If I Should Die

by Grace F. Edwards

  He was so angry I thought he was going to kick a hole in the concrete wall.

  “Listen, brother,” Tad said calmly. “The reason why they get away with stuff like this is because we let them. I don’t live here, but if I did, I’d be jammin’ the wire. The fire department, the housing authority, the police department, health department, and all the politicians I could think of. I’d be on the horn lettin’ everybody know I’m droppin’ a dime to the newspapers and television stations if something isn’t done within twenty-four hours. I’d get the neighbors on the case too. And keep at it, get everybody to holler till something’s done. You know it’s the squeakiest wheel gets the most grease, but nobody can hear you yellin’ in the stairwell.”

  The man looked at him and shook his head. “You right, brother. You on the money.”

  He continued on downstairs, quiet now, and I wondered how much of Tad’s advice he intended to follow.

  On the fourth floor, the lighting was bright enough to at least distinguish one’s features and read the numbers painted on the anonymous steel doors lining the narrow, whitewashed corridor.

  The noise of a television snapped off and a peephole slid open in response to our knocking.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Johnson? It’s Mali. And I have a friend with me. Can I—”

  The door opened and Mrs. Johnson, wearing a faded housecoat, thong sandals, and pink rollers in her hair, stepped aside to let us in.

  The apartment was small and neat. From the living room, I saw a galley-style kitchen with a rack of pots and pans suspended from a circular ring in the ceiling. In the carpeted hallway, there were two doors which probably led to the bedrooms. Morris peeped out from one door, waved hello, and disappeared again.

  “This is Detective Honeywell, Mrs. Johnson.”

  She looked at him and murmured, “Oh my. My goodness … wait a minute. Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”

  She disappeared into the second room off the hall and emerged minutes later wearing lipstick, a vividly patterned caftan, and a matching scarf that covered the hair rollers.

  The living room was sparsely furnished but what furniture there was was well kept. A television console dominated the room and a calendar picture of Malcolm X hung on the wall over the set.

  The caftan flowed as she moved. She stared at Tad as if I was not even in the room and I wondered if he knew what effect he had on some women.

  “Well. Have a seat.” She smiled and waved us to the sofa as she went into the kitchen. A minute later she returned with three cans of beer.

  “So you got my call?”

  “Yes, but we wanted to speak with you first, to figure out what needs to be done. What happened? What did Clarence do?”

  Mrs. Johnson settled back in her chair and crossed her legs, lifting the caftan much higher than she needed to.

  “What did he do? Somethin’ he shoulda done long time ago. He beat the shit outta his mama’s no-good boyfriend. Scuse my language, Detective Honey, but I—”

  “Honeywell.”

  “Oh. Yes.” She paused and smiled. “Excuse the language but I’m damn mad.”

  Tad and I glanced at each other as she angrily snapped the tab on the can. The tab broke and the beer foamed out and over her hand.

  “Shit! Scuse me.”

  She returned with a new can and took a long swallow before she spoke.

  “That man been punchin’ her around for years now and wasn’t nuthin’ that boy could do or say. Then the man got on that crack, and got her strung out, then started sellin’ from her apartment to support they habits. Joint got so busy people was lined up like they was at Grand Central waitin’ for the five-fifty outta town.

  “We complained and complained, hollered and screamed till Housing finally threatened to evict her. Her man lightened up a little bit then. I mean he still dealin’ but from another location now. He stash the cash with her, though.

  “So tonight he come there all fired up, claimin’ she stole some from him and started on her with a wire hanger. I mean that crack make you crazy. Well, then Clarence came home, saw what had went down, and started on him. Broke that man’s arm in two places and his jaw in three. Man ain’t nuthin’ but garbage. She shoulda kicked ’im to the curb long time ago …

  “I was watchin’ everything out the window and seen the ambulance take ’im away. Those elevators are workin’. They ain’t broken like the ones in this building. A hour later here come the cops and they carry Clarence out in cuffs. Now I ask you, is that right? All that time we complained, they ain’t never rushed up here to bust the dealer, but rush in when somebody bust up the dealer. I don’t understand that shit at all, I really don’t.”

  “Well, depending on what charge they’re holding Clarence on,” Tad said, “maybe we can get him released in the custody of his mother. Where is she?”

  Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “Another ambulance come for her same time the cops took Clarence. She’s done in pretty bad … plus her other problem …”

  Tad thought for a minute. “Okay, here’s what you do, if you’re willing to do it. Clarence will go down to Central Booking in a couple of hours. You be down there when he arrives. Say you’re his aunt and that you’ll be responsible for his court appearance. If his mother presses charges against the boyfriend, chances are Clarence’s argument of self-defense will hold up. Are you willing to do it?”

  A look of indecision crossed her face and I held my breath as she weighed Tad’s advice. It was a second before she finally spoke. “What the hell. Why not? The boy don’t have nobody else.”

  We were halfway to the door when she said, “You know, that other detective—Mr. Williams—he was here again.”

  I could see a shadow moving across Tad’s face as he turned toward her. “When was that?”

  “Couple a days ago.”

  “What did he say?” Tad asked. His jawline tightened and I wondered how much more he would be able to take.

  “Well, he kinda asked me and Morris the same questions over and over. Like he didn’t believe what we had said in the first place. Got me real upset when he started in on Morris, and I ended up mentionin’ how Clarence had used that language to Dr. Harding the—”

  “What? You told him what?”

  I hadn’t meant to shout and Mrs. Johnson looked at me, bewildered.

  “Well, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to say nuthin’. He’s a cop, ain’t he? And he wanted to know if the man in that car, the one that Morris punched, didn’t look like Clarence. And Morris said no. Over and over that it wasn’t Clarence. I didn’t know we wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  “Well, it’s not that, Mrs. Johnson. It’s just—well—” I was at a loss and flashed a glance at Tad, trying to read his signals. He let a moment pass, then he smiled at her.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Johnson. Don’t worry about it. Just try to get down to Central Booking. Here’s the address. Whatever happens, please give Mali a call right away. And it might be a good idea if you didn’t mention this visit to anyone else.”

  She took the paper, visibly relaxing in the warmth of his smile.

  We made our way back down the darkened stairs, smelling the same smells and listening to the same scurrying sounds we had heard earlier.

  The basketball court was deserted as we strolled through it and I thought of telling Tad how Clarence had stayed out here alone, sometimes past midnight, practicing, not wanting to face whatever it was he had to face when he finally went home for the night.

  The trees were beginning to bud out and the long branches created a mesh overhead that would have, on another evening, seemed like a protective embrace. Tonight, however, the shadows from the streetlights fell through the moving branches like stark points of electric current, painting our faces a ghostly gray.

  We walked in silence for three blocks before I said, “Why did you suggest she go downtown? You know Danny’s working right now to book Clarence for Erskin’s murder.”

&nb
sp; “Danny’s not that sloppy. He has information but he needs something to make the charge stick. I know how he works. He doesn’t like for a case to blow up in his face. He’s too ambitious. Wants to move straight to the top and breaking this case will help do it.”

  “We’ll see,” I whispered.

  chapter thirteen

  The auditorium had filled up fairly quickly and I was lucky to slip into a seat in the last row.

  Everyone settled down as Lloyd Benton pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. He tapped the podium for quiet and the last scattered murmuring subsided once he began:

  “I want to thank all of you for being here today. As you know the Chorus has been through a very difficult period, having lost two very distinguished members of our staff under tragic circumstances. It was only fitting to close for three weeks not only to honor their memory but also to work closely with the police to assure the safety and security of our choristers. Thanks to some very fine detective work, a suspect was apprehended ten days ago and is facing charges in the death of Dr. Harding.”

  There was a low murmur and he paused to gauge the response before he added: “And the young man, a former member of our chorus whom we tried very hard to rehabilitate, may also be implicated in the death of Gary Mark. Needless to say, this person has been expelled and we can only hope that justice will be done.

  “We would like to put this terrible period behind us now and concentrate on the future. I called this meeting to inform you of our plans to reopen and resume rehearsals in preparation for our upcoming Christmas tour. As you know, we regularly meet on Saturdays, but since we’ve lost three weeks, I’m asking for an additional three hours on Friday afternoon for the rest of the month. This is a small sacrifice. Again, let us put this period behind us and look to the future.”

  There was a mild smattering of applause and I knew the parents were not satisfied with this explanation. Everyone had read the papers. Everyone knew that Clarence had been arrested and was being held on high bail. But based on the street news—which was the real news—very few believed he committed the crime.

  “Violent Animal” was how one downtown scandal sheet had headlined him, with very little information to back up the description. “Troubled Home Life of Chorister,” reported another paper. Both had had Clarence’s picture plastered across the front pages but there was no story. His mother had checked out of the hospital and could not be found, and Mrs. Johnson, to her credit, had refused to be interviewed. So this had left the reporters with their usual “unnamed sources” and vivid imaginations to fill in the blanks.

  The night of the arrest, the ten o’clock news had shown Clarence being led from the precinct by Danny Williams, looking stern with badge pinned prominently to his lapel.

  It looked good on television but to date there still was no confession.

  “What’s going to happen to Clarence? Where is this leading? Danny must know he’s not guilty.”

  I had put these questions to Tad and was desperate for answers.

  Danny, he said, was not discussing anything with him, but he suspected that Clarence was being used in order to draw in the real thing.

  “Sacrificing Clarence seems more like it,” I said. “The boy has been locked up nearly two weeks already.”

  “Mali, I don’t know what to say. Sometimes, ambition can get the better of the best of us …”

  I wondered where Danny had gone that night after the camera’s bright lights had faded. Home to his ailing wife to complain about how tough life was in the big city or to his fly girl’s bedroom to celebrate. Probably went to the girlfriend. A shorter trip made for a longer night.

  The crowd in the auditorium stirred impatiently, waiting for Lloyd to conclude, eager to ask questions.

  I scanned the audience, trying to find Mrs. Johnson, but she was not there. I looked around at the faces nearest me and from their expressions knew that the director was in for some hard questions.

  “How do you intend to secure the safety of the choristers?” a tall man with the heft of a linebacker asked. “There are nearly three hundred children here at any one time. Do you intend to have three hundred cops stationed at each rehearsal and ready to walk each student home? What’s to prevent another attempt at kidnapping?”

  His question was met with loud whistles. Some parents stomped their feet as if they were at the Garden in the crucial minutes of a Knicks game.

  Lloyd drew his breath and held up his hands for several seconds before quiet was restored. “Let’s try to deal with the reality of the situation,” he said. “We all know that total security is not possible anywhere. Not even at the U.N. Or the White House in Washington. And we all know that it is up to us, the parents and friends who care enough for our choristers, to assume the responsibility for their safety. There are some things that we must do for ourselves. No one else should be made to assume those roles.”

  “But that boy they holdin’ wasn’t charged with no kidnap. He was charged with manslaughter,” another parent said, rising quickly to his feet. “Where do the kidnap fit in? The cops got ’im in jail but the guy that did the snatch is still on the loose. Remember them two little kids that disappeared from that playground down on Lenox? They ain’t been found to this day.

  “You sayin’ we gotta put this and put that behind us. That’s what them politicians always be sayin’. Well me, I ain’t no politician so I ain’t puttin’ nuthin’ behind me. I’m just a parent, worried about my son and lookin’ for some answers …”

  More shouting and applause until someone else, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, rose. “I’m sorry. I came today to see what was gonna be done about the kidnapping. You’re right we got a responsibility, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. But we don’t need to be wastin’ any more time talkin’ about who’s in jail. That other man is still walkin’ these streets. We need to know that our children are gonna be safe. We’re taxpayers. Our kids got a right to be safe while they on these streets.”

  I watched Lloyd’s eyebrows come together in the telltale line. The meeting was not going as planned so this session would be drawing to a close. Fast.

  “The police have promised unmarked cars, more plainclothesmen patrolling the area, and random auto checks,” he said, trying to control the edge creeping into his tone.

  “Random checks.” A woman next to me laughed aloud. “Now, that’s a joke. We’ve been having these so-called random checks on our streets for years. I haven’t seen any improvement, have you?”

  She turned away from me and I shook my head, beginning to feel sorry for the director. Still, he had a point. It was up to us to think about our children’s safety. I stood up to voice my opinion, and more to the point, to let Lloyd and everyone else know that Clarence was innocent until proven guilty—arrest or no arrest.

  But the director held up his hands again. “I expect to see those choristers on Friday after school who are ready, willing, and able to work.” His eyes flashed beneath the black line. “And I suggest to those who are concerned with public safety—safety in our streets as taxpayers—to please contact the captain of your precinct or your local politician. Our most important tour—the Christmas tour—will be here before we know it. I intend for it to be our most successful event ever.”

  He thanked the parents for coming out to such a successful meeting and turned and left the stage.

  Two weeks later, four weeks after Clarence had been arrested, the City Sun revealed that a bond had been posted and he had been released.

  I spread the paper out on the dining table and gazed out of the window. Who had posted the bail? Who?

  It was time to see Bertha to catch up on the latest street news but I needed some other information first.

  The lobby of the World Trade Center was jammed with a noontime crowd, and a line of tourists and business types waited behind the red velvet rope for the private elevator to take them to the restaurant on the 106th floor.

  I had been surprised when Melissa Stew
art agreed to meet me and was further surprised as she approached. We were the same age, give or take a year or two, but her hair, done up in a conservative French twist, was already streaked with gray. Only her high heels and the mauve skirt hovering just at her knees indicated how young she really was.

  She was not exactly pretty and she had never gone in for the latest makeup fads—just lipstick and perfume was all she needed, she said.

  Apparently that had been enough, the proof being her recent engagement to a civil court judge. She raised her hand now to brush a strand of hair back in place and the flash on her finger was the brightest thing I had seen outside of Tiffany’s.

  Her embrace was genuine and she held me at arm’s length: “Well, look at you, Mali. My goodness, it’s good to see you even if you are still thin as ever.”

  She laughed easily and I tried to act casual as the speed of the elevator caused my ears to sing. The doors finally opened and we stepped into the mirrored and curtained foyer of Windows on the World where relays of maître d’s moved with impeccable swiftness to guide us to our table.

  The murmur around us was low and expensive and the floor-to-ceiling windows radiated light from a sky that resembled an artist’s mixture of pink and purple. Across the Hudson, New Jersey looked like beautiful country.

  I turned away when the Goodyear blimp floated by close enough to cast a shadow across my plate.

  “Nice place. You come here often?”

  “Not really,” Melissa said. “Only with the out-of-town clients who want to see what this is all about. Most days, I’m buried in paper in the office.”

  The waiter leaned over four pieces of crystal stemware to hand me a gold-embossed menu.

  “Well, I wish I could say ‘Let’s just enjoy lunch’ but I need to know something about someone who was recently killed uptown.”

  “Oh yes. Gary Mark. I know who you’re talking about. He was something of a legend down here. Young, single, seen everywhere with the model of the moment. Gary was a trader who knew everybody and who hosted some of the wildest parties this side of … well, they were just wild. Even by Wall Street standards. Rumor had it that he never served food, but there was a menu listing every kind of drug you could dream of and some that didn’t even have a name yet, just colors. The parties lasted for days at a time.”