Providence Rag

by Bruce DeSilva

  “Because of a loophole in Rhode Island’s criminal statutes, Diggs’s original sentence was nowhere near severe enough to fit his crimes. He long ago served out that sentence. Since then, he has been held against his will for offenses allegedly committed during his incarceration. He is currently serving a sentence for assaulting a prison guard. Evidence presented here today proves conclusively that this charge was fabricated by the alleged victim, Joseph R. Galloway, and his fellow guard, Edward A. Quinn. It is clear to the court that they did so under the direction of Warden Alphonse J. Matos. We have also heard compelling evidence that Diggs’s prior conviction for assaulting another guard was obtained with perjured testimony.

  “These convictions are hereby vacated, and I order the State to release Mr. Diggs forthwith.”

  Howls rose from the packed spectator seats.

  “Fuck, no!”

  “Goddamn you!”

  “How can you do this?”

  “Criminal-loving prick!”

  “Order!” Needham shouted, slamming his gavel on the bench. “Bailiff, clear the courtroom.”

  It was ten minutes before the bailiff and three sheriffs were able to herd the snarling spectators through the swinging courtroom doors, leaving only the lawyers and members of the press inside.

  “Let’s proceed,” the judge said. “I am directing the attorney general to order the arrests of Mr. Galloway and Mr. Quinn on charges of perjury and conspiracy to obstruct justice and Warden Matos on charges of conspiracy and subornation of perjury. I further direct the attorney general to commence an investigation to determine whether others, including prosecutors in his department, were complicit in this affair.

  “When those sworn to uphold the law conspire to subvert it, no matter how justified they believe their cause may be, they undermine the very fabric of our justice system. Such police state actions reek of despotism and cannot be tolerated in a democratic society.

  “Court is dismissed.”

  Reporters raced from the courtroom to file their reports. Mulligan watched them go and then sidled up to Roberts, who was gathering his papers at the prosecution table.

  “Will you appeal?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “What are your chances?”

  “About the same as my chances of getting reelected—slim and none.”

  “Do you have reason to believe that any of your prosecutors were involved in obstruction of justice?”

  “Off the record?” Roberts asked.

  “No,” Mulligan said.

  The attorney general stuffed his papers in his briefcase and trudged toward the door.

  * * *

  Outside the courthouse, it was chaos. Some protesters chanted. Others screamed epithets. A few threw eggs. Several wept. An effigy of Judge Needham—a pink balloon for a head and a straw-stuffed black raincoat for a body—was set ablaze. Mounted police tried vainly to disperse the crowd, which Mulligan estimated at nearly a thousand.

  When the first rock was thrown, he grabbed Gloria by the arm and dragged her inside the courthouse.

  “Hey!” she said. “Knock it off.”

  “You knock it off,” he said. “You’ve got enough pictures.”

  * * *

  On her way home from work that evening, Gloria stopped off at the CVS on Post Road and went directly to the hair care aisle. She ran a pink nail along the row of hair-coloring products and selected a box of Clairol Nice ’n Easy.

  Ten minutes later she pulled into her driveway, raced inside, stripped off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. After thoroughly soaking her blond hair, she stepped out, squeezed it dry, and rubbed it roughly with a terrycloth towel. Then she tore open the Clairol package, removed the plastic gloves, and pulled them on.

  She twisted the tops off the activator cream and hair-coloring containers and mixed them in the applicator bottle, shaking vigorously as directed. After parting her hair into small sections with a rat-tail comb, she applied the mixture, starting at the roots and working her way to the tips.

  When she was done, she wrapped a towel around her head and walked naked into the living room. There she picked up her iPod, stuck the earbuds in her ears, and spent ten minutes listening to Adele. Then she returned to the bathroom, stepped back into the shower, and rinsed the excess dye from her hair.

  After toweling off, she stood over the sink, squeezed out a nickel-size dot of Clairol color-conditioning treatment, and worked it into her hair with her fingers. Then she returned to the living room and listened to one more Adele song, “Take It All.” It was her favorite.

  When it ended, she got back into the shower and rinsed out the conditioner. Then she stood in front of the mirror and blow-dried her dark brown hair.

  Mulligan used to tell her she looked like a young Sharon Stone. She wondered what he’d think now.

  68

  “Maybe you should go see her.”

  “She probably won’t let me in,” Gloria said.

  “Just ring her bell and say you need her to return the videotape,” Mulligan said. “That might get her to open the door.”

  “And then what?”

  “Once you get your foot inside, try to get her talking.”

  Which was when Larry Bird changed the subject by shrieking, “Theeeee Yankees win!”

  “You’re so right, Larry,” Gloria said. “If you’ve been reading the sports section before you poop on it, you know they’ve been kicking our ass all summer.”

  She turned back to Mulligan and said, “I guess maybe it’s worth a try.”

  “When are you going?”

  “Soon as I finish my beer.”

  “Shouldn’t you phone first to make sure she’s home?”

  “She’s not answering my calls.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “No thanks. It will probably go better if it’s just us girls.”

  Gloria drained the beer and headed for the door.

  “Hey, Gloria?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The new look is seriously hot.”

  * * *

  The light was draining from the sky as Gloria’s Ford Focus coasted to a stop in front of the white, one-story cottage on Ruth Road in Brockton. She climbed out and scurried up the concrete front walk past the bed of pansies and petunias. As she stepped under the green awning that covered the front stoop, a soft rain began to fall. Resisting the urge to bolt for her car, she rang the bell.

  She heard footfalls, then sensed someone staring at her through the peephole.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “It’s Gloria … Gloria Costa … from the Dispatch.”

  “You’re not Gloria.”

  “Yes, I am, Mrs. Diggs. You can see my eye patch, can’t you? I changed my hair is all.”

  “Oh … I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  “Are you going to let me in?”

  “No, I don’t think I will. Not after what you made me do. Besides, I’m not dressed for company.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I don’t believe we have anything to say to each other.”

  There was not a trace of light in her voice.

  “Can you at least give me back the videotape I left here? I need to return it to the person I borrowed it from.”

  “Well, all right,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  In less than that, she cracked open the door and handed Gloria the tape, which she had placed in a small brown paper bag. Gloria saw that she was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe and pale blue slippers. She’d been beautiful once, Gloria thought, but time and heartbreak had withered her.

  Mrs. Diggs began to push the door closed.

  “I didn’t see you at the courthouse Wednesday,” Gloria said.

  “I decided not to go. Too many people. All those cameras.”

  “You heard what the judge decided?”

  There was tension on both sides of the door, each woman pushing lightly against it.

/>   “Oh, yes. Kwame’s lawyer called me right away with the news.”

  “If he’s released, will he be staying with you?”

  “At first, yes. Until he gets a job.”

  She thinks someone will hire him? Gloria thought.

  “My baby might be coming home,” Mrs. Diggs said. A tear slid down her left cheek. “After all these years.”

  Gloria thought she looked more apprehensive than happy. The rain was stronger now. The old woman pushed harder against the door. Gloria needed to keep her talking.

  “Mrs. Diggs,” she said, “how come you’ve never asked me about my eye? I mean, you must have wondered.”

  “Yes … but it’s none of my business. If you wanted to talk about it, you would have.”

  “I’d like to talk about it now,” Gloria said, her lower lip quivering. “It was raining the night it happened. Now I’m terrified of the rain. Please let me in.”

  “If this is another one of your tricks…”

  “It’s not. I swear.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” Mrs. Diggs said, opening the door wide. The bitterness slid from her shoulders, revealing the gentle, churchgoing soul beneath. “Can I get you anything? Do you need to sit down?”

  “Just let me stand here for a moment and do my breathing exercise,” Gloria said.

  Mrs. Diggs watched curiously until Gloria was finished.

  “Does that help?” the old woman asked.

  “It does.”

  “Sit down, and I’ll bring you something,” she said, and walked out of the room. Gloria heard her fussing in the kitchen.

  A few minutes later they were seated on the faded couch, cups of hot tea nestled in saucers on their laps.

  “I’d just opened my car door when it happened,” Gloria said. “Out of nowhere, a man slammed into my back.…”

  Gloria felt guilty about manipulating this kindly woman; but the more she talked about the terror and humiliation of that night, the better it felt to tell the story to someone who was not being paid to listen. Mrs. Diggs sat silently, taking an occasional sip of tea.

  When Gloria was finished, the woman took her hand.

  “Good Lord!” she said. “You poor child.”

  “It was awful,” Gloria said, “but not nearly as horrible as it was for the women and children your son killed.”

  Mrs. Diggs glared at Gloria, then lowered her eyes.

  “Did you watch the confession?” Gloria asked.

  The woman’s head twitched, an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Did you see anyone beating Kwame?”

  She hunched her shoulders, then slowly shook her head.

  “Did you see the way his eyes lit up when he talked about killing?”

  Mrs. Diggs began to weep, her thin body racked with sobs. After a minute, maybe two, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then mumbled something.

  “What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “The worst part,” the woman said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “The worst part was the way he laughed about it.”

  Gloria took the teacup from the woman’s quaking hand and set it on the coffee table. Mrs. Diggs was sobbing again, her chest heaving. The robe parted, revealing a shriveled breast. Gloria averted her eyes and waited for the worst to pass.

  “Mrs. Diggs? Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m not all right.”

  “Neither am I,” Gloria said. “I’m scared.”

  “Of my son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you dyed your hair?”

  “It is.”

  The woman fell quiet again, then whispered, “Maybe they won’t let him out.”

  “They’ll have to unless they discover something else to charge him with. Do you know of anything like that, Mrs. Diggs?”

  The woman shook her head no.

  “The police tried to connect him with unsolved crimes in Rhode Island and couldn’t find anything,” Gloria said. “Did you ever take him out of state? For a vacation, maybe?”

  Another head shake. Then Mrs. Diggs began to cry again. Gloria quietly let herself out.

  69

  The streetlight outside Mulligan’s tenement had burned out months ago. From his kitchen window, he could barely make out the activity on the street.

  He’d been drawn to the window by the pounding bass line of an overamped car radio. Some rap song he couldn’t identify. A white Escalade was rolling slowly down America Street, as if the driver were looking for an unfamiliar address. It pulled to a stop, the doors flew open, and four figures stepped out. Moments later, feet pounded on the stairwell leading to Mulligan’s second-floor apartment.

  Mulligan didn’t like the feel of it. He went to the bedroom, opened his bedside table drawer, and pulled out his Colt .45.

  The pistol was a family heirloom, his maternal grandfather’s sidearm when he served in the Providence Police Department. For years, it had resided in a shadow box mounted in a place of honor on Mulligan’s wall. But a few years ago, after his stories about a Mount Hope arson spree had led to death threats, he’d gotten a permit to carry. The only place he’d ever fired it was at the range at the Providence Revolver Club.

  The visitors were pounding on his door now, a door not sturdy enough to keep them out if they were determined to get in. He tucked the gun into the waistband at the small of his back, went to the door, and opened it.

  Four black teenagers swaggered in. They wore matching black-and-white Oakland Raiders sweatshirts and loose jeans that sagged low on their hips. Tattoos on their necks identified them as members of the Goonies, the city’s newest street gang.

  “Where is it, muthafucka?” the shortest one said.

  “Tell me,” Mulligan said. “Where did you guys get the name Goonies, anyway? Was it inspired by your favorite movie, or is it just an endearing form of goon?”

  The short one raised an eyebrow and cracked a smile. “Shit,” he said, “I don’t muthafuckin’ know.”

  Which was when Larry Bird decided to join the conversation: “Theeee Yankees win!”

  “There’s the muthafucka!” the tallest one said.

  “So,” the shortest one said, “why’d you steal our muthafuckin’ bird?”

  “I didn’t,” Mulligan said. “After the shooting at Chad Brown, the cops didn’t want to be bothered with it, so they gave it to me.”

  “You’ve been taking care of the muthafucka?” the short one said.

  “I have,” Mulligan said.

  “Feeding it and cleaning the cage and shit?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s cool,” the short one said. “But we want the muthafucka back.”

  “Can you prove it’s yours?”

  “It belonged to my muthafuckin’ cousin,” the tall one said.

  “The guy who got shot?”

  “Yeah.”

  The guys who shot him were also driving a white Escalade, Mulligan remembered, but he figured it best not to bring that up.

  “How’d you find me?” Mulligan asked.

  “We been askin’ around,” the short one said.

  Mulligan raised an eyebrow. The short one did not elaborate.

  “You gonna give us trouble, muthafucka?” the tall one asked.

  “Muthafucka!” Larry Bird said. “Muthafucka! Muthafucka! Muthafucka!”

  “It’s all yours,” Mulligan said. “And you may as well take the package of bird feed on the counter.”

  The tall one grabbed the cage, the short one snatched the seed, and the four young hoodlums swaggered out the door and pounded down the stairs.

  Mulligan watched them go. Then he pushed the door closed, locked it, and said, “Good riddance, muthafucka.”

  70

  Protesters gathered in front of the newspaper every day now; but they seldom numbered more than twenty, and there were no more rock-throwing incidents. Still, two weeks after Mason’s story was printed, the publisher thought it best to keep the Wackenhut guards at the
ir posts.

  On Wednesday morning, Mulligan took the elevator to the third floor, stepped out into the newsroom, and walked by a slender, sixty-six-year-old black woman sitting in one of the white vinyl chairs set aside for visitors. She wore a yellow summer dress and flat white shoes. Her white vinyl purse rested in her lap. She looked up at Mulligan and scowled.

  Two minutes later, Mason walked in and spotted her.

  “May I help you, Mrs. Diggs?” he asked.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Mason. I’m waiting for Gloria Costa.”

  When Gloria arrived five minutes later, the woman rose to meet her.

  “I have something I need to tell you,” she said.

  From their desks, Mulligan and Mason watched Gloria lead the woman to one of the small meeting rooms and close the door.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Diggs,” Gloria said, and then pulled a chair over to sit next to her. “I’ve been worried about you. Are you okay?”

  “No,” the woman said. “I don’t think I ever will be again.”

  Gloria waited in silence, letting the woman get to it in her own time.

  “In the summer of 1993, when Kwame was fourteen, we sent him to a sleepover camp. It was the first time he’d ever been away from home.”

  That was the year between the Warwick murders, Gloria knew.

  “What was the name of the camp?” she asked.

  “I can’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

  “Do you remember where it was?”

  “In the Catskills.”

  “What town?”

  “Big Indian.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “Just three days. Then the camp sent all the children home.”

  “Why did they do that, Mrs. Diggs?”

  “Because something happened.”

  “What was it?”

  The old woman lowered her eyes and spoke in a whisper.

  “One of the camp counselors was murdered.”

  71

  “I was a cub reporter back in ’93,” said Dan Hurley, city editor of The Poughkeepsie Journal. “It was the first time I covered a murder. Big Indian is a little out of our coverage area, but the victim was from New Paltz, just across the Hudson, so it was a big story for us.”