The Man From Lagos Read online

  “Yo, is that Marcus?” asked a kid in a Minnesota Twins hat.

  Someone in the crowd shrugged. “It does look like Marcus Smalls from over North.”

  A young woman standing not too far down from Peters asked, “What he doing over this way?”

  “Must have been one of the Mason boys who got ’em.”

  Some in the crowd murmured agreement. They knew about one of the gangs that controlled this neighborhood and collectively put the blame on its members for Marcus’s death. The old man continued to shift among the crowd, trying to glean as much information as he could. He was careful not to call attention to his movements, since the officers would be paying attention, looking for anyone in the crowd who was taking a greater interest in the scene than others. He paused behind two women—one cried silently as the other pulled her close. The old man leaned a little nearer to hear their conversation.

  “You know his brothers Ikee and Donald gonna look for whoever killed their brother.”

  “C’mon Angie, let’s go,” said one of the women.

  The woman who was crying pushed the stroller with the baby away from the scene, and both women walked away from the crowd and disappeared around the next corner. The old man had heard enough. Like most neighborhoods, people knew who belonged and who were strangers. He didn’t want to overstay his disguise. It was time to go. He slowly moved away from the crowd and ambled off in the same direction as the two women pushing the stroller.

  After about thirty minutes, the old man finally made his way to his car and hopped in. He took off his coat and anything that would place him as the old man on the corner a moment ago. Idowu Peters had just completed another undercover stint and come away with leads.

  Most people don’t want to talk to the police. He knew that. Everybody knew that. All law enforcement agencies implored their citizens to help them with any information that would solve cases, but in tight neighborhoods like these, the invitation is often met with silence or reluctant witnesses. People were scared to get involved. Chief Brown knew this, too, and had chosen a different way of gathering information—one that kept civilians from knowing that they were assisting in the investigation, and protected them from being blamed as a snitch.

  Idowu Peters was the chief’s secret weapon. He was well-formed and strong at six feet, two inches. His head was clean-shaven by choice and his face wore an adaptable-to-any-situation shadow of a beard. He was a master at changing his appearance, a human chameleon. He strolled into places and situations most people couldn’t. He could fit in without drawing attention to himself. He had a photographic memory, which allowed him to work without the telltale tools of a detective’s trade—no notebook, no recorder, no wire. He also spoke five languages and knew his way around an arsenal.

  In other words, Peters had been a Gray. No one knew about the Gray Project, a Department of Homeland Security clandestine program whose main objective was to infiltrate and gather. In other traditional embassy or overseas analyst positions, those assigned didn’t always produce the information governments needed, so Grays often worked abroad.

  The Gray team was composed of six men and six women recruited and trained for national security missions. Their backgrounds were diverse—military, law enforcement, specific academic specialties that the agency needed. All began at under the age of thirty and were multi-lingual. But none had ever met the others. Planning was such that no two were ever embedded inside the same group. They were led to believe that others did not exist, though each suspected they were not alone. Their only contact was a dedicated handler who gave them their assignments and took care of all their needs.

  Each mission was painstakingly planned and required a backstop identity. They were given three weeks to learn it—to become that person—before they received one last test in which their handler grilled them on the new identity. If they passed, they headed out on the mission. If they left anything out, they would be pulled back. No one was ever held back from an assignment. That is how good this group was. Some took a year to be vetted for the interview process. Then an extensive six-week training followed. Nothing was left to chance. None were married, and during his time in the program, he’d always felt discouraged from even exploring a relationship. His kin only knew that he’d worked for the government in some generic capacity.

  These reasons and many more were why Peters left the project. He was thirty-two years old and getting older, and his life interests had changed over time. He’d wanted a family and a more stable life. He was tired of traveling all over the world not knowing if he would make it out an assignment alive.

  The day finally came when he came in for a debrief after an assignment in Ghana. It was only the second time he had been on assignment on the African continent, but it was easy for him there. He spoke multiple languages and was able to pass as a Yoruba businessman looking to invest in a shoe factory. There were reports in Ghana that some rich businessmen were providing funding for some insurgent groups that would harm the interests of the United States of America in that region, so he was sent in.

  Peters’ infiltration activities allowed the US to identify those people and banks that supported the quiet movement of their money to insurgents, and also the location of their headquarters. This information was passed on to the security forces in Ghana as soon as Peters was wheels-up and out of harm’s way. All the businessmen and their sponsors at three of the largest banks were rounded up and jailed. There was an unavoidable loss of life on both sides as the Ghanaian security forces surrounded the insurgents’ hideout. They didn’t go quietly, but Peters didn’t like to think about that part of his job. He worked for the interests of the US and its various partners around the world. If he failed, the project would be canceled, and more people would be hurt in the long run.

  Still, there came the day he wanted out. He was tired and done with this whole thing. He had enough money saved and just wanted a life of his own. No more imitating someone else’s life. He just wanted to be Idowu Peters, the name his father gave him when he was born. And that was when he’d spotted the job opening in Minneapolis.

  *

  The job interview that brought Chief Brown and Peters was not as straightforward as most interviews go. Peters wasn’t just any applicant for the open “special investigator” position. The chosen candidate would report directly to the chief and no one else. The chief was looking for someone who would operate and investigate cases using unorthodox and more progressive means to gather intel and close cases. The agency was very good at providing the perfect backstop for Grays who left the job for roles like these around the country. And Peters was especially perfect for this role. There was a lot he couldn’t share with the chief about his background and past work, but he was able to share enough about his work with DHS, and he passed with flying colors.

  The chief was looking for an edge in closing more cases, and she knew that her current team of detectives wouldn’t be able to match Peters’ skills and experience. Also in his short time in the department, he had helped change the way detectives interrogated suspects. Suspects now sat closer to the door instead of facing the door on the opposite side of the desk. Detectives spoke in lower tones instead of raised voices, which helped them keep their emotions in check. Questions started off with a trip around the family tree or about their spouse, kids, or their domestic partner. This put the suspects more at ease and helped lower the temperature for what was to come, allowing the police to extract more from the suspects. This worked wonders in the department and cut down the amount of time spent in the interrogation room.

  Peters had also shown he was able to provide a lot of additional information, gleaned from his own methods, that allowed them to close tough cases. That information surprised everyone but himself and the chief. She often said she wished she had ten more like him, because there was much more work to be done. But as time went by, she was growing concerned about Peters’ safety—he put himself in harm’s way each day, putting away a lot of dange
rous criminals who didn’t forget and always vowed to get Peters. That, to her, meant he would always be looking over his shoulder. Yet whenever the chief told him to be careful and to watch his back at all times, Peters would just shrug and tell the chief that he was ready for anyone who wanted to come after him. Somehow, she believed him. Which made her wonder why and how he was so confident.

  Something about him seemed odd and out of place—but she was grateful to have brought him aboard. He was her best hire, and they both knew it.

  Chapter 3

  Every Child Should Be Saved

  Sarah Peters was running late to get to the courthouse. She was stuck on I-35W heading toward Anoka. All she wanted was to see the exit sign for US-10W which would tell her that she was close. She knew the presiding judge assigned to her case, and he wouldn’t be happy that her client was in court without legal representation. Sara didn’t care if she received a ticket today; once she cleared the traffic, she was going to drive like a bat out of hell. She had had enough of the fines and the public reprimands from all these black-robed tyrants.

  The other thing on her mind was the hope that this time, the procedure at the clinic would take. She didn’t know if she could go through it all again. And of course, her husband wasn’t able to make it.

  Sarah and Idowu Peters have been married for three years, a relationship nurtured in its early years by so many conversations about wanting kids. They met each other when she was an intern at the public defender’s office in Minneapolis. Sarah’s boss would bring her along to the jail when he was the assigned public defender on a case; he told her it was good for an intern to see things firsthand, better than sitting in the office and reading procedural manuals. One day he told her, it would be her asking all the questions of a client. The visits became more like on-the-job training for her.

  Peters was also a presence at the jail. He was there often to interview suspects, and he and she sometimes ran into each other. Sometimes they would be there to see the same client. Other times, he was there for other suspect interviews. Finally, he got up the nerve and walked up to her outside the interview room. He introduced himself. She sort of blew the first impression; she’d noticed him before, and nervous about the new vibe, she stood to shake his hand and spilled all her papers and folders all over the floor. He gathered it all up and handed it to her, cool and calm. He must have noticed her flushed face, because he reassured her that it was his fault and he should have noticed she had papers on her lap and just sat down next to her. Peters asked if they could do lunch the next time they were in the same area. Sarah fumbled her words as she tried to respond.

  “Sure, that would be great,” she managed to say.

  After he left her at the bench during that first meeting, all she could think about was how stupid she must have sounded. She didn’t want him to think that she was easy and would go to lunch with just anyone. But he was not just anyone. He was handsome, polite, and sexy too. She learned through their brief conversation that he worked out of police headquarters downtown and reported directly to the chief of police. Sarah had sat in her office and kept running the memory over in her mind: Did his lunch invitation sound more like it was to be a date, or just a meal between colleagues? It took a while to find out, because as time went by and they ran into each other a few more times, it was never a good time for lunch—especially if Sarah’s boss was present. Peters would just smile and nod his head and be off. Just a nod and a pivot away from her.

  Hiding my disappointment, he’d explain much later.

  Finally, she got to know one of the jail administrators, and got the woman to text her the next time Peters made an appointment. She would find a reason to be there without her boss. It worked. Every week for the next six months, they had lunch together, until one day he popped the question. She said yes and they were married at the courthouse with her boss and Chief Brown as the lone witnesses. Sarah passed the bar a month later.

  *

  Sarah ran inside the courthouse, got through security, and dashed into the room where her client was waiting for arraignment. She tried to apologize to the court but the judge just held up his hand and had the bailiff call the court to order. Arraignments don’t take long, and she’d had her assistant read the case file to her while she was stuck in traffic. What she’d learned upset her. The prosecutor was a young hotshot from the DA’s office who was trying to make a name for himself by being a hard-ass. Felonious assault for throwing a bottle of liquor? What a joke, she thought. It should have been a misdemeanor with a fine or community service. This greedy bastard wanted jail time.

  “Your Honor,” she started even before the judge asked for a plea from her client. “I disagree with the current charge against my client. The bottle that was thrown in question did not hit or injure any employee of the establishment. The charge from this overzealous prosecutor of felonious assault is an overreach, Your Honor.”

  Just as the judge opened his mouth to respond to her statement, the prosecutor objected at being called overzealous and he wanted sanctions against the public defender.

  “Calm down, you two.” The judge was already angry. “Or I will sanction both of you.” He went on to remind Sarah that this was just an arraignment and that her client was to enter a plea. She could meet with the prosecutor about the charges later.

  He turned to her client and asked for a plea.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” she said on the young man’s behalf.

  “Now was that so difficult, Sarah?” the judge said dryly.

  Her client was just like most of the juveniles she represented. They came from homes where the fathers were not present. The mothers had to raise them alone while holding down jobs that were low-paying and had crazy hours, which meant leaving the kids alone for long periods of time. They had no direction and no role models around. Trouble found them, or they took the initiative to find trouble themselves. There was no one to help them make good decisions or keep them on the right path.

  And now, like so many in this courtroom before him, this kid was scared.

  Standing in front of a judge always brought them back to reality of what one mistake could do to their lives. Sometimes Sarah could save them. Other times, there was nothing she could do for them. If she hadn’t been motivated and lucky enough to make something of her life, she could have been one of those kids. Being neglected by her parents growing up hardened her, and she always vowed to never treat her own children that way. Public service, she knew, was her calling—so being a public defender was the perfect job for her.

  And this judge knew her very well. She fought for her clients, especially the kids, like a mother badger. She was passionate in his courtroom and took her role seriously. He also knew that she always requested the juvenile assignments; she didn’t have any kids, but he always commented in a friendly way that if she ever did raise a family, none of them would ever set foot in a courtroom unless it was to accompany their mother on Career Day. Because, he added, you’ll probably have a police helicopter follow them around and report back if they even think of breaking the law.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” she replied. She was used to his sarcasm by now. “And, Your Honor, I’d like to explore bail for my client or for him to be released to his mother.”

  “That is out of the question, Your Honor!” cried the prosecutor. “The defendant almost injured a cashier and caused significant damage in the store before he was arrested!”

  The judge lost patience. “I haven’t even asked for bail considerations. Does one of you want to come up and put on this robe and I can take your place on the floor? At least I know the etiquette. Now, the defendant is released to his mother.” He slammed his gavel to adjourn the proceedings. “Set a trial date or work it out, you two.” He got up and made for the door behind his chair.

  “Your Honor, I protest these proceedings,” said the prosecutor.

  The judge stopped and turned around and came back to his chair. He held up his hand and looked dire
ctly at the overzealous brownnoser.

  “The charges filed are questionable at best, but that is up to the discretion of the district attorney’s office. I read the police report and saw that the defendant didn’t even leave the store after the bottle-throwing incident.” The judge glanced at the case file. “The statement from the store cashier states, and I quote, ‘The defendant told me that he wasn’t leaving the store until the police arrived. He kept saying he didn’t do anything wrong and he wanted to tell his side of the story,’ unquote.”

  Good, Sarah thought. No wonder she liked him. A judge with common sense was rarer than she’d expected when she first began her job.

  Before the prosecutor could respond, the judge held up his hand. “Now if the defendant was a flight risk, he would have fled the scene. His mother is sitting right there.” He pointed to the back of the courtroom. “She will make sure he shows up for the court case if there is one.” And with a second bang of the gavel, he adjourned the court again and walked out.

  Sarah looked at her client and repeated softly to him what the judge just said.

  “The judge trusts you. I trust you. Your mother trusts you.” She glanced over to his mother. “So make sure you show up if there is a trial, okay? I’m going to try and get it down to a fine or maybe even community service.”

  Behind the boy’s remorse, she also saw his relief—he would not be spending another day in jail. He looked over at his mother who was already wiping her tears with a handkerchief she pulled from her purse. She didn’t look angry, more like disappointed.