I doubt that even Catholics have sung “Dies Irae” at funerals since Vince was an altar boy, which suggested that Mendoza’s liturgical record was a bit spotty. I didn’t see any point in mentioning that, so I just agreed to go and he told me to put in a chit for the cab fare. The chit thing told me he was really serious. Mendoza doesn’t get all sideways about writing off a client bill now and then, but he watches out-of-pocket disbursements like a hawk. He probably has pennies count tattooed next to his navel.
So there I was at First A.M.E. Church at ten a.m. on Wednesday, one of a sprinkling of Caucasian faces in a swelling river of black ones. The pews shone and smelled of lemon Pledge, and someone had recently waxed the scarred maple floorboards. The casket looked like richly carved cherry, its red deep and lustrous. Mourners filled the first six pews and after that were scattered here and there throughout the rest of the church. Ten or twelve men among the hundred-plus adults. The number of kids surprised me, although I guess it shouldn’t have. There must have been twenty of them, looking like they’d been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives and dressed to meet the president. Every now and then one of them would sneak a wide-eyed peek at me and then snap his head back around just in time to avoid a smack.
Somewhere around the second hymn, just after a reading from Isaiah, I’d started feeling guilty because I wasn’t coming up with more in the way of deep emotion. Tyrell Washington was a pretty bad dude. He’d sold crack to school kids and carved up rivals who poached on his territory. When he died young, though, he left some hurting people behind him. I should have been sharing at least some of their ache, but instead I was counting the minutes until I could get back to the office and check my blog.
I’d had a brainstorm in the shower that morning, one of those BAM! things that stop you cold. Still dripping and without a stitch on I’d bent over my computer in my bedroom at 7:03 to zap out a quick entry on Streetdreamer:
Sixty-six days and counting ’til I hit the Street and suddenly I’m thinking niche market. I heard yesterday about a New York outfit called Ars Longa that sounds like it plays to some of my strengths. How cool would it be to waltz on to the Street with a starter-client? Not one in a thousand new associates does that. Thing is, I can’t track these people down. No website and they’re not in the book. All I want is a fifteen-minute face-to-face with a decision-maker. Give me a lead and you’ve got a friend for life. Streetdreamer
I knew it was a million-to-one shot, but why not? I mean, go for it, right? Now I itched to see whether I’d provoked anything.
Once the pastor got into his gut-ripping blame eulogy, my cold detachment evaporated, at least for the thirty-five minutes or so that he spoke. Here was President Obama on steroids and blazing with passion instead of studied cool. I wasn’t in tears or shouting Amen! like most of the women there, but he had me going.
“Tell ya who I’m gonna blame,” he roared, smacking the chest of that purple robe with the heel of his right hand. “I’m gonna blame the man. That’s right. I’m gonna blame the man who wasn’t there. The man who made this beautiful baby named TIE-rell and then for eighteen years had more important things to do than help raise him. Jocanda Washington, you all know Jocanda. Yes you do. She’s a fine woman. She’s a great woman. She loves Jesus and she loved TIE-rell. She did everything she could. Everything she knew how. But ain’t no woman can raise a son all by herself. A daughter, yes, that can be done. But a boy needs a man. And TIE-rell didn’t have one. That man who wasn’t there, he’s the one killed TIE-rell, just as sure as if he’d stuck that knife in himself. You men here, you better be there when your boy needs you. ’Cause God is watching, children, oh yes he is. God is watching, you know he is. And if he doesn’t like what he sees, he’s liable to do somethin’ about it you won’t like much. Yes he is. Just ask pharaoh. Pharaoh didn’t like what God did to him, now did he? Well you’re not gonna like what happens to you, either, if you’re not where you need to be and we end up like we are today with a young man oughta be workin’ and playin’ basketball lyin’ in a box instead ’cause he didn’t have a man when he needed one.”
He went on for a while in that vein. He said that God sent angels on horseback to whip fathers who didn’t guide their sons right, and he quoted something from the Old Testament to prove his point. A guy two pews in front of me looked around as if he suddenly heard hoofbeats thundering up the center aisle.
“I’ll say one more thing,” the pastor promised as my watch crept toward eleven. “One more thing. I want you to hear this now. When we lay TIE-rell to rest later this morning, we will be burying an innocent man. That’s right. in-no-cent. That’s not me talking. That’s not Reverend Demetrius. That’s not Deacon Khalil. No sir. No, that’s the court talking. That’s what the court says.”
He flourished a copy of my motion, which struck me as a bit optimistic but a real good bet all the same. This was a real crowd-pleaser. He had the congregation on its feet, whooping Hallelujah! and Amen! and Thank you, Jesus! I got to my feet to be polite, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to yell. I felt like a Rotarian from Milwaukee at the premiere of Rent.
The service closed with two more hymns and a benediction. I hung back as the congregation filed out and then exited as inconspicuously as I could when the pallbearers began taking their posts around the casket. Just outside the door I found what looked like most of the congregation still there, lined up on both sides in rows going all the way down the steps and across the sidewalk, almost all the way to the hearse parked on the street. I had reached the sidewalk and was looking for a path to the rear of the group on the left when I felt a hand nudge my right elbow. Glancing over my right shoulder I found myself looking into the eyes of Reverend Demetrius, still robed. His snow white hair fringed a face the color and texture of saddle leather. He nodded at me and made a little gesture with his right hand toward the hearse.
A bespectacled woman who could have been anywhere from her late thirties to her early fifties walked over to me with a stately, deliberate pace.
“Is she the one?”
Rev D nodded.
Without warning she flung herself on me with a rib-cracking hug that pinned my arms to my sides. Sobbing, she laid her head on my shoulder.
“Oh bless you, child. God bless you, you sweet, sweet wonderful child.” She choked the words out between sobs.
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured a couple of times.
“Can you come to the cemetery?” She stepped back, looking into my eyes with desperate longing. “You can ride with me.”
“Now, Jocanda—” the reverend began.
“Sure.” I said this on pure impulse. “Of course I can come. I’d be honored to come.”
I followed her to the edge of the sidewalk and waited with her while the pallbearers brought the casket solemnly out and slid it into the back of the hearse. Then we climbed together into the backseat.
Even through light morning traffic and a bit north of the heart of downtown, the trip to the cemetery took a good twenty minutes. Jocanda Washington spent the journey telling me about Tyrell. He had a bad streak, she said, she knew that. Part of him had the devil in him and try as she might she couldn’t beat it out of him. But he wasn’t all bad. Part of him was good. Part of him was really, truly good, you know? He just loved his little nieces and nephews, loved them to pieces. Brought them things and liked to be around them. Hadn’t been for that no-good girl he hooked up with…. I held her hands and listened and nodded and said yes every once in awhile, just for luck.
By the time we were graveside she had finished her catharsis and I slipped guiltlessly into the background again. The family group in the front row at the edge of the grave held hands while two guys from the funeral home who could have played defensive tackle for the Steelers lowered the casket snugly into place. Twenty-third psalm, naturally, then the thing from Romans about how if we have died with Christ we believe we a
re also to live with him. Ken had drafted me to read the New American Bible version of that one at Mom’s funeral. After the readings Jocanda threw a trowel-full of soil into the grave to rattle dully against the casket.
At that point, a man stepped forward. He stopped and stood arrow-straight at the foot of the grave. Fifty if he was a day, thinner than day-old tea, and he could have talked eye-to-eye with Paul. He was wearing a maroon blazer with shiny brass buttons, but the rest of his clothing—shirt, tie, pants, socks, and shoes—was black. He carried a saxophone, supported by a strap over his left shoulder. No one introduced him, and he didn’t say a word. Just raised that sax to his mouth and belted out something mournful and bluesy in a Dixieland sort of way. I didn’t recognize it, but when I hummed an approximation of the tune for Vince that night he said it might have been “Beale Street Blues.”
When the last note had died in the leaden November sky, people began to shuffle toward cars parked a hundred yards or so away. They’d be heading back to the church for a reception, so I figured I’d cadge a ride to within walking distance of a hotel with a cabstand. (This is Pittsburgh. This is not New York. You do not just stroll out onto the sidewalk and hail a cab.) Reverend Demetrius, now in a deep red clerical shirt with a white collar under a black cloak with white satin lining, intercepted me. He had another man with him whom I recognized as the deacon who had announced the hymns and read the first piece of scripture at the funeral.
“Deacon Khalil would be pleased to drive you back to your office, Miss Jakubek.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Thank you for coming. ‘You too are living stones, built as an edifice of the spirit.’”
“You’re welcome. It was an honor to be here. I’m glad I came.”
Khalil led me to an enormous Chevy Suburban, the kind of thing you could cram eight or nine kids into if you needed to get a Sunday School class to a church picnic or something. He made sure I could clamber into the front passenger seat without a boost—it was a pretty close question—and then pulled himself wordlessly behind the wheel.
During our half-hour trip downtown to Mendoza’s shop Khalil handled the SUV like a Driver Education poster boy. He kept his hands in the ten-to-two position. He kept his eyes on the road. He stayed at the posted speed limit. He not only signaled turns, he signaled lane changes. He came to a full and complete stop at all red lights and stop signs. He drove, in other words, like a guy who did not want to give any cop an excuse to pull him over and check him out on the squad car computer. He radiated a zenlike calm throughout the journey, betraying a trace of nervousness only at the end, when he had to double-park for twenty seconds in front of Mendoza-land.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said as I hopped out.
“You’re welcome.” Those were the only words he spoke to me the entire time. When I’d given him Mendoza’s address he’d just nodded, and he’d done the same thing when I’d suggested a turn or a particular street. I’d taken one stab at starting a conversation, asking him how long he’d known Reverend Demetrius. He had shaken his head, not so much in negation, it seemed to me, but more as a suggestion that this question involved an impenetrable enigma far beyond the grasp of mortal discourse.
Riding the elevator up to the office I realized I was feeling something odd, a kind of warm, gauzy giddiness combined with a belly-tingling excitement. It was a rush, but with more texture than, say, a pot or margarita high. I’d played the usual legal game, danced the intricate gavotte with doctrine and precedent, but this was something new. This time I’d actually made a difference in the life of a human being. I hadn’t just stroked my ego and flexed my intellectual muscles. I’d touched Jocanda Washington’s life. Neat. I realized that Mendoza had made me go to the funeral so that I could have this feeling.
I was ready to dive onto my computer as soon as I got to my cubicle, but I saw the red message-waiting light blinking on my phone. Odd how peremptory that seems, how compulsory. How many people can ignore it for a couple of minutes while they check their emails or sort papers? Not many that I’ve noticed. I punched the right buttons and retrieved the message.
“Walter Learned here. I feel a bit sheepish because I just realized that the card I gave you doesn’t tell you how to contact me. That card is a marvelous cachet of exclusivity with insiders, but not much help to anyone else. In any event, if you do get to New York you can reach me at this number.” He recited a telephone number with a 212 area code that matched the one on my caller i.d. screen.
I forgot all about checking my blog. I hustled over to Becky the Techie with the number. It took her less than a minute to tell me it was assigned to an off-the-shelf mobile phone with prepaid minutes, not associated with any address. That didn’t surprise me. Instead of taking the edge off my mounting excitement, it ratcheted the feeling up a couple of notches.
I impatiently checked Mendoza’s office and saw that he was just putting his London Fog on a coat hook after getting back from the Caitlin interview. I managed to contain myself until he’d gotten behind his desk and sat down. Then I knocked and barged in.
“How was the funeral?”
“Very special. Thanks for sending me.”
“Glad you could cover it. Something else on your mind?”
“I just got a voice mail from Learned. We now have a phone number for him, but we can’t track it to an address.”
That got his attention. He looked up at me, frowning deeply.
“You are really hot to go to New York, aren’t you?”
I shrugged casually and decided that two of us could play head games if that was what he wanted. “How did Caitlin’s interview with the cops go?”
“That’s a good answer, chica.” He leaned back in his chair and pointed a pencil at me. “The killed-my-brother line didn’t come up and neither did mom’s ‘not yet’ crack, but they have more than a passing interest in Caitlin. After all, the odds say that a relative iced Bradshaw. I expect their working theory is that mom did it and Caitlin knows things she isn’t saying.”
“So we definitely want to get them interested in the art heist angle in order to bring some unrelated suspects on stage?”
“Yes. But this Walter Learned theory was one thing when he was a puttering art dabbler. It became a totally different matter when Becky found out that he’s spent his entire adult life under the radar. You have to work at it to bring that off, and if someone is working that hard at something, there’s a reason for it.”
“I’m not planning on playing Mike Hammer in drag.” I could see where he was going with this. “I’m not going to seduce him so that I can rifle his files while he snores away in postcoital contentment.”
“Watch the dirty talk, Jake. This is a respectable establishment.”
“I’m just going to see if I can somehow pin him to an address we can hand to the police.”
“You’re a lawyer, not an investigator.”
“I’m a lawyer Learned knows and chose to call. Besides, I’ll take Paul with me.”
“A novelist? You’ll have a novelist watching your back? Yeah, that’ll scare the hoods, all right. They’ll be wetting their pants.”
“I met Paul at a fight outside Fenway Park.” This happened to be true. “Punk from Southie said I ‘looked like one fine lady’ and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Paul intervened, the punk insisted, push came to shove, two punches. Paul threw the second.”
“Well, decking a south Boston punk at Fenway is more impressive than bitch-slapping an MIT student at Starbucks, I guess,” Mendoza said. “Tell you what: I’ll think about it.”
I returned to my cubicle with the kind of feeling I’ve heard trial lawyers get when the jury is out and they really don’t know which way it’s going to go. Pulse racing a bit, I clicked up my blog to see if this morning’s entry had provoked any useful responses. The first thing I read
was Four Comments. Everything after that was a let-down.
“‘Starter client?’ You’re not dreaming, Streetdreamer, you’re delusional. No Wall Street firm would want the kind of client you could bring in.” GR8Lawyer
“Quit kidding yourself, Streetdreamer. They didn’t hire you to be a rainmaker. They hired you to spend 11 hours a day in front of a computer screen reviewing documents and researching Rule 10-b-5 and Sarbanes-Oxley.” Bntherednthat
“Two points, Streetdreamer. One: If this potential client is worth having, someone already has it and no wet-behind-the ears greenhorn who hasn’t even knocked the felt off her antlers yet is going to take it away from him. Two: If, by some wild chance you did manage to bring a ‘starter client’ in, a partner would steal the credit for it before the ink was dry on the intake.” darrowIwish.
“Tell me this, streetdreamer: If I had a lead on Ars Longa or whatever it is, why wouldn’t I just go after it myself?” 2smart2dream
I tried to restrain myself. I really did. After a valiant effort lasting fifteen seconds or so, I typed a reply to the third comment.
“To darrowIwish:
“Two points. One: Only male deer have antlers, so ‘her antlers’ is incoherent. Two: ‘greenhorn who hasn’t even knocked the felt off her antlers’ is both incoherent and redundant. What makes a greenhorn’s horns green is that there’s still felt on the antlers because he (see point one) isn’t mature enough yet to get sexually aroused and start banging his antlers against tree trunks to get rid of the felt and thereby impress chicks—excuse me, does.”
I completed the post and was ready to click off the blog in frustration when Mendoza came strolling up. He was holding a sheet of paper tri-folded around something green.
But Remember Their Names Page 8
