It was 1971 and before I ever pinned on a Chicago police star, I was working with the Cook County Sheriff’s Police, and that’s where I met Ernie Nealy. Ernie was no ordinary copper. He had taken a leave of absence from the Chicago Police Department, a rare move in those days, just to escape the stench of corruption that had permeated the city’s streets. It wasn’t just about ethics — it was survival. He also wanted to live in peace, out in Evergreen Park, where the air was clean and the politics were someone else’s problem. Ernie had it made. The man drove Cadillacs like they were Chevys, and his wife dripped in mink. Their house looked like something out of a magazine — suburban success, old-school respectability. But greed? That wasn’t in Ernie’s DNA. And yet, fate was about to hand him a test — the kind you don’t study for. It happened on a gray morning. We were heading up the elevator at 1121 S. State Street to Boys’ Court — to grab a prisoner. Just as the doors were about to sli...