together and helped several of the violent, gang-ridden communities come back from the brink. I was eager to get her feedback.
“What do you think, Tara?” I said over the remains of the massive, greasy, life-affirming pub-style bacon cheeseburger I’d just devoured. “I know you work in the city, but these people in Newburgh are so desperate. Do you think we could get the federal ball rolling for them?”
Tara lifted her light beer.
“Actually, I work for the Southern District, Mike, which includes Newburgh. I also know full well what gangs do to a community-the insidious fear, the old ladies who can’t go outside. I’ll do everything I can.”
She wasn’t kidding. I went back to her office with her, and for the rest of the afternoon, she did nothing except phone old colleagues and call in favors. She even insisted on coming back with me to the meeting and giving me a lift up the Thruway in her battered Jeep.
She looked surprised when I told her to pull over for some Starbucks near Yonkers around six.
“Coffee?” she said. “With the day you’ve had, I thought you might want to nap a little on the way.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Never better. Just getting my second wind.”
“No rest for the weary, huh?” she said, smiling, as she hit her turn signal.
“Not even weary, almost-blown-to-smithereens, workaholic cops,” I said.
CHAPTER 76
IT WAS SEVEN thirty when we came through Saint Pat’s battered doors and back down into the meeting hall. Several of the people whom Tara had called were already there, including Ann Macaulay, the liaison from the local ATF office, and Larry Brown of the New York field office of the FBI.
We gathered all the feds together with the Newburgh detectives at the back of the meeting hall. After I made all the introductions, Tara gave a brief explanation of how the gang violence reduction initiative in Boston had worked.
“First, we got all the various local agencies together in a room-the prosecutors and cops, the state probation office, the school safety cops. Then we put our heads together to identify all the gang players. On a huge map, we ID’d the gangs and their turf boundaries. We put together the various beefs they had with one another, which ones in the gangs were the wannabes, which ones were the worst offenders. That was the hardest part.”
“Not here in Newburgh, ma’am,” Groover said. “We know who the players are all too well. This is a target-rich environment, believe me.”
“That’s good. Step two is the casework, which in this scenario would be undercover buys.”
“Buy-and-busts, yeah, we do that all the time,” Walrond said skeptically. “Then they’re out in six months with new friends they met in jail.”
“Actually, in this plan, all we do is buys with no busts. At least not yet,” Tara explained. “We gather ammo on the organizations slowly and surely, until we can prove that what we’ve identified is, in fact, a criminal organization. That way, under federal law, we can use the RICO statute and prosecute everyone at once to the fullest extent of the law. Clear out all the bad apples in one harvest, so to speak.”
“You don’t know how good that sounds. Music to my ears,” Groover said.
“We also give everyone involved maximum sentences of at least five years, which in federal prison means at least four years before probation,” Tara said.
“As an added benefit, in federal lockdown, they’re away from their homies, so they can’t coordinate anything from behind bars,” said Agent Brown. “We break the camel’s back with one snap.”
“You do know the Newburgh PD has only ninety cops, right?” Bill Moss said. “What you’re talking about requires massive manpower.”
“That’s where we step in,” said Brown. “We’ll get you man-power, overtime, money, vehicles, and equipment. The whole shebang.”
“Federal disaster relief. Finally,” Groover said.
“But there are roughly two hundred gang members here,” Ed Boyanoski said.
“Not a problem,” Agent Macaulay said. “We’ll get you all the guys you need.”
“This all sounds great, but won’t all the wannabes just step in? The second-tier people?” Detective Walrond said. “Newburgh is the most thriving drug market in Orange County. Won’t the demand still be there?”
“That’s when we go to phase three,” Tara said. “After we clear out the worst offenders, we get social workers, gang members, and community members-along with all the cops-and we do a sit-down. One group at a time, we give the gangbangers a presentation, a little class on what they’re looking at if the violence starts back up.
“We educate them fully on the law, the sentencing guidelines, what that’s going to do to their lives. We tell them straight up that if someone gets shot, we are coming down with the full weight of the federal government. That’s usually enough.”
“That’s it?” Bill Moss said. “That actually works?”
“Not perfectly, but yes,” Tara said. “Violent homicides go down, way down, in every place it’s tried. You have to do it one gang at a time and concentrate on one aspect of what they do-in this case, shootings. And you have to back it up. Someone gets shot, you drop the hammer. The gangs aren’t stupid. They’ll know the jig is up, especially since they know what just happened to the previous leadership. They might not stop dealing, but it’ll go further underground. What’s most important is that they’ll put their guns down and dial it back.”
Ed Boyanoski slapped me on the shoulder painfully hard as the townspeople began filling up the hall. He didn’t look so depressed anymore. In fact, he looked ecstatic. Finally, you could see it in his eyes and in the eyes of the other Newburgh detectives.
It was hope. Just a glimmer, but undoubtedly there.
“Gee, Mike. Why didn’t you just tell us that you had friends in such high places?” Ed said, smiling.
“I’m a humble man, Ed,” I said, smiling back. “Unlike you hicks up here, we NYPD detectives don’t like to brag.”
SPIRITS WERE STILL high as we headed out of Saint Pat’s to the parking lot just before ten.
The attendance at the meeting had been even larger than the night before. Even though the FBI and ATF agents had only spoken briefly and vaguely about their plans to tackle the gang problem, just the sight of federal officials was enough to ease the minds of the people in the seats. Even the most skeptical in the crowd seemed glad that the grave nature of the problem was finally being given some serious due.
Saying my good-byes to my colleagues, I spotted Tara by her Jeep, talking on her cell phone. As I approached, she turned it off, grinning from ear to ear.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Reservations,” she said. “I just scored us one.”
“Reservations? To where? What do you know about this neck of the woods?”
“That’s my little secret,” she said. “Just tell me you’re hungry, Mike.”
“Okay. I’m Hungry Mike,” I said, smiling back.
“Yay,” she said, grabbing my hand and opening the door of her Jeep. “I think you’re in for a happy surprise.”
She wasn’t kidding. She took me fifteen minutes west on I-84 to a place called the Back Yard Bistro, in the town of Montgomery.
But as it turned out, I had a surprise for her.
Before we got out of her Jeep, I started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Tara said.
“I cannot tell a lie, Tara. I’ve been here before. And you do have excellent taste. I should know. My cousin owns the place.”
