On a good day, one could observe patients of all stripes in Doc’s waiting room. The aged, slender, Lithuanian Jew was Southville’s only physician. Sure, folks could go up to Rockford or even Peoria, but then they might have to pay.
A bell chimed as George opened the door. Doc Shapiro was examining a screaming child in his exam room. Two other children waiting were mortified at what may happen to them. Their mothers admonished their fears, demanding they not become an embarrassment. When the exam room door finally opened, a feisty Irish boy no more than six years old flew out shouting a litany of tear-soaked curses. He hobbled into the arms of his mother on his bandaged left foot as he rubbed his right buttock. Doc Shapiro followed, flannel shirt, rolled sleeves—no lab coat—looking every bit a humble Teamster than a doctor of medicine. He was tall and gaunt. He had big, scarred hands, and a head full of white hair. No one knew where the scars came from. Elliot Caprice may have given him the snow up on the hill. Even at his age, Doc was still the kind of handsome that made him look as if he was in charge. He noticed George standing near the door but did not acknowledge.
“Just a little tetanus shot was all I gave him,” the doctor said, his smooth tenor softening the harsh edges of his Eastern European accent.
“He gonna be alright?” asked the boy’s mother.
“Change his dressing daily.”
The woman spoke to Doc in a lowered voice.
“I’m afraid I can’t pay you just yet. See, his daddy is off in Chicago findin’ work on account of us losin’ this year’s crop. I promise as soon as he comes back…”
The good doctor interjected out of mercy. He was always privy to Southville’s gossip. So many grandmothers sit in his waiting room. He knew her husband left in a drunken huff weeks prior. The crop wasn’t lost. The money for seed disappeared down his gullet. Doc never intended for her to pay. Most likely, no one in his office that day would either. It was a wonder how ol’ Shapiro made a nickel at all.
As Doc showed them out, he turned his attention to George.
“Sheriff Stingley.”
“Doctor Shapiro, I was hoping we might have a word.”
“As you can see, my waiting room is quite full.”
“It’s about Elliot Caprice.”
Doc Shapiro ushered George into his examination room and closed the shades.
“Go on, Reverend.”
George’s father took away his robes years ago, yet folks still thought of him as clergy.
“He’s in jail in St. Louis.”
For a moment, George wondered why he felt the way he did when he delivered bad news to parents.
“What are the charges?”
“Most likely, being colored while minding his own business. He’s in under an alias.”
“Are you able to help, George?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve been sheriff less than a week. He needs a lawyer.”
“He needs his friends, my boy.”
In the space of a short conversation, he went from “Reverend” to “George” to “my boy.” George sat in the chair near Doc Shapiro’s desk.
“We kept in touch until he moved to Chicago.” George shook his head.
“Ah. Chicago.”
“Rumor has it he was on the cops, but fell into some dirt. I hadn’t heard from him for two years. Today, out of the blue…”
“He needs you.”
“It’s Elliot Caprice we’re talking about. He needs an angle.”
George’s hint wasn’t subtle. Doc cut his eyes upward in surrender.
“I’ll have to make a call.”
“To Rabinowitz?”
“This bothers you?”
“I won’t be connected to any friend or associate.”
“Rest assured, Sheriff. Your lawyer is neither friend nor associate of Isadora Rabinowitz.”
Doc dialed a number. George wanted to bolt from the room.
“Ya. It’s Shapiro. Is my cousin in?”
They made conversation in Lithuanian Yiddish. Doc scribbled notes on his apothecary pad. George wondered whether that was one of his methods for concealing secrets. When he hung up, he handed George the note.
“Here is your attorney, Reverend. There will be nothing to pay. You will fetch him from his office in Springfield. His name is Michael Robin. He is a good man, like yourself.”
If George wasn’t so dignified, he would have rolled his eyes.
“I have one request,” said Doc.
“Of course.”
“Please bring him here.”
“He won’t come.”
“Mention it concerns his uncle. He will come.”
George thanked the good doctor, then left as fast as his burly frame could manage.
CHAPTER 4
George could have driven 80 to the 155 but chose U.S. Route 66, the long straight line of asphalt that cut right through Illinois’s flat farmland. A big colored man driving an official vehicle better travel as straight a path as humanly possible. The figurative was closed off the moment he accepted Elliot’s collect call. The literal connected the southern United States right on through to Chicago. He’d be far safer traveling the Mother Road.
Rows of corn stalks glistened in the hundred-degree sun. Cascading arches of illuminated water provided a glorious backdrop, against which wretched lives harvested the grain of kings in the unrelenting sun. Occasionally George glimpsed the dusky faced field-hands completely unable to tell which were Negro. They were lashed together in the bonds of lesser work. Each dolorous soul colored in deep hues of despair.
By noon, he arrived at a nondescript office building that served officers of the Sangamon County circuit court, which was barely a block away. He found Michael Robin and Associates listed on the directory, but as Wills and Probate. George found this odd but not disheartening, at least not until he opened the door to room 202. It was the tiniest two-person office ever rented. Every small window was open, plus a large standing fan in the corner was going. A colored girl in secretary’s attire franticly rummaged through boxes of records that dominated the floor space.
“Excuse me,” George said. He went unnoticed. “Miss!”
Startled, she leapt to her feet. The file she held in one armpit went free, its contents fell on the floor. George knelt to pick them up.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Next time, knock.”
“I did. Called out, too.”
George handed her the folder.
“My name is George Stingley, Southville County Sheriff.”
“Shapiro’s man, yes. Elaine Critchlow, paralegal.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a Negro female in the legal profession.”
“Negro female, hmm?”
“Yes,” George said, legitimately pleased. “I think that’s wonderful.”
“You know, Harriet said the same thing.”
“Harriet?”
“Tubman. We used to discuss my future when she brought me north on the Underground Railroad. Attorney Robin will be just a moment.”
George took off his hat, needing something to do with his hands to ease his embarrassment. Mike Robin entered the room. He was younger than George expected, but gray at the temples. He had a stern look about him. Strong chin. Piercing gaze, with what George’s mother referred to as accusing eyes. His dress was modest: dark suit, white shirt, tie, Florsheim shoes, wire-frame glasses. George wondered if having a colored woman in his employ complicated his reputation.
“Reverend Stingley.”
They shook hands. George appreciated Mike’s grip, which was strong. The grip was the tell. He experienced a lot of weak handshakes once he traded his vestments for a badge.
“I do a lot more policing than preaching these days.”
“Yes, of course.” Mike turned to Elaine. “We’ll be up in St. Louis for the rest of the day, maybe into the night.”
“It’s too hot. Once I file these affidavits, I’m going home.” Elaine flipped her file shut. �
�Great meeting you, Sheriff. Good luck in St. Louis.”
She opened the door, but turned back around.
“Oh,” Elaine said. “Perhaps this is a country thing, but when you refer to a lady as a female, it makes you sound like a breeder. Bye now.”
She shut the door. George looked over to Mike Robin.
“The court clerks love her,” Mike said. George loosened his tie.
They arrived at the St. Louis County Courthouse in time to see Elliot brought past in a group headed to court for hearings. George approached a St. Louis County deputy. Instead of professional courtesy, he was given the third degree, including an inspection of his badge to verify its authenticity. Mike Robin stepped in.
“You have my client in custody. He’s entitled to conference with his counsel.”
As a Midwestern Jewish attorney was more believable than a Negro County Sheriff, Elliot was unshackled. They found an office no larger than a cubby to talk. Once behind a closed door, Mike sat across from George. Elliot perched himself next to his friend, so he could get a good look at the stranger.
“Who’s this?” Elliot asked.
“Mike Robin. He’s a lawyer.”
“I’m an attorney, actually. There’s a difference.”
“Robin, huh? Like the bird.” George’s insides tensed. Elliot had the shit starter sound in his voice.
“Something like that.”
Elliot looked Mike up and down. He then leaned into George’s ear.
“You brought me some cop-a-plea tryin’ to pass—”
“Now hold on a moment, Caprice,” Mike said. A clerk knocked at the door.
“Five minutes!”
“Are you crazy?” George said.
Elliot rose from his seat. George pushed him back down.
“Hey, preacher man!”
“Do you want to stay locked up in here?”
“How you know he’s a decent lawyer?”
“Attorney,” Mike said.
“This is Doc Shapiro’s man, Elliot.”
Elliot stood up straight. He looked more afraid than when he was in the cell.
“Doc knows I was arrested?”
“I asked him for help—”
“You told Doc I was in jail?”
“I had to do something,” George said.
“Not somethin’ like that!” Elliot ran his fingers through his hair. “Christ on the fuckin’ cross.”
“That’s not what’s important now.”
“The name Robin isn’t to hide my Jewishness, Caprice.”
Mike took off his glasses. It was all in the eyes.
“I’ll be damned,” Elliot said. “All grown up, huh?”
“Been out of law school four years.”
Elliot had never seen Mikey Rabinowitz, as he wasn’t allowed inside Izzy’s home. He had claimed it was a business rule. Elliot knew it was because he was colored.
He turned to George, speechless.
“Shapiro didn’t say a word.” George raised his hand as if he was testifying. In court, not church. There was a second knock at the door.
“Wrap it up!”
“Sheriff,” Mike said. “Would you help us out, please?”
George stepped outside to appeal to the deputy who thought he was a fraud. He shut the door, leaving the two who had never met, but knew each other well, alone.
“We don’t have much time,” Mike said, replacing his glasses. “We need to discuss the—”
“I thought you were fat.”
“What?”
“Izzy used to say you were fat. Liked your sweets too much.”
Mike shook his head.
“I lost a lot of weight in college.”
“Where was that, exactly?”
“Caprice, we don’t have time—”
“C’man.”
“Illinois.”
“Good school,” Elliot said. “I went to Bradley for a hot second.”
“I know. My father would rub it in my face.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Elliot fell silent.
“You know,” Mike said. “I tried to get into Bradley. Illinois was my second choice.”
“How’d you get into Illinois, but not Bradley?”
“Jew quotas.” Mike shrugged.
“Ain’t that always the way.”
George returned.
“Any longer, they’ll drag you in front of the judge.”
“What’s the plan, Mikey?”
“I made some calls,” Mike said. “Turns out you’re still a cop.”
“Impossible.”
“Verified with the Superintendent’s office.” Mike consulted his notes. “Assigned Detective Elliot N. Caprice, badge 47-9509-B, Wentworth district. Current status: suspended.”
“Suspended from my neck, maybe.”
“That would explain the gun they found on you,” George said.
“Nobody needs to know that.”
“Why not?”
“I got my reasons, alright?” Elliot ran his fingers through his hair again. “What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?” George said. “The gun is their case against you.”
“Sheriff, what are you investigating these days?”
“What do you mean?”
“Southville is the crime capital of Illinois farm country,” Mike said. “There must be something.”
George thought a moment.
“Before Sheriff Dowd died, he was looking for some rum-runners who brought unsealed Kentucky bourbon into the county.”
“That’s how you became Sheriff?” Elliot laughed. “God really likes you, Georgie.”
“Don’t blaspheme.”
“Hey, better you than that fuckwit Dowd.”
“When you speak of the dead, say something good,” George said.
“Dowd is dead. Good.”
“It could work,” Mike said.
“What could?”
“Nathan White is a material witness to a felony committed in Southville County, Illinois. You called his attorney to get him to comply voluntarily and found out he was in here.” Elliot and George looked at Mike, then to each other.
“Takes after his daddy.”
“No need to insult a guy,” Mike said. “You have jurisdiction. He was a criminal in Southville before St. Louis.”
“Wouldn’t be lying about that.”
“Give it a rest, fat boy,” Elliot said.
“I don’t have a writ from anyone in authority,” George said. “Besides, that’s a federal crime—”
“Nathan White is a colored degenerate they pulled off the floor of a juke joint. No offense.”
“Nathan says ‘none taken.’” Elliot leaned back in the chair.
“There’s still the gun.”
“It’s over a hundred degrees outside,” Mike said, laughing. “Gun or no gun, if you can help them cut down their caseload, you could get Julius and Ethel Rosenberg out of here.”
“Do you understand my position?”
“Psst.” Elliot put his hand up to his mouth. “George is a colored sheriff.”
“Don’t make fun, Elliot.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m not. I’m sweatin’ bullets over here.”
“I can’t stand up in a court of law and pretend cops from another county finding an unregistered firearm on a suspect is just some little thing. Even if I am the Sheriff of Perdition.”
“George has a point, Mikey,” Elliot said. Mike finally rolled his eyes at the sound of his kiddie name.
“The gun isn’t connected to any crimes, is it?”
“None I can remember.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time the cops planted a gun on someone.” Mike shrugged. “That will be my argument, if I have to argue.”
Mike Robin was game. George Stingley was wary. Elliot Caprice was desperate. George nervously rubbed his chin.
“Georgie,” Elliot said. “If I don’t dangle, I’m white. In the worst way.”
Anoth
er knock on the door. George’s jowls pressed into his collar.
“Sheriff?” Mike stood up.
“Shit,” George said.
Hard-luck prisoners jammed the courtroom. As some fool long ago chose the west side of the building to put the windows, the heat from the afternoon sun made everyone impatient, law or accused. The police’s disregard for due process was plain. It sickened Mike Robin to see rows of colored faces suffering the wounds of police brutality. So many black eyes. Swollen jaws through which pleas were mumbled.
After hours of barking legalese in layman’s terms to the throngs appearing pro se, the judge was exhausted. The public defender must have gone fishing. When Nathan White’s case was called, Mike approached the bench with Elliot. The judge was so happy to finally see one other steward of the court he was lose for the play.
Just then, George and Elliot learned the difference between a lawyer and an attorney. Lawyers make trouble for their clients. Attorneys make trouble for everyone else. Mike Robin cited statutes. Alluded to filing motions that would tie up the process. Threatened to file injunctions. Demanded segregated accommodations to protect his client. Before long, the gavel-banger was glad Elliot was someone else’s problem, just as little Mikey Rabinowitz who used to be fat said would happen. Nathan White was swiftly remanded into the custody of the nigger sheriff with the badge that could have come out of a gumball machine. The only snag in the scam was Elliot’s fingerprints. Once processed, they were forever linked to his alias. Now Elliot Caprice would be on the hook for Nathan White’s crimes, thus poor ol’ Nate had to die, yet Elliot didn’t mourn him. He had kept him alive far longer than expected. He deserved to rest.
The return trip to Springfield was silent. The experience left each man reflecting upon his part.
George knowingly attested to the legitimacy of a false identity. Were it ever to get out, it would be another reason for his opponents to push him out of public office. Only the Lord he prayed to knew how much the job dampened his spirit. He spent his life playing respectability politics, yet it earned him no respite from the community’s bigotry. Just another reason to tip-toe instead of live full-throated, which is what he truly deserved.
A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1) Page 3
