Reach the Shining River (25 page)

But he stayed silent. The words in his head were like something out of a movie.

The man facing him pinched his lower lip with thumb and forefinger. “So you’re not here to turn yourself in?”

Emmett steadied himself with a hand on the desk. “What?”

The agent looked at his partner, who swiftly and neatly pinned Emmett’s arms behind his back and cuffed his wrists.

“You’re under arrest.”

“For what?”

“For the murder of Edward Sloan.”

“But I’m the
investigator
.” The agent who had cuffed him lifted him roughly to his feet. “I can tell you the whole story,” Emmett said.

“Good. We’re all ears. And you can tell Roddy Hudson, too, because he’s working with us on the case.”

The agent picked up the folder and Emmett’s briefcase while his partner pulled Emmett out of the room and brought him to his cell. 

41.

Late on Wednesday afternoon, Arlene was at her weekly cleaning job at Mr. Jefferson’s law office beside the Plaza. Two women sat with their backs to her in the waiting room, speaking in low tones, though loud enough for her to hear. She wasn’t listening but she wasn’t blocking it out either – in this part of town she was used to being treated as if she wasn’t there.

The women wore fox fur stoles and netted hats and silk stockings. Plaza money. They were younger than Arlene but had the tones and gestures of older women. Or movie stars. Above them, the ceiling fan clicked as it rotated.

“She doesn’t even bother to pretend anymore. Doesn’t try to hide it.”

“Would you, darling?”

“Well, I wouldn’t be in that position in the first place, now would I?”

“Position?”

The women laughed. One of them was smoking, and ash from her cigarette floated to the marble floor that Arlene had just cleaned.

“I can’t imagine what Ed would do if he found himself in that situation.”

“Ed would run him out of town. So would Bob.”

“At
least
run him out.”

“Any man with a
whit
of self-respect. But Whelan? Didn’t know how to handle her from the start. Hadn’t a clue.”

The woman tisked. The name she’d mentioned hung in the air like a child’s balloon.

“Whatever did she see in him?” the other said.

The woman shrugged. Mr. Jefferson came out from his office and the women stood up and there was laughter and loud voices and talk of having a drink since it was after five in the evening.

*

On the way home it began to rain. A dense rain that dripped from the tips of the oak leaves and blurred the trolley car windows while mild thunder rumbled in the dark skies overhead. Arlene thought of Wardell, out in Columbia. Charlotte, in her last letter, had mentioned misbehaviour. Poor schoolwork. Sulking. Arlene would have to go out there. But what was really needed was for Wardell to come home. Not to testify, as Emmett Whelan wanted, but to take up where he belonged, with his mama, sleeping in his bedroom with its pennants and baseball photographs.

Whelan. If he messed up this case like he was messing up his life, then who knew when Wardell could return. A good man, maybe, but bad news for her.

There was a loud bang and the trolley came to a sudden halt on Troost Avenue. Sparks showered down from the overhead wires and the smell of burnt rubber filled the car. Arlene gathered her cleaning bags and quickly filed out with the other passengers onto Eighteenth Street. The rain had stayed heavy and she sheltered under the trees. The driver peered at the wires and walked away. After ten minutes, she decided to brave the weather and walk the mile or so home. The ugly burnt smell was still in her nostrils.

As she crossed Paseo, a funeral band marched out from behind a line of brick buildings on Olive Street. Coming from a funeral at United Baptist, it must have been, leading the mourners to Pinewood Cemetery. She could not recall anyone in the district who had died in the last week. Waiting respectfully for the band to pass, she recognized a number of the musicians. Lee Garrison lifted the bell of his trombone in greeting. They played “Just a Closer Walk with Thee” at dirge tempo, and she sang along under her breath.

A horse-drawn funeral coach followed, and behind it a train of mourners. The horses wore black plumes. The open coach had a small white casket inside, a child’s casket, with flowers along the side that spelled JULES. As the train passed, Jules’s mother, younger than Arlene and propped up by two older women, threw her head back and shrieked so loudly the whole world seemed to stop its motion.

The scene went blurry for Arlene. Sound vanished. As if waking from a dream, she slowly became aware of the band and its music.

Long after the funeral had passed, Arlene stood motionless on the side of the road, her tears mingling with raindrops.

42.

The day after his arrest, a Thursday, Emmett was allowed to read the complaint against him in the presence of the agent in charge. It accused him of engaging in a conspiracy to murder Edward Sloan and was signed by a federal magistrate. Attached was an affidavit, sworn to by Roddy Hudson, declaring that Emmett and Les Newton had tampered with physical evidence germane to the case.

His cell guard told him that Newton and the Perkins brothers had been arrested on the same day and jailed in another part of the building. News of the arrests had not reached the press. The shit would hit the fan on Monday, when the US Attorney in St. Louis was to file formal charges and establish dates for preliminary hearings.

Emmett asked to see Roddy before the hearings. The agent told him it was out of the question.

On Friday morning, the agent told him he would be detained pending his hearing, when it would be determined if he was eligible for bail. But he had the right to consult counsel. He didn’t have a regular attorney, so he sent a note to Stanley Pearson, his fellow assistant county prosecutor. Stan came to his cell in the early afternoon. His was the first friendly face Emmett had seen in twenty-four hours, and his story flowed forth in a jumbled rush.

Pearson was floored. “When was all this going on?”

“Over the last two months.”

“Fleming didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Fleming didn’t know.”

“He didn’t know? Your
boss
?”

Stan’s face was like a telegram with bad news.

“Stan, listen, I need help here.”

“Right. OK… You said you had the evidence assembled and analyzed, and then gave it to Hudson.”

“Yes. Except he took it, really.”

“And what was the connection between you and Newton?”

“No connection. Newton planted the shell, not me.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“The Perkins brothers had Newton plant the cartridge case at the crime scene figuring I would discover it. The plan was for me to put a false case together – unwittingly – which would implicate Timmons in a murder the Perkins brothers actually ordered.”

“Lloyd and Robert Perkins killed Sloan.”

“Had him killed, yes – but I didn’t have anything to do with it.
Hudson
did.”

“But Hudson is driving this investigation.”

“He saw the lay of the land and pulled a switch. And set me up as a patsy.”

Stan looked like a kid who forgot his homework.

“Goddamn it, Stan, it’s obvious. All this time he’s been associating with them, meeting them, planning – how hard can that be to document?”

“But he brought the evidence to the Feds. And even if he took it from you, who’s to say he wasn’t undercover from the start?”

Stan had grown up on a farm outside St. Joseph. He was smart, he was shrewd, and he called it like he saw it. Great at finding holes in cases and no good at hiding what he felt.

Panic spread in Emmett’s chest. If he couldn’t convince his attorney, who wanted to help him, how was he going to convince a grand jury? “You don’t believe me,” he said.

“I’m not here to believe or disbelieve, I’m here to represent.” They stared at each other for a few moments. “Listen,” Stan said, growing fidgety, “the best thing I can do for you right now is get the paperwork in order for Monday.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got an hour before the court offices close. I’ll see you tomorrow. Write the whole story out and we’ll get it into deposition.”

Stan stood up and called for the guard. Above the door to Emmett’s cell someone had scrawled the phrase
your
fucked
.

“There are witnesses, Stan.”

“Witnesses to what?”

It was a good question. A prosecutor’s question. The witnesses would corroborate everything Roddy Hudson and the FBI accused him of. The evidence that proved his innocence could as easily prove his guilt. And the only people who could vouch for his innocence were guilty themselves – his father-in-law, Robert Perkins, and Les Newton.

And Mickey.

“One other thing you can do for me,” Emmett said. “I need to let a couple of people know what’s happening.”

He scribbled two addresses while the guard unlocked the door. Pocketing the slip of paper, Stan avoided his gaze and hustled down the dank corridor. Desperate to be the hell out of there.

*

Arlene came to see him after breakfast on Saturday. They met across an oak table in the visiting room, deserted except for an armed guard at the door. Emmett had had a sleepless night. He was numb with stress.

Her face was pale and concerned. “What’s going on, Emmett?”

He could not remember her using his name before. The way she said it was musical and soothing. Everything he planned to say stuck in his throat, and he broke down, crying into his hands.

“They set me up,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re saying I helped kill Eddie Sloan.”

She shrank back in her chair. “I told you not to involve me. This is what happens.”

To Negroes. He knew that was what she meant.

“You have to help me,” he said.

“Why? What could I do?”

“I don’t know.”

The guard watched them. “What about the witnesses?” she said.

“Who, Virgil? The kid at the gun club? Whatever they say would make me look guilty.”

“And what about Wardell?”

“What about him?”

“Is he still in danger?”

“Arlene, they’re saying I did it. Do you understand that?”

She smiled wanly. “They won’t do anything to you.”

“Why?”

“It’s all a mistake. You’ll tell them what happened and they’ll clear it all up. You’ll see.”

It sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.

“I need you, Arlene.”

She glanced at the guard. “Talk to your lawyer,” she said. “Get your police friends working on it.”

“The police?
You’re
saying this?”

He started to tell her the story. He was brimming with the need to confide. Guilt and innocence, mystery and proof. Corruption and its own rules. His city, his family, his marriage. He would tell her all. She was a Negro. She knew the score. There was no point trying to fight the weight of history.

But she waved away his words.

“Arlene, you have to listen to me.”

She stood up.

“Arlene. You’re the only one who’s helped. Who understands.”

“I have to go.”

“Stay. Please.”

“Your friend,” she said, “the ex-cop. Talk to him.”

“Come to the hearing,” Emmett said. “Can you? If I can only see you there.”

But she was talking to the guard, telling him she had to leave.

*

Two hours later, the guard brought Emmett back to the visiting room. Mickey sat where Arlene had, his cast angling out from beneath the table. Freshly shaven, he wore a striped shirt and straw hat. His crutches leaned against the table and a cigarette smoked in the ashtray.

“You all right there, son?” the guard said to Mickey.

“I am, Joe.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Emmett sat as the guard took his position by the door. “You know him?”

“Joe Casey. Worked with my dad at the cement factory during the boom. You need anything, just give him a nod.”

“What I need, I’m not going to get from him.”

“What’s going on?”

“I followed your advice – I went to the Feds.”

“So I see.”

Again, Emmett told the tale. Mickey sat through it coolly, leaning back in his chair while he smoked and fingered the buttons of his clean shirt. His injured eye, now unbandaged, fixed Emmett with a watery gleam.

When he was finished, Emmett said, “We have to find a way of getting to the Perkinses.”

“Why?”

“Lloyd’s my only chance. I know he doesn’t like me, but I can’t believe he’d let his own son-in-law take the fall. He’s not a monster.”

“He’s not? How about Roddy Hudson – is he a monster?”

“That son of a bitch. Goddamn it, Mick, what am I going to do?”

Mickey stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. “I’ll tell you this for nothing, Emmo: the only thing Lloyd and Robert Perkins are thinking about right now is how to save their own asses from the chair. If they think for a second that sending you down the river could do that, they won’t hesitate.”

“You always were a cynic.”

“A realist.”

“What about Newton? He knows the truth.”

Mickey shook his head. “He’ll be loyal. And if he isn’t, they’ll buy him off.”

Emmett stood and paced around the table. “Roddy Hudson’s ratted them out, and instead of working with me to nail him they’d let me go down? I can’t believe that.”

“Roddy’s played this inch perfect. Tell me one thing he’s done that can’t be positioned as part of an investigation.”

Emmett examined the ragged walls of the windowless room. Less than two months ago he had stood at his tenth-floor office window, looking down on the city like a king and reveling in doing a pal a favor.

What a dupe.

“All that talk we had about the old neighborhood,” Emmett said, still looking at the peeling paint. “No wonder I got your goat.”

“Let’s keep focused here, Emmo.”

“You were right. I carried a romantic view. All ambition and no common sense.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve been in this with you all the way, and I didn’t see it coming. You were set up.”

“If we could figure out when Hudson first became involved.” He stopped and looked at the floor. “No. Bring a note to Lloyd for me. I’ve no other choice.”

Mickey shook his head.

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?” Emmett said.

“Hudson’s your man. We go after him.”

“Ah, you have it all worked out. Just how do you think we do that?”

Mickey stuck a fresh cigarette between his lips and patted his pockets, looking for a light. He struggled to his feet and propped himself on his crutches.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a light off Joe.” He took an envelope from beneath his belt and slid it onto the tabletop. “Have a look at that.”

He lurched across to the room, keeping his body between the guard and the table.

Hands covering the envelope, Emmett watched Mickey lean into a lit match and banter with the guard. He slowly slid his finger beneath the sealed flap and peeled it open. Photographs.

Today of all days, why had Mickey done this to him?

His breathing thickened. Mickey glanced his way, kept up the chatter. He pulled the envelope on to his lap, removed the pictures, flicked through them. Lovers entwined across a lacy bedspread, their limbs dusky in the muted light. But there was no mistaking the faces.

He put the pictures back in the envelope and waited until Mickey had returned to his seat. “The negatives?”

“Safe and sound.”

“I want to talk to him.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

He passed the envelope beneath the table. “Can you make sure he gets copies tonight?”

“I’ll make damn sure of it.”

Mickey gathered his crutches again.

“Mick. Thank you.”

“Just doing my job, pal.”