Corrupt City. Tra Verdejo

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 said.

      “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 street-walker. 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