Blood of Angels (21 page)

“None.”

“Figures. Things have a life of their own.”

An out-of-breath cop appears around the corner with the African Fiona was protecting in cuffs. “I got him, Sergeant. If he hadn't stumbled, I'd never have caught him.” He forces the Sudanese boy down to his knees in the line of the arrested. “Now stay there, dammit.”

The sergeant looks over at Fiona. “Tell me who in the holy hell that is.”

I'm about to answer when Stillman appears, a relaxed smile on his face. “Afternoon, officers. Jeff Stillman, DA's office.”

The cop looks at him. “What's your story?”

He points at Fiona. “Assault and battery on a police officer and resisting arrest, for starters. I saw the whole thing. The officer was attempting to execute his duty and Towns physically assaulted him.”

“Don't worry, she'll get her turn.” The sergeant yells over at an officer. “Bring the woman over, will ya?”

“You took your time showing up, Stillman,” I say quietly.

“I guess I didn't feel the need to interfere with the police,” Stillman says, looking at me. He pulls me aside. “Look, this is
beautiful,
Thomas. She just hit a
cop.
”

The officer Fiona fought with marches her over to us. “Here she is, Sergeant,” he says, shoving her in front of him. “And you can throw the book at her, far as I'm concerned.”

The sergeant looks her over. “Let's start with your name.”

Fiona, hands bound, bleeding in two places, shirt torn, and pants dirty, is a blaze of righteous indignation. “I am the Reverend Fiona Towns. Your goons were manhandling my boys.” She looks at the cop with her. “Him, in particular.”

The sergeant looks up. “Reverend? I bet that's some kind of church.”

“It's the kind that doesn't sit idly by while people are brutalized by the police,” Fiona snaps.

The sergeant rolls his eyes. “Frank, what the hell happened on this deal?”

“I gave one of the Africans a direct order to stop,” the officer says. “He refused, and I repeated myself. He refused again, and I put a baton on him. I was in the process of subduing him when this woman attacked me.”

“The boy doesn't speak English, you imbecile,” Fiona retorts. “For all he knew, he thought you were ordering pizza.”

“That's his problem,” the officer grumbles. “Your problem is assaulting a police officer.”

“I didn't
assault
you, as you so colorfully put it,” she says. “I was keeping you from beating the life out of someone who doesn't
speak English.
If anybody was going to get hit, I wanted it to be me.”

“God help your boyfriend, if you have one,” the cop says, under his breath, but not far enough under. Fiona revs up for a verbal barrage, and the cop steps away, waving his hand. “I'm done, lady. Tell it to a judge.”

“That true, Frank?” the sergeant asks. “Did she hit you?”

“More like she jumped on me.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Fiona mocks.

“Well, did she hurt you, or what?” the sergeant asks.

“'Course she didn't hurt me, but that ain't the point, Sergeant. I'm trying to subdue a prisoner.”

The sergeant nods. “It's gonna look a little shitty, Frank. Her being a woman preacher and all. Still, we can't have people interfering with a policeman doing his duty.” He points to the African. “Bring him over.” One of the officers hauls the African to his feet and pushes him toward the police. There's a disquieting murmur from the remaining refugees, who watch from stoops and doorways. The sergeant taps the boy on the shoulder. “What about it,
amigo?
You speak English or what?”

The boy recoils in fear. “No English.”

The sergeant shakes his head. “This'll make a hell of a headline in tomorrow's paper. We got a woman and some kid who doesn't speak the lingo.” The sergeant spits. “Damn mess, is what it is.” He looks back at the Africans watching from their apartment doorways. “How'd this thing get started, anyway?”

“Some Nationites picked up one of the Africans to send a message,” I say. “He's in Vanderbilt Hospital.”

He shakes his head. “We didn't even get called. These refugees don't trust us.” He looks back at the officer. “And now they've seen Frank use a baton on one of them.” He spits again. “Dammit, when did this town turn into this?”

“One day at a time,” I say. “One damn day at a time.”

The sergeant nods. “I can't let this kinda thing go down without consequences, but I wouldn't mind reaching out to these African kids. I'm gonna have to take 'em downtown and hold 'em for a while, but if you think it's okay, we can let 'em go after a few hours.”

“Fine by me.”

He nods. “How about the woman?”

“She goes downtown,” Stillman retorts.

The sergeant raises an eyebrow. “Your pal here's pretty gungho, ain't he?”

“Yeah,” I say, quietly.

The sergeant pulls me aside. Stillman follows, leaning in. “Thing is, that officer who hit the African kid is a bit of a hothead. It ain't the first time somebody's had to calm him down.”

I look over at the officer; he's glaring back at the three of us with a surly expression. “Yeah.”

“I can smell bad PR when I run into it, and this whole thing stinks of it. So I'm not hauling that preacher down there if the DA's office won't press charges. Puts my department in a bad light for no reason. So I'd say this is your call, Counselor. Do I bring her in or not? Yes or no.”

I look over at Fiona, who is standing with her hands bound behind her back. She's staring straight back at me, her eyes blazing. “Book her,” I say flatly. “Take her in.”

The sergeant nods and turns back to the others. “Roll 'em up!” he bellows. “Africans in the truck, Nationites in cars. Put the woman in mine.”

Stillman and I follow, walking within five feet of Fiona. The officer she jumped on is turning her around and moving her toward the sergeant's car. “Let's go, sweetheart,” he growls.

Fiona looks back over her shoulder at me. “Don't,” she pleads. “Don't do this, Thomas.” The officer opens the back door of the car and pushes Fiona's head down, forcing her into the car. I turn my back and walk away, heading to my truck.

 

STILLMAN SHUTS THE PASSENGER DOOR
of the Ford and smiles at me. “You know, man, I had you wrong.”

I stare out the windshield. The officers are loading the Africans into the truck, one by one. “How's that?” I ask quietly.

“I thought you had a thing for the girl. You know, you were going soft.”

“I see.”

“I would have sworn you would have told the sergeant to let her off. You know, keep her out of trouble.” He pauses. “I even thought you had second thoughts about Bol, what with Hodges being such an asshole and everything. The move on the kid he put in the hospital doesn't look so hot.”

I watch the last of the watching Africans slowly disappear back into their homes. “If Towns doesn't testify, she doesn't go to prison for obstruction.”

Stillman stares, working out what I saw from the first moment. “Shit, man. This had nothing to do with Bol. You did it to protect her. She's useless as a witness now. ‘So, Reverend Towns, I understand you were arrested three days ago for incitement to riot and assaulting a policeman. Now what was it you had to say again?'” He smacks his hand down on the side of his door. “Fucking brilliant, man. You're gonna plead her shit down, and she'll be out in thirty-six hours. But that's the thirty-six hours that keeps her out of prison for three to five. Meanwhile, Bol's one chance for an acquittal is officially history.”

I start the engine. “Let's go home, Stillman.”

RITA WEST AND I
are seated in the hallway outside the revolving door of justice known as Night Court. She stares across an empty bench at me. “So,” she says.

“Um hmm.”

“You vex me, Thomas. You really do.”

“Something to live for.”

“You've got incitement to riot on here, Thomas.
Incitement to riot.
”

“The police were attempting to quell the disturbance. At which point, the accused assaults an officer.”

“Thomas…”

“I'm a reasonable man, Rita. We can work something out. I'm thinking simple assault, resisting arrest.”

“Very magnanimous of you, considering the original charge is complete crap.”

“That's not what the cop says.”

Rita curls her lip. “Frank Bratton's a macho idiot who's probably just embarrassed a woman flattened him.”

“He's also a police officer, and between him and Towns, I'm pretty sure which one the judge is going to believe.”

“You know something, Thomas? You can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“Probably, but this isn't one of them.”

“What would you call it? This is nothing but a nail in Moses Bol's coffin. How am I supposed to call a witness right after she gets convicted for assaulting a policeman?”

“There is a solution.”

“I'd be pretty interested to know what it is.”

“Get Bol to plea.”

She looks up. “You said there weren't going to be any more deals.”

I nod. “Lemme ask you something, Rita. You ever feel like we're just pawns in some big game we don't control?”

“In this job? Every day of my life.”

“Yeah, well, I know the feeling. You, me, Bol, we're all nothing but chess pieces on the board. You've got people on your side right now who don't give a damn about you or Bol. They're just using him for their own agenda.”

“Agreed.”

“Same thing for me. There's going to be three hundred idiots from the Wolfe Pack showing up for court tomorrow, and friends like that I don't need.”

She pauses. “So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying that David Rayburn's not an idiot, Rita. This city is on the verge of chaos. Right now he can't afford to look like he's caving, but a guilty plea would be just what the doctor ordered. Justice served. Towns is off the stand. Bol does time, but he lives. Everybody goes home alive.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Bol's a hard case, Thomas. I'm not sure I can get him to go for it.”

“He's going to lose, Rita. And if he loses without a plea, he's going to die.”

“Bol's already seen a lot of death,” she says, shaking her head. “I don't think he's afraid of it.”

This is not in my calculations. The whole
idea
of the death penalty is that people are afraid of dying. Take that out of the equation, and you don't have shit. “Seriously?”

“Thomas, if you knew the half of what this kid's been through, it would break your heart.”

“At this point, I'd just prefer his kept on beating. But that's up to you. I've done what I can. Get the deal, and I'll handle Rayburn.”

“You give me your word?”

“Get the deal.” I push paperwork across to her. “This is for Towns. It's already signed by me. It pleas her down with time served. She walks out tonight.”

She stares at the paper. “You were pretty confident.”

“Talk to Bol, Rita. This is the only way he's going to survive. If this comes to trial, he's done.” I pause. “And talk to Towns. She's got to let this go, now. I'm trying to keep her out of prison. You know that.”

She stands. “Yeah. Tomorrow morning?”

“I'll be there.”

Outside the New Justice Building, I look up at the night sky.
BMWs,
I think.
I could always sell BMWs.

SIX O
'
CLOCK THE NEXT MORNING
, Tuesday. The
Tennessean,
open to the front page. “AFRICAN REFUGEES RIOT AT TENNESSEE VILLAGE.” I scan down the text: “More than fifty Sudanese refugees confronted police and area residents yesterday at Tennessee Village…high immigrant population…nearby residents express fear and concern…quoted as saying it was ‘like something out of
National Geographic
'…outspoken pastor of the Downtown Presbyterian Church was arrested for incitement to riot…police spokesman Donald Marsh asks for calm…”

Coffee. Zoloft. Cat, vanished again.
Where the hell is that damn animal this time?
I peer out at the woods behind my house. Something bigger and meaner could have got ahold of him; there's some pretty ugly-looking possums in the woods behind the house. The food and water still sit in their bowls, untouched.
I take it all back.
Fancy Feast morning and night. Come on back, buddy.
I walk back through the kitchen but decide against breakfast today. But I need the run. I put on shorts, tennis shoes, don't bother with a shirt. I pound out a couple of miles, letting the sweat roll down my body. I push up the final hill like somebody's chasing me.

Shower, shave, dress. I pull out the light gray Ferragamo two-button suit, white Zegna shirt and bloodred tie, black Bally shoes. Three weeks' salary. One of the few lessons I took from the military: if you're going to face the fire, look good. Had a drill sergeant—drunk on his ass at the time—put it this way:
Know the real reason we lost Vietnam, son? By the second year, our soldiers looked like surfers. Walking around with no uniforms, smoking dope. Other side stopped taking us seriously. I mean, who can't kick a bunch of surfers' asses?
It was dubious history, but I took his point.

I drive into town, the traffic its usual pitch of molasses. I switch on the radio and hear Dan Wolfe's morning drive-time show. He's extolling his troops, telling the Wolfe Pack to show up and demand justice for Tamra Hartlett. He's read the day's paper, including a description of the Africans doing their war dance. He is as happy as a little boy locked in a room with ten kinds of ice cream. He can barely contain his self-satisfied rage as he gives his trademark yelp. “Howwwwwlllll,” he says, the microphone crackling with distortion. “I wanna see my Pack on the courthouse steps today! I wanna hear some howwwwwllllling! Can you feel me? Tell me, Pack, can you feeeeeeeel me?”

Yeah, moron. I feel you.
I can also feel the fact that it was Fiona Towns who got arrested for incitement to riot, when Wolfe is far more guilty. But Wolfe has the very expensive lawyers of Wide Channel Communications on his side, ready to wrap him in the protective shield of the First Amendment at the first hint of complaint. And anyway, the only thing between him and a nationally syndicated show is a little free publicity, which a lawsuit would deliver on a silver platter.
So howl on, moron. Wrap yourself up in the flag and give yourself a raise.

Ten blocks from the New Justice Building, I meet the other side of David Rayburn's delusiac equation: this time, the anti-death-penalty forces have come in on three buses. I figure by this point, we've got them from several states away. The vehicles are plastered with banners and—horrifyingly—enormous, blown-up photographs of Wilson Owens, the man executed for the Sunshine Grocery murders. I actually get caught at a red light beside one of the buses, and Owens's face stares at me, eye level, like a condemning angel. I look up cautiously; the bus is filled with Buchanan's merry revelers, ready to spill out onto the courtyard steps and come face-to-face with the Wolfe Pack.
Talk about a global village. Arabs kill a bunch of Africans ten thousand miles away, and it's high times in Nashville, Tennessee.

I drive past the front of the NJB and see that after yesterday's disturbance, the police have finally got the picture: there's a substantial cop force deployed around the building, including a large van parked up on grass beyond the steps to the front doors. It's still early, but Dan Wolfe proves his pull with his demographic; there's already a good hundred members of the Pack ensconced on the grounds. They're wearing their Wolfe Pack T-shirts, which say
Howl at a Liberal
on the back and
Wolfe Pack
on the front. Judging by their availability, the Pack doesn't hold down much in the way of jobs, but they don't waste any time doing the bidding of their radio master.

The Africans are back, as well. They're forming en masse on the other side of the stairs leading to the building's main entrance. They number only about thirty, but more are walking across the grounds to join the group. I watch them arrive, remembering the raw, electric energy coming from them at the Village.
If that gets unleashed around the Pack, God help us. And that doesn't even factor in Buchanan's clowns.

I head around to the rear of the building, wave my mag card at the employee entrance, and park. Stillman's arrived ahead of me; his used but freshly waxed BMW is parked at the far end of a row, the better to protect its immaculate paint job. I get out of the Ford, clear through security, and head straight to Ginder's chambers.

I come out of the elevators and feel Stillman on my left, materializing, as usual, from out of nowhere. I pull up. “Damn it, Stillman, you got to stop that.”

“What?”

I stare at him. “Let's go. We've got to see Ginder.”

“So Rita can throw in the towel.”

“We'll see what we see.”

He stops. “What, you don't think she'll do it?”

“It depends on Bol. On the other hand, she might use what happened yesterday to ask for a continuance.”

“Forget that, man. Rayburn says we got to roll.”

“If she asks for one, I'll support her motion,” I say quietly.

Stillman looks shocked. “Are you nuts, man? The kid's goose is cooked. All we got to do is turn on the heat.”

“We know whose car it was that picked up that kid who got beat up, don't we, Stillman?”

“News flash, Thomas. Jason Hodges is an asshole.”

“Lemme ask you something, Stillman. Has it actually never occurred to you that just maybe Jason Hodges is also a big enough asshole to have killed his girlfriend?”

Stillman stares at me. “What's your point? You didn't tell Rita about Hodges last night, did you?”

“No. But I'm telling Ginder this morning. I want his opinion on whether or not it's exculpatory.”

“Exculpatory, my ass. It's everything defense attorneys use to confuse a jury. We got the blood evidence. We've got Bol's semen in her vagina. We got her bludgeoned to death. We got Bol's handprint on her naked body. We got her blood in his car. Against which, Jason Hodges proves he doesn't like black people and there's a hung jury, minimum. Maybe even an acquittal.”

“Maybe. And maybe the rule of law actually means something around here.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that if Ginder rules it's exculpatory, Rita is going to want time to determine if Hodges has a pattern of violent behavior. She'll want to subpoena his medical records. She'll want to interview the other girls he worked, see if he was ever violent with them. You saw how he treated that brunette at his house.”

“I saw shit, man. David was right. You're losing your nerve.”

“Whatever.”

“You were a great prosecutor, man. You were ice.”

“So I hear. But this is how it's going to be.”

Stillman frowns disdainfully. “Jason Hodges is nothing but a fucking O. J. glove, man. Smoke and mirrors. If Rita West is as talented as you say she is, she'll turn Jason Hodges into a monster before our eyes.”

“C'est la vie.”

“I'm going to Rayburn with this. I'm not a part of it.”

“See ya, Stillman.”

I watch Stillman walk back to the elevator, then turn back to Ginder's courtroom. The hallway is nearly empty today; the action's outside, and anybody with a stake in the case is lining up out there. I head through the courtroom into Ginder's chambers. Rita isn't there yet. Ginder is standing by his window, which looks down over the front of the building and the hordes of protestors massing on the grounds. He glances up as I come in.

“Well, that's a hell of a thing,” he says. “Haven't seen that since the sixties.”

I smile. “Were you a radical, sir?”

Ginder shrugs. “You know how it is. Start out communist, end up subscribing to the
Wall Street Journal.
”

“Yes, sir.”

He turns and walks to his desk. “Let's get this jury empaneled, Thomas. The sooner this case is behind us, the better.”

“There's a little business to attend to first, Judge. I've got some evidence that might be exculpatory.”

Ginder looks up. “That so?”

“You know about what happened at Tennessee Village yesterday,” I say. “One of the African refugees was abducted and beat up by some Nationites.”

“Yeah. Damn shame.”

I exhale. “I have reason to believe it might have involved Jason Hodges.”

“The boyfriend?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ginder nods. “You're thinking the defense is going to want to fly him as an alternative to Bol.”

“What she does with this information is her business, Your Honor.”

Ginder leans back in his chair thoughtfully. “She'd need a week, anyway. Try to establish a pattern of violent behavior. Hell, it might take two weeks.”

“At which point, we'd petition you to rule it inadmissable anyway, Your Honor.”

Ginder nods. “I know.” He points toward the window. “The city's in a bad place, Thomas. I don't like the idea of two weeks' delay.”

“Neither does the state. But I felt I had to bring this to you.”

“A lot of people wouldn't. You did the right thing.”

“Thank you, sir.”

There's a soft knock on the door, and Rita enters. She's uncharacteristically disheveled; her hair is out of place, and she's flushed. She walks to the center of the room and drops her briefcase on the floor.

“Hello, Your Honor.”

“You OK, Ms. West?”

“Yes.”

“Those guys outside didn't give you any trouble, did they?”

“No.”

“Fine. Mr. Dennehy and I were just having a very interesting conversation.”

Here we go. Two weeks of chaos. It'll be a miracle if we make it through this.

“Bol confessed.” I open my eyes to see Rita staring at me blankly. “An hour ago, in my office.”

“What did you say?” I ask.

She shakes her head, dumbfounded. “Right out of the blue. ‘Excuse me, ma'am. I wish to confess.'” She looks confused, like she's not sure where she is. “He did it. He killed her.”

Ginder looks like a man who just popped up after a blow, right as rain. “Excellent news,” he says. “This solves everything.”

“Everything?”

“Never mind, Ms. West. Let the young man know I'm happy to accept his change of plea.”

“Hang on a second,” I say. “You told him about the deal first, right? Then he confessed.”

“I never had the chance. ‘I wish to confess,' he said. That's it. He wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“And he's serious? He knows what he's doing?”

“I made him stay put and ran down the translator, just to be sure. I explained all the implications to him. He won't be dissuaded.”

Ginder picks up the phone and calls his clerk. “Have them put the jurors back into the pool, will you, dear? That's right. We just got a guilty plea.” He looks up at us. “All right, Ms. West. Have your client in court tomorrow morning, ready to plead.”

Rita looks at me. “I didn't get the deal, Thomas. What are you going to do about the death penalty?”

 

I STAND OUTSIDE GINDER
'
S COURTROOM
, stunned.
He did it.
For some reason, I'm actually surprised.
The evidence is overwhelming. Like Stillman said: the semen, the blood, the handprint. It's all
there. Hell, maybe it's like Kwame Jamal Hale. Maybe he just wants to get right with his Maker.
I lean back against the hallway wall, feeling weight fall off me.
There was no coercion. He didn't even know about the deal. It's a free confession, freer than 99 percent of capital cases.

I stand up and breathe deeply, letting the air go with a sigh. “I did my job,” I say out loud. “It's not my responsibility how he pleads.” I walk back out through the hallway and stop at the windows looking down on the grounds. A hundred protestors have already gathered, and it's only 9:15. They don't know it yet, but Moses Bol, their ticket to fifteen minutes of fame, has just made them irrelevant. “Pack up and go home,” I say to the window. “Party's over.”

“
CONGRATULATE ME
.” I am holding a four-and-one-half-inch-long Cuesta Rey Robusto, having retrieved it from the lower drawer of my desk. I plop down into one of the district attorney's wing chairs, casually snip off the end of the cigar, and pocket the end. I roll the finished product between my fingers and set my size-eleven shoes on the edge of his desk. Rayburn and Stillman are giving me incredulous looks—in Stillman's case, mixed with a hefty dose of malevolence—but I studiously ignore them. I pass the cigar under my nose, left to right, inhaling its deep, musky scent. “Congratulate me,” I repeat.

Rayburn stares at me. “I'm trying to decide why I shouldn't fire you,” he grinds through his teeth. “We went over this stuff again and again. We were on the same page. And from out of the blue you go and fuck everything up.”

“The blood evidence,” Stillman says. He's loving being on the same side as Rayburn, especially lined up against me. “The arguments between Bol and the victim. The phone call the night of the murder. It's overwhelming. You got distracted, man. You lost your focus, and now, God knows what's going to happen.”