“Impressive. But aren’t you going to miss newspapers?”
Mickey shook his head. “Hell no, Matty. Forget that. Haven’t you been paying attention? Newspapers are deader than a double-crossing gangbanger in South Philly. Just like the TV nightly news killed afternoon papers, there’s this thing now called the World Wide Web that’s killing all newspapers. You really should try to keep up.”
Payne flashed him the middle finger of his right hand, then changed to his index finger and pointed at the T- shirt.
“I’ve heard about that but never looked it up.”
“You should. Here’s the deal. It’s basically brand new. It was originally quietly funded by a philanthropist, a good citizen who’s simply fed up with Philly sinking in a cesspool of crime. The idea is pretty damned simple: support the good guys and get rid of the bad guys.”
“Maybe too simple, Mick. There’s already a lot of money being thrown at crime. And speaking of a lot of money, I didn’t think newsy websites made money.”
“Most don’t. Most are losing money. But profit isn’t the point. Cleaning up the city is. People are fucking fed up-”
“Amen to that,” Payne interrupted. “Count me among the disenchanted.”
Mick went on: “-and when The Bull heard about it, he put money in. A number of his clients did, too, some of them guys who broke out of the ghetto and want to help those still stuck there. Even though CrimeFreePhilly-dot- com doesn’t have to make money, I think it will. There’s also the sweetheart deal it has with KeyCom.”
“The cable-TV-slash-Internet-slash-phone conglomerate based here? That’s Five-Eff’s! Which means Francis Fulton is your secret moneyman?”
O’Hara shrugged. “Some questions don’t need to be asked. All I know is I have both the funding and the moral backing of some heavy hitters to help this city. No pun intended concerning The Bull’s clients.”
He paused, then his infectious energy kicked in: “Get this, Matty, I can run live, breaking news on CrimeFreePhilly, and then KeyCom’s massive computer servers send it-for free-out to any TV, computer, and even better, to any cell phone. Worldwide! I could never do anything like that at the Bulletin, where I fought for inches of copy. Anyway, with criminals infesting every city, we plan eventually to roll out a CrimeFree-dot-com everywhere- CrimeFreeNYC, CrimeFreeLA, et cetera, et cetera. All overseen by yours truly. Why would I ever work at a newspaper again?”
Payne nodded, then said, “You think it’ll make a difference? I’m beginning to think it might be time to get off this sinking ship of a city.”
O’Hara grinned widely. “Oh, yeah, Matty. It’s already working. People love those cops-and-robbers TV shows. You know, like Most Wanted in America, Homicide 9-1-1. We’re taking that a step-steps-further. We’re a one-stop shop for fans of those kinds of shows, plus have news articles on crime and crime prevention and profiles of the bad guys. We list who’s offering rewards for which criminals and for how much, and show how to search databases for criminals and submit tips on where they might be-new ones, old ones, fugitives like violators of Megan’s Law-and on and on.”
Megan’s Law was the catchall name for any number of federal and state statutes concerning sexual predators. It was named after a seven-year-old New Jersey girl who had been abducted by a neighbor right after the pervert had gotten out of the slam where he’d been serving time for sex crimes. He raped and killed the little girl.
Outraged citizens demanded that they had the right to know when dangerous people moved into their neighborhoods, leading to the passage of sex offender registry laws, first in Jersey, then across the nation.
Payne said, “Aren’t you worried that that’s essentially encouraging people to take the law into their own hands, like Fuller’s Lex Talionis is doing? Not that I’m surprised, considering your secret benefactor.”
“Uh-uh,” Mickey quickly said, shaking his head vigorously, making the red curls bounce like tiny coiled springs. “In that area, we’re simply a clearinghouse of sorts for a lot of things that are already available all over on the Internet. The key to any good source of information, Matt, is making it easy on the person looking for that information, whether it’s where to get the cheapest ground sirloin or how to finger a bad guy. You ever hear of a company called Google?”
“Yeah, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of Internet search engines,” Payne said. “I take your point. I’m just not convinced.”
“Hell, Matt, the FBI has a page devoted to a Wanted poster for that raghead, Whatshisname the Terrorist, with a twenty-five-million-dollar price tag for his head. And all sorts of bounties for lesser criminal shits. How the hell is that any different if we add it to our website?”
After a moment, Matt nodded. “Okay, you’re convincing me.”
Mickey went on: “And we’re also a place to give ‘attaboy’ accolades to cops who otherwise don’t get noticed, like a patrolman walking the beat in your neighborhood who unlocks your car after you’ve left your keys in it.” He pointed to his shirt. “Kiss a Cop.”
“Now, that sounds like a stretch.”
“Aw, c’mon, Matty. You ever read a positive piece on a cop? Everyone likes a pat on the back now and then.”
“Well, you’re absolutely right about that. Rare is the day you ever hear anything good about cops doing their job. Just mention the name Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.” He smiled. “Sounds like we’re on the same side of this fight, Mick, just different teams.”
“Exactly.”
IV
[ONE]
Standing at the bar at Liberties, Harris looked from Mickey to Matt, took a sip of beer, then said, “You remember Danny Gartner, Matt?”
Payne, his glass to his lips, raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Really? ‘The shittiest lawyer in all the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, ’ as they call him in the DA’s office? Never could forget a prick like that. Can’t count the times in court during questioning that he tried to make me look stupid or crooked. So he’s the one who got dumped at Francis Fuller’s door?”
Harris nodded and said, “Gartner and one of his loser clients, a cocky little shit by the name of John Nguyen, aka ‘Jay-Cee,’ ‘Johnny Cannabis,’ age twenty-five. And mean as hell.”
Then he mimed that his right hand was a pistol. He put the tip of the index finger in the base of his skull and, moving his thumb forward, dropped the “hammer” and mouthed Bang!
He said: “Apparently, a fairly big-bore weapon. Really made a mess of their skulls.”
“I think I’m about to cry,” Payne said, more than a little sarcastically, then sipped at his single-malt. He feigned wiping at a tear under his eye and went on: “Nope, guess I was wrong.”
O’Hara chuckled.
Payne smiled. He said to Harris, “Should I know the punk client, too?”
“Only if you were in on any of his dozen drug busts for possession with intent to distribute. Just two of which ever went to trial-both for running roofies and other date-rape drugs-because Gartner kept playing the three-strikes game. There was also a sexual assault charge that got tossed because of a broken chain of evidence.”
“Three strikes, eh?” O’Hara said. “That has to be one of the worst rules ever. Whatever happened to the notion of a speedy trial, as opposed to a speedy dismissal?”
Clearing out cases so there could be speedy trials was precisely why, at least in theory, the Municipal Court had invoked Rule 555 in the criminal court procedures.
Despite the shared name, Philly’s three-strikes law had nothing to do with laws across the land which declared that if someone racked up three felony convictions, he or she was clearly a habitual criminal who hadn’t learned a damn thing the first two times in the court system-and, accordingly, deserved a long sentence that essentially locked them up and threw away the key.
