by Parnell Hall
“Then who gives a shit?”
I knew I had to hook him right away or I was out the door. I took out the subpoena and threw it on his desk.
“They’re hauling me in front of the grand jury and forcing me to testify against my own client. I don’t wanna do it.”
Richard picked up the subpoena, looked at it. “They subpoenaed you?”
“They sure did.”
“Well, what do you want me to do, quash the subpoena?
“What does that mean, get me out of it?”
“That’s right.”
“Absolutely. Can you do it?”
“No.”
“Then why did you bring it up?”
“To see if that was what you wanted me to do. If it was, it would end the discussion.”
“Okay, then that’s not what I want you to do.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I need advice.”
“Legal advice?”
“Of course.”
“You know what my rates are?”
“No, I don’t. Do you know what mine are? Ten bucks an hour and thirty cents a mile.”
Richard frowned. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, I do an awful lot of your work. If I go to jail, you’re gonna have to get someone to replace me.”
“You’re not going to jail. You’re a witness, not a suspect.”
“Yeah, but I don’t wanna testify. If I don’t get some good legal advice, I’m apt to find myself in contempt of court for refusing to answer questions.”
Richard thought that over. He nodded approvingly. “Very good. Very good. You’ve come up with a very logical argument why I should help you.”
“So, you gonna?”
Richard picked up a pencil, drummed it on the desk. He cocked his head. “You shoot the shots of that kid’s forehead yet?”
“You mean Raheem Webb?”
“If that’s the kid with the stitches, yeah.”
“I haven’t reached him yet.”
“I want fresh shots.”
“I called but the kid wasn’t home.”
“Was that today?”
“No. Yesterday.”
“You haven’t tried today?”
“Not yet.”
Richard scooped up the phone, pushed the intercom. “Yeah,” he barked. “Call up ... what was the name again?”
“Raheem Webb.”
“Yeah, call Raheem Webb’s mother, find out if he’s there, tell him to stay there because Stanley’s coming by to take the shots.”
Richard slammed down the phone, looked back at me.
“It’s a bad case, Richard,” I said.
“So you say.”
“I’m telling you, it is.”
“Bad case, good case, the shots are still the shots. If I go ahead with it, I want ’em fresh.”
I had to hand it to Richard. He knew damn well I didn’t like the Raheem Webb case, and he must have suspected I was dragging my heels on the photo assignment—which wasn’t actually true, I just hadn’t been able to do it, but he didn’t know that. At any rate, without actually saying so, he had managed to set up the situation as an if-then proposition. He would “give in” and advise me about my grand jury testimony, if I would stop making a stink about the Raheem Webb case and go take the accident pictures.
It was a big victory for Richard. No, not the Raheem Webb case—he could bully me into doing that anyway. But now he could act put upon while pontificating about grand juries, which I’m sure was something he secretly wanted to do anyway.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll take your pictures. Now tell me what I can do.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“How specific do I have to be? They’re gonna ask me to testify and I don’t wanna.”
“Yeah, but to what? What’s the story?”
I told him the whole thing. From Melissa Ford hiring me, to Melissa Ford firing me, to the cops picking me up and Sergeant Thurman questioning me. A lot of that he already knew, of course, what with the cops calling the office to have Wendy/Janet beep me, first to pick me up and second to serve the subpoena. But most of the details were new.
And I told him about my post-murder investigation. From Charles Olsen’s drug record, to tailing him, to tailing Alan Harrison, to finding the Black Death. I told him about my conversations with Poindexter, and Poindexter’s apparent lack of faith in his client.
He never interrupted once. He just sat there, hunched over at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers occasionally drumming a tattoo on the desk as if to accent something I’d just said.
When I was finished, he cocked his head at me and said, “So. No wonder you don’t have time to take pictures for me.”
“All of that was on my own time, Richard.”
He waved it away. “Sure, sure. So whaddya want?”
“I told you. I don’t wanna testify.”
“You have to testify. You’re a witness.”
“Yes, but to what? The way I see it, I only know what I told her and she told me.”
“What you told her is what you personally observed.”
“True.”
“And what she told you is an admission against interest.”
“Shit.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“Actually, I did. I hoped I was wrong.”
“Well, you’re not. But what’s the big deal? I thought you said she already told all this to the cops.”
“Yeah, but the lawyer thinks maybe he can suppress her statement.”
“Perhaps he can. But not before the grand jury.”
“Why not?”
“Because he won’t be there. The prosecutor can do any damn thing he likes. He can call the officers and have them testify she made that statement.”
“Will the judge allow it?”
“What judge?”
“The judge in charge of the grand jury.”
Richard looked at me. “There’s no judge on a grand jury.”
I blinked. “What?”
“There’s no judge. There’s just the prosecutor and the grand jurors.”
I stared at him. “Richard, that makes no sense.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s unfair.”
He shrugged. “Who said anything about fair? That’s why an indictment’s not like a conviction. It doesn’t mean anything. Because, the way it’s set up, basically a prosecutor could get anybody indicted for anything at all if he really wanted to. The defendant isn’t there, the attorneys aren’t there, the judge isn’t there. The only one there is the prosecutor, telling the grand jurors what he wants them to do. Callin’ only the witnesses he wants to call and askin’ them only the questions he wants to ask.”
“Aren’t the grand jurors allowed to ask questions too?”
“Sure. They have that right. But with the prosecutor moving things along, you think they ever get a chance? It’s not like he ever says, “Well folks, any of you got any questions of this guy?” They’d have to interrupt him to get a question in.”
I could feel my heart sinking. This meeting was supposed to calm me down. To allay my fears of going in front of the grand jury. Instead, it was as if my worst nightmare were coming true.
I took a breath. “Richard.”
“Yeah?”
“Come with me.”
“What?”
“Come with me to the grand jury. Represent my interests.”
Richard chuckled, shook his head. “You don’t want me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t. See, you don’t understand. That’s the only good thing about a grand jury hearing. A witness before a grand jury has immunity.”
“Oh?”
“No matter what you testify to, you can’t be prosecuted. Oh, if you lie, they can get you for perjury. But if you tell the truth, they can’t get you on any count whatsoever for this crime.”
�
�That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Maybe not. But get this. If you have a lawyer there when you testify, the only way you can do that is if you waive immunity. And why would you wanna do that just to have a lawyer there when he can’t do anything anyway?”
“He can’t do anything?”
“No. He can’t ask questions, he can’t object, all he can do is sit there and watch his client testify.”
“So what’s the point?”
“There isn’t any. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Look, you’re making a big fuss over nothing. If they wanna indict, they’re gonna indict. That’s a given. So what you testify to doesn’t matter. And if it’s hearsay and inadmissible, then when you get into a courtroom it won’t be admitted. The jury won’t hear it and there’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, but ...”
“But what?”
“There’s other stuff I don’t wanna talk about.”
“What other stuff?”
“The stuff I did after. Charles Olsen, Alan Harrison and the Black Death.”
“Yeah, but they don’t know, so who’s gonna ask you?”
“I don’t know, but it might come up.”
“So what if it does? That don’t hurt your client any. In fact, it helps her. It’s evidence someone else might have committed the crime.”
“I know that. But ...”
“But what?”
“Well, Poindexter won’t be there, but he’ll get a transcript of the testimony, right?”
“Not necessarily. Only if they go to trial. Then he’ll get it as part of the Rosario material.”
“The what?”
“Rosario material. Like Miranda decision. It’s a precedent. Someone named Rosario got to see some material, now everyone gets to see it. See?”
“Yeah. Well, then he’ll see it. And it’s work I did for him, and I don’t want the son of a bitch getting the information unless he pays me for it.”
Richard spread his hands wide. “Aha! A purely selfish, mercenary motive. I love it.”
The phone rang. Richard scooped it up. “Yeah?” He listened a moment, said, “Good, make sure he stays put,” hung up the phone and turned back to me. “The kid is home. You can go take the pictures.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But what? You got nothing to worry about. As far as you’re concerned, you got immunity. As far as that other shit’s concerned, they’re not gonna ask you about it. As far as what you told your client and your client told you, don’t sweat it, just testify to it. They’re gonna indict anyway, so what’s the big deal? When they get into court they’ll have to ask those questions again, and then her attorney will be there objecting to every one.”
“Yeah, maybe, but—”
“But nothing. Look, I’m glad you’re greedy and I’m sorry you’re paranoid, but there’s nothing I can do about either one. If you got a problem, a legitimate problem, give me a call. But the fact is, you don’t. The fact is, you worry too much.”
Richard smiled benevolently, as if he’d just solved all my personal problems. Then he leaned back in his chair and cocked his head.
“Now,” he said, “if it’s not too much trouble, you think you could get some shots of that kid’s forehead before the damn thing heals?”
24.
I WAS IN A FOUL MOOD driving up to Harlem to take the shots of Raheem Webb. I think I’ve said that before—about being in a foul mood, I mean. In point of fact, practically ever since I met Melissa Ford I’d been in a foul mood. And, ever since I met Raheem Webb I’d been in a foul mood. Either of those cases alone was enough to make me less than happy. Taken together, they were almost more than I could bear.
My interview with Richard had not cheered me. Despite his assurances, I was convinced my appearance before the grand jury was going to be a total disaster. Everything pointed to it. I had information I wanted to conceal. Somehow, someway, they were gonna ask some question that called for it. And what was I gonna do then? Answer? Refuse to answer? Challenge the prosecutor on procedure? That would be great—I wonder if anyone had ever done that before. And if I did, what would happen then? Well, I know what would happen—the prosecutor would say I was out of line and to shut up and answer the damn question. And if I didn’t answer it, they’d find me in contempt of court. But wait, who would find me in contempt of court? There’s no judge.
But that didn’t matter, did it? Because Richard said they could find me guilty of perjury. So if they could find me guilty of perjury, they must be able to find me guilty of contempt. So who cares how they do it, the fact is they could do it. The only thing they couldn’t find me guilty of was the murder itself, because I had immunity.
Well, that started a train of thought. Son of a bitch. I had immunity. Immunity for the murder. So what if ...?
Immediately in my mind I began playing out a movie scenario. I’m on the stand and the prosecutor is questioning me and I say, “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Melissa Ford didn’t commit this crime. I ought to know, because I shot the son of a bitch myself.”
Wow! That would rock ’em in their sockets. I’d clear Melissa Ford of the crime, and they couldn’t prosecute me for it because I’d have immunity.
My bubble immediately burst. For the murder, yeah. But they could prosecute me for perjury. And that’s what I’d be committing.
Of course, they’d have to prove it. That would be a neat case. The prosecutor would have to prove I didn’t commit the murder. “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I intend to prove that the defendant, Stanley Hastings, did not kill the decedent, David Melrose.” Wow. Tough assignment, proving a negative. I wondered if he could do it?
I was still wondering about it when I pulled up in front of Raheem Webb’s building. That snapped me out of it. Bye bye, daydreams, hello, harsh reality.
There were a couple of kids hanging out on the front steps. They might have been some of the ones who’d been hanging out there before, but I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t noticed them particularly at the time. But I did notice one of them was wearing a beeper.
I looked around when I got out of my car, but Raheem’s pusher was nowhere in sight. That was good. I had enough problems without dealing with him too. I locked up my car and went in, receiving my usual creature-from-another-planet stares from the kids on the front steps.
Sheila Webb let me in. If she’d been uncomfortable at my first visit, this time she was even more so. She had trouble even meeting my eyes. She led me into the living room, said, “I’ll get Raheem,” and went off to do that.
I was wearing my camera on a strap around my neck, or on my shoulder, actually. I put my left arm through and pull it over my head so the strap is on my right shoulder and the camera hangs down my left side under my jacket, useful for hospitals and places where I’m not supposed to have it. It always strikes me as sort of funny—I wear it where most private detectives would wear a gun.
I reached under my jacket, tugged the camera out, slid the lens cover open, checked the film. I had twelve pictures left on the roll. Good. That should be more than enough for simple injury shots.
I realized I was fiddling with the camera so I wouldn’t have to think about Raheem Webb—just as his mother had gone off to get him so she wouldn’t have to deal with me.
From the bedroom I heard, “Raheem, lord, what is the matter with you?”, then some indistinguishable mumbling, then, “Get along now, the man is waiting.” Moments later Sheila appeared, prodding Raheem along. Her manner was irritated, but at the same time more relaxed than when she’d opened the door. Raheem’s stubbornness had given her a focus, allowed her to deal with the boy rather than with me. She indicated me, of course, but only as the man who was waiting, then turned back to glare at Raheem in exasperation.
On the other hand, I had to admit her impatience with the boy was totally warranted. Standing in the doorway, his head down, his chin set, his lips curled into a sneer, his eyes focused somewhere on the floor, h
e certainly looked like a sullen punk.
I had a sudden wild impulse to raise the camera and fire off a shot of the two of them together. A family photo. I restrained it. Get a grip on yourself. Just get the shots and get out of here.
I still hadn’t seen the wound. Raheem’s bandages were off, but he now wore a blue knit cap which was pulled down over his forehead. The cap now drew his mother’s ire. She batted at it, said, “Come on, boy, get that off and let the man see.”
He batted back at her, all loose-limbed and ungainly, reminding me how young he was for one so tall. He kind of slumped on his tailbone on the door frame, reached up and tugged off the cap.
Jesus Christ.
The bandages were off, but the stitches were still in. Forty-four of them, in two jagged rows. From just over his left eye all the way to the hair line on the right. The scar tissue was still fresh, a mottled red and pink, crosshatched with the black stitches, an ugly inch-wide headband cutting across three-quarters of the forehead, a brutal contrast with the coal black skin. It was enough to turn your stomach.
Richard would love it.
I wasn’t gonna ask the kid to move, pose, stand in the light or anything else. I just walked up to him, raised the camera and fired off shot after shot.
I finished the roll, lowered the camera, hit the button to rewind the film.
I said, “Thanks, Raheem,” then turned to his mother, said, “Thanks, Mrs. Webb. That’s all I need.”
She still wasn’t ready to deal with me. She nodded an acknowledgement, but her eyes were on her son. “Raheem,” she said, “walk the man down to his car.”
I put up my hand. “That’s not necessary.”
She put up hers. “No, no. Raheem will walk you down. Raheem?”
Raheem casually kicked one foot lazily against the floor, waggled his head a few times, then reached up and pulled on the cap. He pushed himself away from the door frame and shuffled loose-limbed and gangly across the room, never once glancing in my direction.
His mother sighed, shook her head as if to say, “Boys,” then looked down at the floor.
There was no use protesting any further. I nodded my farewell to the top of her head and followed her son out the door.
It was on my way down the stairs that the whole thing hit me. The scar on his forehead. The beeper on his belt, which I assumed he was still wearing, though with his T-shirt pulled out I couldn’t tell. And the mother who couldn’t meet my eyes.
