It was another half hour before they moved on my place. I watched through my neighbor’s peephole as three agents crouched in the stairwell. They were dressed in blue FBI jackets with vests underneath. One carried a door ram; the other two, shotguns. I’d left my front door ajar, so they put the ram to one side and crept into the apartment. A minute later, four more agents followed up the stairs. I wasn’t entirely sure if they would try to get into Mikey’s place, but I didn’t think so. If I was black and lived on the South Side, maybe a different story. But I wasn’t. My neighbors knew their rights and could cause problems.
I sat tight by the door for another ten minutes. There was more coming and going and a lot of people talking on radios. Then Mikey Sanders kicked in. I’d given him my cell phone, along with the car keys, and watched him walk out the front door of our building. Feds never gave him a second look. I’d told him to drive at least twenty blocks north and park. He was supposed to call in to voicemail at my office, leave the line open, and toss the cell in the trash somewhere. I was hoping the feds might have put a trace on my phone. I wasn’t disappointed.
Four agents came out of my apartment in single file and clattered down the stairs. I crawled over to the front windows. They piled into three cars and peeled off. I checked the back alley. It, too, was suddenly clean. Best I could tell, there were only two agents left inside my apartment. None outside watching the street. I waited another five minutes, then slipped down my neighbor’s back stairs. Cornelia Avenue was still quiet. I walked to Southport and caught a cab headed west. I’d told Mikey to grab his girlfriend after he made the call, and get out of town. Seemed like a nice kid. I hoped he took my advice.