Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

For the next twenty minutes, Price continued to use similar tactics in an attempt to identify a tail. If Thorpe hadn’t been using a tracking device he would have been “burnt” multiple times. Eventually the Birddog came to a rest, and Thorpe tracked Price to an area in North Tulsa. Thorpe drove in a somewhat circular pattern, spiraling closer with each cycle, finally isolating the stationary Hummer. Thorpe parked his car to the southwest, retrieved a gear bag, and set out on foot.

This particular neighborhood had been undergoing redevelopment and consisted mostly of middle-income African American families. Thorpe appreciated the colder temperatures, late hour and amiable neighborhood. All three elements allowed him to march through the area without encountering fellow pedestrians.

He found the Hummer parked on the south side of the street in front of a two-story house with a brick face. There were two vehicles in the driveway and a Pontiac in front of Price’s Hummer. Thorpe memorized the license plate of the Pontiac and continued walking east. When he reached the end of the cul-de-sac, he turned and walked back along the opposite side of the road, scanning for a hiding place. The foliage here wouldn’t sufficiently conceal an adult, and the backs of the properties were surrounded by wooden privacy fences. Thorpe risked a glance over one fence and found a fairly deep yard. As quietly as possible, Thorpe called to see if any dogs were inside. No growls or barks sounded in reply, so he scaled the fence.

This particular yard gave him the best view of the target house across the street. Thorpe hit the ground with a fixed-blade knife at the ready. Even though he’d heard no barks, he half expected to be fighting or fleeing a large dog any minute. Had this been a neighborhood anywhere north of here, he most likely would be leaping back over the fence with a disagreeable pit bull at his heels.

Venturing deeper into the yard, he again called quietly for a dog—better to encounter one now than to feel Brutus breathing on the nape of his neck later. Both the house and backyard remained quiet and dark.

Feeling more relaxed, Thorpe returned to where he’d crossed the fence. Using his knife partly as a cutting instrument and partly as a prying tool, he removed a section of fence at eye level. Now he could watch without sticking his head above the fence and silhouetting himself. Thorpe took a pad of paper from his jacket and recorded the license plate he’d memorized. Next he retrieved binoculars from his equipment bag and noted the make, model and plates of the two cars in the driveway.

A few minutes later, another vehicle turned onto the street and into the driveway. Its arrival activated motion lights on either side of the garage door. Thorpe trained his binoculars on the exiting driver. His theory was falling apart; the distinctive form of Brandon Baker walked toward the front door. Brandon was a white police officer who worked in Gilcrease Division’s Street Crimes Unit. He resembled Big Foot, not because of his size but because dark coarse hair covered every square inch of his person. A passenger accompanied Baker to the door. The second man was dressed a lot like Thorpe—in heavy garb, making it impossible to determine the man’s identity or race from Thorpe’s vantage point.

Five minutes after their arrival, an old beater pulled onto the street and parked along the north curb, directly in front of where Thorpe was concealed. His original theory appeared to be reviving itself; Leon Peterson stepped out of the car. Leon was the youngest son of TPD officer Charlie Peterson. When Thorpe’s unit had executed the “buy-bust,” arresting a Chicago Latin King and both of Charlie’s sons, Leon received a thirteen-month sentence, though he was released much earlier. His brother, Lyndale, was still locked up on a twenty-year stint.

The diminutive Leon, who stood all of five-foot-four, appeared nervous as he exited his car. He looked in every direction. Once he arrived at the doorstep, he searched his surroundings again before ringing the bell. As he waited for the door to be answered, he faced away from the house and shifted his weight from one foot to another.

He’s scared shitless, Thorpe thought. After a few seconds, the door opened.

Leon poked his head inside before committing his body to the interior. Thorpe figured Leon had ample reason to be nervous. Unlike his associates, who probably felt beyond reproach, Leon had once been held accountable for his actions. He’d done time. Thorpe checked his watch; five minutes remained until he was supposed to make his ransom demand. Of course he wasn’t going to make that phone call—his goal had been achieved; he’d already discovered some of those involved in his family’s murder. With a few simple interrogation techniques, he would soon have his answers. Still, Thorpe wished he could hear the conversation inside the home. The directional microphone he’d brought along would be totally useless. He’d been hoping for an outdoor meeting.

Thorpe imagined their discussions were quite heated: who all knew about the murders? Which one of the group had been talking? How should they handle the ransom call?—the one that wasn’t coming. Thorpe wondered if they’d figure out this had been a ruse to get them in one location to be identified. Then he considered what his plan of action would be if he were in their place.

The first thing he’d do is send a scout out the back door to conduct countersurveillance. Suddenly, Thorpe’s backside felt very exposed. There wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it except stay attuned to his surroundings. It was a quiet night; hopefully if someone started skulking about, he’d hear him coming. Dry leaves littered the yard Thorpe occupied. If the neighbors’ yards were similar, Thorpe should be able to hear the person in time to take evasive action. Should.

Despite the dropping temperature, Thorpe removed his hood, favoring hearing capabilities over shelter. It’d been some time since the last arrival. Periodically, Thorpe would do squats in an effort to warm himself. Thankfully, he’d dressed for the occasion. However, the nip was beginning to chew at his ears and through his boots.

Comfort aside, if the group didn’t disperse before daybreak, he’d need to find an alternate location or risk discovery by a homeowner or a dog let out for its morning piss. But he wanted to maintain surveillance as long as possible; there were others who had arrived before him, and they needed to be identified.

Thorpe caught a flash of movement to his left. A figure, possibly Leon based on height, approached on his side of the street. Thorpe noticed the figure disappear around the far side of the neighboring house. Was the man searching backyards? Thorpe quieted his breathing and concentrated on his hearing. The sound of rustling leaves preceded the man’s reappearance. Was he peering over fences? The man walked to a car parked along the north curb, cupped his hands against the glass, and looked inside. He’s definitely looking for surveillance. The gloom made it difficult to see, but Thorpe felt confident he was watching Leon.

Leon must be worried that the ransom call was a setup. Smart man. Though not smart enough to arm himself; his hands were empty. If Leon did possess a weapon, he didn’t have it at the ready, but he was probably more concerned with a police sting rather than a revenge-seeking killing machine. Leon stepped away from the car and headed toward Thorpe’s position.

Shit. He needed to act quickly. He could disappear around the house and hope if Leon noticed the recently constructed hole, he wouldn’t determine it was fresh. Or he could take down Leon now. Both options offered potentially disastrous consequences. Ultimately, Thorpe couldn’t take the chance Leon would see the hole for what it was. Thorpe gathered his equipment and, in a crouched position, ran toward the back of the house. When he reached the rear of the home, he dumped his bag and continued west where he found a gate. Thorpe quietly released the latch and walked to the southwest corner of the home. Peering around the corner of the residence, Thorpe barely caught a glimpse of Leon disappearing around the other side of the house. Thorpe took one quick look before sprinting across the concrete driveway. When he reached the corner of the house, he rounded it without pause, and spotted Leon looking through the hole Thorpe had just abandoned. Leon heard the footfalls and turned to find Thorpe closing in at full speed. Thorpe held a concealed knife in his right hand—handle in palm, blade behind forearm. As Thorpe neared, Leon raised both hands palms forward, above his head, in the classic “I surrender” stance.

Leon obviously thought he’d just been caught in a police operation. Thorpe stopped advancing and played along with Leon’s misguided belief.

“FBI, turn around.”

Leon complied immediately. This was going to be easy.

“Get down on your knees…cross your ankles…put your hands on the back of your head.” Leon executed every command, allowing Thorpe to approach from behind and place him in Flexcuffs. Leon began spouting his defense.

“Man, I didn’t have anything to do with this shit, they…”

“Shut up, you’re going to blow our surveillance,” Thorpe interrupted.

“All right, all right, man, it’s cool.”

Thorpe pulled his hoodie over his head in an effort to conceal his identity. He kept Leon facing the opposite direction.

“You’re going to fuck up this whole investigation, asshole. I’m the only one who has surveillance on this side. You’re coming with me.”

“That’s cool, man. I was just gettin’ ready to call you guys.”

Thorpe held Leon’s cuffs and grabbed the back of his neck. Directing Leon from behind, Thorpe retraced his route, picked up his equipment, and took Leon back behind the hole in the fence. He put Leon on his belly with his head facing away from him.

“Do they know you’re out here?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah, I told them I was coming out here to look around, but I was really coming out here to call you guys.”

Yeah, right. Thorpe hadn’t even discovered a cell phone during his pat-down. “How long do they expect you to be gone?”

“Man, I don’t know. I said I was going outside to check things out. They just nodded their heads.”

“Remember we’ve been watching this place. Who all’s inside?”

“There’s Price and…”

“I want first and last names,” Thorpe demanded.

“…There’s Stephen Price, somebody Baker—I don’t know his first name, Thadius Shaw, Andrew Phipps, Corn Johnson, and another white dude I don’t know.”

Thorpe shook his head. Not counting the unidentified “white dude,” five of the men were, or had been, Tulsa police officers. All five had reputations for being dope chasers. “White Dude” and Brandon “Big Foot” Baker were white guys. The other three men were black.

Phipps served on the department’s Special Operations Team (SOT) as a sniper. SOT was the equivalent of most departments’ Special Weapons and Tactics teams (SWAT). Tulsa’s tactical team was a part-time assignment. SOT members trained twice a month but otherwise held regular positions on the department. Phipps once worked in SID’s day-shift narcotics squad but had been booted out after a year. The whole affair had been hush-hush, and Thorpe still didn’t know the circumstances behind the removal.

Corn, short for Cornelius, was Phipps’ best friend. Whoever said you can’t judge a book by its cover had never met Corn Johnson; a mouth breather, he wandered about with a perpetual look of confusion. He didn’t appear to be very bright, and he wasn’t. He’d once been a member of Gilcrease Division’s Street Crimes Unit. To avoid termination, he’d resigned from TPD after he was caught providing sensitive information to drug dealers regarding investigations into their illegal activities.

“Who else is inside?” Thorpe continued.

“No one, man. That’s it.”

Thorpe wanted to know who owned the house, but didn’t want to ask and sound uninformed. He still needed Leon to believe he was a federal agent on official business and if that were actually the case, he’d damn well know on whose house he’d been conducting surveillance.

“Who else is involved that didn’t show up?”

“Hey, man, I’m willing to cooperate, but I want a lawyer. I need something on paper.”

Leon was thinking about his future—he didn’t have one. “At least tell me this…is there anyone else involved who’s not here tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“What have you been talking about tonight?”

“They all fucked up. They think we been talkin’ because somebody knows what they done and is blackmailing Price. They trying to figure out how to handle a phone call from some ransom motherfucker.”

Thorpe continued with the FBI ruse. “Do they know we’re on to them?”

“Those niggas didn’t even think about that till I said something. Now they don’t know what to think.”

Thorpe decided he didn’t need to conduct surveillance any longer. Leon would provide enough information. But Thorpe needed to get him to a place where he could question him properly. Thorpe pretended to have a two-way conversation on his police radio.

“Copy…you want me to remove the prisoner? Ten-four…I have to walk him to my vehicle…no, I don’t think he’ll be a problem…we need to get his car outta here, or they’ll know something’s up. Okay, we’ll just take his car then.”

“Okay, Leon, I’ve got a replacement coming, so I’m walking you to your car. Understand?”

“Yeah, man, that’s cool.”

Leon was working so hard at appearing cooperative that it blinded him to the snake pit toward which he willingly walked.

“We’re going to stroll out of here like best friends. You try to run or shout a warning, and you can kiss any deals goodbye. Got it?”

“Yeah, man, I never wanted anything to do with this shit in the first place. I wanna help.”

Thorpe retrieved Leon’s car keys from his coat pocket. “If you do yell out or try to run, I’m going to knock the piss out of you. With your hands cuffed behind your back, you won’t be able to break your fall with anything but your face. Okay, you’re going to listen to my directions and walk in front of me. Let’s go.”

Thorpe easily lifted little Leon by the shoulders, pointed him west, and told him to move. The two men walked to the passenger-side door of Leon’s aging Cutlass with Thorpe keeping an eye on the target house. After stuffing his captive in the car, Thorpe leaned against Leon’s throat with his left forearm as he buckled him in with his right hand. Thorpe walked around the back of the car, made sure his hoodie covered his face, tossed his bag in the back and got behind the wheel. Thorpe turned the car around in the cul-de-sac and made his way out of the neighborhood.

Leon was talkative. “Where we goin’?”

“We have a mobile unit a couple miles from here where we’re monitoring this operation,” Thorpe lied.

“Man, I can’t have any TPD see me with you. There’s too many of those bitches involved in this thing. They’ll kill me.”

“Don’t worry. We have a command post set up in a secluded area. No one is going to see you with us. When we get there, we’ll let you use a phone to contact your lawyer. If we get pulled over by TPD in this piece of shit, let me handle it—you stay in the car.”

“Cool.”

Thorpe allowed Leon to nervously ramble on about irrelevant topics as he drove past the North Side’s only significant grocery store. Well, it used to be—shoplifters had looted the recently constructed business to an early death; now it was an abandoned building. And though he traveled through a fairly harsh neighborhood, it was on one of the nicer streets in Tulsa. The four-lane concrete road enjoyed an elevated median with decorative trees and flowers. Thorpe was very familiar with the area, though it did look different from his days as a rookie officer. The changes were mostly aesthetic as it still provided an excellent opportunity to get shot. Now you just got to bleed out on a handsomer street.

He guided the Cutlass right on 36^th Street North and passed a Tulsa Housing Authority complex on his left. Thorpe had worked shootings, murders, stabbings, rapes and engaged in numerous foot pursuits in and around this complex. Just east, on the north side of the street, a dirt road disappeared into a large wooded tract populated with working oil wells. Sometimes car thieves would drive their newly procured “hot boxes” to this secluded area, where they could strip the vehicles in privacy. Thorpe pulled left onto the dirt road that he knew from experience branched off into additional tracks.

“You guys are back here?” Leon asked, finally getting a whiff of something that didn’t smell right.

“You don’t want to be seen do you?” Thorpe reassured him.

“No…look, man, I don’t know….this is…can you show me some I.D.?”

Because it was dark inside the car, Thorpe obliged and pulled out his neck badge waving it in Leon’s direction.

“Look, man, this is fucked up. Why don’t you just take me to the FBI office?” Leon’s survival instinct had finally tossed the bullshit flag.

“The command post is right around this corner, Leon. Relax.”

Thorpe could tell his passenger was considering bailing out of the car. He sensed him eyeing the door release. Too late now, asshole.

They drove past a working pump jack. Also known as a nodding donkey because of its appearance, the machinery was an over-ground drive for a piston pump on an oil well. Tulsa was once considered the oil capital of the world and is still home to a number of wells, though most are out of view from the casual motorist.

Thorpe heard the click of the seatbelt release and the distinctive zip of the belt retracting into its housing unit. Leon, realizing he’d stepped into some deep shit, was attempting to escape. Unconcerned, Thorpe stopped the car, lowered the front windows, removed the key from the ignition, grabbed his gear bag from the rear seat, and stepped out of the Cutlass. He rounded the back of the car just in time to watch Leon slide through the open window, land on his head, and somersault onto his ass and up to his feet—an acrobatic move and probably a painful one considering he was still cuffed behind his back. The man was motivated.

Just as his prisoner gained his feet, Thorpe delivered a front heel kick to Leon’s kidney. The blow sent the small man crashing to the ground on his left shoulder. Not being able to use his arms to control his balance or break his fall, Leon landed awkwardly. When he stood again, his shoulder drooped at an unnatural angle, the fall apparently dislocating the joint. Enough adrenaline coursed through Leon’s system to block the pain. Only determination registered on his face. There were no cries of agony.

“Take these cuffs off, motherfucker, and let me go to work on you…fucking bitch,” Leon screamed.

Thorpe slung the gear bag over his shoulder, sidestepped a kick, and grabbed Leon by his coat collar. He dragged him over to a pair of 15-foot tall oil tanks. A metal staircase led to a small catwalk spanning the tops of the tanks. Thorpe propped Leon against the steel railing, unzipped Leon’s coat, and using the garment as a makeshift straightjacket, pulled the coat’s shoulders down to his captive’s elbows. He then looped another cuff around the plastic still attached to Leon’s wrists and wrapped it around the railing. Thorpe cinched the cuffs tight. He didn’t want to leave any space—desperate prisoners have been known to tear off their own skin in an attempt to free themselves.

Thorpe stepped back from his prisoner, knelt down, and pulled off his hood. The two men stared at each other until recognition flooded into Leon’s eyes.

“Aw, fuck, man! That shit wasn’t supposed to happen.”

It was bitterly cold, but Leon sat drowning in sweat, fear and pain. Thorpe attached Flexcuffs to Leon’s ankles, cinching them tight. Then he retrieved a rag and told Leon to open his mouth.

“Fuck you,” Leon spit.

Thorpe walked behind his captive, isolated Leon’s index finger from the rest and torqued it sideways until a joint gave way. Leon let out an agonizing moan but didn’t scream.

“I can do this nine more times. Open your mouth,” Thorpe repeated.

Leon complied, and Thorpe stuffed the opening with a rag, careful not to get his fingers bitten off in the process. He secured the rag with duct tape, walked to the Cutlass and backed the car up to where Leon sat. He retrieved a section of rope from the bag and tied one end around the Flexcuffs on Leon’s legs. Nearly drowned out by the rhythmic noise pollution of the nodding donkey, Thorpe could hear Leon’s muffled cries as he walked toward the rear of the car with the other end of the rope. The man realized what was in store for him. Thorpe tied off the rope to the underside of the Cutlass and returned to his thrashing prisoner.

“Leon, shut up and listen.” His captive continued to thrash and squeal like a bound hog. Thorpe grabbed him by both ears and peered directly into his eyes. “You want to get out of this shit?”

Leon looked pleadingly at Thorpe and nodded his head.

“Good. It’s important you listen carefully. Do you understand?” Openly crying now, Leon again nodded. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. I already know the answers to most, but you don’t know which ones. All I want is honest answers—no matter how bad it makes you look. If you answer all the questions truthfully, you won’t have to endure this.” Thorpe motioned to the rope. “But if you tell one lie…just one…I’m going to stretch you out. And, Leon, I won’t drive away fast; I’ll rip you in half slow—like a sheet of paper. The first that’ll go are your shoulders because of the way they’re positioned. It’s going to hurt like a bitch. When you pass out—and I promise you Leon, you will pass out—I have some smelling salts to bring you back. And then we’ll start all over again. Understand?”

Leon nodded vigorously.

“I’m going to remove the gag. If you scream, I’ll smash your teeth in and force this rag back into your mouth, and then I’ll start stretching you out…got it?” Leon again nodded his head. Thorpe pulled off the duct tape and removed the rag from Leon’s mouth. “Leon, tell me what’s going to happen if you lie to me.”

“You’re going to fuck me up…but you’re going to kill me no matter what I say.”

“That’s a fact. But how I do it is your choice, Leon. Tell the truth, and you can die quick with a clear conscience. Lie and you can be slowly ripped apart and go straight to your maker with a lie on your lips. They killed my family, Leon, and those child killers aren’t worth protecting. They’re not worth the pain I’m willing to dish out.”

“Shit…man, I didn’t…”

“Shut up with the whining, Leon, or so help me…”

“Fuck,” Leon said, crying. “What do you want to know?”

“I want to know everything.”

“Fuck, man, this thing started out so small and just blew up. My pops was so fucking pissed at me and Lyndale when you caught us with that dope. He was mad at Lyndale, but he was crazy fucking pissed at me. Lyndale already had trouble with the law, but I done a good job staying away from that shit. I even had some college. Fuck! It all started when Pops bailed me out of jail. He was talking about kicking me out of the house, disowning me, just flushing me down the fucking toilet. Man, I panicked…and I felt bad about letting down my old man. He’s a good guy, a Christian, always tried to do right…”

“Get to the fucking point, Leon,” Thorpe interrupted.

“Anyway, I start trying to convince him that you planted the dope on us. I wasn’t lookin’ to get anyone in trouble, man; I was just tryin’ to get out of it. So I keep on him about this shit, tell him this sergeant pulled some dope out and planted it on Lyndale. Told him you said they weren’t going to let a bunch of niggas run around like we own the place. Man, I see this shit start to take a hold on him, so I just keep workin’ it. Pops starts making some phone calls, tells me to stay put, and leaves. A couple hours later he shows back up, tells me that some others had been set up by you, too. He wants me to come with him—tell my story to some other officers.

“So Pops puts me in his car and drives me over to Shaw’s house. I walk in and about shit myself. Those two white dudes weren’t there, but all them other niggas was. Plus another that wasn’t there tonight…Cole Daniels. This thing was snowballin’ now, but by this time…you know, it’s too late. Pops makes me tell them what happened, so I tell them the same shit I told my pops. I could see these guys just getting more and more pissed. Especially Price and Phipps, they was workin’ those other motherfuckers up. They start tellin’ ‘em ‘bout other brothers they heard you set up. Man, it starts getting real bad then. They was wantin’ your head. Everybody started arguin’ about what to do. Some people wanted to report you, but most said that wouldn’t do any good. Said all you white boys stick together, that nuttin’ would be done. Finally, Price just told everybody to settle down. He’d handle it. Told everybody to stay quiet about this, that they couldn’t trust the white man to do shit. After, Price pulled me to the side and got my cell phone number. Told me he would call later. Then Pops drove me away and told me not to talk about this anymore, that it’d be handled…”

Thorpe could picture the scene. Leon had fed their paranoia perfectly. They didn’t bother to question the validity of Leon’s or Price’s outrageous statements. They only heard what they wanted to believe—that they were being targeted by a racist white cop. Thorpe chose not to interrupt Leon’s recollection. He would pose questions when the man finished talking.

“…so I thought my part in all this shit was done. They wasn’t going to report it. Nothing official was going to happen. I went about my merry fuckin’ way. A few days later, Price calls and asks me if I remembered how to get to Shaw’s house. He gave me a time to come over that night and told me not to tell anyone what I was doin’, not even my pops. I’m nervous, I don’t know what the fuck he wants. So I show at his house, and there’s Baker, Price, Phipps, Corn Johnson, Thadius Shaw, Daniels, and that same white man that’s there tonight.”

“Is that Shaw’s house you were at tonight?” Thorpe asked.

“Yeah.”

“You said you don’t know who the white guy is?”

“No, man. I just seen him that night and tonight. That’s it.”

“What does he look like?”

“Man, I don’t know. He fo’ real don’t want to be seen. Both times he sits off in a corner with one of those fucking black ski masks on. Barely says a word, and when he does, he whispers like that actor in that fucking Batman movie. Don’t want to be known.”

“You think he’s a cop?”

“Fuck I know. Even though he don’t say nuttin’ the others kinda look at him like he’s running the shit. Know what I mean? Fuckin’ wait for him to nod and shit.”

Thorpe was frustrated. “You gotta know his height, weight, something?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, man. He’s always sitting and wearing a big coat and shit. Might be about your size, might be fatter.”

Thorpe wasn’t getting anywhere in regards to the mysterious white man. “Go ahead with your story, Leon.”

“So Price asks me how I’d like to get back the guy who sent my brother to prison. And I ask how I was gonna do that. Price pulls out a fat bag, points at me, and says, ‘You gonna plant this in his house.’ I said no fuckin’ way, but they kept pressing me, and I kept sayin’ no. Finally Price says he’ll take care of it, but they won’t let me off the hook. They say I gotta be a part of it ‘cause of what I know. They told me where you stay and when you worked and the days you was off. They told me you was married and had kids. Wanted me to watch the house and call when it was empty. The next night I find your house—there’s a car parked in the driveway, and the lights are on. I didn’t want to sit in your hood…you know a brother sitting in your hood is gonna attract attention, so I just drove down the street every once in a while. That car was parked there the whole night. The next night I drive by your house, and there’s no car, no lights, nuttin’. It looked empty, so I call Price and tell him. He tells me to keep watchin’ the house and let him know if anyone comes home. I thought to myself fuck that!

“Later, Price calls and asks me if the house is still empty. I told him yeah, but really I wasn’t even watchin’ the damn place anymore. Price didn’t know that. He told me to keep watchin’ until I was told I could leave, told me to call him if anyone went to the house. Shit, I was already halfway across town, but I wasn’t going to tell Price that. Later that night, Price calls me, and he’s mad as a motherfucker…tells me the house wasn’t empty. He wants to see me, but I made up some excuse…I wasn’t about to go meet him. He tells me to keep my mouth shut until we could talk.

“The next day the shit about what went down at your place was all over the fuckin’ news. Then I heard the Double D Brothers were lit up the same night. I put two and two together, man…fuckin’ Price killed those niggas…I know it. Figured I was next. I was the only non-cop left in the know—my dad being one was probably only thing kept me alive. I put all this shit I’m tellin’ you to paper and gave it to someone to keep safe. I told Price he’d better make sure I stayed healthy, or that letter would be sent to the feds with a copy to my dad. They would’ve killed my black ass if I didn’t take out that little insurance policy on myself. That’s it, man! That’s the whole story. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. I didn’t even want to watch your house, but they made me. Please don’t kill me, man…I feel real bad about what happened to your wife and kid. That shit ain’t right. Please, man! I promise I won’t tell nobody. Just kill those motherfuckers…I’ll fucking help you do it.”

Leon put all this on paper? Thorpe thought.

“Where’s that letter you wrote, Leon?”

“My law…hey…that’s…uhh…if I die the cops are going to know all this shit. They’ll know the whole story. You can’t kill me! You’ll be suspect number one if you start doing these other motherfuckers. You gotta let me live. Killing me will get you in the joint.”