Of course, he was much loved by his fellow officers so none of those complaints ever went anywhere. His head was big and square, his body too. A nose spread over his face and put his thin lips into shadow.

‘Sit down, Eddie,’ he said.

I put my envelopes on the table and took a seat. The rest of the garage was in darkness. There could have been twenty guys in there that I couldn’t see. I guessed there were more than just the man on the front door.

‘Nice night,’ I said.

He laughed, easily, leaned forward and placed his huge arms on the table, causing the legs to squeak with the weight.

‘You got some balls – I’ll give you that. What I want to know is how you think you can resolve this. You come after one of my guys, you threaten to expose my operation . . . none of these things are healthy choices for you.’

‘I know how this city runs. Lots of people do. Greenbacks and kickbacks. Here’s the thing: I did threaten to expose Ben Gray, but that’s all I did. I just threatened him. Here . . .’ I picked up the large brown envelope, tossed it across the table at Buchanan. ‘That’s all that I have on Ben Gray and the towing operation.’

He picked up the thick envelope, opened it, reached inside and pulled out the contents, set it on the table. He stared at it.

‘This is the TV guide.’

I nodded, said, ‘I had it Xeroxed so it looked like a thick pile of important documents I could wave around in court. I don’t have any evidence against Sergeant Gray.’

‘What about the four guys from the other towing companies that you brought to court?’

‘One of them is a former client. He mostly sleeps in the homeless shelter in Tribeca – the Bowery Mission. The other three guys are his friends. I bought them overalls, my secretary sewed some badges onto them – not very well, I might add – and they sat in the gallery and put the shits up Sergeant Gray. Like they were supposed to. After court, I paid them a hundred bucks each and let them keep the overalls.’

‘You’re shittin’ me,’ he said.

‘Before I was a lawyer, I was a conman. The two jobs aren’t that different. Listen, I’m not your problem, Buchanan. Ben Gray, he’s your problem. This whole pile of shit started because he got played, then he got scared. Cops do stupid things when they get scared. You know that.’

He leaned back in his seat. I could see the cogs working in his brain.

‘I came here to make you an offer so all of this can go away,’ I said.

He said nothing for a moment. He was re-assessing Gray in his mind. Whatever Gray had told him, Buchanan was now looking at him in a different light.

‘How much are you willing to pay?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

Buchanan stared at me, hard. His jaw set.

‘But I can give you this . . . call it a gift,’ and I slid the small envelope across the table.

He stared at it for a moment. Then looked at me. The envelope looked like something from a kid’s stationery set in his huge hands. He ripped it open. Five photographs fell out.