07-Shot

by Parnell Hall

  He looked up at me and he said, “Man, you brave.”

  That killed me.

  40.

  THE NICE THING ABOUT taking the day off was it meant I didn’t have to wear my beeper. So I had no idea whether the shit was hitting the fan.

  Of course, it was.

  I called Alice from a pay phone on Broadway. “Hi. Anybody call?”

  “Very funny,” Alice said. “Stanley, I can’t take this anymore.”

  “Just put on the answering machine.”

  “I know, but I kept thinking it might be you.”

  “Then you’d hear my voice and pick up.”

  “I know. I just can’t bear to record these calls either. To have them on tape and have to hear them back.”

  “Don’t save them. Just rewind each time. Let ’em record over each other.”

  “Stanley, don’t give me practical. I’m beyond practical. The phone’s been ringing all day.”

  “All right. Who?”

  “Mostly the cops. Thurman and Reynolds. Mostly Reynolds. And that other one that called last night. And this Poindexter—he’s the worst. He keeps trying to sound calm and polite, but you can tell he’s really upset. And then Wendy/Janet who keeps calling to say all these same people are calling them.”

  “Richard call?”

  “No. Why should he?”

  “I don’t know. Just wondered.”

  “No. Not him and not MacAullif. No one you could call a friend. I’m really hassled, I’m starting to lose it. The mother of one of Tommie’s friends called to try to set up a play date, I almost took her head off.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  A pause. “I know you are. So what you gonna do?”

  “Just hang in there. I’ll be right home.”

  I drove home, parked the car, walked up West End Avenue to my building.

  There was a guy with a briefcase in the lobby sitting by the elevator. As I walked up, Jerry caught my eye and almost imperceptibly shook his head.

  The man stood up. “Stanley Hastings?”

  I hated to let Jerry down by not heeding his warning, but I was in enough trouble already. Whatever it was, I wasn’t running from it.

  “Why?” I said.

  He reached in his jacket pocket, took out a paper, thrust it in my hands. “Subpoena. Don’t blame me, I’m just doing my job. I understand you do this yourself, so you know the drill. The details are all in there. Sorry about this and all that, but you know how it is.”

  The guy smiled at me as if we were old buddies, picked up his briefcase and walked out.

  “I tried to warn you,” Jerry said.

  “You did fine, and I got the signal,” I told him. “I just can’t duck this.”

  I looked at the subpoena in the elevator going up. As expected, it was from Poindexter. I was hereby ordered to appear as a witness for the defense in the case of the People of the State of New York versus Melissa Ford.

  Alice was on the kitchen phone when I walked in. I heard her say, “I told you, I have no idea when he’ll get home, I’ll tell him when he gets in.”

  I heard the sound of the phone being hung up. It was not a gentle sound.

  Alice came barreling out of the kitchen, met me in the foyer. “The cops again. They’re not giving up.”

  “Neither is Poindexter,” I said. “He subpoenaed me in the lobby. I gotta testify for the defense.”

  “What?”

  I handed her the subpoena, headed for the kitchen.

  She trailed after me, torn between reading the damn thing and keeping up. “He subpoenaed you?” She said. “Can he do that?”

  “Evidently. He’s done it. I gotta call Richard.”

  I grabbed the receiver off the wall, called Rosenberg and Stone. It was a bitch getting through. Wendy/Janet wanted to take me to task for all the phone calls they’d been getting. But finally I got Richard on the line.

  “Yeah?” he said. “What’s up?”

  “The cops are on my ass. They haven’t caught up with me yet, but it’s just a matter of time. And Melvin Poindexter’s slapped a subpoena on me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Now I’m a witness for the prosecution and the defense.”

  “Shit.”

  “Do I gotta go?”

  “Of course you gotta go. It’s a subpoena.”

  “Do I have to answer questions?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll be there as your lawyer. I’ll advise you which questions you should answer.”

  “Yeah? Which ones are those?”

  “None of them.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Watch me.”

  I took a breath. “Richard. You’re a lawyer. You understand this stuff. But I don’t know shit. Just what the hell are my rights here?”

  “Don’t get so worked up. We got time on this. When’s the court date?”

  “October 30th.”

  “What’s that, three weeks from Monday? That is soon. So they indicted her for murder, huh?”

  “Yeah. The grand jury worked fast.”

  “Well, I’m sure your testimony was very persuasive.”

  “Fuck you. So how do I deal with this?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get together tomorrow, we’ll go over the whole thing. Can you come in tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “You workin’ tomorrow?”

  “I planned to. Now I don’t know.”

  The phone beeped. We have call waiting, one of the great modern inconveniences. I said, “Hang on, I got a call,” clicked the button down. “Yeah?”

  “Hastings?” came the voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “This is Sergeant Reynolds. I been tryin’ to get you for two days.”

  “I’m on another line, I’ll get back to you,” I said, and clicked the button down again. “Richard?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I got Sergeant Reynolds on the other line. What should I tell him?”

  “Just what I told you. Your attorney’s advised you to make no statement outside his presence. He wants to talk to you, take a number, wait in line.”

  “That’s gonna piss him off.”

  “No shit. You wanna talk to him just to keep him happy?”

  “No way.”

  “No shit. So just give him the message.”

  “What can he do to me?”

  “Theoretically, nothing. In practical terms he can pick you up and run you in.”

  “What do I do then?”

  “What do you think? You’re not talking, you wanna call your lawyer.”

  The phone beeped again. It shouldn’t have done that. With a call waiting, it can’t ring.

  “Hang on,” I said. “Another call.” I clicked it down, said, “Yeah?”

  “Hastings, this is Sergeant Reynolds. I’m not waiting for you to call me back, I need to talk to you now.”

  “Then hold the phone,” I told him, clicked the button down. “Richard?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Reynolds again. Pissed off, demanding satisfaction.”

  “Then give him the spiel.”

  “What spiel?”

  “On the advice of counsel, you’re not talking. I’m your lawyer, if he wants to talk to you, he can call me.”

  “Fine,” I said. I clicked the button down, relayed that message.

  Reynolds was understandably pissed. “You’re making a big mistake,” he growled.

  “On advice of counsel, I have no comment,” I said, and clicked the button again. “Richard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. How’s two o’clock?”

  “If I’m not in jail by then, fine.”

  41.

  I WASN’T IN JAIL. No cops came and picked me up. In fact, after that, things were pretty quiet. I did get one more call from Sergeant Thurman, but it wasn’t bad. He wasn’t
at all unhappy that I had no comment and referred him to my attorney. He realized if I was doing that to him, I was doing it to Reynolds too, which suited him just line. As far as anything connected to my shooting was concerned, he didn’t give a damn. He was perfectly happy if it would just go away. He had his killer, he didn’t need me messing up his case, and if I wasn’t talking it was score one for the good guys. The grand jury had indicted Melissa Ford, she’d been arraigned for murder, and was out on bail. As far as he was concerned, that wrapped up the case until trial, and he wanted nothing more to do with it. If I could manage to fall off the end of the earth in the next few days, that would be just fine with him. So things more or less calmed down.

  I didn’t.

  I was wound up tighter than a spring, jumping every time the phone rang. Snapping at Alice. Being short with Tommie too. I did work the next morning, at Alice’s suggestion. It was a relief just to get me out of the house.

  I dropped Tommie off at the East Side Day School, called in and managed to ram the concept through Wendy/Janet’s head—I had a two o’clock appointment with Richard, but I was working this morning, I could take anything that would be finished before then.

  The result was a ten o’clock in the Eastchester section of the Bronx in a project that turned out to be a cut above most, as far as its cleanliness and my paranoia level. Of course, my mind was so full of other things, it was hard to be nervous about your usual, garden variety junkie. I still watched my back passing stairwells, but not like I really expected anyone to be there. And no one was.

  The client, James Clay, who had fallen in one of those stairwells and broken his left arm, was pleasant and agreeable about pointing it out. And the stairwell actually had a handrail missing, the screw holes of which were gonna show up great in the roll of film I shot. All things considered, the signup was a piece of cake.

  So was the one I did at noon in the Fordham section of the Bronx, signing up a woman who had been hit by a car. It was a hit-and-run, which made it easy on details—no driver’s license, registrations, or names and addresses of defendants to fill in. And no accident photos, just injury shots. A gleaming white leg cast, two full-figure shots, two closeups and call it a day. I got out of there with time to spare to get downtown by two o’clock.

  Only I got beeped. That figured. Count on Wendy/Janet to throw an assignment at me I wouldn’t have time to do.

  But when I called in, it turned out I was wrong. Wendy/Janet was innocent. She’d just beeped me to tell me Richard was tied up and couldn’t make the meeting and to ask if I wanted more work if it came in. I said, sure, what the hell. She didn’t have anything yet, but promised to beep me when she did.

  I hung up the phone feeling betrayed. Shit, Richard, can’t you understand what I’m going through? I mean, I could see it from his point of view. The trial was three weeks off, what difference could it possibly make if we met today? Practically none. But in terms of my peace of mind ...

  I wished to hell Wendy/Janet had had a job. I had nothing pending, so Richard canceling had left me high and dry in the Bronx. With nothing to occupy my mind. Or what was left of it.

  I drove back down through Harlem, stopped at Raheem’s. I had no idea if he was in—I didn’t call, I just took the chance. He wasn’t hanging out in the street, so I went in and rang the bell. Sheila Webb was surprised to see me, but said, yes, Raheem was home. I told her I’d come to take him out.

  We didn’t play basketball this time. In the first place I was in my suit, and in the second place I didn’t have a ball. And I wasn’t really up to another game like the last one. No, I just took him to the store for an ice cream sundae. Just like a big brother. Or a social worker.

  The pusher wasn’t in evidence, so I didn’t have to pull my macho act, shine in the kid’s eyes. That was good. I wasn’t up to the thought of him looking up to me as a hero.

  I found an actual soda fountain a few blocks down. I took Raheem in and ordered us hot fudge sundaes. If the counterman was surprised to see me, he didn’t let on. He served me just like anybody else.

  Raheem and I ate our sundaes in silence. When he finished, he just sat there, staring down at the dish.

  “He bother you?” I said.

  Raheem said nothing, didn’t look up. After a few moments he shook his head no.

  “If he bothers you again, just let me know.” I felt bad saying it—as if I could really do any good. But I felt I had to.

  I signaled the counterman, held out a ten dollar bill. He took it, rang it up, brought back the change. I left a buck on the counter, pocketed the rest. Then looked over at Raheem.

  He hadn’t moved. He was still sitting there, looking at his dish.

  He didn’t move now.

  “Name’s King,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Name’s King. Don’ know what else. Jus’ King. Only name I know.”

  I didn’t have to ask him who he was talking about.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Raheem was quiet walking home. When we got to his door, he went inside without a word. I got in my car and drove off.

  Feelin’ good.

  A breakthrough. A small victory, but mine own. It’s amazing how much better something feels when you really need it. I actually felt like I had accomplished something.

  I drove downtown. No one beeped me by the time I hit my neighborhood, so I parked the car. I wasn’t cruising around Manhattan all day for my health. If no one wanted me, hell, I was going home.

  Someone wanted me. He was standing on the sidewalk, right outside my building.

  Poindexter.

  42.

  “I ASSUME YOU GOT my subpoena.”

  “You can assume anything you like.”

  Poindexter smiled. “All right, then. I know you got my subpoena. I have the process server’s affidavit.”

  “Good for you.”

  I started into the building. Poindexter moved in front of me, put up his hand.

  “We really need to talk.”

  “My attorney is Richard Rosenberg. He’s making all statements for me.”

  Poindexter nodded. “Understandable. Statements, sure. I wouldn’t want you to make a statement. I’m suggesting a little talk off the record.”

  “My attorney talks off the record too.”

  Poindexter frowned, then nodded. “I’d like to talk to your attorney. Let’s go see him.”

  “He’s in court.”

  Poindexter frowned again. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  “No shit.”

  “Look,” Poindexter said. “My client’s been indicted for murder. I have the responsibility of preparing her defense. And you have information that may be critical to that defense.”

  “I told you that last week.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “You didn’t want to hear it.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “The information is the same.”

  “Yes, but you got shot.”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t be silly. Getting shot gives you credibility. Before, you were pissing in the wind. You had nothing. Just a wild theory. Getting shot is a hell of a confirmation.”

  “Glad you like it. Maybe I can get knifed tomorrow and make your day.”

  Poindexter looked at me. “What are you holding out for, money? You still pissed off that you got fired? If that’s your tack, you’re wasting your time. She couldn’t hire you now. It would be like buying your testimony. It would ruin your credibility with the jury.”

  “You mean I’d have to get shot again to be believed?”

  His face darkened. “I’m glad you think it’s so funny. There’s a woman on trial for murder. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t do it. And you’re going to let her hang. For what? Out of petty spite? ‘You fired me, so you can take the fall?’ That’s a hell of an attitude. Hardly understandable. But if that’s your game, that’s your game.”

  Poindexter
drew himself up, stuck out his chest. Or more precisely his stomach, which preceeded it by a good deal. “If you don’t wanna talk now, you have that right. But don’t think that’s the end of it. You got your subpoena, and you’re going to court. When I get you on the stand, you’re gonna talk. And if we haven’t talked first, you’re gonna be on the stand a long time. I’ll be able to show you wouldn’t talk to me, and I’ll be able to get you declared a hostile witness. Which means I can ask leading questions. Which means I can delve. We’ll talk then, and we’ll talk all day long.”

  He paused, took a breath, then lowered his voice, as if conspiratorially. “And if you win, and if you beat me at the game—which I don’t think is possible, but say you do—then what do you win? The satisfaction of seeing an innocent woman found guilty of murder.” Poindexter shook his head. “Boy, that’s gotta be some satisfaction. That’s gotta be some feather in your cap.”

  He paused, shook his head again.

  “You must be awfully proud of yourself.”

  43.

  I WOULDN’T WANT YOU to think it was Poindexter that wore me down. As far as I was concerned, that smug son of a bitch could talk himself blue in the face and it wouldn’t cut no ice with me.

  And it wasn’t MacAullif telling me I’d have to live with myself, either, though that certainly was true.

  No, in the end I think what really got to me was Raheem Webb telling me I was brave.

  That was the ultimate irony. That was the killer. The thing was, Raheem Webb was the one positive thing I managed to do, the one thing in my life right now that I could be proud of and feel good about.

  Only I couldn’t. His thinking me brave had soured that. And the thing was, there was nothing I could do about it. What could I do, tell him, no, I’m not brave, I’m a chickenshit? Tell him the only reason I’m with him now is ’cause I’m running away from something else? Well, not the only reason—I’m a softhearted schmuck and I was trying to help the kid, but you know what I mean.

  It wore me down. It ate away at me.

  And it balanced in the great scale of things.

  On one side, the fear of the Black Death. And of the white hospital room. And of the ether and the void. The loss of wife and kid. The loss to wife and kid. And the pain. Fear of the pain. Fear of the hurt. Fear of the horse—fuck you, MacAullif.