The Fence - Dick Lehr [28]
In the aftermath of Sherman Griffiths’s death, Police Commissioner Francis M. Roache called the drug unit officers “highly trained and very professional.” But as time went on the tragedy erupted into scandal. When it came to prosecuting the man charged in the cop’s death, Detective Luna could not produce the confidential informant cited in paperwork to obtain the search warrant. Luna had written on the warrant application he’d obtained probable cause for the raid because “John” had provided him with firsthand intelligence about the drug den. But it turned out there was no John; he did not exist.
The drug unit’s unlawful practice of lying on search warrants—a practice that amounted to a violation of the constitutional protection against unwarranted searches under the Fourth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution—had been exposed. Luna and his supervisor, Sergeant Hugo R. Amate, eventually admitted they had routinely made up informants as a way to cut corners. The two disgraced officers were convicted of perjury and lost their jobs.
Kenny Conley was a new cadet at a time when the Boston Police Department was under fire, when its long-calcified culture of lying and cover-up was spilling increasingly into public view. Commissioner Roache and his top brass found themselves on the defensive, insisting publicly the corruption was isolated. But the rank-and-file privately knew otherwise: Luna and Amate were scapegoats for a broader pattern of corruption. A diary entry by the chief of homicide, made public years later, reflected this. The chief noted the commissioner was angry about the fallout created by the drug unit’s missteps. But, the cop noted, “no blame can be attached” to Luna and his supervisor because concocting fake informants and cutting corners was “the way the system operated.
“Because the acts of the drug officers imperil the police commissioner it appears that he is upset with us. If the case happened the same way tomorrow we would have to do the same thing. It looks like a case of wanting to shoot the messenger.”
When Kenny and Bobby Dwan responded to their first call the early morning of January 25 and arrived at 36 East Newton Street, the street corner was barren. Nobody was around, never mind prostitutes. The durability of prostitutes always amazed Kenny—the idea they’d be out on a weeknight in 29-degree weather. “If they need the money they go out there in their little skirts, whatever,” he said. On the other hand, the cold did put a chill into the level of illegal commercial activity. In that way, Mother Nature was an ally, an anti-crime initiative. Kenny and Bobby hung out for a bit, and then by one o’clock cleared the scene—calling in an “8-boy,” police code for no persons found.
Kenny had become a full-fledged police officer after serving four years as a cadet. He had directed traffic during rush hour, he had worked in operations on a night shift answering 911 emergency calls, and, lastly, he had worked in the commissioner’s office as a gofer. “Paperwork,” Kenny said. “I was basically a secretary.” On January