The first blow landed before sunrise.
At 6:12 a.m., an unmarked sedan pulled up outside our house. Two federal agents, grim-faced, walked to the front door with a folder thick enough to be fatal. I watched from across the street, where I’d been parked in my car since 4:00 a.m., waiting.
They knocked.
Mark opened the door, bleary-eyed, in a T-shirt and boxers. He didn’t even get to finish asking who they were before they walked past him.
The Department of Justice had been compiling files on officers tied to corruption in the 41st Precinct—dirty busts, missing evidence, falsified reports. They’d lacked a smoking gun.
Until I gave it to them.
I’d found a flash drive in Dad’s old desk drawer weeks ago—he used to brag that “paper trails were for idiots,” but he never realized how many files he saved to “review later.” Videos. Reports. One in particular showed Mark planting a ziplock bag into a suspect’s trunk. Crystal clear footage.
Be First to Comment