Providence Rag

by Bruce DeSilva

  “So you’re saying this could have come from anybody.”

  “Yeah, but most likely it’s from someone with something to lose.”

  “One of the guards who lied in court?” Mason said.

  “Or a family member of one of Diggs’s victims,” Mulligan added.

  “It’s a bit unsettling. I’ve never been threatened like this before.”

  “Get used to it. It goes with the job. The more the word spreads, the more people are going to be pissed off at you. And some of them are going to find creative ways to let you know about it.”

  Mason fretted about the threat all afternoon as he tried to line up more interviews with former prison guards. Most of them hung up on him, but a couple agreed to meet. By the time he was done for the day, he’d finally stopped thinking about the letter.

  He stepped out of the Dispatch’s front door, crossed the street to the parking lot where he’d left his car, and stopped dead. On the driver’s-side door of the Prius, someone had left him a message in red, yellow, blue, and green refrigerator magnets.

  B SMART MASON

  WE C U

  43

  Mulligan and Mason sat in the red leather chairs across from their boss’s desk and waited for him to explain why they’d been summoned.

  “Iggy Rock called this morning,” Lomax said. “He informed me that he’s got three sources telling him our publisher’s son here is trying to get Kwame Diggs sprung from prison.”

  “Aw, hell,” Mulligan said.

  “It was bound to leak out eventually,” Lomax said.

  “Yeah,” Mulligan said, “but you can count on Iggy to put the worst possible spin on it.”

  “Who are his sources?” Mason asked.

  “He declined to say,” Lomax said.

  “Probably some of the guards I’ve been talking to,” Mason said.

  “Most likely,” Lomax said. “He wanted me to send you over to WTOP tomorrow morning to answer questions on the air. I said no way. Then he asked if I would do it. I said no to that too.”

  “You probably need to release a statement,” Mulligan said.

  “Already have.”

  Lomax snatched a sheet of paper from his desk and read from it.

  “At any one time, The Providence Dispatch is working on dozens of stories, some of which never advance to the point of meeting our high standards for publication. It is our policy, therefore, never to comment on work in progress. I can assure you, however, that the editors of this newspaper have no desire to see Kwame Diggs released from prison.”

  “Sounds about right,” Mason said.

  “To Iggy,” Mulligan said, “it will smell like red meat.”

  “All right, then,” Lomax said. “Time for you both to put your cards on the table. Mason, while you’ve been trying to prove that Diggs was framed, Mulligan and Gloria Costa have been trying to connect him to something that could keep him in prison legally.”

  “Good,” Mason said. He turned to Mulligan and asked, “What progress have you made?”

  “You first, Edward,” Lomax said. “What have you got so far?”

  “First off, it’s obvious the drug charge against Diggs was bogus.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “There’s no way a visitor could have smuggled marijuana past Supermax security,” Mason said, giving a quick rundown on the guards, the thick glass, and the drug-sniffing dog.

  “Was the security that tight back in 2005, when the drug charge was filed?” Lomax asked.

  “It was. I checked. The guards I talked to all say sneaking drugs in there would have been impossible.”

  “Bullshit,” Mulligan said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A guard easily could have done it.”

  “Oh,” Mason said. “I should have thought of that.”

  “So your case that Diggs was innocent of the drug charge completely falls apart,” Lomax said.

  “Maybe not,” Mason said. “I did some research and learned that Diggs is the only prisoner in the history of Supermax who has ever been charged with having drugs in his cell. That’s pretty odd, don’t you think?”

  “Odd, yes,” Lomax said. “But it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “What about the assaults on the guards?” Lomax asked. “What are your sources telling you about that?”

  “That they were both faked.”

  “Let’s start with the assault on Galloway,” Mulligan said. “How many sources have you got on that?”

  “Just Pugliese.”

  Mulligan smirked.

  “You believe him, don’t you?” Mason said.

  “I do. He’s a straight shooter. But I’m not the one you have to convince.”

  “You’re saying I need another source?” Mason said.

  “Of course you do,” Lomax said.

  “But who is that going to be?” Mulligan asked. “There were only two other witnesses, Quinn and Galloway himself, and they both swore under oath that the assault happened.”

  “Maybe they bragged to their friends about setting Diggs up,” Mason said. “That’s what Araujo did after he faked the 2005 assault charge.”

  “Tell me about that,” Lomax said.

  “A day after the charge was filed, Araujo talked about it with other guards in their break room. He said the warden had asked him to file a false complaint to keep Diggs in prison. The other guards treated him like a hero, backslaps and fist bumps all around.”

  “Who are your sources for this?” Lomax asked.

  “Two former guards, Chuckie Shaad and Tyrone Robinson. The warden came to Shaad first and asked him to file a false complaint against Diggs. Shaad told me he thought Diggs deserved to stay in prison forever but that he wasn’t willing to lie in court to make it happen.”

  “Did he and Robinson both go on the record?” Lomax asked.

  “Robinson did, but I don’t think I can quote him.”

  “Why not?”

  “The warden fired him for coming to work high on cocaine.”

  “You’re right. You can’t,” Lomax said. “What about Shaad?”

  “I can use what he gave me, but he doesn’t want to be named.”

  “Okay,” Lomax said. “What else have you got?”

  “Robinson and Shaad both said guards were always trying to provoke Diggs into taking a swing at them.”

  “How?”

  “By calling him names. Pervert, child killer, the n-word.”

  “Did they tell you how Diggs reacted?”

  “They said he just smiled at them. Diggs told me the same thing. He claims he’s too smart to give them what they want.”

  “You’ve been talking to Diggs?” Lomax asked.

  “I have. His new lawyer set it up. I’ve interviewed him three times already, and I’m going back again Wednesday.”

  “You should have told me about this before, Edward,” Lomax said.

  “I suppose I should have.”

  “What else has Diggs been saying?”

  “He insists the drug and assault charges were fabricated, but he hasn’t been any help proving it.”

  “So why are you going to see him again?”

  “I’ve been interviewing him about his life. Moving to Warwick when he was seven, how hard it was being the only black kid in the neighborhood, his interest in black history. Stuff like that.”

  “Sounds boring as shit,” Lomax said.

  “It’s not, actually,” Mason said. “I was thinking that if my investigation washed out, I could always write a profile.”

  “Have you asked him about the murders?” Mulligan asked.

  “I have. He still says he’s innocent.… So, do you think I have enough to write the abuse of power story yet?”

  “If I understood you correctly,” Lomax said, “you’ve got one on-the-record source for the Galloway case and one not-for-attribution source for the Araujo assault.”

  “Yes, sir.”

>   “Then you’re not even close.”

  Mason’s shoulders slumped. That profile might be the only thing he’d be able to get in print after all.

  “Your turn, Mulligan,” Lomax said. “Rundown what you’ve got.”

  “A year before the Medeiros murders,” Mulligan said, “somebody broke into a house three miles from where Diggs lived and stabbed a woman named Susan Ashcroft.”

  He quickly ran through the details of the crime, the circumstantial evidence linking Diggs to it, and his hope that the killer’s DNA might still be found on something stored away in the evidence boxes.

  “How long since you asked the Warwick cops to look for them?” Lomax asked.

  “A week.”

  “And they still haven’t located them?”

  “Not yet. Chief Hernandez says a lot of evidence from old cases has been lost or thrown out.”

  “If this doesn’t pan out,” Mason butted in, “I might have something that could keep Diggs locked up for a while.”

  “Out with it,” Lomax said.

  “A few months before Becky Medeiros was killed, Diggs torched her car. It’s only fourth-degree arson, though. The most he could get for it is three years.”

  “Where’d you get that?” Lomax asked.

  “Diggs told me about it.”

  “Did he say why he torched her car?”

  “He said she called him the n-word, and it made him mad.”

  “Why the hell would he tell you this?” Mulligan asked.

  “We were talking about how angry he used to get when people disrespected him. That was one of the examples he gave me.”

  “Interesting,” Mulligan said. “One problem with it, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It never happened.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Gloria and I searched the news archives for all the crimes that occurred in Diggs’s neighborhood around the time of the murders. The Dispatch printed every police incident in the West Bay edition back then, and there was no mention of this.”

  “Maybe the reporter missed it,” Mason said. “Or maybe the item was cut for space.”

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Mulligan said. “But I’ve also been talking to a retired cop who was the lead detective on the murders. If it had happened, he would have known about it. But he never mentioned it either.”

  “Maybe it slipped his mind,” Mason said. “Or maybe he didn’t think it was important.”

  Mulligan pulled the cell phone from his shirt pocket and made a call.

  “Andy? It’s Mulligan.… No, I haven’t heard anything from Hernandez yet either. Listen, someone just told me that Becky’s car was torched a few months before the murder.… You sure?… Okay, thanks.”

  Mulligan ended the call and glared at Mason.

  “Like I said. It never happened. That should make you wonder what else Diggs has been lying to you about.”

  “It does. I’ll try to be more careful.”

  “See that you do,” Lomax said. “And Edward?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Next time you talk to Diggs, ask him about Susan Ashcroft. Now get the hell out of my office.… Not you, Mulligan. We need to talk.”

  As soon as Mason left, Lomax asked Mulligan to close the office door.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Thanks-Dad wants this story so bad that it’s blinded him to some things,” Mulligan said. “But the kid’s a hell of a reporter. A lot better than I thought. He’s just a couple of sources shy of nailing it.”

  “You taught him too damn well,” Lomax said.

  “So this is my fault?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Lomax removed his glasses, wiped them clean on his shirtsleeve, put them back on, and said, “Aw, shit.”

  “You don’t have to print it,” Mulligan said.

  “Crossing the publisher’s son might not be the best thing for my job security.”

  “Hell, Ed,” Mulligan said, “the way things are going, none of us will be working here much longer.”

  Lomax leaned back in his chair and plunked his feet on his desk.

  “Three more years is all I need,” he said. “After that, I’m putting in for my pension. Doris has it all figured out. Says we’re gonna sell the house in Cumberland, buy a used RV, and spend our golden years touring the country.”

  Mulligan knew Lomax wasn’t going to get those three years. The veteran reporter was sorely tempted to spill what Mason had told him in confidence. Lomax deserved to know.

  But all Mulligan said was, “Nice plan.”

  “What will you do, Mulligan, when the paper finally goes under?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll invest my meager life savings in a case of Bushmills, hole up somewhere, and try to write the Great American Novel.”

  “In other words, you got no fuckin’ idea.”

  44

  “Citizens of the state of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, the hour is nigh. Truth, courage, honor, justice, and the American Way have returned once again to the public airwaves. Stay with us now for the singular voice that makes godless liberals and America-hating socialists pee their pants. The voice that makes God-fearing patriots stand up and cheer.”

  “Hey, Charlie,” Mulligan said, “would you mind turning the radio up?”

  “Really?” the fry cook said. He turned from the grill to glance first at Mulligan and then at Mason, seated side by side at the lunch counter. “You two pinkos care what Iggy has to say?”

  “Not usually,” Mulligan said, “but he’s going to be talking about the Dispatch this morning.”

  Iggy Rock’s theme music was playing now, a medley that began with a few bars of “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” segued to Jimmy Cagney’s rendition of “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” and concluded with the last verse of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.”

  To Mulligan, that always seemed like enough of an introduction, but Iggy apparently didn’t think so.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and children of all ages, hold on to your hats and buckle your seat belts. Get ready for a rollicking three hours of news and commentary from the prince of pundits, the champion of liberty, the voice of conservatism, and the defender of the Republic. The one! The only! Iggy Rock!”

  But still no Iggy. First, listeners were treated to Ronan Tynan singing the first verse of “God Bless America,” followed by the opening trumpet blast of the theme from Rocky. Only then did Iggy’s voice boom from the radio speakers.

  “Good morning, Row Dyelin! This is your host, Iggy Rock. Today, we’ll expose what the bloodsucking teachers union is doing to bankrupt our cities and towns. But first, a WTOP exclusive report on a shocking plan by the liberal-loving Providence Dispatch to spring serial killer Kwame Diggs from his rightful place in the state prison.

  “You remember Diggs, don’t you? In the 1990s, he terrorized the city of Warwick, brutally murdering two young women and three little girls. Since then, he’s been caught with marijuana in his cell and been convicted of beating two prison guards.

  “But now, I have learned from unimpeachable sources, the Dispatch is attempting to prove that the state of Rhode Island framed Diggs on those drug and assault charges. For the last several months, the newspaper has been interviewing prison guards, and perhaps others as well, in an irresponsible attempt to impeach the testimony of witnesses who testified for the prosecution in those cases.

  “My sources tell me the Dispatch may be only days away from publishing its report. And if the newspaper succeeds in throwing doubt on Diggs’s convictions, Rhode Island could be forced to set this monster loose to roam free among us.

  “I know what’s going through your minds. What in the name of God are the editors of the Dispatch thinking? To find out, I invited the newspaper’s managing editor, Ed Lomax, to appear on the show this morning to answer your questions.

  “The editor of a newspaper that expects other people to answer its qu
estions ought to be willing to come here and answer a few himself, don’t you think? After all, refusing would be the epitome of hypocrisy. Well, it turns out that Ed Lomax is a hypocrite. He flatly refused to appear on this program. Instead, he sent over this three-sentence prepared statement,” Iggy said, and then read the text.

  “So what do you make of that?” he asked. “Yeah, I know. Sounds like bullshit to me, too. So why don’t we give him a call and see if we can drag a little more out of him.”

  The touch-tone sound of a telephone being dialed, and then: “Providence Dispatch, Ed Lomax speaking.”

  “This is Iggy Rock at WTOP, and you are on the air. The people of Row Dyelin are deeply concerned about your plan to help Kwame Diggs get out of prison so that he can kill again, and we demand that you answer our questions.”

  “You have my statement on this matter, Mr. Bardakjian. I have nothing further to say at this time,” Lomax said. And then he hung up.

  “Well, there you have it,” Iggy said. “Once again, The Providence Dispatch demonstrates that it has nothing but contempt for the people of Row Dyelin. The board is lit up like a Christmas tree, so let’s take some calls. Sal from North Providence, you are on the air.”

  “This is freaking nuts, Iggy. If Diggs gets released, the editors of the Dispatch should be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Soon as I hang up, I’m calling them up and canceling my subscription.”

  “Great idea, Sal. Let’s everybody do that. Show them that we mean business! Natalie from Pawtucket, you are on the air.”

  Mulligan finished his coffee, turned to Mason, and said, “Well, that could have gone worse.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “At least he didn’t give Sal from North Providence and Natalie from Pawtucket your name.”

  “Why do you suppose he didn’t?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to put a target on your back,” Mulligan said.

  “He didn’t mind putting one on Lomax. Not that it makes much difference, I guess. I’ve got a target on my back already. Here, take a look at this.”

  He handed Mulligan his iPhone. On the screen was a photo of a car door with a message written in what appeared to be alphabet refrigerator magnets.

  STOP NOW