“My client maintains that his actions were done without prior knowledge of these crimes. Furthermore, he has information that will aid your investigation, your convictions of the perpetrators, and assist you in identifying others involved.”
“Others. Now that’s interesting.”
“It’s bullshit, Reo,” Eve said.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Here’s what we’ll do. If your client provides true and salient information that leads to the arrest of others involved in the murders of Pickering, Duff, Aimes, we’ll talk deal.”
“Immunity from all charges.”
“Your green’s showing, Mr. Quentin. You need to rub that off. Give me a nibble,” she said directly to Jorgenson, “then we can talk—maybe—accessory after the fact on Barry Aimes—we know you provided the van and, in fact, drove same to transport the body of Barry Aimes. We could plead that down to five to ten.”
“Is actually doing your job too much of a stretch for you, Reo?”
Reo turned her head, gave Eve a cool glance. “This is my job. Offer me something, Mr. Jorgenson, and I’ll talk to my boss.”
When Quentin began to speak, Reo shot a finger at him.
“He tells me. His words, not through your filter.”
“They came to me.” Jorgenson shrugged. “Had blood all over them.”
“Who?”
“Snapper and Ticker. They came to me, and they said how they got jumped by Dragons, and Fan Ho killed Fist.”
“That contradicts the statements they’ve given—independently—in their confessions.”
“I’m saying what they told me. They said how they heard Slice was making a deal with Ho, to keep things down after Dinnie. And they didn’t like it, got talking trash. They figured Slice put the Dragons on them. So they had the idea to get Fist over to Ho’s place, prove the Dragons did him. All I did was get the van and drive it.”
“Rather than report a murder to the police, you helped transport a body from the killing scene to Chinatown?”
“Bangers don’t go to cops.” He spoke defiantly. “We take care of our own.”
“Uh-huh. And didn’t it strike you as odd that neither of these men who survived an attack that killed Aimes had no
injuries?”
“They had blood on them.”
“Aimes’s blood.”
He shrugged. “How’m I to know? Blood’s blood.”
“And bullshit’s bullshit. You went out for a big breakfast after disposing of the body, and both the other men had changed clothes—no blood showing. Yet you still failed to question the fact they had no injuries. Aimes’s throat was sliced ear to ear, and showed no other injuries.”
“I’m saying what they said, can you latch on? I figure they were working with Slice. Setting me up.”
“Because?”
“Because he knows I’m smarter, stronger, and I’m going to take over.”
“You.” Laughing, Eve straightened in her chair. “You think you’re smarter than Jones. Jones, who’s been skimming off the gang’s pool for over three years? Jones, who freaking owns the building you flop in—the one you pay rent to flop in.”
“You’re a fucking liar.”
“Mr. Jorgenson,” Quentin warned. “Please don’t speak.”
“Samuel Cohen. You know that name. You probably couldn’t reach him to rep you here, probably figured he was too busy trying to rep a bunch of Bangers to get back to you. The two of them? They’ve been milking you and the rest. Buying real estate, for God’s sake. Sure Jones wanted to keep it down—he didn’t want the cops getting too close to his bank accounts. He’s got a couple million socked away. And all that real estate with Cohen.