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They drove off.
15
A sea of flashing lights from all types of emergency vehicles flooded the Harlem block. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, the bomb squad with their bomb-sniffing dogs and, of course, the FBI crowded 133rd Street and Old Broadway from corner to corner. It was a circus of law enforcement. Several news helicopters circled the area, catching a glimpse of the project building that had been bombed.
The area residents were in awe. Their homes had been transformed into a spectacle for the world to see. Many people had suddenly become homeless, some were forced out of their apartments by the authorities for safety reasons, and every building was warily inspected. The city wasn’t taking any chances. Harlem now had the world’s attention, and the city would remain on red. This was an act of terrorism. But the location had many scratching their heads. They were baffled. Why Harlem? Why suddenly this location? What did these terrorists have to gain by attacking the ghetto? These were nothing but average folks: no political ties, no power, no money. It didn’t make any sense.
The ripple effect from the bombing had already started. How many were dead? They didn’t know yet, but people were growing mad. They had lost family, children, and friends. It was the Muslims’ fault. The audacity of terrorists attacking their ghetto. Discrimination started to escalate, and a fight broke out at the bodega two blocks away from the bombing. Several black men attacked the owner. His name was Abdul, and he was a man the people had seen every day for years, but now he suddenly had become public enemy number one. A scuffle broke out, and Abdul had a bottle smashed against his head. They jumped him—kicking and stomping him—and shouted obscenities at him. They were angry. Somebody had to pay, and the people didn’t care who it was.
The cops had to break up the brawl. They were going to kill Abdul. But that wasn’t the end of it. If someone looked Middle Eastern, they became a sudden target for the growing lynch mob. The authorities, especially the FBI, were hauling everyone into custody for questioning, and their targeted groups were Muslims, Middle Eastern, or South Asian men. The city was falling apart with fear and racism. No one thought that Harlem would ever be under attack, but now certain folks took it upon themselves to take the law into their own hands. The police suddenly found themselves overwhelmed with hate crimes expanding across all five boroughs.
***
Officer Spielberg heard about the Harlem bombing through his police radio. He had just walked into the 1st precinct to start his shift when it was all over the radios, and on the news. He couldn’t believe it himself. It seemed so unreal. What was happening to his city?
Everyone was uneasy and on high alert. If they could attack Harlem, then what was to stop these people from attacking cops and police stations? Every cop in the city was on edge. At roll call, every cop was briefed on current terrorism intelligence and tactics. They were told to keep a keen eye out for anything suspicious, to not overlook anything no matter how small or simple it appeared to be. If there was anything left unattended, packages or bags, they were to contact the bomb squad.
Cops were gathered at certain locations and deployed to various soft-target locations. The Financial District was under intense twenty-four-hour coverage. NYPD was on constant watch everywhere. They didn’t need a full-blown panic from New Yorkers. They needed to keep the peace and keep people calm.
“Keep an eye out there for anything suspicious, and be safe out there, too. I want everyone to come back safely to their families,” their sergeant said to the uniformed cops at roll call.
The sergeant dismissed roll call. Officer Spielberg stood there in his police uniform and clenched his fists. He wanted to do something about the bombings. He felt he wasn’t doing enough. He gave the feds what he had on Jessica, and the phone number that was most likely linked to the terrorists. He wondered if the feds had followed through on the evidence he’d presented to them. He didn’t want to be played for a fool.
“You okay, Spielberg?” the sergeant asked him.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
The sergeant tapped his right arm and said, “You’re a good cop out there. Keep your head up. We’ll find these assholes.”
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He nodded.
The sergeant left the room with Officer Spielberg right behind him. When they entered the hallway, they saw the feds swarming their precinct like busy bees in their dark suits and badges. The man they asked for was Officer Spielberg.
“I’m right here,” said Spielberg.
“The director wants to have a word with you,” said an agent.
Officer Spielberg was ready to talk and share everything he knew so far. He figured he had given the feds their only good lead in these bombings. The club Sane bombing didn’t have any reliable footage, there were only a handful of survivors, and so far there were no groups out there taking credit for it—no witnesses, no suspects. For all the feds knew, it might be homegrown terrorism instead of ISIS or Al Qaeda.
Officer Spielberg felt a tinge of nervousness as he rode to the federal building with the agents. The feds were the big league, and now he had their attention. He wanted to impress them. Spielberg had always been smart and observant. His mother always told him to look, listen, and learn. He always felt that he was born to be a cop, maybe something higher, and he always wanted to do the right thing. He had been considered a Boy Scout since he was ten years old.
Officer Spielberg did his best not to look nervous as he took a seat in one of the many rooms at the federal building. The room was windowless, carpeted, and closed-circuit. It was similar to the typical interrogation room at his precinct, but a lot nicer looking. He sat proudly at the table waiting to speak with someone. He had been told it would be the director himself. He took a deep breath and waited.
Moments later, the door opened and the director stepped into the room with a few of his subordinates. The man was sharply dressed in a dark blue suit with a bright red tie, polished wingtip shoes, and his credentials showing. He had black hair, strong blue eyes, and was clean shaven with a refined stature.
“Officer Spielberg, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
They shook hands and the director sat opposite him.
The situation was growing serious in New York. They wanted to have a chat with him. The first thing they wanted to know was, who Jessica was and how she was involved with terrorists. Spielberg gave them his intel. He wanted to help out the best he could. They’d had investigated the cell phone number he had given them, but it was no longer in service. It was a burner phone. It was hard to track, but they were working on it. The investigating team was already putting together a warrant, ready to have a judge sign off on it to find out whose names and numbers were on the phone. They ran Jessica’s name and pulled up a DMV photo of Jessica and her license. An agent entered the room and quickly whispered something into the director’s ear. It was an update. He nodded.
“What’s going on?” Officer Spielberg asked.
“The information on Jessica’s license was just matched to the project building that was bombed earlier this morning,” he said.
It definitely wasn’t a coincidence.
