“Okay,” Warren said. “It’s your decision. But I tell you what, I’ll have some kids watching out for strange cars along your block. I’ll let you know if those dudes or any of their friends come back.”
“Thank you, Warren,” Jack said as he fist-bumped his friend. Jack was appreciative of the offer. From past experience, Jack knew that when Warren said he’d keep an eye out, he meant it.
As Jack dialed 911 and put the phone to his ear, Warren herded all the other players together and announced that b-ball was over for the night. He specifically said he didn’t want any witnesses to be available when the police arrived.
When the 911 operator came on the line, Jack described what had happened and gave his name and location. After making sure Jack felt safe, the operator told him to remain where he was and that police officers from the Twenty-fourth Precinct would be dispatched immediately.
“I still think you are making a mistake,” Warren called out, as he and all the others, including Aretha, started home, with most heading in the direction of Columbus Avenue.
Jack waved to indicate he had heard, but didn’t call out. Crossing the street, he went to his stoop and sat on the top step. A bit of light shown out through the door lights. It was a dark night, with isolated puddles of illumination under the widely spaced streetlamps. Even the lights on the basketball court had gone out with no one playing. His heart, which had been racing, began to slow.
Within minutes, Jack could hear the typical undulations of an approaching siren in the distance. As he waited for the police to arrive, he planned what he would say. Then, because of the unreality of the experience, his mind went back to the thought that the episode possibly had been elaborately staged. The main trouble with the idea was that there would have to have been a reason, and Jack couldn’t think of one. Had he been caught in the situation by chance? He doubted it. According to Warren, the Suburban had been sitting there for hours, only to pullout into the street just at the exact moment he’d stepped off the curb. At the same time, thinking of the event as a true attempt on his life was equally as mystifying and confusing. Not only was he forced to explain why someone would want him dead, he’d have to explain why he’d been saved and by whom. It would mean there were two unknown groups: one that wanted him eliminated for an unknown reason and another that wanted to make sure he wasn’t.
The undulating police siren eased off as the squad car made the turn from Central Park West onto 106th Street. It then drove toward Jack much faster than Jack thought reasonable. In the back of his mind he could hear Warren advising him not to call the police. Certainly, if there had been kids playing in the street, which they often did, they could have been in jeopardy.
The police car skidded to a stop and two uniformed officers leaped from the vehicle, donning their peaked hats in the process. With their hands on their holstered guns as if they thought they might have to use them, they scanned the area. It made Jack wonder what the message was that they had gotten. Both were Caucasian, with one decidedly older and heavier than the other. Simultaneously, they saw Jack as he got to his feet.
“Are you Jack Stapleton, who put in the call about gunplay in the street?” the older one called out.
“I am,” Jack said as he passed between parked cars and walked out into the street to face the policemen. He squinted from a small LED flashlight held by the younger cop, who was shining it directly in Jack’s face.
“An Asian man was shot by four other Asian men,” Jack began. “Either that or the five men were a troupe and playacting very convincingly.” Jack went on to describe what had happened as far as he could remember. He said on the spur of the moment that he thought the taller Asian man was aiming the gun at him, but he admitted that might not have been the case. Jack explained that the shooters were in a second Suburban behind Jack, essentially putting Jack in between them. “It all happened so fast, it’s hard to remember the details,” he added.
“Did you happen to catch any of the vehicles’ tag numbers?” the older policeman asked. He eyed Jack’s beat-up, drab workout clothes. Jack wondered if he thought he was homeless.
“No,” Jack said. “It was dark and, as I said, it all went down so quickly. I wouldn’t even be able to tell you what state the plates were from.”
“Where exactly was the location that this individual was supposedly shot?” the younger officer asked. Jack could tell by his tone that he was skeptical of the whole story, which Jack understood was unique, since homicide perpetrators generally didn’t make a habit of collecting their victims.
“Just about where your squad car is,” Jack said.
The older officer directed the younger to back up the vehicle. When the younger emerged from behind the wheel, he now had a monstrous flashlight.
“Okay, where, exactly?” the older man asked.
Jack tried to remember how the Suburban was oriented and then how the tall man had come out of the car before pointing the gun in Jack’s direction. “Somewhere around here,” Jack said, indicating with his finger a circular area ten to twelve feet in diameter.
The younger officer used the light to illuminate the pavement in the indicated area. It was powerful enough to turn night into day. All three searched. There was no blood.
“Are you sure you didn’t imagine this?” the older policeman said, looking askance at Jack.
“Were there any other witnesses?” the younger policeman asked.
Instead of lying and saying no to witnesses, Jack explained that he was a medical examiner at the OCME who had been playing basketball on the now darkened court. He pointed out the playground. He also pointed out his house, saying he was the landlord. This new information dramatically altered the atmosphere of the interrogation and increased the respect the two officers showed him.
“It is still a very strange story, sir,” the older policeman added after abit more discussion. “By the way, my name is Sergeant Bob Adams. This is Officer Stan Perkins.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Jack said. “I appreciate your responding to my nine-one-one call. But I’d like to ask, what exactly are you going to do about this episode?”
“We’ll file a report and alert the detective division,” Sergeant Adams said, tripping over his words. “I don’t know what else we can do. Whether the detectives do any follow-up is up to them. I mean, without a body or some blood, there isn’t much to go on. Is there something specific you would like us to do or think we ought to do? Would you like us to request some surveillance?”
“I guess not,” Jack said. Although Jack wasn’t terribly surprised that the policeman was essentially saying nothing would be done, once again he was impressed with Warren’s street smarts. Warren had guessed the police would do little under the circumstances. Jack just hoped the second part of Warren’s prediction wasn’t correct—namely, that the cops would use the event as an excuse to harass black teenagers in the neighborhood. That had been a problem in the past and might happen again if police surveillance was instituted.
“We’ll also let the duty desk know about the incident,” Officer Perkins said. “They will alert any patrols tonight to look out for suspicious behavior involving Suburbans with Asian drivers.”
“I think they’re long gone,” Jack said.
“I think you’re right,” Sergeant Adams said.
