And unfortunately, in spite of the early arrivals – a good thing – there were signs of other, potentially disruptive elements.
First was the presence of so much armed authority – he had passed truckloads of National Guard troops on his drive out here earlier, mobilized and ready to roll, parked all along Fell Street. In addition, at least a hundred city police were on patrol, many on horseback but a large number on foot, too, in the open pavilion and its surrounding streets, even by the tent that he was using as his staging area.
The uniforms weren't the worst of it. Since the release of Kevin Shea's tape the previous afternoon, he had become increasingly aware of the backlash problem, which – to be honest – he'd expected a little sooner. But now, even though the official response to the tape had initially been skeptical across the color spectrum, he had been hearing reports of spontaneous outbreaks of angry white people taking to the streets.
Already this morning he had seen the police subdue and carry away one belligerent white man with a placard. True, it was an isolated case, but it was worrisome. That the man had come out at all, knowing how badly he'd been outnumbered… he must have thought there would have been others, perhaps many others.
Mohandas held no illusions – he knew any meeting between a white and black group, in this context, today, could get ugly fast. He had to get the show on the road as quickly as he could, keep his crowd moving and focused. That was the key.
Suddenly Allicey was standing next to him. 'Lot of the people with us, Philip, hearing us, what we're saying.'
He nodded. She motioned out to the growing crowd. 'This is it,' she said. 'This is the difference between you and Loretta Wager. You are with the people.'
'You think so?' He often thought that the most important function Allicey served for him – out of hundreds – was her belief. She never wavered. The mission was the freedom of her people, of their people. They had been oppressed for so long, still were. And that's because they had struggled to be included. That had been wrong, he'd decided. The path lay in separation and connection with your own. It – was a spiritual thing, a constant battle, and you could not afford to lose your faith, to mingle with those who would dilute it. Or, like Loretta Wager had done, sell it out for power and influence.
'You are, Philip. With the people.'
He shook his head. 'I must be getting old. My vision is a little blurred. '
She rested a hand on his arm. 'You have been tempted.'
He nodded. 'So much of it now seems to be logistics, money, getting concrete things done.'
'But, Philip, the world isn't made of concrete.'
'More than you'd think, Allicey.' He sighed, smiled weakly, then turned toward the tent behind them. But he did not walk on.
Instead he stopped and faced her. 'I can't put a name to what it is.'
'The temptation.'
'To what?'
There was sadness in his face; his eyes were shot with red. The week had been grueling. 'To not believe. To not believe it's going to change. And if not, should I take the devil's offer? That way, something I do might have an ending." He folded his hands together in front of him. 'Something might close up, Allicey, feel finished. You hear what I'm saying?'
'The river just flows on, Philip. It doesn't close up. It doesn't end.'
'But where's it goin', girl, where's it all goin'?'
'The point is, it's going, Philip. It's moving ahead.'
'Is it? ' he asked.
Carl Griffin pulled into the city lot under the freeway overpass behind the Hall of Justice. Exhausted from the long late fruitless nights and only marginally aware that it was a Saturday, he wasn't even hungry.
Griffin was a working dog who basically liked his weekends and his Monday Night football, but when he had a report to finish he liked to get it done so it didn't hang over his head, and he and Marcel Lanier had interviewed, together, over twenty people last night. All of whom had agreed that there had been a riot, that the DA had gotten killed, yeah, all of that, but so what? What else was new?
People seemed sick of it – talking about it, dealing with it. Others, not knowing what they should admit they saw or didn't see, did or didn't do, were scared of the cops. Griffin could see it in faces, in their body language. Nobody was talking very much. But the reports had to get done – lack of paperwork would bite you every time you didn't get to it, or did it sloppily. Griffin thought they didn't call it the homicide detail for nothing. Griffin himself was not what he would call an idea man, but he remembered every step of things he did and could assemble the basic package in twenty-five minutes or less.
So he and Marcel had flipped a coin at the Doggie Diner on Army at a quarter to twelve last night to determine who would come in this morning – or before Monday at least – and write the report on what they hadn't found, and Griffin had lost.
The roasting-coffee smell – was it coffee? – was strong here in the lot, riding on a morning breeze coming off the Bay. Griffin schlumped across the pavement, down the corridor by the morgue and the new jail, into the back door, around the metal detector.
Glancing into the lobby, he saw that the lines of cited rioters had vanished, perhaps in response to the outbreak here a couple of nights ago. He didn't know what the sheriff was doing with those people anymore and he didn't much care just so long as they were kept out of his way.
Only Ridley Banks was in the office, arms crossed, slumped in his chair, feet on his desk. He appeared to be sleeping, maybe had spent the night here. Griffin put on a pot of coffee, emptied his pockets and plopped his papers down on his desk, pulling his chair up to it with a sigh.
The phone rang in Glitsky's office, and he sighed again, let it ring once more – Ridley wasn't going to get it – then pushed back and stood. There was a police department notice on the wall next to the open doorway that he ignored as he went inside and picked up the phone.
'Homicide, Griffin.'
'Hey, Carl. Abe. How you doin'?'
'The band's just settin' up and the chicks aren't here yet so it's kind of slow. What's up?'
'I got a favor to ask. What's your day look like?'
'Nothin'. I'm in for the report on last night. After that, before that, whenever, you name it.'
'How'd last night go? You find anything?'
Griffin eased a leg over the corner of Glitsky's desk, put his weight on it. 'The short answer's no. Nobody really even heard the two shots, would take an oath on it.'
Glitsky hung back a second. 'I thought you already had those. Yesterday, those old ladies…'
'Yeah, I know. But they didn't hear two shots. The two of 'em heard one shot each. Lot of folks heard one shot.'
'So what does that mean?'
'Hell if I know. I just write down the answers and let the lawyers figure it out. Probably means nothing – somebody heard the first one, thought it was a backfire, it got their attention, then bang - oh yeah, maybe a shot. People weren't their usual talkative selves, some reason.'
Okay, Griffin was thinking, so we got nothing. He didn't want to spend more time doing the third degree on what they didn't have. 'So what's the favor?'
'Elaine Wager may be coming in with Kevin Shea, could be an hour, maybe a little more.'
'You're shittin' me. Kevin Shea himself?'
'What I want is for one of our guys – I don't want any other DA or the sheriff involved – one of you to escort her and Shea down the Peninsula, to wherever Elaine tells you.'
'You really got Kevin Shea?'
'Almost, I think. I just want to be prepared. And Carl, this is a favor, not an order.'
Same difference, Griffin was thinking.
Just at that moment Banks appeared in the doorway holding the PD notice. 'Is that Abe?' he asked. 'Let me talk to him.'
He handed the paper to Griffin, took the phone.
'Lieutenant, this is Ridley…'
Griffin heard it in the background as he scanned the paper. What was this bullshit? Glitsky placed on admini
strative leave, questions on current homicides should go upstairs to Frank Batiste, the assistant chief.
Banks was telling Abe that the lab hadn't been able to find any fingerprints on the yellow rope that had hung Arthur Wade but that he'd been frustrated with an evening gone into the pisser and he'd gone over to Jamie O'Toole's place last night and told him they were pursuing the knife wounds on Mullen and McKay with doctors in the area and were sure they would be bringing them downtown, perhaps under arrest, by the afternoon.
'No, I know it's unlikely,' he was saying, 'but I think Mr O'Toole's about ready to cave, cut a deal, do a little talking about the principals who might be involved here, save his own sweet white ass.' Banks cast a look at Griffin, smiled blandly. 'Figure of speech, Carl,' he said. Then, listening another moment: 'Anything else you want out of the lieutenant?'
Griffin looked down at the paper in his hands. This was why it was a favor, not an order, so it wasn't, in fact, the same difference. Still, Abe was a good cop, a fair guy. Whatever it was probably had to do with the brass and Griffin didn't get involved with that. 'No. Tell him I'll be there.'
Banks did, then hung up, pointed to the paper. 'Can you believe this idiocy? What's this about?'
'Yeah, I know,' Griffin said, putting it on Abe's desk. 'When they first started talking about making him lieutenant, I warned him.'
'You warned him?'
Griffin nodded. 'You get to lieutenant, you stop being a street cop, which is what Glitsky is. Like me. You can't change what you are.'
Banks, in the longest discussion he had ever had with Carl Griffin, flashed on his girlfriend – maybe now ex-girlfriend – Jacqueline coming to the same conclusions as this overweight flatfoot. It amazed him. 'Beware of any job that requires a change of clothes.'
'Yeah, that's what I mean. That's exactly it.'
"Thoreau wrote that.'
'Who?'
'Thoreau.'
"The guy who wrote Presumed Innocent?'
Banks couldn't help himself. 'Yeah, him.'
Griffin, oblivious, was moving on. 'I liked the movie but I still think the guy – the attorney – did it, not his wife.' Then, without missing a beat: 'Did I hear you talking about knife wounds with the lieutenant? I ever tell you about Colin Devlin?'
Chief Dan Rigby, trying to keep a low profile, was on a field telephone with an irate and frustrated Mayor Conrad Aiken. 'Mohandas is there? He's going ahead with it?'
'Unless I stop him, sir, but I thought I'd call you first.'
'What's he trying to accomplish by this! Goddamn it!'
'Yes, sir.' Rigby waited.
Yesterday, after a series of referrals from cowardly lesser city bureaucrats had moved the request along to his office, the mayor had had a long and heated discussion with Philip Mohandas about the wisdom of his projected march on City Hall. The mayor pointed out the concessions he had already made – the increased reward on Kevin Shea, the appointment of Alan Reston. The city was genuinely trying to respond. The mayor, through his man Donald, had even gotten wind of the Hunter's Point deal and knew that Mohandas was still in the pipeline for administration of that pork barrel. What did the man want? Wasn't it ever enough? And Mohandas had replied that all he wanted was a permit to allow his people peaceably to assemble, as guaranteed by the United States Constitution.
Deaf to by arguments about the potential for violence, the inflammatory nature of the demand for Kevin Shea's head, as well as the difficulty in meeting that demand even with the best of intentions, Mohandas had informed the mayor he was going ahead with the march. His people deserved it. With or without the permit, the application for which had led to this meeting in the first place.
'Without a permit, the gathering will be illegal,' Aiken had warned. 'I could order and enforce dispersal, even your own arrest. Extend the curfew, declare martial law, and if you think things are bad now…'
'I understand all that,' Mohandas had said.
In the end Conrad Aiken – feeling a little like Pontius Pilate – had decided he could not issue the permit. The rally, gathering, whatever it was, might go ahead, but it would be without his imprimatur. His threats, he knew, were bluffs. He wasn't going to make a bad situation worse by calling up more reinforcements.
But until Rigby's call, Aiken was hoping against hope that Mohandas would – for once – not push things beyond their limits, that he would see the light and act responsibly. Now, clearly, that was not going to happen. The crowd, according to Rigby, was already at about two thousand and the streets surrounding Kezar were packed.
Well, Aiken was thinking, it could be Mohandas had heard at least a little of what he had been saying. The man wasn't budging on pushing his agenda, but there was one sign of conciliation, even in his intractability. At least Mohandas had not gone public with the mayor's decision not to issue the permit – not yet.
'My advice, sir,' the chief was saying, 'is we watch it closely, but I think to try and stop things at this point would be to invite a disaster. Permit or no permit.'
The mayor swore and the chief agreed with him.
And then the horrible, ugly, unbelievable reality struck Aiken like a club. Suddenly he knew the strategy Mohandas was contemplating… he was saving the news that the mayor had refused to grant permission for this march for greater effect as the rally progressed. And that would let loose the furies.
Aiken could not allow that to happen – not only would it ignite the volatile crowd, it would be a political disaster. How had he overlooked this possibility while he was talking to Mohandas yesterday? He'd simply wanted to have the march not happen – he'd had enough of riots and this was certain to become another one. He'd been trying to do what was right and keep the city from another explosion of violence and rage. He'd really thought there had been a chance that Mohandas might call it off. Yesterday, Aiken had needed his no-permit stance as a fallback for those who would accuse him of irresponsibility for condoning the march at this critical time.
But it was going to backfire on him. He saw it clearly now. Mohandas was going to exploit his refusal to issue the permit in the worst possible light, and make the mayor into a racist, the worst epithet there was for a San Francisco politician.
He could not let it happen.
Dan Rigby was still on the line, waiting for instructions. 'Chief,' Aiken said, 'I think you're right about not interfering unless there's trouble, but I'm going to go you one better. I'm going to issue the permit.'
'Look at this!'
Melanie was peeping through the apartment's front window at the mass of movement below. Kevin came up behind her and rested his hand gently on her rear end, leaning over to look.
'It's Mohandas's rally,' he said. They had both heard about it on television. 'Wes better come through here. If I'm not mistaken, this whole thing is about finding us.'
Melanie turned around, pulling the shade down all the way. 'You want to call him now?'
Kevin thought about it. 'He said nine. But yeah, I do.'
'So do it.'
Kevin would be calling precisely at nine o'clock, so Wes thought he'd take care of Bart, get that out of the way early. He made it all the way down the stairs into the apartment's lobby, didn't even hear the phone ring this time.
Special Agent Simms was back in the van with two techs and one marksman. She had decided to keep one of the shooters on hand at all times – there might not be time to round up both.
After the close call at Pizzaiola, she had not been able to sleep until nearly three in the morning. She had given instructions that any call to Wes Farrell, no matter how mundane, and from whatever source, was sufficient grounds to awaken her.
There had been none.
The last call had been long before sleep came, the warning that his phone was being tapped, from some leak somewhere. It infuriated her. Too often somebody discovered these things. She thought the penalty for exposing a secret tap to its mark should be death, but Special Agent Simms thought that, under certain conditions, t
he penalty for jay-walking should be death, too.
The good news was that Farrell had not unplugged his phone. He hadn't even taken it off the hook. It was possible, she supposed, that he didn't believe it was tapped. Some people were that way – you could tell them you were sleeping with their spouse and they'd smile and say they didn't believe their spouse would ever be unfaithful. He/she just wasn't that kind of person.
More realistically, though, and her real hope, was that Farrell had no way to get in touch with Shea except by phone. It was their only link, and he'd have to use it at least once. She was also counting on the public's perception – no longer true – that you had to stay on the line for a reasonably long period of time before they could pinpoint a location for either party. Maybe Farrell was thinking he'd keep it quick if Shea called him, get him off in ten seconds or so. But that would be enough.
And, in that ten seconds, they'd have to make arrangements about how to connect again, wouldn't they? And it would all be on the tape here in the van.
They'd get him. It wouldn't be long now.
67
With three separate telephone numbers, each with its own answering machine, Loretta Wager could be here and gone at the same time at any moment of the day or night.
Last night, for example, she had been here for Alan Reston, gone for Glitsky. She didn't feel good about what had to happen with Abe, but she would make it up to him when this was all over. In a way, she loved his tenacity – but she couldn't have even Abe compromising her position right now. If he could just be made to leave things alone until this was over they could pick up where they were. And she thought that might even be by tonight. Reston had brought her up to date on the Wes Farrell phone tap, and the assumption was that the FBI would be able to move by sometime this morning at the latest.
After Abe had left her at City Hall, when she had called Reston's real number (not the one she had randomly punched in while Glitsky was standing there) and talked to Alan about Glitsky's request that she step in and straighten out the new DA's head – there really wasn't much discussion about whether or not to complain to Chief Rigby and put the lieutenant out of commission, temporarily. It had to happen.
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