CHARLOTTE WILTON
Mayor of Ottawa, 1963
Set in two columns beneath the photo, the text read:
CAROLYN WILDER, Attorney, Senior Partner of Wilder, Sultan and Fine, Birmingham. At one time I thought I was an artist. In fact I attended The Center for Creative Studies three years, believed I could draw, paint adequately, set out with my portfolio and found work in the art department of a well-known automotive ad agency where the word 'ycreative' was heard constantly but appeared exiguously, if at all, in their advertising; married a 'ycreative' director and was both fired and divorced within fifteen months on two counts of insubordination. (No children, a few samples.) The switch to law is an involved tale; though I did have clear visions, goals, that saw me through the University of Detroit Law School and two years with the Legal Aid and Defender Association. The latter prepared me for criminal law as it is served in the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice on a daily basis. My clients, for the most part, are charged with serious felonies: varying degrees of murder, rape, armed robbery and assault. Seventy-nine percent of them are acquitted, placed on probation, or, their charges are dismissed. Implicit in the question I'm most frequently asked why am I in criminal law? is the notion that women by nature abhor violence and would never, under any circumstances, help violent criminals remain at large. The truth is: criminals are a police problem; individuals accused of crime are mine.
Another notion, that life can be simple, if you base it on a fairly black and white attitude about behavior, appealed to Carolyn in providing answers to dumb questions. It made her sound at least curt when not profound and helped develop her courtroom image as an incisive defense counsel. Wayne County prosecuting attorneys referred to her, not altogether disparagingly, as the Iron Cunt. She might say hello on an elevator; she might not. She would never, under any condition, give her view of the weather. When facing her in court the prosecutor had better have his case documented far beyond implications or dramatic effects or Carolyn would counterpunch him to a decision with pure knowledge of law. Recorder's Court judges were known to sit up straighter, listen more attentively, when Carolyn was working their courtrooms.
Raymond Cruz ran into her on the fifth floor, where two of the Frank Murphy courtrooms were holding pretrial examinations and witnesses and families of defendants were waiting in the corridor.
It was 11:00 A. M. Raymond was coming out of an exam, having identified the photograph of a woman, bound and gagged with a pantyhose and shot twice in the back of the head, as Liselle Taylor, and testified that upon showing the photo to Alfonso Goddard, Mr. Goddard denied knowing the deceased until, after several hours of questioning, he stated: Oh, yeah, I know her. See, you asked me if she was my girlfriend and I said no to that, because she wasn't my girlfriend, we was only living together, you understand? . . . There were two more exams scheduled this week . . . five cases in the squad's open file . . . when Carolyn Wilder stopped him, taking him by the arm in the crowded corridor.
She said, Don't ever do that to me again. I don't care if you just wanted to buy him a drink, when I say you can only talk to a client in my presence it means exactly that.
Raymond touched her hand on his arm, covering it with his own in the moment before she drew it away.
What did he tell you?
He was arrested how you used that drunk-driving charge
We let him go, didn't we? Listen, I don't even know how he got home. But if he keeps driving without a license he's gonna get in serious trouble.
Carolyn didn't smile. She seemed genuinely disturbed, her esteem damaged. Raymond stepped quickly, quietly, inside her guard. He said, What did Clement tell you last night? In your office.
And there was the vulnerable look again, a glimpse of the girl who could be uncertain, afraid.
If he scared you, and I mean that as a compliment, then he said something pretty bad.
You're out of line. Whatever my client says to me, if you don't know, is privileged information
Yeah, but it wasn't like that. He didn't confide something, he scared you. The look on your face you could have filed a complaint for assault. Or improper advances, lewd suggestions . . . Let me tell you something if you don't already know it. Raymond looked around. He took Carolyn by the arm then and guided her through the waiting people, held doors open and followed her into an empty courtroom.
You want to sit down?
She went into one of the spectator rows that were like widely spaced church pews, sat down, crossed her legs beneath a gray skirt, smoothing it, and turned on the contoured bench to face him or to keep some distance between them.
What?
Clement Mansell killed the judge and Adele Simpson. We know he did.
All you have to do is prove it, Carolyn said.
Raymond took time to gaze all around the courtroom before looking at Carolyn again. He said, Just quit being the lawyer for a minute, all right? Clement Mansell has killed nine people. Four more than we know of and seven more than he'll ever be convicted for. He isn't a misguided boy, somebody you can defend, feel sorry for. He's a fucking killer. He likes it. He actually likes killing people. Do you understand that?
Carolyn Wilder said quietly, Even a fucking killer has rights under the law. You said last night, 'yHe kills people.' And I believe I said, 'yTell me about it.' We both know the purpose of this room. If you feel you have a case against Mansell, let's bring him in and find out. Until then, leave him alone . . . All right?
The lady lawyer rose from the bench.
Raymond was dismissed.
He had felt this way standing before judges who had the final word and would pound a gavel and that was it. He had felt the urge to punch several judges. He had once felt the urge to punch Alvin Guy just as he felt the urge now to punch Carolyn Wilder. It seemed a natural reaction. The strange part was he realized now, in the same moment he did not have the urge to punch Clement Mansell.
He could see himself killing Mansell, but not hitting him with a fist, for there was no emotion involved.
It stopped him, brought him back to where he could say something and not be afraid of his tone, of an edge getting in the way. She had moved past him and was almost to the door.
Carolyn? Let me ask you something.
She waited, half-turned, giving him a deadpan look. No person inside. Let him try to get through if he could.
How come in the hall before, you said, 'yDon't ever do that to me again'? About picking Clement up and bringing him in. How come you didn't say don't ever do that to him again?
Carolyn Wilder turned without a word and walked out.
Raymond felt better, but not a whole lot.
Chapter 13
NORBERT BRYL SAID, You didn't question him in the room?
Nobody was here by then. I sat right where you're sitting, he was over at Jerry's desk.
Hunter said, Jesus, I better check the drawers.
Bryl said, What've you got that he'd want? And swivelled back to Raymond Cruz. So how'd you get to the nine people?
The phone rang. Hunter said, Take that, will you, Maureen? Act like you're the secretary.
Maureen, at her desk next to the file-room door, said, Sure, and picked up the phone. Squad Seven, Sergeant Downey
Wendell Robinson entered with a young black male wearing a T-shirt and a wool watchcap, motioned him into the file room to wait and closed the door. Another boyfriend of Liselle Taylor. Says he believes Alfonso killed her, and if we can get his traffic tickets tore up like three hundred dollars' worth and a suspended license he'll tell us things so we'll believe it too.
Tell him what the food's like across the street, Hunter said.
He's been there. Probably likes the food.
Raymond said, Before you go in what'd Clement say to you, something about having a black friend?
He said one of my best friends, Wendell answered. I said what's his name? He wouldn't tell me.
Yeah Raymond, thoughtful, looked from his desk to Hunter. He mention
a friend to you?
Hunter said, How could that asshole have a friend? But then squinted, closing one eye. Wait a minute. He did say something. He wouldn't sign the rights sheet and he said, yeah, he said he had a friend who wouldn't sign it either and nothing happened to him.
The Wrecking Crew, Raymond said, they ever use a black driver?
No one answered him.
Then before the Wrecking Crew. You see what I'm getting at? He knows a black guy who was brought in here. The black guy wouldn't say anything about whatever it was. Which could be the reason Mansell thinks of him as a friend. Why, because the black guy wouldn't talk? A matter of principle? No, because the black guy wouldn't talk about Mansell. How's that sound?
That's not bad, Bryl said. Let me go consult the great computer, see what it says.
Raymond said, Check with Art Blaney in Robbery. He's got a memory better than a computer. Ask him if he recalls a black guy that ever ran with Mansell.
Bryl went out. A uniformed officer stood holding the door open. He said, Judge Guy was shot four times with a .38, right?
Hunter looked up. Five times.
Shit, the uniformed officer said, I went and played four-three-eight.
The door swung closed.
Hunter said, Probably boxed it, too, the dumb shit.
Raymond said, He tells me he's killed nine people. I say, oh, in Detroit?
The door swung open. A black officer in shirtsleeves, wearing a .44 magnum revolver in a white shoulder rig, came in with a stack of papers, licked his thumb, took off the top sheet and said, Who wants it? Schedule for the play-offs, nine-thirty, Softball City. Homicide versus Sex Crimes.
The door swung closed.
Maureen hung up the phone. MCMU. Mansell and Sandy Stanton just left 1300 Lafayette in a cab.
Inspector Herzog listened with his hands clasped as though in prayer, fingers pressed together, pointing straight up.
He's telling me he's killed nine people, Raymond said, without going into detail, two there, seven here, and I'm trying to get him to be a little more specific. With the Wrecking Crew? He says no. Well, we know he performed the triple on St. Marys and that was with the Crew. So what he meant was none of the others. But he was with somebody. He said the guy was along but didn't do anything.
This is the black guy? Herzog asked.
He didn't say he was black, Raymond said. He only told me another guy was along. But he told Wendell he had a black friend. See, first he keeps throwing 'ynigger' in Wendell's face, then he tells him, 'yOne of my best friends is a nigger.' He tells Jerry he's got a friend who was questioned here and refused to say a word or even sign the rights sheet. He tells me a guy was with him when he killed some people and now we put the pieces together and Norb consults the computer, checking out Mansell in depth, all his arrests for whatever, all the times he was picked up on suspicion, brought in for questioning, to see if he's got a black guy in his past anywhere.
Raymond's gaze moved to the window framing Herzog's mane of gray hair. He could see the top floors of the highrise in the near distance.
Incidentally, Clement and Sandy, about an hour ago they took a cab out to the Tel-Twelve Mall. They went inside, MCMU lost them.
They're not using the Buick, Herzog said. How come?
I think he cleaned it up, Raymond said, doesn't want to touch it again.
Maybe you should've picked it up yesterday.
Well, as I mentioned to you, Raymond said, it was a judgment call. MCMU followed Sandy around, they're pretty sure she didn't dump anything. And if they hadn't followed her, then Mr. Sweety wouldn't be the important man he is today.
Who's Mr. Sweety?
You remember yesterday Sandy went to a place on Kercheval, Sweety's Lounge?
Herzog nodded. Came out with a guy and went in the house next door.
Came out with Mr. Sweety and went to his house, Raymond said. It's where he lives.
I think you said yesterday the guy's black.
Yes, and according to the sheets on Mansell, so is a guy by the name of Marcus Sweeton who did some work with Clement back when he first came here and before he joined the Wrecking Crew. Sweeton's had two convictions one probation, two years on a gun charge and I guess he's not looking forward to that third fall, because he's been pure ever since, now operates Sweety's Lounge.
How'd he get a liquor license?
It's in his brother's name. Sweeton says he's only a bartender; but he runs the place and lives next door with his girlfriend, Anita. The brother works out at Chrysler Mound Road. So we know Marcus is the original Mr. Sweety of Sweety's Lounge. Art Blaney remembers him What do we need a computer for with Blaney? Herzog said.
That's what I said to Norb. Art looks up at the ceiling, it's like he wrote some notes up there. What do you want to know? Marcus Sweeton, a.k.a. the Dark Mark, Sweetwater, a couple more and Mr. Sweety. He makes about fifteen grand a year from the bar and another twenty-five or thirty from drugs, nothing worth busting, little neighborhood store.
This is how he stays pure, Herzog said.
Well, it's relative, Raymond said. Pure compared to going in someplace with a gun. Art says Mansell used him as a bird dog. Mr. Sweety would go in a dope house very friendly type of guy sit around and chat a while, pass out some angel dust, tell a few jokes that's the way they worked. Get 'em laid back on the dust, then Clement comes in and takes 'em off easy all these clowns sitting around grinning at him.
How many times can you do that? Herzog said.
In this town? Raymond said. You put all the dope stores on a computer the printout would reach down the hall, down the stairs, out onto Beaubien I get the picture, Herzog said. So now you've got a possible witness to one or more of these nine killings Mansell claims he did. Are you trying to tie in Mr. Sweety to Judge Guy and Adele Simpson?
Not necessarily, Raymond said. See, the original idea, find out who this old buddy is, tie him in to Mansell as an accessory and get him to cop on one of the earlier murders. Just in case we don't get Mansell on the current one, the judge and Adele. I thought, ah, use a lead Mansell himself gave us and doesn't even know it. Bring him in and watch his mouth fall open.
I'm not gonna hold up my vacation on that happening, Herzog said.
No, I said that was the original idea, Raymond said. But now what is this? Mansell shoots the judge and Adele and the next day Sandy Stanton goes to see the old buddy, Mr. Sweety. What's going on here?
So you are trying to tie him in.
Yeah, but not necessarily in the way I think you mean.
I'm not sure I know what I mean, Herzog said.
Look at it this way, Raymond said. If Mansell was hired to do the judge and then he hired Mr. Sweety to drive for him
Then why didn't Sweety get a car?
That's the first question. The next one since Mansell knows we've made the Buick, would he tell Sandy to drive over to Mr. Sweety's house in it the next day?
I don't know, Herzog said, would he?
Or did Sandy go over there on her own?
For what?
I don't know.
Why don't you ask her.
I'm going to, Raymond said, soon as she gets home.
But then she tells Mansell and he'll know you're onto Mr. Sweety. How do you get around that?
It's a game, isn't it? Raymond said. Nothing but a game . . . Why don't I just go find Clement and shoot him?
Herzog said, That's the best idea I've heard yet.
Chapter 14
CLEMENT BOUGHT A TEN-SHOT .22 Ruger automatic rifle, a regular $87.50 value for $69.95, and a box of .22 longs at K-mart in the Tel-Twelve Mall. He went over to the typewriter counter and asked the girl if he could try one. She said sure and gave him a sheet of notepaper. Clement pecked away for a minute, using his index fingers, pulled the notepaper out of the Smith-Corona and took it with him. He saw a black cowboy hat he liked, put it on and walked out with it . . . down a block to Red Bowers Chevrolet where Sandy Stanton was wandering a
round the used car lot in her high-heel boots and tight jeans.
She saw him coming with the black hat on, carrying the long cardboard box sticking out of the K-mart sack and said, Oh, my Lord, what have you got now?
He told her it was a surprise and Sandy brightened. For me? Clement said no, for somebody else. He looked around at the rows of Fall Clean-up Specials and asked her if she'd picked one out.
Sandy led him to a Pontiac Firebird with a big air scoop and the hood flamed in red and gold, sunlight flashing on the windshield.
Isn't it a honey? Looks like it eats other cars right up.
Clement said, Sugar, I told you I want a regular car. I ain't gonna street race, I ain't gonna hang out at the Big Boy; I just need me some wheels in your id till things get a little better. Now here's seven one-hundred-dollar bills, all the grocery money till we get some more. You buy a nice car and pick me up over there if I can make it across Telegraph without getting killed where you see that sign? Ramada Inn? I'll be in there having a cocktail.
Sandy got him a '76 Mercury Montego, sky blue over rust, with only forty thousand miles on it for six-fifty plus tax and Clement said, Now you're talking.
A boy who was born on an oil lease and traveled in the beds of pickup trucks till he was twelve years old would be likely to have dreams of Mark VIs and Eldorados. Not Clement. He had driven, had in his possession for varying periods of time in his life, an estimated 268 automobiles, all makes and models, counting the used 'y56 Chevy four-barrel he'd bought when he was seventeen and the used TR-3 he'd bought one time when he was feeling sporty; all the rest he stole. Clement said cars were to get you from here to there or a way of picking up spending money. If you wanted to impress somebody, open their eyes, shit, stick a nickel-plate .45 in their mouth and ear back the hammer.
Clement drove back downtown and over to Lafayette East, but didn't go to the apartment. Sandy said she wanted to get some Vernor's. So while she was in the supermarket down the street from the apartment building, Clement found a telephone booth with a directory and looked up Cruz . . .
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