Getting Judged

I was finishing up some paperwork at the Drug Control Unit headquarters in Jamaica Plain. It was early summer of 1999.

We were working the day shift and there was 45 minutes left on shift. We were going to head to JJ. Doyle’s bar in order to debrief our week at work. I could almost taste the beer when the phone rang.

“Drug Control Unit Officer Linskey, how may I help you?”

There was an elderly woman sobbing on the phone. “I’m trapped in my house. I wanted to go to the store but he’s out there selling drugs again right in front of my house. I’m afraid to go out there with those people.”

“Ma’am, where are you?”

She gave me her address in East Boston and described the drug dealer, who apparently set up shop on the wall right in front of her house.

I could hear the fear and upset in her voice, but getting to Eastie where there was only one tunnel under Boston Harbor at the time would take us at least an hour at this time of night. We were wrapping up for the week. There was currently a limit on overtime and we would not be able to put in for our time. I could just call the district and have the A-7 anti-crime unit address it, but I was pissed that this women’s day was ruined by this kid. I put her on hold and turned towards my boss Stan Philbin, filling him in on the details.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Ok, tell her we are on our way.”

We got there in about an hour and set up observations of the dealer. He was right where she said he would be. We were not there 5 minutes when a second male came up and gave him a 10-dollar bill for an object that he took out from his groin area. The second male walked away and we pulled out, stopping him two blocks away. He had a dime back of weed. He said he just got it from Fat Franky. We took his info and summonsed him in for straight possession.

We looped the block and drove up on Fat Franky. I pulled out my badge holder and jumped out of the car, identifying myself as a Boston Police officer. I grabbed him and told him that he was under arrest.

“I didn’t sell any dime bag to anybody,” he said.

“Oh really? How did you know I was arresting you for selling a dime bag?”

“Because every time you guys arrest me, you say it’s ‘cause I sold somebody a dime bag and I ain’t never sold no dime bag to nobody.” Suddenly something dawned on him. “Hey, you said you were with the Boston Police. This ain’t Boston. This is East Boston. You don’t have any jurisdiction over here.” (Many residents of Eastie considered themselves as a separate city and actually believe the East Boston station was a separate police department. 

I assured him we had jurisdiction and took him into custody. He had a couple of hundred dollars and maybe 15 to 20 bags of weed. It was a small case, but when I called the women back to tell her we got him, it was the biggest case in her life.

That’s all that mattered.

The kid was a character and knew some of the detectives at A-7. He talked to Det. Chuckie Wilson and said he could give him a Columbian with a kilo of cocaine right now. Chuckie asked us if he could work with him as a CI and try to work off the case.

It was a pain to get this side of town, so we told Chuckie to have at it. “If he can do a case for you, let us know. We will ask the DA for consideration if he comes through. But Chuck, tell him to stay off the street. He’s driving the neighbors nuts there.”

Fat Franky was telling the truth. He gave up a Columbian drug dealer and Chuckie got nearly a kilo of cocaine in a search warrant. The day Fat Franky was due to go to trial, Stan and I called the DA and explained that the kid had cooperated on a significant case and we would appreciate any consideration given to him.

“No, can’t help on this one,” the DA replied. “I need you guys here ASAP. You’re the first case on for trial and the judge is looking for you guys.”

I was taken back. This was a small case and the kid did what he said he would. He should have gotten a break from the DA, but they wanted to do a trial.

Stan and I hustled over there, arriving about 45 minutes late. When we got in the courtroom, the judge was pissed. I tried to talk some sense to the DA. We needed to do something if our word was going to mean anything on the street.

“Sorry, we are going to trial now.”

Stan and I testified and the defense went through the motions. The judge heard all the evidence and then sentenced Fat Franky to 2? years to serve in the house of correction. That was the maximum sentence you could give. But this was a time where you could have a trial in front of a judge and if you didn’t like the result, do the entire case over again at a jury trial. The defense attorney pointed out that the sentence did not meet the crime and he would be appealing to a jury of 6.

The judge said that is his right. “I see, however, the fact remains that he was on probation already for the same offense and has an 18th month sentence hanging over his head. I find him in violation and impose that sentence today.”

He sent him for the full 18 months. We were stunned. The judge then said, “I want to see you officers in my chamber right now.”

Stan and I looked at each other. Was he pissed we were late? What was going on that he seemed so hell bent on this case?

When we entered into his chamber I said, “Your honor, we’re sorry we were late. We were coming from the other side of the city. We didn’t know it was going to be a trial.”

“No problem, officer. I just wanted to thank you. My aunt told me that she called you guys on a Friday afternoon and you were there an hour later and arrested him. I really appreciate how quickly you got there. He’s been a problem in the neighborhood for years. We will let him sit for a little while, then I’ll tell his attorney to do a revise and revoke. I just needed to send him a message. Keep up the good work."

“Your aunt? Oh now I get it.” Mystery solved. “Thank you, your honor, and have a nice day.”