The Court (18 page)

Green knew just how to handle the man. “You said something about government grants. I hope the federals haven't been giving you too much trouble.”

“No trouble, just not enough money.”

“Perhaps I can help in that area,” Green said, and then quickly continued before Naham could comment. “I need to know if there are any skeletons in Dean Pentecost's closet, or any controversy about him, his family, or his job. I need to know all of this rather quickly.”

“I presume the FBI has made one of its famous investigations, isn't that sufficient? After all, just as the rest of us citizens, the dean is entitled to his privacy.”

“I couldn't agree more. However, this is something of a special situation. The job proposed carries such heavy responsibility that I'm sure the dean himself would want everything known.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Eventually I will.”

“Don't you think you should do that first? I suppose it could be done like one of those medical waiver things; where you authorize your doctor in writing to hand over information about you. That would seem to be a good first step.”

“Cooperation, as we both appreciate, has to be a two-way street. I am not here to prepare a prosecution of the dean. This is strictly fact finding. I'm sure that when you were hired here they didn't rely entirely on your resume?”

The president laughed, but without humor. “No. It was a long process and several contenders were considered. When the selection committee was through I'm sure they even knew the color of my shorts. However, I wanted the job and I made it clear that everything about me was fair game; family, health, everything.”

Green wanted a cigarette but he noticed there were no ashtrays around. “I'm afraid this is a much trickier business. I'll be candid. The job is on the Supreme Court. It is expected that Justice Howell will very probably die. The President cannot at this time indicate officially that he is actively sorting through possible successors. It would offend a number of people, yet it has to be done. Suppose you wanted to find out what made Roy Pentecost tick? Where would you begin? Who would you see? I know you actively screen many academics for jobs. This sort of thing must be old hat for you.”

Naham's eyes narrowed. “I trust, Mr. Green, that if I am of assistance to you, I can expect some help if things get a bit sticky with the federal government and its grants?”

“One hand washes the other. That's true of government, and I know that's true of universities.”

“You have an academic background?”

“My father was a professor here. My brother is presently a full professor.”

“Oh?”

“Anthropology. My brother is Henry Green. He's on the faculty here. But what I know of university politics comes from my father.”

“Including the saying that one hand washes the other?”

“Especially. He often said that a college's inner politics rivaled the worst of the Chicago ward wars.”

This time there was genuine amusement in Naham's smile. “That's true. Unfortunate, but true. Now what can I do for you?”

The battle had been won. The price was on the table and clearly understood. President Naham was about to present him with the dean much as an ancient priest might present an offering for sacrifice. The god to be appeased was that distant giver of federal educational funds. Naham was a practical man.

“All right then, as far as the dean is concerned, has there been any trouble, or even rumors of trouble?”

Naham shrugged. “As I say, I'm a short termer here. I'm really not much of a source, but I know of nothing detrimental.”

“Who would?”

“Malcolm Whittle is the assistant for faculty administration. He has a small office down the hall. Malcolm's job is simple; he rides herd on the faculty. It's his task to head off trouble. He's the one who supplies the lawyers, or the doctors, when needed. He's the resident fixer, as it were. There's always a Malcolm Whittle on every campus. Very valuable. If there was trouble, Malcolm would know.”

Green wrote down the name.

“However, Malcolm is as tight-lipped as the Sphinx. You can imagine how many secrets he must know.”

“Will he open up to me, if you order it?”

Naham hesitated. “I'm not entirely sure. He should. He's not tenured, so he can be fired. He knows nothing bad about me, so I have nothing to fear should I have to take that step. Yes, I think I could persuade him to help you, considering the circumstances.”

“Good. Anyone else?”

“State Senator Lloyd Rock. He's a legislator from Detroit. He serves on several committees to which we must look for state funds. He's become Michigan State's self-appointed guardian angel. He keeps his beady eye fixed on everything here and he loves gossip, or so I've been told. He might help. Of course, you might hesitate to contact him. He's a politician and might leak immediately.”

Green wrote down the name. “That's very possible. Still, he might be useful later. Anyone else?”

“If I had been here a bit longer I'm sure I could have come up with a raft of names, but I'm afraid those are the only two who I can think of who might be of use. You could talk to some of the law students. Perhaps some of the members of the faculty. No matter how well a man runs things, he always has enemies. But I'm sure you had plans for that already.”

“Yes. When could I talk to this Malcolm Whittle?”

Naham shrugged. “There's no time like the present.” He reached forward, picked up the phone, and pressed a button. “Marie, please see if Mr. Whittle is free. I'd like to see him. As soon as possible, please.”

He hung up the receiver.

“I'm not sure what kind of information you may be able to glean from our Mr. Whittle, but I think you'll find him most interesting. He is somewhere between a devil and a saint. It really depends on what you need at the moment.” He smiled. “I shall ask Malcolm's cooperation. If a problem develops, please let me know.”

“I shall.”

“If the university needs help, I shall be quite free about consulting you, Mr. Green. Nothing is quite free, is it? So knowing that, you can feel quite free to take full advantage of everything offered now.”

Jerry Green nodded. The polished dapper man seated across from him might not look like a devious, conniving ward heeler, but in spirit, Green sensed, there was little difference. For all his fine talk, Naham would cheerfully sell his mother if it appeared to be the expedient thing to do.

*   *   *

Patrolman Charles Garcia's regular partner was ill, so Garcia had been assigned Arthur Jefferson as his patrol car partner. Jefferson was approximately his own age, and they had graduated in the same police academy class. Jefferson was black.

Although they had known each other since that time and had worked together before, there was a tension between them. The relationships between white and black officers in the precinct had become strained. The easy banter and racial jokes were gone, replaced by cold formality. The court case was the root cause. If the city won, Jefferson would continue working, but Garcia, and all the other white officers with his seniority, would be laid off. Also, it was understood that no white officer could aspire to promotion. A few would make it, but only as tokens. Otherwise, only the black candidates would be promoted. The city operated under a formula, approved by the courts, which gave special preference to black officers.

Garcia glanced over at Jackson as they got into the car. Except for the color of their skin they even looked alike. Jefferson, like Garcia, was darkly handsome, a touch under six feet, and athletically built. Jackson would soon become a sergeant. Thereafter he was assured of becoming a lieutenant eventually. From that point on, there would be competition, but only from other senior black officers.

Garcia always scored well on the sergeant examinations, but not high enough to earn selection as one of the tokens. So even if he were able to hold unto his job, Garcia knew there was no chance he could ever rise above the rank of patrolman.

He felt no major resentment at being foreclosed from promotion, but facing the actual loss of his job, solely because of his race, had embittered him.

“Quiet night,” Jackson said as they turned into Romick Avenue.

“Yeah.” Garcia made no additional effort at conversation.

They cruised slowly past a nearly deserted business section. It was late, only light traffic moved on the street.

“You ever have the mumps?” Jackson asked.

Garcia looked over at him. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“My boy's got 'em. Poor kid is swollen up like a frog.”

“Did you ever have them?” Garcia asked.

Jackson who was driving, just shrugged. “I really don't know. My momma is dead, and nobody in the family can remember. The doctor suggested I get out of the house for a while, just in case. He says mumps can really do harm to an adult. I'm staying over at my sister's, at least for a few days.”

“What about your daughter, has she had them?”

Jackson shook his head. “The way I look at it, it's best for the kids to get all those things when they're young. The doctor gave her a shot to ward it off or something, but I'd just as soon she got 'em and then we wouldn't have to worry anymore, at least not about mumps.” Jackson laughed. “Of course, her momma don't quite agree. But then that's natural since she's the one who'd have to take care of her.”

“Both of mine had chicken pox last year,” Garcia said. “It wasn't much. They were sick for a day or two, then they were okay.”

“Yeah. Kids have a lot of resiliency.”

A dim night light glimmered in the rear of a closed clothing store. As they rolled by, Garcia studied the shadows in the store but detected no movement. He wondered what Jackson thought of the case, and their situation. He was tempted to ask. But perhaps Jackson felt a sense of exultation; he didn't have to worry about his job, or even promotion. He wondered if the black man felt pride or pity when he thought about brother officers like Garcia.

Garcia decided not to ask Jackson. It might lead to a useless argument. He wished the damned Supreme Court would do something soon. It was sheer hell to wait, to be suspended in time, unable to make any plans or even think about the future.

“Look up there,” Jackson said sharply.

Two young men emerged from an all-night chain drug store. One carried a paper bag. They glanced at the patrol car approaching, then quickly slipped into a walkway between buildings, disappearing from view.

“Let's check it out,” Garcia said. As usual, he felt a rush of adrenalin at the promise of action. He was instantly alert.

As they roared up to the store, the night druggist came running out, holding a bloody handkerchief to his lip, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

“They robbed us,” he shouted as Jackson rolled down the car window. “They came in and beat the shit out of me and the night clerk. They got all our cash!”

“Those two we just saw come out?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah, one has a gun.”

“I'll follow them,” Garcia jumped from the car. “Call for assistance, then swing up behind them on Halstead Street,” he said to Jackson.

Garcia pulled his .357 Magnum and flicked on his flashlight. His mouth was dry with excitement as he ran between the buildings, trying to detect any sounds or movement, fully aware that they could be waiting for him. But he was experienced, and he figured they were probably running hard. If they were smart, they would split up when they hit Halstead Street.

Garcia jumped a rickety fence and ran through a rock-strewn yard. He caught sight of one of the robbers as he burst out into the lights of Halstead.

The man was fifty feet ahead of him, trying to run, but limping badly.

“Hold it!” Garcia shouted. “Police!”

The man's thin body seemed to sag as he stopped.

“Turn around,” Garcia commanded, bringing the hammer back on his revolver.

The man turned. He held a small snub-nosed revolver in one hand. His hands were raised. He was a very young black man.

Garcia sighted on the middle button of the robber's jacket. “Drop the gun!”

The young man was frightened, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Garcia looked at the black skin. Almost involuntarily he felt his finger tighten on the trigger. He wanted to kill.

“You heard the man! Drop the fuckin' gun!” Jackson shouted from somewhere behind Garcia. He had brought the car around as a backup.

The young man just kept raising his hands until his scarecrow-like arms were almost painfully straight up in the air. The pistol dangled from one extended finger.

“He's scared shitless,” Jackson said. “Don't shoot.”

“Why, because he's black?” Garcia's words sounded flat and foreign as he spoke them, as if the question had come from someone else.

The youth's gun tumbled from his shaking hand and fell clattering to the pavement.

The only sound on the street was the intertwining of distant sirens.

“Not because he's black, man.” Jackson's voice was angry. “Because he wasn't goin' to use the fuckin' gun.”

Garcia ignored him. He approached the youth, kicked away the gun, and then roughly handcuffed him. Garcia turned and glared at Jackson.

Both officers stood staring at each other. Whatever friendship they had ever known was gone forever.

*   *   *

Jerry Green had made arrangements to meet Malcolm Whittle later for dinner. Whittle, the assistant for faculty administration, promised to be a gold mine of information. Green stopped by his motel to freshen up and pick up his messages. He had three.

His brother Hank had called. Haywood Cross, the managing partner of his law firm, had also phoned. And there was a message from Chris Clovis, the young White House lawyer.

Green called his brother first and was surprised to receive an invitation to dinner, this time at the house. He explained about Whittle and agreed to come the following night.