One Must Wait

by Penny Mickelbury

  "That one's the Duke of Earl. I'll have to shoot his ass in about fifteen seconds." Then he laughed out loud at the look on her face. Real, mirthful laughter that transformed his face and made him a very handsome man. Still laughing, he reached into the corner beside him and extracted what appeared to be an AK-47. Carole Ann willed herself not to flinch. "The Cadillac of water weapons," he said proudly, raising the thing and aiming it. She looked where it was pointed and saw the Duke of Earl hunched and, butt twitching, ready to spring. She raised her sights and immediately spied some kind of little bird chirping happily on the branch of some kind of flowering shrub. The oldest game in nature about to be played out. Except that Detective Jacob Graham was set to save the victim before it became the victim. He punched the trigger and a forceful stream of water exploded from the gun, nailing the Duke right on his twitching butt. He disappeared into the shrubbery with a howl of anger and indignation, and Carole Ann laughed with Graham. The bird kept chirping, oblivious to the human interference with natural law.

  "I made a back-up file," Graham said, returning the too-real looking water weapon to its position on the floor. "What you have is exactly what was turned over to my esteemed colleagues at the United States Park Police," he said with a sneer. "Along with some stuff they don't have," he added with his crooked grin.

  Carole Ann held the envelope in her hands, not trusting herself to speak; so again, she embraced silence. Part of her knew that it was the correct behavior for Graham, though, in truth, had she known what to say, she would have said something. But Graham liked it that she didn't speak. So they watched the yard for a few moments. The birds and squirrels and wasps and the vegetation—and a sneaky flash of black and white. Until, finally, Carole Ann felt ready.

  "What prompted you to make this file, Detective?"

  "Instinct, Miss Gibson. My turn," he said quickly. "What's prompting you to make your own investigation?"

  "I'm angry," Carole Ann said flatly.

  "Can you work from the other side?" His question was genuine. She felt no hostility from him, so she was unprepared when he continued. "I mean, you earn big bucks workin' for the bad guys. Hell, if it wasn't your husband in the dirt, you'd probably be tryin' to save this perp's ass. Am I right?"

  She felt like the Duke of Earl must have: Blindsided. Except the blow was to her gut, delivered by a weight much heavier than water. She literally had no breath with which to speak. "No, Detective," she finally managed. "You are not right." And she explained to him the error of his ways and it was his turn to sit in silence. He stroked and squeezed his thighs, as if the motion could return life to them. Then he balled up his fists and pounded them. Five times. Then he looked at her.

  "Then get even, Miss Gibson."

  "Excuse me?" she said.

  "Don't get mad, Lady. Get even."

  For three days and half the nights of those days, Carole Ann reviewed Jake Graham's secret file. Read and re-read and read again every word; searched and understood every space between every line; plumbed the depths of every nuance. She made notes, walking and talking herself through the information so that she was as familiar with it as if it were her own creation. She made maps and diagrams and peopled them with stick figures whom she moved up and down sidewalks and alleys. She made and time and distance charts and graphs by hand and on the computer. She concluded that her husband had, indeed, been murdered. But after that point, he was not her husband. He was the victim. He was her client.

  According to Graham's reconstruction of events of the night of 18 April, Al Crandall had dinner at Le Bistro Pierre on Pennsylvania Avenue between 19th and 20th Streets, with five other men: Larry Devereaux and Charles Majeskiew from his law firm, and three clients whom Devereaux and Majeskiew both refused to name, citing privilege. ("Bullshit!") Graham had written in the margin, followed by, ("Put the screws to these guys.) According to Philipe Marcuse, Pierre's maitre d', the six men had arrived almost simultaneously, promptly at eight o'clock: Majewskiew and the three unidentified men arriving perhaps two minutes before Devereaux and Crandall. Graham speculated—and confirmed—that they'd taken taxis: Devereaux and Crandall riding together, Majewskiew and the three clients together. The men had been seated immediately at a banquette in the second dining room, which Carole Ann knew to be the more exclusive and private of the restaurant's three dining rooms.

  Albert, the table's waiter, reported that none of the men had over-indulged in alcohol (five of the six had one pre-dinner high ball each, and all six had wine with dinner); and that none had over-indulged in food (three Maryland crab cake entrees, two roasted chicken entrees, and one blackened swordfish entree, salad and green beans all around.) All six men had coffee after dinner, and three of them had dessert: Two kiwi tortes and one flan. There was not much talk, Albert observed, for a party of six businessmen. It was the waiter's experience that apparently successful professional men at the end of the business day were gregarious, if not, as often was the case, loud and obnoxious, even in as haute an establishment as Pierre's. According to Albert, Larry Devereaux had done most of the talking and "the Black man" had done most of the listening, though when he talked, all of the men paid close attention. One of the men, said Albert, became angry at one point, and it was he who left first. (Identified by Graham as Majeskiew.) The remaining five men talked until shortly after ten o'clock, when Larry Devereaux paid the almost three-hundred dollar bill with a company credit card (copy attached to report.)

  After being pressed, and pressed hard, by Graham, Albert offered that he'd heard the words, "Parish Petroleum," numerous times—in fact, every time he approached the table, and, he said, one of the unidentified men spoke to him in French. Not good French, Albert said, not real French, but understandable French, as if he'd learned it somewhere other than France. ("Like Louisiana?") Graham had written in one of his many marginal notes. The five men left the table together, Albert said, and he assumed that they left the restaurant at that time.

  Maitre d' Marcuse confirmed that assumption: The five men walked out on to Pennsylvania Avenue, which was crowed with joggers, strollers, outdoor cafe patrons, window shoppers, ice cream eaters, and whoever else found enjoyment on that prestigious avenue at fifteen minutes before eleven o'clock on a soft spring night. The men stood together and talked for several moments, Marcuse said, then Mr. Crandall walked away, as if angry, walked west on Pennsylvania Avenue, toward George Washington University. Toward home. The other four men stood talking for a moment, and then one of the unidentified men ran to catch up with Mr. Crandall. They spoke together for several moments, and then that gentlemen rejoined the others. Marcuse did not observed Mr. Crandall further, but assumed that he continued to walk west on Pennsylvania. Mr. Devereaux stepped out into the avenue, directly in front of the restaurant, and tried to hail a taxi. He did not succeed immediately, and Marcuse was required to return his attention to his business inside the restaurant, as parties for the post-theatre supper would soon begin arriving.

  According to Graham's records, there exists no proof that Devereaux and the other three men actually got into a taxi in front of Pierre's at approximately ten-fifty on the night of 18 April and returned to Devereaux's office, as Devereaux claimed. There is proof that Charles Majeskiew returned to his office approximately one hour earlier: The security guard remembered him and would swear to it; three members of the cleaning crew remembered him and would swear to it; two associates remembered him and would swear to it. None of those people remembers Devereaux and the unnamed Parish Petroleum clients returning. The security guard says they could have entered through the garage, by-passing the lobby security check point. The cleaning people were working on another floor by that time, and the associates all had gone home by ten-thirty.

  At approximately that same time, Esteban Colon, a dishwasher at the Esprit de Mexico restaurant on Twenty-Second Street, Northwest, was taking a cigarette and beer break in the alley behind his place of employment. The alley runs east-west between Pennsylvania Avenue and
I Street, providing a brief view of both. Colon was sitting atop a large garbage dumpster at the intersection of the alley and I Street, appreciating the rare lull in the restaurant's patronage that had permitted his moment of freedom. Then he heard running feet, followed by shouts. A tall Black man wearing a suit ran past him on I Street, followed, a few seconds later, by two almost-as-tall white men. Yes, Mr. Colon was certain that he saw what he said he saw. He noted it because usually it is the Black men who chase the white men. And he noted because the Black man ran so well—quickly and easily despite the fact that he was carrying a brief case. No, Mr. Colon did not understand the shouted words because he neither speaks nor understands English. (Colon was interviewed by Graham, through an MPD interpreter.) Esteban Colon has since disappeared. Neither his employer nor his rooming house landlady has seen him since the middle of May. (About the time I turned my files over to the Feds) Graham had written in the margin.

  Al Crandall was found face down an alley behind H Street, between 22nd and 23rd Streets. (About four blocks from and in the opposite direction Colon saw him running; an anonymous caller reported the body. (BULLSHIT!) His shoes were scuffed on both heel and toe, as if he'd been drug. His suit trousers and jacket were ripped and quite dirty—again consistent with dragging. There were contusions and abrasions on his face and hands, and on his knees and shins. He'd been shot once in the right upper back, from a distance, and once in the chest, at close range. The bullet to the chest punctured the aorta, resulting in death. Subject's wallet and jewelry (wife says no watch) were missing. Subject's briefcase was found three feet from the body, open, and the contents—newspaper, black leather appointment book, electronic calculator, two white cotton handkerchiefs, a silk tie, and thirty-seven pages of legal documents—scattered nearby. (Ask wife what's missing?) Graham had written.

  None of the detective's hand-written margin notes and thoughts were included in the file now in the possession of the U.S. Park Police. Also not included was the fact that Jake Graham had an eyewitness. Not the reliable kind, the kind you can put on the stand, ask to take an oath, and trust that the sworn testimony will be accepted and believed by all who hear. Not that kind. But one just as good to the street cop: The kind who, indeed, saw what he says he saw and, for the right price, will tell the right person what he saw. Jake Graham had paid the man's price and received this information: Al Crandall had indeed run through the alley behind the Espirit de Mexico, had indeed outrun his pursuer, just like Esteban Colon said, exiting the alley on 21st Street. He ran north on 21st, his pursuer a full block behind him. Heavy traffic and a red light forced him to stop at the corner of 21st and H. Suddenly a taxi screeched to a halt and as two men jumped out, Crandall began running west on H Street, pursued by the two men. He was running slower by now, and the two men were closing in. Crandall jumped the low fence and entered Lafayette Park. He turned and threw his briefcase behind him, catching one of the men squarely in the face. The man yelled, cursed, and quit the chase. The other man sped up, took a gun from his pocket, and fired once. Crandall fell. Graham's witness, who'd been lying in the grass in the park, gently and quietly rolled himself over and over until he was secreted in the dense shrubbery and flower beds, and he saw no more of what happened, though he heard a second shot fired.

  Those were the broad facts. Carole Ann accepted them as such. Combined with Al's description of the Parish Petroleum officials he'd deposed, she concluded that they were, at the very least, knowledgeable about the circumstances of Al's murder, if not directly responsible for it. She didn't know who those men were but Larry Devereaux thought she did. That's why he'd come to visit after Al's murder. Not to console or sympathize or commiserate, but to ascertain how much she knew. She remembered his questions and now understood their intent. Could she re-open that door now? Could she throw a line to Larry Devereaux and reel in her husband's killer?

  Tommy opined that she was trying to commit suicide. Jake Graham said it couldn't happen to a more deserving idiot. Neither of them could believe that she'd consider an open confrontation with Devereaux, and both strongly advised against it.

  "One of his buddies killed your husband, Lady. You stay the hell away from the scummy bastard," was Graham's response.

  "And what makes you think he'd tell you those dudes’ names, anyway, when he wouldn't tell the police?" Tommy asked, using a tone of voice the condescending reserved for the mentally challenged.

  "He's the logical place to start," Carole Ann replied defensively, beginning to regret the lunch date with Tommy and Jake. She wanted more of Mrs. Chang's Food for Hope and she didn't want it ruined by their carping criticisms. "And because of this," said, withdrawing from her purse the answering machine cassette containing Al's final message and a tape recorder. She performed the requisite technical tasks and watched while they listened.

  "Not exactly a smoking gun," Jake drawled, looking with interest at the cart that Mrs. Chang had just rolled to their table and ignoring Carole Ann.

  "Are you saying this gives us nothing?" Carole Ann did not attempt to conceal or control the anger rising within her.

  Jake met and held her glare. "What does it give you?"

  "The belief that Larry Devereaux has done something worth going to jail for."

  "Hell," Jake said with a snort, "most every lawyer in this town has done something worth going to jail for."

  Carole Ann looked at him evilly from beneath her eyelids. "Do you really believe that, or are you just solidifying your hard earned reputation as the granddaddy of hard-asses?"

  Graham rewarded her with the laugh that transformed his face into a thing of beauty. Even Mrs. Chang seemed impressed. She bestowed upon him a rare smile, and, with a bow for the table, she departed, rolling her now-empty cart before her. Graham looked at his food, then at Carole Ann. "I think Devereaux is dirty, too. I also think, Miss Gibson, that if there is such a thing as an honest lawyer, maybe you're it."

  "Don't patronize me, Graham," she sighed wearily. "And you'd do well to remember all those bon mots of good advice I'm sure your mother passed on to you. If you had a mother. Like, it ain't cool for the pot to cast aspersions at the kettle. Or for people who live in glass houses to thrown stones."

  "I had—still have—a mother. What's a bon mot? And what the hell are you talking about?" Graham challenged while chewing and not apologizing for the rudeness.

  "You, a D.C. cop, have the nerve to point the crooked finger at my profession? And you should have known my husband."

  "Touché, Miss Gibson. And you're right about another thing: This is the best Chinese food in the world, and I've eaten Chinese food in China. And I wish I'd known your husband."

  They ate in silence, the three of them, for a long while, speaking only to request water or condiments or to comment on the pleasure being given by the meal, until Tommy broke it.

  "These people really are mean and dangerous, C.A.”

  "Yes," Carole Ann agreed.

  "So, what are you going to do?" Tommy asked.

  Carole Ann looked at him hard. She knew he thought she was contemplating an answer. In truth, she was deciding whether to tell him her answer. She decided to tell them both. "I think a change of venue is in order," she said calmly.

  "What's that mean?" Tommy asked.

  "It means I'm leaving town for a while," she answered.

  "Good idea." Graham almost smiled. "Where you goin'?"

  "To Louisiana," Carole Ann responded, as she watched his face change, and listened with true appreciation as the veteran homicide detective cursed for a solid minute with a proficiency she'd only heard stories about. Then she listened for another hour and received from the two of them lessons in criminal behavior and psychology that no classroom or textbook or courtroom ever could approximate: Cut and color your hair; change your walk; change your style of dress; assume you're being followed; don't talk to strangers unless you're asking the questions; a stranger is anybody you don't trust; don't trust anybody. Prior to Jake and Tommy's semina
r, Carole Ann had believed herself to be an astute observer of the criminal mind. She came to understand how little she knew, and was shaken. "You're asking me—telling me—to alter my thinking, my behavior, my very approach to life and living," Carole Ann said.

  "Damn straight," Graham replied solemnly. You're out there on your own now, Lady, so you better be prepared."

  "And that means behaving like a criminal?" Carole Ann asked defensively.

  "No, dammit! It means thinking like one! How many times do I have to tell you that?" Graham was not a patient man on a good day. Explaining the nature of the criminal to a criminal lawyer was not his idea of a good time.

  "All it means, C.A., is that you gotta outthink 'em," Tommy offered in a conciliatory tone. "You gotta be prepared for whatever might happen. After all, you're going to be in unfamiliar territory without back-up. Just like Jake said, so you gotta protect yourself on the front end."

  So Carole Ann prepared herself according to their advice and instructions, as well as accepting their one imposed condition: That she not ask the why of anything. That she merely follow their advice, and then, later, think about it and learn the whys for herself. First she purchased a new wardrobe of "regular people's clothes." Jake Graham was of the opinion that her notion of casual clothes would not only be offensive to the folks who lived in the vicinity of the Chicken Shit River, but that they would call attention—loudly—to her presence, which already would be noticed because she was an outsider. She purchased two money belts and loaded them with cash. And she purchased two round-trip plane tickets, placing one return ticket in each of the money belts. She had her hair cut shorter than it had been since her Peace Corps days, and had it lightened: Altering one's appearance is the first step into the criminal psyche. She bought a cellular phone, the smallest and most expensive on the market, and rid herself of her aversion to the thing by using it until it felt natural, by which time she was certain she had a phone bill the size of the national debt. She ceased the habit of weekly manicures and pedicures and waxing and massages and all other trappings of prestige and privilege—the habits and behaviors that make one noticeable and memorable to others.