Judging Time (21 page)

It was a different story about what went on inside the building where the couple lived. The Libertys were not the quiet and loving couple Liberty claimed. Hagedorn opened the file and plunged into the spotlight.

"First incident with white people occurred when Liberty was only fourteen." Hagedorn looked up. "We don't have anything before that yet," he said. "But you know niggers. They wouldn't call the police on him if he killed his own mother."

Somebody farted.

April put her scarf to her nose. The living sometimes smelled worse than the dead.

"Get on with it," Iriarte said impatiently. "What'd the man do?"

"He beat up some kids in his boarding school. Broke one kid's nose, another's arm. The parents tried to get him thrown out, but the school hushed it up."

"Did the police come? Was he arrested?" Iriarte asked.

"No," Hagedorn admitted.

"Anything else?" Mike said, disgusted.

"Yeah, there's something else. He went to Princeton. He beat up a white girl and her date on the street. When the police came, he convinced them he was walking by and saw the guy beating the girl and restrained him. This nigger was such a smooth talker he got the police to arrest the other guy. Princeton football captain. What could they do? They believed him. The next day the girl said it was all a lie. It was the black man who punched her teeth out."

"Was he arrested then?" Iriarte asked hopefully.

Hagedorn shook his head. "I told you this guy is smooth. Some kind of sociopath. He talked his way out of it. Next thing we know he's transferred to Stanford. They got rid of him, see. A pattern emerges, huh?"

"Yes, no, maybe so, Hagedorn. Anything else?"

"Yeah, there's more. There was a Super Bowl incident."

Iriarte flipped through the newspapers. "Yeah, the
Enquirer
picked up that one."

"The Giants were thirty-two points down at half-time. Liberty was pissed because no one was doing the assignments he gave them. He thought the team was fucking up, so he tore the locker room up during halftime and they had to take him away in an ambulance. "

"I never heard that," Mike murmured.

"Yeah, well, it was hushed up. Everything with him is hushed up, know what I mean?"

"Anything else?" Iriarte asked wearily.

"Now the good part. Present time, the guy had screaming fights with his wife on a regular basis. Everyone in the building knew about it. The painter had to come up and replaster walls in the apartment three times this year alone. Sometimes neighbors called them directly and the noise stopped. Once the police had to be called in."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, there's more." Hagedorn consulted his notes. "Uh, I talked to some of the secretaries at this place he works. They all said he gets these headaches sometimes and goes kinda crazy."

"Kinda crazy. That's kinda ambiguous. Can you be more specific?"

"Kinda crazy. That's what I have. 'He gets scary.' " Satisfied with his work, Hagedorn shut the file.

"He's black. He weighs two hundred pounds. For a lot of people that's scary enough," April said. She didn't like the foul odor in the room. "You're right, maybe we should have lynched him when we had hlID. "

"You were there all afternoon. You had every opportunity to get him. And what did you do? You didn't bring him in. You scared him off. I'd call that a cock-up. I'd call that a fucking disaster, Woo. I thought you were good. I had big hopes for you, and what do you do? You and your boyfriend mess up on the big one."

April slung her bag over her shoulder and steadied herself. A couple of 'Years ago before she was transferred to the Two-O and met Mike, she used to lower her eyes in situations like this, put her head down and practically knock it on the floor as Chinese peasants used to do to show their humility to their lords in old China. She used to think the impulse to bow to her superiors in the face of humiliation was a genetic thing that she could not overcome. But Mike had taught her to stand up and fight back when she had to. Now even js her face burned with the shame of public humiliation, she kept her head up and replied in even tones.

"Sir, let's get to the bottom line here. As far as we know, there are only two crimes this guy Liberty is guilty of for sure and certain, and we can't arrest him for either one."

"And what might those be?"

April ticked them off. "For one, he didn't attend his wife's funeral. He was in his apartment most of yesterday when we searched the place and checked the route to see if he could have killed her."

"And you've no doubt he could have."

"Oh, yes, he could have gotten out and in and he could have jogged down to Forty-fifth Street and back within the time frame. No doubt about it. The building complex he lives in is like a sieve. There are two elevators in each building and between the buildings is a courtyard that's locked to outsiders but available to tenants twenty-four hours a day. A basement runs under the courtyard between the two buildings. There's also a garage. Liberty could have gotten out at least four ways." April spoke matter-of-factly.

"So he's our man."

"He could be our man," Mike interrupted.

"But you let him get away."

Mike kept his voice cool. ' I said he
could
be. Then again he might not be. We have a little problem here. A little question of evidence. As of yesterday no one saw him leave his building on the night of the murder, or return for that matter. We've checked out the garbage in his building for a murder weapon and bloody clothes. Everything in that building is tossed down chutes located by the service area on every floor. Yesterday we tested for prints on the chute handle on his floor. Someone had wiped it clean. We don't know if he tossed bloody clothes or a weapon down there. Nothing's been found. In addition, we have nothing attributable to him on the scene itself. No murder weapon, no witnesses."

"Well, how did he handle himself in the interview?" Iriarte asked. "What did you think?"

Mike did not look at April. She did not look at him.

"He smooth-talked you, too," Hagedorn sneered.

"Nothing clear emerged," April said pretty smoothly herself. "And just because he wasn't at home this morning doesn't mean he's run away."

"Well, I hope you're right, Woo, because I'll hold it against you if we read in tomorrow's paper he's in Mexico."

Finally, just like old times, Mike jerked his head at April. They'd played nice long enough. "Let's go."

"Just a minute. What's the second thing you're sure Liberty's guilty of?" Iriarte demanded.

April pushed the foul air out of her nose. "He's black," she said.

Iriarte pointed a finger at her. "Is that a problem for you, Woo?"

April shook her head. It was a problem for other people though.

"Then get him."

"We'll find him." Mike turned and glanced at Iri-arte's blackboard with the assignments on it. The blackboard was crooked now. He straightened it as he left.

23

L
iberty writhed in the dark. Street sounds—fire engine, police siren, people screaming outside and in the hall—instructed his dreams of bloody death. "You a dead man, fucker." Whine of a siren. "Weeeaaweeeaaweeaa—" The sound of someone moving around outside the door dragged him back from hell. It was cold in the room. He pulled at the thin coverlet and realized he was still wearing his clothes, wasn't at home. Groaning, he turned over on the sagging mattress and heard the sound again—boots tramping on a bare floor. He cracked an eye. A sliver of gray light squeezed through the slit between the peeling window frame and the blackout curtains of purple velvet covering the glass. He didn't know exactly where he was, but knew he'd have to get out of there in a few minutes.

He was awake now, his anguish blossoming into a full-blown panic. He looked for his computer. It was still there on the wicker rocking chair beside the bed. In the pale light he could see a fringed piano shawl like his grandmother used to have thrown over the back of the chair. Like hers, this one had holes in the flowers and was minus the piano. He was in a shabby shithole somewhere in Harlem, but the computer was safe. He looked for a phone jack, didn't see one. His shoes were on the floor, by the bed. He closed his eyes to recapture an earlier dream. In the dream Merrill had worn a blue robe with white stars. It looked like the robes the dancers called gypsies in Broadway shows handed down to the winner in their version of the Tonys. She wasn't screaming anymore. She'd won the prize, the robe of heaven.

He whispered to her, "I'm sorry, baby. Come back."

But she didn't seem to see him. She was talking to an audience, telling them in her lecturing voice how black people were in America before the
Mayflower.

"The first baby born in the New World was a Moor. They had no word for black or white skin then. The baby was baptized William. There were free blacks in the North, right here in New York, long before there were slaves."

The robe Merrill wore was wide in the sleeves and sweeping at the hem. Like an angel, she argued Liberty's past.

"Rick, you could be one of those indentured servants, a trader from the Middle East, a descendant of Cleopatra or an Ethiopian king. You could be a founding father of America. A free man all the way back to the beginning of time."

"Never was so, baby," Liberty told her in his dream. "Uh-uh, my grandmother on my mama's side was the daughter of a slave, black as night." Nothing free about his past. His father had died in the Korean War. He'd been a member of the last segregated unit in the armed forces, the one that was officially branded in the army's most recent rewriting of history as the "Coward's Brigade."

The man his mother claimed was his father looked dark in his pictures, but Rick had never known him. There was no way to be sure that the dark-skinned dead soldier, who was a musician before he was drafted, was in fact his real father. Rick himself had no musical abilities. For all he knew his real father had simply taken off when he was born, or even before. Could even be his father was a white man. It wouldn't be the first in his family. No matter who he was, Rick had always felt abandoned by him, fatherless in the most profound and unsettling way because he could not get solid information about the man who'd sired him. And what he'd been told didn't add up. His grandmother's skin was dark, his mother's was almost white. His own skin was closer to his mother's than her mother's. And somehow it had been easier for his grandmother to accept her daughter's light skin than his. Even when he was a small child, his gramma had studied Rick's fine, nearly Caucasian features with anger and didn't like to touch him. When his mother had given birth to his younger sister, his grandmother rejoiced because she was dark. And although there were always men around in the fringes of their lives, neither his grandmother or mother ever married.

"Honey, let's have beautiful golden children and go to the Caribbean to dance in the sun." Merrill's robe faded to black and she disappeared.

Pain sliced through Liberty's brain. He opened his eyes. The dream was gone and he needed a bathroom. He smelled coffee. His sweater and pants were rumpled and sweaty. He slipped on his shoes, grabbed his computer, and reached for the doorknob. The spindle came out in his hand, knocking the knob off on the other side.

"Yo, what's up?" The woman in the living room turned at the sound and examined him coldly.

Liberty stared at her. Marvin had told him a friend of his hung out here but hadn't said it was a woman. She hadn't been there last night when he'd come in.

"What's the matter wit you? Ain't never seen a sista befo?" The woman's hostility almost sent him back into the bedroom.

He held out the knob and spindle. "Your door handle is loose," he said.

"Yessir, I took the screws out. I ain't keeping no strange nigger in
mah
place widout takin some precautions. Coffee?" she offered.

Liberty turned toward the aroma. The kitchen was a corner without a door that contained a refrigerator, tiny stove, and sink. The woman was sitting at a table in front of it with a cup in her hand. She followed his gaze to a sagging sofa and two more wicker chairs and the milk cartons filled with books that served as coffee tables and bookcases.

"Around here, you better have nothin'. worth stealin'," she said coldly. "So I don't."

Rick needed to urinate and wash his face.

She jerked her chin toward a closed door. "Bathroom's in there."

"Thanks." Rick crossed the room and opened the door. The sink was brown with rust. The toilet was old and the tank had deep cracks. It smelled. Rick closed his eyes as he urinated. He gathered his friend Marvin had some message in mind when he'd left him here late last night. Marvin always had a message. The mirror was shadowy with age and had a crack in it. The mirror had a message for him, too. His hair had not one or two gray strands. It had become grizzled, as if he'd been fried in the night and all that was left was ash. His beard gave his face a gray covering, too. He stared at himself, shocked. He thought of the electric chair, but then remembered they didn't kill that way in New York State anymore.

The woman put another cup of coffee on the table and moved back toward the wall, putting the table between them.

"Yo, nigger," she said. "Don't know why you in my place, but I owe Marvin. You register that? I'd do whatever, don't matter what he say. I'd do it, you understand? He wants to hide out some nigger killed a white woman in my place—" She spread the shapely fingers of one hand in the cool sign and shrugged. "Maybe that nigger had a good reason."

Rick opened his mouth at the word
killer,
but she didn't give him a chance to speak.

"These the house rules. No drugs here. No weapons of any kind. No drugs, no weapons. That's it. I can smell it before you can open it. I can smell it in the hall. One sniff an' I'll call the cops. 'Nother thing, dude, you try to rape me or hit me or come on to me in any way—verbal or otherwise—you try to touch me any place on my person I'll kill you. Got that?"