At the top of the stairs, Yates knocked on the door. He’d been on the threshold of this apartment before although he’d never been invited inside. He would have authorized a search of the premises but it was impossible to do anything without the neighbours knowing, they all lived on top of each other, in and out of each other’s apartments. Personally, he didn’t care if they knew. He didn’t see any need to be subtle about it. He’d been tempted to authorize it anyway, not expecting to find anything, but as part of the psychological warfare. The issue of race had stopped him. He was told that an illegal search might inflame relations between the community and the police. They couldn’t even make it look like a burglary since realistically no one would rob a shit-hole like this.

He knocked again, louder this time. He knew the apartment was small, no more than a single room. No matter what they were doing inside it should only take a second to reach the door. Perhaps they could recognize the sound of his knock – angry, impatient – perhaps no one else in this building knocked that way. Finally, the door opened. The man who stood before him had been codenamed by the FBI: Big Red Voice. Yates said:

—Hello, Jesse.

Bradhurst

Harlem - West 145th Street

Same Day

Agent Yates leaned against the frame of the door, as close to the inside of the apartment as he could physically manage. As though in response, Jesse Austin’s wife stepped forward, joining her husband, shielding as much of their apartment from view as possible – a human barricade. The gesture amused Yates. He knew there was nothing illegal that they wanted to hide, no dope or stolen property like most of the other families around here. This was defiance for the sake of it; the pair were fighting for privacy – a splinter of dignity – pitifully trying to assert themselves against his authority.