The Anonymous Source (6 page)

AFTER CLASS,
CAMILA
returned to her office, a small room with brick walls and books stacked to the low ceilings. She locked the door, sat at her old metal desk, and stared at the wall. The bricks were painted white and the more she watched them the more they seemed to move. The grout lines between the bricks waved and pulsed as her mind softened. The wall took on a glow, then began to shimmer as her eyes relaxed. Every few moments, the strangeness of this overcame her and she shifted her head and focused her gaze, which reestablished her mind.

After a few minutes of this, she closed her eyes and saw John Martin. He was standing in her apartment—shoulders slumped, tears in his eyes—three weeks before he died. She did not like this memory of him. She stood and opened a small window that looked onto Fourth Street. The day was warm and hazy. It was going to rain.
Students came and went and delivery trucks double-parked. Taxis honked behind them.

Leaning out the window, she closed her eyes and saw him again.

“We can’t have a baby,” she had said to him. The heater had been stuck on high for days and they’d propped the window open, so an occasional snowflake had drifted into their conversation and then melted in midair.

“Why not?” Martin asked.

“I love you, but we’re too old.”

“You mean
I’m
too old.”

She sat on the couch, not looking at him. “Look at us,” she said. “How are the two of
us
going to raise a baby? We’re both solitary intellectuals.”

“Camila, this is my last chance. I didn’t think I’d find anyone I’d want to have another child with, but I did.” He sat down next to her and his chin dropped to his chest as he pulled at a loose thread on the white longshoreman’s cap in his lap. “And I thought you said you liked older men.”

She stared at him with pity, then sadness. She was able to imagine his parents from the stiff wrinkles on his forehead—their neglect, their depression, their anger. They had filled him with fear. He looked like a little boy, shocked by an external force until the life in him just stopped. He had walled off enough of his mind to be brilliant on occasion, but his strength and vibrancy were gone.

“You said I make you feel safe,” he continued. “I know how your father was. I would never hit a child.”

Camila knew he would be a good father. She had met his daughter a couple of times, and she had turned out okay. He would try his best and he would never be violent. But he was weak. Too weak and too broken.

The snow started coming down hard and she walked to the window and watched it mound on the cars below.

“I’m fifty years old, Cam. I have enough money. Even if you don’t want to stay with me, I want to have a baby with you.”

He had smiled as she’d looked at him. Turning away, she’d leaned out the window and caught some snow in her hand. “I never said I liked older men,” she had said, watching the snow melt in the white-gray light. “I said I tend to choose safe men. Some of them have been older. I love you, but I don’t want to do that anymore. I can’t do
this
anymore. I want to feel okay enough to be in a relationship that isn’t just safe.”

Her cell phone rang and she opened her eyes. She moved to her desk, glanced at the caller ID, and paced her office, trying to relax. She had to answer this time.
On the fifth ring, she did.

“Mama? Yeah, I’m fine . . . I should have called you back . . . I know . . . And there’s
nothing
else they can do? How long did the doctor say he might . . . Okay . . . I can’t just leave in the first week of the semester . . . Okay . . . Right . . . I’ll see if I can come . . . Bye, Mama . . . Yeah, love you, too.”

She put the phone down and looked back at the wall, staring until her vision blurred and the bricks morphed into a gleaming fog.

“DEMARCUS DOWNTON,”
the man said. He had a Brooklyn accent mixed with something else Alex couldn’t quite place. They had crossed the street and were sitting in a small coffee shop where Alex felt safe.

“How’d you get upstairs?” Alex asked.

“Known the security guard for a long while.”

“Why the gun? I saw it in your belt.”

“It’s not for you. Plus,
you
the one threw
me
down the stairs.”

“Sorry about that,” Alex said. “How’s your head?”

“Had worse.”

Alex believed him. His face was more than thin—concave almost, and scarred. His dark green eyes looked tired. In addition to the bright bird on his neck, Downton had a fading Tweety Bird tattooed on his left forearm. On his right wrist, the number
76845
in blocky lettering. But despite Downton’s ragged appearance, the more Alex studied his face, the safer he felt.

The waitress came and they both ordered coffee.

Downton looked up at Alex. “You writin’ the case of the boy they say killed the professor?”

“Santiago. Yeah.”

“What you know about him?”

“Why do you want to know about Santiago?”

“‘Cause the kid didn’t do it, at least not like the police have been sayin’. Wonderin’ why he’s takin’ the fall.”

Alex was skeptical but pulled his notebook from his bag. “The fall for what? What the hell are you talking about?” He remembered the strange voice from the call the day before. “Did you call me yesterday?”

“I ain’t even got a phone.”

Alex couldn’t think of a reason not to tell Downton about Santiago. Everything he knew was in the paper anyway, and it would give him a chance to study Downton’s reactions, and possibly draw him out.

“Santiago’s from a military town near the bases in San Diego. His father was killed in Iraq in 1990, leaving his mother with seven-year-old Eric and sixty hours a week in a department store. Don’t know much else about her or the rest of his family.”

The waitress brought the coffee. Alex sipped his black as Downton added teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar.

“As a teenager, he won chess tournaments and baseball games. He was small, but a good shortstop. Made the all-star team in little league and the all-county team in high school. In old photos, he looks like a pretty normal kid.”

Downton stirred the sugar into his coffee. “He was on the baseball team here?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Used to play a bit myself.”

“With your height, I would have thought you played basketball.”

Downton smiled. “Played a bit of that, too.”

“In high school, Santiago had a terrible problem with acne. Not just normal outbreak stuff but boils all over his face. Left deep scars. Can’t figure out why he came across the country, because he got offers from a bunch of California schools that actually care about baseball.

“People who know him from school aren’t talking, and in court he just stares into space. Must be smart enough if he got into NYU, but he just gives you this weird feeling, like he’s not all there. He’s never spoken to a reporter, and nobody knows why he killed Professor Martin.”

Downton rubbed the numbers on his wrist. “Maybe that’s because he didn’t.”

Alex sighed. “Yeah, the boy didn’t do it. So you said. But why follow me? Why not just e-mail me like everyone else with a story to sell?”

Downton laughed. “E-mail? Gotta get to know you a bit ‘for I can truss you.”

“How do you know he didn’t do it?”

Downton leaned in and spoke in a whisper. “Saw it go down.” He looked over each shoulder before adding, “I’m the guy who made the anonymous call to the cops that night.”

He had Alex’s attention now.

Over the next fifteen minutes, Downton explained that he was a small-time pot dealer who sold mostly to NYU students in Washington Square Park. Alex had spent quite a few afternoons there as an undergrad, and realized now why he had recognized Downton.

“Was workin’ the night the prof died,” Downton said. “Hangin’ ‘round the west end of the park, a ways from the statue, when the prof come through. He wasn’t staggerin’ too bad, but you could tell he’d had a few. Looked like just another drunk in the park.”

“Did you know Professor Martin before you saw him that night?”

“No. Didn’t know neither of ‘em. But I
see
everybody. That’s my business. You get to know who’s who—where they goin’, who dey hang wit’. You got to, so you can tell if somethin’ ain’t right.”

“You sure you didn’t know Santiago?” Alex asked. “Defense said he was in the park to buy pot that night.”

“I told you, I never sold to him.”

“Okay. So what happened when Professor Martin came through?”

“He stopped at the statue and stood there a few minutes.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Dark clothes, white hat—one of those kinda golf caps or captain’s hats. I don’t know what you call ‘em but only white people wear ‘em.”

Alex perked up. If Downton was lying, at least he’d taken the time to learn a few details.
“Then what?”

“The kid come from the east end of the park and walked straight by the prof. I was workin’ a deal, watchin’ the prof out the corner of my eye, and a few minutes later he was on the ground.”

“How do you know the kid didn’t attack him while you weren’t looking?”

“Look, I don’t know exactly
what
happened, but the kid never went near enough to do what they say. You all ain’t been writin’ the truth.”

“I write facts,” Alex said. “The truth is different.”

“The truth is the truth.” Downton leaned back and looked around the coffee shop.

Alex usually knew if a source was lying within a few minutes, but he was still unsure about Downton. He looked down at the man’s tattooed wrist.

“Prison number,” Downton said. “Did three years at Eastern, upstate.”

“For what?”

“Didn’t do it.”

“What were you convicted of?”

“Assault.”

Alex leaned back in his chair. “Look, I appreciate you coming forward, but I need another source on this, someone who will go on record and isn’t a . . . well, someone who will go on record.”

Downton looked at the table.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.

Downton closed his eyes, then opened them. “You ever dunk a basketball?”

“What?”

“You know that feelin’ you get when your daddy is proud of you? First time I dunked a ball I was thirteen years old. It was my birthday and I got a real leather ball from my daddy. Was the only kid on the block who had one and he took me to the park and I dunked it. He looked at me like I was somethin’ and my chest got all warm and I felt like I could do anything.”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“I knew then that he would sit courtside and watch me play at The Garden someday. Then he died and, well . . . ” Downton went quiet and ran his fingers along the grain of the wooden table.

“My father died, too,” Alex said. “And my mother.”

“How?” Downton asked.

Alex sipped his coffee. “You have any kids?”

Downton smiled. “Had a wife. Left me when I did the bit upstate. She never minded the dealin’. Never did more than sell twenty-sacks to rich teenagers. But she couldn’t stick with it when I went upstate. Gotta daughter who’s grown now. Lives up in Queens near my mama.”

“You seem like you have something else to say.”

Downton looked into Alex’s eyes, then stared down into his coffee cup. “There’s a video,” he said quietly.

“Of what?”

“The night. The kid. You know, the night in the park.”

Alex shot up in his seat. “What?”

“You need another source, right? I don’t have another source for you, but I’ve got a video.”

“What? What’s on it? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Downton scanned the coffee shop. “Well, didn’t want to give it up. Could be bad for me. I told them I don’t have it.”

Alex finished his coffee in one long sip. “Told who? What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you everything, but you gotta do something for me.”

“What?”

“Get me into a Knicks practice. Want to see how it looks from down on the floor.”

Alex reached into his bag and took out his mini tape recorder. He set it on the table. “Okay, but let’s start from the beginning.”

“
NEED EVERYTHING
ON
Demarcus Downton!” Alex called, approaching a desk in a dark corner of the thirtieth floor.

James Stacy sat, headphones on, staring at two giant computer screens, his desk littered with papers, chip bags, and soda bottles. His wide back spilled over both sides of the chair. He was a college dropout who had been at
The Standard
about a year, and looked like he was still a teenager to Alex, but he could always find things online that Alex couldn’t.

“Hey Jaaa-aaames.” Alex stood behind him, pulling the headphone away from his left ear. “Helloooooo?”

As James turned, the chair squeaked and buckled under his weight. His skin was pasty white, his blond hair tied into a long, messy ponytail. He pulled the headphones off and waved Alex away.

“What’s that case thing?” Alex asked, pointing to a white device on James’s desk.

“An iPod. They’re the f-f-future. They’re—”

“That’s great,” Alex cut in. “But
right now
I need everything we have on Demarcus Downton.”

“Who is he to us?” James asked. His eyes shifted back and forth from Alex to the screens on his desk as he spoke.

“Possible source. He deals pot in Washington Square Park, was arrested at some point, did time at Eastern. Inmate number 76845. May have played sports locally, too.”

James took a long sip of root beer. “He involved in the S-S-Santiago case?”

“Might be,” Alex said. “Hey, do you know any way to trace one of those zero-zero-zero numbers that comes up on a caller ID?”

“Not without a court order and special equipment. C-Companies are using them to get around new t-telemarketing laws.”

Alex walked to the other side of the desk and looked over the screens into James’s eyes. “How do they work?”

James looked up. “You just run a regular phone l-line through a box that hides the c-c-caller ID. Costs a few hundred bucks.”

“How long on the other thing?”

“Half hour.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Alex said over his shoulder, walking across the newsroom. “I need everything you can get in fifteen minutes.”

* * *

Alex knocked as he pushed the door open. “I’ve got something, Colonel.”

“Ever considered waiting until I actually tell you to come in? What if I’d had someone from upstairs in here?”

Alex smiled. “I knew you didn’t. I can tell when you have a boss in here because everyone in the office gets this look like they’re working hard. They don’t have that look today.”

Baxton adjusted a stack of papers so they made a ninety-degree angle with the corner of his desk. “What do you have?”

Alex looked at the papers. “They look straight to me, Colonel.” Baxton didn’t look up, so Alex continued. “I’ve got a guy on the Santiago thing who says he was there that night. Says Santiago didn’t do it.”

Baxton shot up in his seat. “You serious? Is he credible?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Why didn’t he go to the police? Why isn’t he a witness?”

“Let’s just say he lives slightly outside the law. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with the police.”

“A criminal?” Baxton asked.

“You could say that.”

“What does he say happened?”

Alex put his hands in his pockets and paced the office. “Says he saw Santiago in the park that night. Saw the professor, but Santiago never touched him. He identified the professor’s hat, too.”

“He could have gotten that from police reports, or even the paper. We published that. Hell, everyone published that.”

“There’s more. He says—”

“This sounds pretty thin, Vane. I’m not saying don’t work it, but you’re gonna have to do a lot better.”

Alex was startled. He usually got a fatherly pat on the back from Baxton when he had a good lead. “Don’t work it? It may not be true, but if it is, it could be huge for us.”

Baxton stood up. “And get you on TV? You don’t
have
anything yet. We can’t be the paper that blows up the Santiago case. You know how important it’s been for the city. We love hating this kid.” Baxton smiled. “Are you sure you don’t
want
there to be something to what he says?”

“What? This isn’t about me.”

“Vane, c’mon. We all know you—”

“Colonel! Listen! He says he has a video.”

“Of what?”

“The night.”

Baxton reached down and straightened his papers for a moment, then slowly looked up. Alex had never seen Baxton look afraid, but his sharp eyes appeared to have receded further into his head.

“What’s on it?” Baxton asked. “How’d he get it?”

Alex felt a knot in his stomach. He had never lied to Baxton before, but he had never had a reason to feel suspicious of him before either. “I don’t know yet. Gonna get it tomorrow.”

Baxton peered over Alex’s shoulder and moved pencils from one cup to another. Alex knew the conversation was over.

When he was halfway out the door, Baxton asked, “Alex, by the way, what happened with the woman from the courthouse? You get anything on her?”

“Nah. She was just a court fan. No connection to the case.”