by Parnell Hall
Fear of the fear.
Jesus.
Fear of the fear.
And on the other side, the guilt, the shame. Having to face Alice. Having to face Tommie. Varying degrees there. Tommie too young to know, too young to understand. Having bounced back from the initial fear, now a big man on campus with his father being shot. Alice old enough to know, to know all too well, and to be there. Loving, supporting, understanding. Understanding all too well. What I lacked, why I couldn’t. But not complaining, not reproaching. Just encouraging. Helping. Loving. Being there. And knowing, as MacAullif had said, that I had to live with it. And she had to live with me. And we had to live with it together. Our burden.
And then Raheem.
Raheem, who had no fucking idea what was really going on at all. Who looked at me now with something just short of adulation. No, kid, no. I can take anything, almost anything, but you thinking of me as brave.
As I say, it wore me down. I suffered all weekend the torments of the damned. Sunday night I nearly slept a wink.
Monday morning I was waiting for Richard when he showed up at his office.
“I wanna make a deal.”
44.
THE CAST WAS ASSEMBLED.
Present in the interrogation room were me, Richard, Sergeant Reynolds, Sergeant MacAullif, and the stenographer. We were there only after considerable discussion which had hammered out the arrangements. One aspect of this discussion had naturally been concerned with the persons present. Or rather, who they would be.
Sergeant Thurman and A.D.A. McNulty were not present. Their inclusion had been considered and rejected. Though it was agreed that they would probably need to become involved at a later time.
Also not present was Melvin C. Poindexter, though, in his case, his inclusion had never even been considered.
As to our respective parts, I was there to recite, and the stenographer was there to take it down. Sergeant MacAullif was there as an interested observer. Sergeant Reynolds was nominally in charge. But everyone knew it was Richard’s show.
“Now,” Richard said. “Let’s make sure we have the ground rules clear. My client is going to make a statement. The stenographer is going to take it down. When my client is finished, the stenographer is going to leave to type up that statement for my client to sign. Any questions you might wish to ask will be off the record, and not part of my client’s statement. Even then, I will use my discretion in advising him whether to answer them.”
Richard looked around the table in case anyone wished to protest.
Sergeant Reynolds didn’t. He’d taken a big enough beating during the prior negotiation. You could tell he was smoldering, but he wasn’t about to make a fuss.
“Let’s just get on with it,” he said irritably.
“Fine,” Richard said. “And in return for this voluntary statement, supplying you with additional facts which may be of aid to you in your investigation, you have agreed that no action will be taken against my client for any failure on his part to supply you with this information during any prior interrogation.”
Reynolds seethed, said nothing.
“Please say ‘yes’ for the record,” Richard said, nodding at the stenographer.
“Yes,” Reynolds hissed.
“Nor will any attempt be made to take action against my client for finding any prior statement inconsistent, inaccurate, insufficient, or even false.”
Reynolds took a breath. “Right.”
“My client is under no obligation to be here,” Richard said. “And I might advise him to get up and leave at any time. He is here because he wishes to do his civic duty and aid the police in their investigation. His intentions are commendable, and should not lay him open to censure.”
“He’s a saint,” Reynolds said. “May we proceed?”
“If all that is agreed to, we may.”
“You got it,” Reynolds said. “Now, let’s hear it.”
I told the story, told it all. Starting with what I told the grand jury about following David Melrose for Melissa Ford. I told of following David Melrose to SoHo, and seeing him pick up something from Charles Olsen.
I moved on to the work I did after I was fired, pulling Olsen’s record, finding out he had a history of drugs. And then checking with the art director and the mail room and finding out David Melrose had no business reason to be seeing Charles Olsen.
I told of tailing Charles Olsen to the house in Harlem, and seeing him deliver the package to Alan Harrison. And subsequently tailing Harrison to the same house, seeing him pick up another package and leave with the Black Death.
I could see Sergeant Reynolds starting to squirm. Not surprising. He doesn’t give a damn about this, he wants to hear about the shot. All right, sergeant, here goes.
I’d gone over this carefully with Richard, so I knew exactly how to start. “It was Friday, September 29th,” I said. “Late afternoon, say four, four-thirty. I spotted the man I call the Black Death coming out of the building where he lived carrying a paper bag.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. It was Sergeant Reynolds. His eyes narrowed, murderously.
I ignored him, went on. I told of following the Black Death down the street to the empty lot, following him into the abandoned building and getting shot.
“End of statement,” Richard said. “Just type that up and my client will sign it.”
Sergeant Reynolds was on his feet. “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” he said.
Richard looked at him in surprise. “Sergeant, remember the ground rules.”
“Ground rules, my ass! You told me this guy was gonna augment his statement.”
“That’s just what he’s done.”
“The hell he has. Augment, my ass! Suddenly you got a drug ring, a motive, and he saw the shooter!”
“Tut, tut,” Richard said. “He never saw him shoot.”
“You think I give a fuck?” Reynolds roared. “You think that’s not enough to make a case? Jesus Christ! You tell me this guy’s gonna come in here and add a few details. A few small things that he forgot to mention.”
Richard came to his feet, finger pointing, eyes flashing. His nasal bark cut through the room like a whiplash. “Hold it right there, sergeant! You call me a liar and you’ve bought yourself a lawsuit. There are witnesses here. You wanna tell me what I said, then don’t you misquote me. Did I ever use the word ‘forgot’? Did I say these were things he had ‘forgotten’ to mention? No, I told you my client had remembered some things he had neglected to tell you. Well, he does remember them. If you don’t like it, that’s tough shit, but you haven’t got a leg to stand on, so back the hell off.”
Richard wheeled on the stenographer. “You takin’ this down?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. Per agreement, I stopped when he stopped.”
“Too bad,” Richard said. “I probably could have had a cause of action just from your notes.” He wheeled back on Reynolds. “Now let’s cut out the bellyaching about who didn’t say what when. We got some new information to deal with. I suggest you accept it as given, take a good hard look at it, and figure out just what the hell you’re gonna do.”
45.
IT WASN’T THAT EASY. Sergeant Reynolds was fit to be tied. In spite of our agreement, he just wouldn’t let go. He kept coming back to my original statement. Pointing out the inconsistencies. He kept demanding to know how Richard could reconcile my current statement with that. Richard pointed out that it was perfectly consistent for a person who had amnesia to gradually recall more and more details. Without, of course, actually stating that I had had amnesia, or admitting that I hadn’t. Sergeant Reynolds had a few choice comments to say about that. Fortunately, none of them were being taken down. At any rate, it was a while before the smoke cleared and we could begin discussing it rationally.
When we did, the first order of business was who should be told. Sergeant Thurman was voted out. At least at the present time. Reynolds and MacAullif kicked it around a bit, but they both
agreed Thurman would neither appreciate nor credit my story in its present form. It would be, to Sergeant Thurman’s point of view, not hard evidence, and insufficient to influence his investigation. However, if it panned out, if something more than my unsubstantiated statement should turn up, if what I said should be corroborated in any way, at that point he would need to be informed.
I must say that through all this, neither MacAullif nor Reynolds said anything that could be considered disparaging of a fellow officer. Nonetheless, both made it quite clear that in Sergeant Thurman’s case, the later he could be informed the better.
In A.D.A. McNulty’s case, it was decided he would have to be told that a matter had come up which might create a problem with the case. But it should be soft-pedaled, down-played, and he should be spared as many details as possible. Just alerted to the fact the cops were investigating, and if anything came up, he would be the first to know.
In short, what was decided was that what I had just told the police should be treated as matters bearing on the investigation of my shooting, rather than matters bearing on the investigation of David Melrose. Undoubtedly, a wise decision.
With that squared away, Reynolds finally got to where he wanted to be. Which was the question of what to do next. My statement had left him with a very big problem. Now he knew who the shooter was. But he didn’t have a damn thing on him.
Reynolds and MacAullif worked on it together. It was Reynolds’s case, of course, but MacAullif had a vested interest, and he kept his hand in. Here’s what they found out.
First off, Charles Olsen had a history of drug arrests. MacAullif already knew that, but it was an eye-opener for Sergeant Reynolds. Yeah, I’d mentioned it in my statement, but that hadn’t really thrilled him. It was a little different when he saw the rap sheet in black and white.
What really got him was that Alan Harrison had one too. Just one, and just possession, and nearly ten years old. But it all tied in. My stock, which had been subzero with Reynolds, actually began to rise.
The only one they had no info on was the shooter. That was not surprising. You can’t just go to the computer and ask for the rap sheet on the Black Death. Even with the guy’s address, that’s not gonna fly. No, the only way to do it would be for me to I.D. him to the cops, and then for them to investigate and find out who he was.
But no one really wanted to do that. If these guys were trafficking, they’d be on the alert. The hint of any investigation would tip ’em off. If that happened, they could clean up their act and sit tight, and the cops could try to bust ’em till doomsday and it would do no good.
Worse, we would have shot our wad. In terms of the shooting, at least. There was only a slim chance to make that stick. If we went for it, it was one time, over and out. In terms of the shooting, there was one prayer, and one prayer only. That the Black Death was stupid enough to keep the gun. If so, a tipoff would be fatal.
No shit.
The problem was, practically anything would be fatal.
But that’s why we chose to go the way we chose to go.
46.
MACAULLIF DIDN’T LIKE IT. Funny, since he was the one who’d pushed me into it. But when push came to shove, he was the one with the cold feet.
I know he was only warning me. But it was almost as if he were trying to talk me out of it.
“You understand how it’s gonna go?” he said.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
We were sitting (where else?) in a small coffee shop, downtown, near One Police Plaza. We’d just come from a skull session with Reynolds, where we’d all agreed on what I was gonna do.
“I’m not sure you do,” MacAullif said. “I wanna be sure you understand the consequences here.”
“I understand the consequences.”
“I’m not sure you do. To nail this guy, you gotta make the I.D. You gotta meet him face to face. Then it’s out in the open, you and him, the whole thing.”
“I know.”
“And even if you do, the odds of makin’ him as the shooter are slim. If he’s got the gun on him, we’re home free. If he doesn’t, we can hold him long enough to get a warrant on his apartment. If the gun’s there, same thing.
“But if it ain’t ...” MacAullif shrugged. “Then we’re talkin’ drugs. If we’re lucky, we nail him with quantity. But that’s an iffy thing. We nail him movin’ a kilo, that’s the best bet, yeah. And if we’re lucky, there’ll be more in his place. But even so, the minute you’re not talkin’ murder, it’s a whole new ballgame. Drug peddlers are cash-heavy by definition. Even with a good word to the judge, he’ll still have to set bail. The guy will make it. Twenty-four hours after you finger him, he’ll be back on the street.”
“I know that too.”
“Just so’s you know.”
“I know, I know. Christ, MacAullif. It’s not enough that I’m doing this, you want me to be upset about it too?”
“I want you to use all due caution. If this guy walks, we can’t give you twenty-four-hour police protection, you know. Not on something like this. The commissioner would have our ass.”
“How about a police cruiser drives through my neighborhood once or twice a day?”
“It’s not funny.”
It wasn’t, and I was only joking so I wouldn’t have to hear my teeth rattle. I didn’t need MacAullif’s voice of doom.
I knew I was doing something I didn’t want to do.
47.
IT WENT DOWN IN THE early afternoon.
That surprised me. Somehow, I’d expected it to happen at night.
I was staked out with a cop in an unmarked car across the street and a few houses down from the Black Death’s. That fact did not cheer me. If this was the cop’s idea of inconspicuous, it didn’t bode well for the rest of the venture. We were getting cold stares from everyone who came down the street.
The cop with me was Officer Andrews, the one who’d tried to call me for Sergeant Reynolds. He didn’t say much, but seemed a nice enough sort for someone who thought I was a total asshole.
We were sitting in the front seat, not saying much of anything and looking like cops, when the Black Death came out the door. He was dressed, as usual, all in black, and was carrying a paper bag about the size of a kilo.
Officer Andrews reached under the dashboard, pulled out the mike from the radio, and phoned it in, a good move just in case there was anyone left in the neighborhood who hadn’t yet made us for cops.
The Black Death didn’t. He was walking down the street away from us the other way. Andrews started the car and pulled out. The theory, as he’d explained it, was we’d follow him in the car so if he hailed a cab or car service we’d be on his tail. On the other hand, if he took the subway or went into a building, we’d hop out and follow on foot. That would leave the car standing in the middle of the street, but I guess when you’re a cop that’s no worry. At any rate, we tagged along behind.
I kept my head down in case the guy looked back. That way, if he did, he wouldn’t spot me, and all he’d have to wonder about was why a tan Ford was driving down the street behind him at five miles an hour.
But he didn’t look back. He just walked down Lenox Avenue to 145th and went into the subway. Andrews parked the car at a hydrant and we went in too.
Which was tricky as hell. It was broad daylight. Which doesn’t mean anything in a subway station, but what the hell. In my mind, it was broad daylight. And if this guy saw me, the show was over. And where the hell do you hide on a subway platform?
We hung out on the steps till he went through the turnstile, then bought tokens and hung out by the booth. We couldn’t see him—he’d walked slightly down the platform out of view—and the idea was to wait until the train came, barrel through the turnstile and get on last. Not the best of all possible moves, but the only real option we had.
Suddenly he came walking back up the platform. I ducked back behind the side of the booth. My heart was in my mouth. I couldn’t be sure he’d seen me, but I coul
dn’t be sure he hadn’t either.
I looked up at Andrews, who was still standing his ground. After all, the Black Death didn’t know him.
“Take it easy,” he said. “The guy didn’t react.”
“You sure?”
“Hey, I’m a cop.”
That did not exactly inspire me with confidence. But I kept the thought to myself.
The train came. When it did, the Black Death was once again out of sight. So we took a two count from the time the doors opened and went through the turnstile. It’s a good thing we didn’t take a three count, ’cause we wouldn’t have got on. As it was, the conductor nearly closed the door on us.
I looked quickly up and down the car, but he wasn’t there. Thank god. The car was over half full, and most of the riders were black, but none of them were him.
Andrews pushed me into a seat. “Stay here and keep out of trouble,” he said.
He went to the front of the car, slid the door open, stepped out onto the platform between the two cars.
He was back moments later, sat down next to me.
“He’s in the next car sitting down,” he said. “I’m gonna stand up near the door. You stay here. When I move, you move. Go out the last door of the car. It will put you farther from him.”
“What if he comes my way down the platform?”
“There’s no way to figure that. Some stations the exit’s uptown, some downtown. If he comes your way, you beat it out the exit ahead of him, fade into some doorway on the street. I’ll be right along to give you your cue.”
The train slowed down for a station.
“Better start now,” I said.
He got up, went to the door.
He was there a long time. 125th. 96th. 72nd.
42nd Street was the move. Andrews signaled me, I stepped out the rear door of the car, glanced down the platform, and, sure enough, the son of a bitch was coming at me.
