Guilt by Association

by Kelvin L. Reed

CHAPTER TWENTY

  Thirty minutes after speaking to Michelle Ling on the telephone, Jayson studied images on a monitor in the editing room at the Channel Eight News studio. The room wasn’t much bigger than the walk-in closet of his master bedroom. He kept his distance to avoid touching any of the electronic equipment stacked against the wall. A multiunit shelving system about ten feet wide, and taller than he, housed over twenty video-editing and viewing machines. Some of the equipment looked unfamiliar to Jayson. He assumed the black boxes with the numerous dials were for video playback, definitely more complicated than a Blu-ray player.

  Michelle, standing next to him wearing a carnation pink sleeveless shirt and burgundy pants, pressed a button on one of the black machines and took a step back. She pointed at the monitor and described the scene. “They sat in the squad car down the street from that house for about thirty minutes,” she reported. “They were waiting for them. This is at the end when the meeting broke up.”

  Jayson stared at the monitor and noticed the police cruiser at the bottom of the screen. “Is that Washington and Scott?”

  Michelle nodded. “Yep. We watched them for a couple of hours for the past three days. For the first two days, nothing, but today we got lucky.”

  Jayson returned his attention to the squad car and its surroundings. A half-dozen black men exited a small, two-story home with a poorly-kept front yard. They wore casual clothes, mostly jeans and short-sleeved shirts, and conversed with each other in a leisurely way before fanning out and getting into three cars parked on the street. One man entered a subcompact vehicle. Two large men opened the doors to a two-door coupe; the other three got into an old sedan. The red lights at the rear of the vehicles lit up and the automobiles slowly pulled away from the curb. “Where’s this?” Jayson asked.

  “In Mattapan,” Michelle answered. “It’s part of District Eighteen, their beat.”

  “Who are those men in the cars?”

  “A small group of Black Muslims,” Michelle said. “Call themselves the Warriors of Islam. Their leader would make Louis Farrakhan sound like Santa Claus. They were in the news a few months back because of some allegations about child neglect.”

  Jayson tapped his lips with his index finger and searched his memory. “I read something about them in the Boston Courier; not sending their kids to school.” He shook his finger. “Isn’t their leader some nut who says he’s Moses reincarnated or something?”

  “Yeah,” Michelle replied. “And he says the white devils are the real illegal aliens and should leave this country to the rightful inhabitants—the black and brown people, and if the white devils don’t leave they should be driven out.”

  “Whew!” Jayson exclaimed. “At least I won’t have to move when they take over.” He cut his eyes at Michelle. “I don’t know about you, though.”

  She laughed. “Put in a word for me. Will ya?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Jayson joked. He turned back to the monitor. “So cops have been assigned to keep them under surveillance, huh?”

  Michelle shook her head. “I’m not sure. I’ve got a feeling some of Boston’s finest have taken it upon themselves to check out undesirables.”

  “The Protectors, huh?”

  “Maybe.”

  Jayson nodded. “They’re checking out groups with questionable—some would say radical political beliefs, like these people and Greg Morgan’s Church of the True Savior.”

  “Exactly. Equal opportunity vigilantes.”

  Jayson watched the monitor and followed the police car as it coasted behind the three vehicles at a distance. One automobile reached the first intersection and turned left. The sedan turned right. The third car, the subcompact, proceeded through the intersection. “Who’s taking the video?”

  “A real talented kid named Juan Carlo, one of our camera operators,” Michelle said. “I’m driving his SUV and he’s holding the camera. We didn’t want to use one of the station vans or we would’ve been spotted.”

  Jayson chuckled. “Smart.” He paid close attention as the police cruiser followed the lone driver of the third vehicle for several blocks. “When did you take these?”

  “A couple of hours ago,” Michelle said. She became excited and pointed. “This is where they flashed their lights and pulled him over. We didn’t have sound so we weren’t able to tell what they said.”

  Jayson stared at the screen. The camera operator zoomed in on the subcompact’s license plate, then on Scott, who got out of the squad car and swaggered toward the driver. Scott became a bit smaller as the scope widened just enough to capture both officers standing at opposite sides of the vehicle. Washington peered into the passenger side. Jayson chuckled. “So they target someone who’s alone; no witnesses.”

  “Um-hmm,” Michelle said and ran her index finger over the edges of the screen. “And they flag them down when they’re in an area with few houses.”

  Jayson observed Scott, who stepped back enough to allow the driver, a small-framed, dark-skinned, bald young man, to emerge from the car. The man appeared to be very angry. He yelled at Scott and shook his finger violently in the officer’s face. The seasoned policeman took another step back and put his right hand on his belt.

  “Uh-oh,” Jayson said. “He’s going for the mace.”

  “Uh-un,” Michelle disagreed. “He’s gonna make the driver prove he’s not drunk. Stand on one leg, walk a straight line. Total BS.” She pointed. “But watch Washington.”

  Jayson leaned closer and observed the policewoman. Her head and arm disappeared as she reached into the car through the open window. A few seconds later she emerged holding an object in her right hand. Jayson leaned even closer. “Oh my God. Is that a gun?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  Jayson watched. Washington held the gun in the air and apparently called to her partner, which caused the driver to turn in her direction. The young man pointed at Washington and shouted something, then took three rapid steps toward the rear of the vehicle. He didn’t get very far. Scott tripped him; then he and Washington easily subdued and handcuffed him. “Son of a bitch!” Jayson exclaimed. “I bet that gun was in the glove compartment.”

  Michelle nodded. “But the police report will say Washington found it somewhere else.”

  Jayson chuckled. “Let me guess, um, on the passenger seat?” He turned back to the images on the screen. Washington escorted the handcuffed driver to the squad car and opened the backseat door. Scott, walking a few feet behind her, stopped and gestured, almost as though pointing at the viewers. “Uh-oh,” Jayson said. “They spotted you.”

  Michelle frowned. “Yeah. I wanted to stay and confront them but Juan Carlo, who’s had bad experiences with cops growing up, shouted at me to go.”

  Jayson observed further. Scott grew bigger as he approached the SUV, but the space between him and the bottom of the screen grew wider as Michelle jetted the car backwards. The images blurred, then the screen abruptly went black. “You think he got your license plate number?”

  Michelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. Juan Carlo’s not too comfortable, though. He says he’s going to stay at his sister’s tonight.” She shut off the machine.

  “Now what?” Jayson asked.

  “Now I need to contact the officers and their immediate supervisor,” Michelle replied, “and find out who that man is and ask him for a comment before we run the story.”

  Jayson rubbed his fingers against his chin. “I recommend you get hold of Washington first, and alone. She’s the weakest link. Put a little pressure on her and she might crack.” He snapped his fingers. “My paralegal says she lives in an apartment complex down the street from her.”

  Suddenly Michelle grabbed Jayson’s arm, clearly excited. She looked at her watch. “I think they get off at eleven.”

  Jayson checked his watch also. “Then we’ve got plenty of time. Let’s study the video real good, then grab a bite to eat and pay her a visit.”

  Michelle nodded enthusiastically. “Oka
y. I’ll have to hustle up a camera op on standby.” She shook her fists. “That weekend anchor chair’s as good as mine!”

  •

  Jayson sat in his car and listened to soft, mellow contemporary jazz music on the radio. Among the twenty-four parking spaces at the rear of Alexis Washington’s apartment building, he counted five empty. He had parked his car as far from the back door as possible and watched the only entrance into the lot. He had removed his jacket and rolled down the two front windows, allowing intermittent soft breezes of humid air to caress his face. According to the news report he had heard on the way, the temperature, which had reached ninety degrees earlier that day, had dropped to seventy.

  Michelle had stationed herself at the front entrance. She had agreed to allow Jayson to make first contact. He understood he would have to approach Washington quickly, before she entered the building, but carefully, so not to startle her to the point she believed she was under attack. Many police officers carried their service weapons on them even when off duty.

  Jayson listened to the saxophone player’s deft rendition of “Sweet Love” and allowed his thoughts to drift to his recent calls home. Other than for a few minutes in the morning, he hadn’t seen Jennifer or Renee that day. He suddenly felt lonely and recalled the brief advice he had received on his wedding day. His father, a quiet man who had presented his mother with a red rose every month for nearly forty years, had warned that a man who didn’t make time for his family should not be surprised to find his wife distant and his children indifferent toward him.

  Jayson had discerned distrust in Renee’s voice when he had informed her he would be home perhaps after midnight and why. After ten years of marriage he had come to realize beside the fact she disapproved of his profession—especially his involvement with Brian Stone—she had never been completely willing to trust his fidelity. Jayson recalled Renee’s tearful admissions that occasional rumors about affairs between her father and the sexually aggressive female students at the university where he taught English literature had been a constant problem for her parents. Renee’s mother, a temperamental art history professor, had married Renee’s father believing she had chosen what her own mother had not: a faithful husband. Renee’s grandmother had admonished her daughter, who in turn had admonished Renee, “A man’s not going to keep his pants up when tempted.”

  Unlike Renee’s mother, who took pains to confront Renee’s father about every rumor, Renee had chosen two different strategies. The first involved emotional distance. She would never place her career after her husband’s—not that Jayson would ever ask for such a sacrifice. She also didn’t allow herself to become too emotionally open or vulnerable. Jayson now realized that for Renee, having taken such precautions, if and when he cheated, the hurt wouldn’t be too severe. Her second path involved passive aggressiveness: the silence, the sulking, the nonresponse to her hand being squeezed, the withdrawal of physical affection—all part of her arsenal. Jayson suspected he had made a mistake by putting up with Renee’s mood swings for ten years rather than by confronting her; he had been too busy with work, he had to confess.

  The change in music to a Latin jazz beat caused his concern to shift to Leslie’s situation. He felt some guilt about his daughter’s birth mother being held at a federal detention center because of his initiative. Noncitizens could claim a few legal rights under federal immigration laws, but they didn’t enjoy the protections afforded citizens under the U.S. Constitution. Depending on the whims and ambitions of the officials involved, Leslie could possibly spend years behind bars for drug trafficking. That had certainly not been his intention, but how was he supposed to know the woman had a drug dealer for a boyfriend? Beatrice Cook’s repeated admonition came to mind, conveyed to Jayson as a child: “Bad things often happen to good people in bad company.”

  Jayson’s mobile phone rang. He read the screen information and answered. “What’ve you got Mich?…She’s here?…You sure?…Okay. Go to the diner I showed you down the street and sit tight until I call you.” He hung up and felt his anxiety rise when he saw the driveway ground light up, followed by the appearance of a black, sporty compact car. The female driver parked in an empty spot directly across from the backdoor. Jayson suspected a trained police officer would probably notice a late model Jaguar parked nearby, boxing in three of her neighbors, so he rolled up the windows and exited his car just as Washington, carrying a duffel bag, did the same.

  Jayson called to her when she reached the middle of the lot about halfway between her vehicle and the door. “Officer Washington?”

  She stopped, then took a step backward. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Jayson Cook, the attorney,” Jayson replied and walked slowly toward her with his hands visible.

  “What do you want?”

  He closed in to within five feet of her. “I want to help you.”

  “And why do I need help?”

  Jayson took another step forward. “Because today you and your partner illegally stopped and arrested a man because he’s a member of the Warriors of Islam.”

  Washington started for the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s all on camera and I’ve seen it.”

  Washington halted and turned around. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. “You’re not here to help me, counselor.”

  Jayson approached to within arm’s reach of her. “I’m not going to lie to you, Alexis. I’m interested in helping my client Brian Stone. Are you one of the Protectors?”

  The mention of the word caused Washington to wince. She shook her finger at Jayson. “I heard you were real good.” She beckoned with her hand. “We’ll talk inside.”

  They took the stairs to the second floor and entered her spacious one bedroom apartment. Jayson found the air in the unit to be cool and comfortable due to a running air conditioner in the window, probably on a timer. He examined his surroundings and respected that Washington had decorated the place nicely and kept it tidy. Apparently she possessed a fondness for plants. He counted ten potted plants hanging or sitting near the large front window, covered by green curtains. Two large photographs hanging on opposite walls consisted of nature scenes: leafy trees surrounded by tall grass and patches of wildflowers.

  A very furry cat appeared from the hall leading to the bedroom and bathroom, and greeted the mistress of the house by rubbing against her legs. Washington picked up the animal and stroked it a few times, then carried it into the hall, tossed it into her bedroom and closed the door. She entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “You want a beer?” she asked.

  Jayson accepted the offer and noticed her refrigerator contained much more beer than food. While his hostess rummaged around in the kitchen, Jayson examined a photograph on top of a bookshelf in the living room. In it, a beaming, uniformed Washington, with her hair a few inches longer, posed between a much older man and woman. “Your folks?”

  Washington entered the living room holding two bottles of beer and handed one to Jayson. She pushed a button to lower the temperature of the air conditioner and plopped onto the loveseat. “Yeah. My dad’s a retired cop.”

  Jayson reclined on the sofa a few feet away. “Really? He must be very proud of you.” He took a swig from his bottle.

  “Um-hmm,” Washington replied in a soft, lethargic voice. She appeared to be quite tired. Her shoulders and eyes drooped. “She took several long gulps of beer. “I never really wanted to be a cop.”

  Jayson sat up. “No?”

  Washington shrugged. “Maybe that’s why I’m not really good at it. I’ve tried. My older brother got killed in a car accident when I was a teenager. He was a star at the police academy. I guess I just wanted my dad to…” Her voice tailed off. “Now, I’m fucked.”

  Jayson leaned forward. “Listen, Alexis, you can still do the right thing here. Michelle Ling from Channel Eight’s waiting at the diner down the street. She’s got a camera operator on standby and she’s waiting for my call.” He
reached into his pants pocket and retrieved his mobile phone. “Come clean and you’ll be a hero for exposing this mess.” He saw the irony in dispensing advice he would find laughable if serving as her legal counsel. He always told his clients when in trouble, keep their mouths shut and wait for an attorney.

  “I can’t betray my partner.”

  “Look, Alexis,” Jayson said. “When the shit hits the fan, it’s gonna be everyone for himself. Scott only helped you in the past to control you.” He pressed a button, causing his mobile phone screen to light up. “I know you’re a good woman and this thing’s been tearing you up inside. You’re young. Get this behind you and then start a new life.”

  Washington sighed, clearly exhausted. She stared at the new carpet for several seconds, then spoke very softly. “I didn’t like what we were doing, not one bit.”

  Jayson nodded. “I know. I could tell when I interviewed you that you were nothing like Scott.” He hit the redial button on his phone and raised it to his mouth. “Mich, Officer Washington’s willing to give you a statement. Get your guy over here, but hurry. We don’t want to keep her any longer than we have to. She’s tired and needs to rest.” He hung up.

  Washington smiled. “Alex,” she whispered. “Most people call me Alex.”

  Jayson smiled. “Alex it is.” He pointed at himself. “Jayson, with a Y.”

  Washington looked him over. “Too bad you’re married, Jayson with a Y,” she moaned. “It’s been almost a year since I’ve had a little...” She finished her beer instead of her thought, then sighed and whispered, a blank expression on her face. “When this is over, I could sure use a good fuck.”

  Jayson couldn’t think of a response.

  •

  Five days after his unannounced visit to Alexis Washington’s residence, Jayson and his staff gathering in his conference room to watch Channel Eight’s five o’clock news, which would begin in five minutes. Connie and Tenika, sitting next to each other, bantered back and forth like two high school cheerleaders awaiting a playoff game. Victor, the self-appointed e-technician, stood at his post alongside the television ready to start the recorder. He joked with Jayson and the two women about the thick layers of makeup the female news anchor usually wore, calling her a white geisha. Even Jayson couldn’t hide his excitement. He tapped nervously with his pen on the legal pad in his lap.

  The telephone rang and Tenika put her hands on the arms of her chair.

  “Stay there,” Jayson told her. “I’ll get it. He darted out of the noisy conference room, then closed the door behind him and grabbed the telephone on Tenika’s desk. “Cook Law Office,” he said.

  “It’s Samira. I guess you’re about to watch the news.”

  “Yeah,” Jayson replied. “One of your witnesses is changing her story.”

  “The word of a marginal employee against a twenty-year veteran,” Rahmani retorted. “Anyway, I called to tell you that your Costa Rican friend’s being charged with trafficking. The feds are squeezing her to find out what she knows about her boyfriend’s operation.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, but just leave her there, Jayson. Serves her right for—”

  “Find out, for me, Samira, will you?”

  After a long pause, she replied. “Okay. Go watch the news. Bye.”

  Jayson hung up and heard his staff clamoring for his return. “Okay!” he shouted back. He returned to the conference room and replayed Rahmani’s advice in his head: “Just leave her there.” Could he do such a thing to Jennifer’s mother?

  * * * * *