Heading to meet the team, the radio crackles. Mac is calling in to say that he and Pot nabbed Banks. His girlfriend and he pulled up outside the shelter just seconds after Pot said, "Ah, he ain't going to show up tonight." That's two murder arrests in one week's time for Mac and Pot.
"There's never been a unit like us in Police Department history," Lozada says, spurred to braggadocio by Banks' arrest. "Can you imagine them trying to disband us? Can you imagine what the community would do? Where would the justice be in that?"
The team reconnoiters near the Kinney Hotel. They pick up Sgt. John Payne, who's been detailed out to the FBI to help catch fugitives.
Getting into the hotel is a bit of work. The managers, two Indian men, are unsure what's going on with a bunch of plainclothes police officers crowding their lobby wanting to know who's in Room 209. Finally, they let the team go upstairs.
At the door to 209, Nash listens. Lozada pulls his gun, and Bolte and Mac walk down the hall.
Bolte comes up, knocks lightly on the door, and does a dead-on Indian accent. "Manager," he says. "Hello, manager."
The door opens and a belligerent white man with flowing gray hair and a beard lets loose: "Who the fuck are you?" Bolte identifies himself as a policeman, but then eschews all decorum. "Shut up or I'll kick you in the nuts."
And it's off to the races. "Get the fuck out of here," the man says as he tries to close the door.
Bolte loses it and shoves the man down. The rest of the team watches silently.
Realizing they have the wrong man -- the suspect is black -- the team heads down the stairs, abuse raining on them from Room 209. "You'll pay for this you sons of bitches," the man screams. "You wise-ass bastards."
Bolte turns to me and says, "Don't put that in the paper."
The team gets to the lobby. The man follows, still heaping abuse and threats of recrimination on them. Payne steps to the fore and tries to placate him. Suddenly, Payne becomes the guy who shoved him.
"We made a mistake," Payne says. "We're sorry."
The man tells the managers that Payne kicked in his door. "I'll remember your face," he says to Payne.
Bolte laughs on his way into the street. "I don't think so, he's already forgotten mine."
The rest of the team return to the Hall of Justice, and Nash and Lozada go to Northern to talk to Anderson. Nash uncuffs him from the bench and takes him into the undercover squad's locker room.
"Let me tell you how this works," he says to Anderson. "You're going to walk out of here tonight. I'm going to write a report. That's my anchor to you. So don't fuck me. If you do, I give the report to the district attorney and he issues a warrant. If you work for me, I rip the report up."
Anderson nods and nods.
Outside, as Anderson wobbles down the street to his Tenderloin post, Nash calls after him: "Now we own your ass."
The names of all informants and uncharged suspects have been changed.
