The judge banged his gavel. The bailiff shouted, “Hear ye, hear ye. The court will come to order. The court calls all parties in the State vs. Sarah Diana Alt, a hearing to determine probable cause for the charge of party to the crime of theft.” Barrett leaned into the microphone. “Is the State ready? If so, please read the charges and present your evidence.”
Smith glanced at Salt as he stood, mouth tight, grim but determined. “Your Honor, the defendant is charged with party to the crime of theft. The evidence will show that Detective Alt, while working in her capacity as a law enforcement officer, did with intent abet the crime of theft. I request that this video”—he held up a CD—“be entered into the record as prima facie evidence of the abetment.” Smith moved to stand beside the projector.
“Well, now, Mr. Prosecutor, I doubt that there’s a person in this room, heck, in the entire city, including yours truly, who hasn’t seen this video. But, for the record, please proceed.” Barrett fell back in his old chair, its increasing tilt over the years made precarious, and folded his hands on his chest. “Any objection, Mr. Lawson?” he asked, voice distant from the microphone.
“None, Your Honor.”
The ceiling lights dimmed as the blurry images on the screen wiggled and shook into recognizable forms. Once again there she was in black and white, arm extended toward Stone just the second his head jerked in reaction to the stream of pepper spray coming from the canister in Salt’s hand, like a puff of sorcerer’s powder. Smith had chosen well to begin the video at that point—Salt, as her own agent, in control of a large, barely clothed man in distress, the shard of glass almost invisible in his right hand. Jerky frame by jerky frame the video from the surveillance camera proceeded until that precise moment when Salt held the box of shoes, looked up at Lil D, expression on her face unreadable, and handed him the box. The video ended. The courtroom was silent. A camera in the press gallery whirred, a shutter clicked, and there was a stirring among the spectators. Salt blinked as the lights rose.
“Your Honor,” said Smith, “the State believes that this video is sufficient probable cause and at this time will rest, although reserving the right to present further evidence depending on the evidence put forth by the defense.”
Lawson leaned into her. “Why didn’t Smith call Lil D?” he asked, barely whispering before rising and buttoning his jacket. “The defense has no objection.”
“Very well. Happy to see this moving along,” Barrett said. “Present your evidence, Mr. Lawson.”
“We call to the stand Detective Wesley Greer.”
Pepper, tall and handsome, groomed to glowing, having once again sacrificed his undercover beard, passed her, the air stirring slightly on his way to the stand. Sworn in by the bailiff, he, as a veteran of the courtroom, made eye contact confidently, alternating between the judge and Lawson.
“Please state your name, place of employment, and your assignment on the night of January third of this year,” Lawson requested.
Pepper was, and always had been, a star. He was every justice system official’s ideal of what a law enforcement representative should be: handsome, educated, well spoken, battle scarred, forthright but with a self-deprecating sense of humor, and he was a minority in this minority/majority city.
Friendship hardly described how she and Pepper felt about each other; they’d been drawn to each other, lost count of whose ass had saved whose, partly because the lines were blurred in many of those incidents. He’d come to the hospital when she’d been injured still in a sky-blue pajama shirt printed with white clouds. And here he was, once again on her side. She closed her eyes and lowered her head so the tears dropped unseen into her lap.
“Detective Alt and I were assigned to crowd management and traffic control in the downtown area near the center of the demonstrations,” Pepper told the courtroom.
“Might you say the resources of the police department were strained?” Lawson asked.
“That would be putting it mildly,” Pepper understated. Salt was certain Barrett knew they’d been working under extreme pressures and tension.
“Our colleague had been shot. At the time we didn’t know how badly,” Pepper continued.
“Your Honor,” Smith said, standing in objection to the lengthy, sympathetic lead-in to the specific incident. “We know all police work under certain pressure.”
Barrett raised his eyebrows, looking over his glasses at Lawson.
“Your Honor, I think context is important . . .” Lawson pled.
“This is a preliminary hearing, Counselor,” Barrett said. “I’ve been around long enough to understand the circumstances. They were up to their asses in alligators.” There were guffaws from the gallery.
“Detective Greer, please tell us how you happened to be at the corner of Marietta Street and Central Avenue in front of Walter’s Shoes, and what occurred when you and Detective Alt arrived at that location.”
Pepper had always had a gift for storytelling. He told just the right details, the little specifics—their glimpse above the crowd of Stone’s hand holding the glass; being jostled by the cross flow of the tightly packed groups, looters going one way, demonstrators another; Salt making her way through to Stone; and Pepper momentarily losing sight of her.
Smith stood. “Detective Greer, did either you or Detective Alt recognize or personally know any of the individuals in front of Walter’s that evening?”
“We both knew two of the individuals we encountered,” Pepper answered.
“How would you characterize your relationship with those two people?” Smith pressed.
“We had known both Curtis Stone and Darrell Mobley, Lil D, from when we worked patrol. They were from The Homes, which was Salt’s, Detective Alt’s, beat. I worked the adjacent beat.”
“For how long?”
Pepper leaned into the microphone. “Ten years.” His voice gave weight to those two words.
“So it’s safe to say that Detective Alt knew both of those men well?”
“It is safe to say that, yes.” Pepper was starting to sound uncharacteristically irritated. Salt understood his reluctance to reduce their interactions with Stone and Lil D to a courtroom testimony description; good as he was at getting to the heart of a story, it would be challenging to explain the years of day-in-and-day-out witnessing of events and interventions in the lives of Lil D and Stone.
There was a noise from the gallery behind and to the right of Salt. The judge looked up. Smith and Lawson turned as Lil D, carrying a bag, tripped and stumbled, hitching up his baggy khaki pants while holding on to the towel and swinging open the gate to the front of the court. “This bullshit.” He held a challenging gaze on Judge Barrett. The bailiff moved forward, all others taken aback by a surprisingly assertive Lil D.
“Naw, man.” Lil D held up his hand and stopped in the center of the room directly in front of Barrett on the bench above. “It ain’t got to be like that,” he said to the bailiff and then turned, appealing to the judge.
“Young man, are you somehow involved in this case? If so, you need to have a seat and wait to be called.” Barrett was practiced at unconventional interruptions in his courtroom.
But so was Lil D practiced in courtroom appearances. And for one who’d so often seemed voiceless, he was manifesting an awkward but determined presence. “Your Honor, you ain’t got to sit here through all this.” He waved his hand at Pepper, Lawson, and Smith. “I got someplace I got to be, too.”
One or two people in the audience made a noise as if they were suppressing a laugh disguised as a cough. A frown from Barrett quickly discouraged similar outbursts. The bailiff moved closer to Lil D, but Barrett stopped him with a shake of his head.
Lil D said, “You ain’t got to look no farther. That was me.” He pointed to the video screen now paused on fuzzy lines. “I’m the one got the shoes from Officer Salt.”
“Objection,
” Lawson and Smith said in unison.
“Now hold up, gentlemen.” Barrett raised a quieting hand.
Lil D turned to both attorneys.
Barrett said, “While I don’t ordinarily entertain breaks in courtroom procedure, I think this unusual case calls for some discretion and I’m going to hear what this young man has to say. He may, like he says, help us cut to the chase. Swear him in, Mr. Bailiff. You may step down, Detective.” Pepper left the stand, Lawson and Smith went to their respective tables.
Lil D hitched his pants, which had puddled over his shoes, and street-strolled to the witness stand. Holding tightly to the towel around his neck, not the slightest bit of the birthmark on his neck visible, and the bag in the other hand, he dropped into the chair like a boxer into his corner.
Barrett himself conducted the questioning. “Now, Mr. Mobley, first tell us how you know Detective Alt—I believe you call her Salt.”
“She our poleese since I can remember.”
“Would you describe your relationship with her as friendly?” asked the judge.
Lil D shrugged. “She all right.”
“Mr. Mobley, you have volunteered to give testimony in this case. Now you need to be forthcoming, to explain fully when you are asked. Do I make myself clear?” Barrett peered over the bench at Lil D.
“She straight,” Lil D said emphatically. “Know I’m sayin’? She do her poleese thing and we . . .” He hesitated as if searching for a phrase. “We doin’ Homes’ bidness.” He looked Barrett in the eye.
“Thank you,” said Barrett. “Your eloquence and honesty are refreshing. Now tell us please how you encountered Salt in front of Walter’s Shoes.”
Lil D seemed to settle back. “I ain’t gone go back over all the times Officer Salt done have some call with my family but”—Lil D slid his eyes briefly over in Salt’s direction—“when she come ax me to do the DNA for my sister who they found kilt, I know she ain’t axin’ just to be axin’. Know I’m sayin’?” He looked up at Barrett, who nodded. “An’ I know once she take a case she gone keep at it ’cause she done that for my mama’s case and she did it lookin’ for my daddy, too. So I know I might as well go on down to the place where they do the DNA, downtown. I wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout no crowds or them girls that was shot marching. Truth is I got enough to think about. I just want to do this one thing for my sister, the last of my family. I got my own family now. I’m gone make it good. So I give my DNA and come out and there’s all this crowds and when I come ’round a corner there’s Stone. He all actin’ crazy like he do sometimes with a big long piece of glass from Walter’s store window, I guess. There was people jumpin’ in and out of Walter’s, shoes flying everywhere.” Here he paused, took a breath, and seemed to gather himself. Salt reflected that the length of Lil D’s soliloquy here surely exceeded any previous conversations in his life.
“Them shoes just like some I’d thought about for my girl, and I just went in like everybody else was doin’ and got some her size and come back out ’bout the time Salt done got down dealin’ with crazy Stone, who was rollin’ around in glass, and she got run into by people and I got hit and drop La’s shoes near Salt and she hand them back to me. Waddin’ no she give me them or me take them. It wasn’t either one.” Lil D sat back in the witness chair. “It wasn’t like they sayin’ on TV.” He crossed his arms over his chest, momentarily letting the towel hang loose.
The only sounds in the courtroom were the whirrs and clicks of the cameras until Smith pushed himself up from the prosecutor’s table. “Your Honor, if I may, I have a few questions for the witness.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Smith,” Barrett said.
“Mr. Mobley, you say Detective Salt handed you the box. What did you think she meant for you to do with the shoes?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Lawson rose. “There’s no way the witness can know the intent in the mind of the accused. He is being asked to speculate.”
“Don’t get your feathers all ruffled, Mr. Lawson. I know he’s being asked to speculate and I’ll keep that in mind. But more for my own curiosity I’d like to hear what he thought. I’ll be sure to weigh his answer accordingly.” He leaned over to Lil D. “Now, young man, I want you to answer two questions for me.”
“This gone take long?” Lil D shifted side to side, his hands on the witness stand in front of him.
Judge Barrett’s eyes shone with an indulgent glimmer while he tightened his lips over a repressed smile. “No, Mr. Mobley, I don’t think anyone wants this convergence to keep us keepin’ on any longer than is necessary. So, I’ll make it short. First, what was your reason, what made you show up today for this court proceeding?”
Lil D pulled the towel taut. “I guess I don’t know.” He tightened his mouth and leaned forward, inadvertently too close to the microphone. “I know they might get a warrant on me for stealin’ shoes—I could just wait till they find me. But I’m tired of being always under what somebody else gone do or not do. So I come to deal with it.” He leaned down to the bag beside him and from it lifted a shoebox, then handed it to the judge.
Salt realized she’d been holding her breath as time seemed to have both stopped and flown, like a vortex that swept her back to the steps of Lil D’s grandmother’s when he was twelve and she was a rookie, as if miraculously they’d been taken up in a maelstrom that had landed them here, both of them having survived. She drew air into her lungs in a deep, long inhale, and she became aware of the courtroom and the silence.
Judge Barrett lifted the lid on the box and looked in. He turned to Lil D and with a voice genuine and straightforward that dared anyone to speak or even think otherwise, he said, “I admire that quality in a person, Mr. Mobley—taking things into your own hands and, well, I don’t know what to call it but courage.”
Lil D looked up with a raised, questioning eyebrow as if checking out Barrett for signs of disingenuousness. “You said there was two questions.”
Fitting the lid back on the box, Barrett said, “Indeed, and now that I’m convinced of your sincerity I’ll know how to weigh your answer. I want you to think back to that moment when Detective Alt, Salt, put the box in your hands. Did she look up while she was giving, sorry, when she was handing you the shoes? What was her expression?”
Already leaning forward, Lil D looked over at Salt as if to remind himself of her expression. He kept his eyes on hers as he answered. “She just look like she always look—straight.”
There had been in Salt’s life occasional moments, mostly in the street, when from nowhere would come a feeling of transcendence, like this. She closed her eyes just to focus on the lightness of her heart and then opened them. She looked at the judge and was no longer anxious, no longer fearful of what the ruling might be.
“You may be excused,” Barrett said to Lil D, who stepped down from the witness stand. With his head lowered, he made his way to the doors of the courtroom. The judge pounded his gavel. “Officer Alt, in this case I find that you acted without intent to commit a theft.”
The gallery noise began, hands clapping, a whoop, someone saying, “All right!”
Judge Barrett’s voice rose. “Detective, while you may have meant for Mr. Mobley to take the shoes, you had no intent for him to steal them. Case dismissed.”
VOICES FROM THE FIRE
Barrett signed the arrest warrant for Stokes, but the feds had stepped in. Oh, they wanted Stokes, but they wanted him as an informant, no matter that he was also a co-conspirator in murder. Salt supposed, hoped, that there was a bigger picture. So they had to formulate a plan for a low-profile arrest. Obviously it couldn’t take place at the club. They began surveillance, and once again took the detail in eight-hour shifts, partnering up two at a time.
At the planning meeting, Lieutenant Shepherd said, “I want to take a shift.”
“LT, you don’t have to,” Huff said. “See, if you do, then how does that look for
me?”
The lieutenant made the sign of the cross. “Go, my son. I absolve you of your penance. Really, I want to, and because I’m a lieutenant, I get to pick my shift and my partner. How ’bout it, Salt? You up for midnights?”
Since her reinstatement Salt’s colleagues had been deferential. The hearing was fresh in their minds and the fit-for-duty evaluation had been further grist for the blue rumor mill. Even those with whom she worked most closely, the Homicide guys, were being careful with her, more out of cautious concern than doubt, she hoped. Wills was the same, but she and Wills had not yet worked out the barriers to their marriage. Wills seemed to be waiting, giving her space and time. Only Pepper was his usual self and intent on pushing her to find an additional aikido practice under another sensei.
So Lieutenant Shepherd’s offer was welcome, even if it was an order. “Sure LT, that would work.” Salt wouldn’t mind the midnight to eight a.m. hours when there were fewer cops and supervisors around.
Shepherd, naturally reserved with a flat, neutral manner, looked up at Salt and leaned forward, folding her hands on the center of her desk. “So tomorrow night, then. See you here.”
• • •
“Caught you,” Salt said, letting herself in the back door of Mr. Gooden’s house. “Together. My two favorite geezers.”
Sister Connelly stood at the counter next to the door. Beside her Mr. Gooden was putting eggs into a recycled carton. “Yep, here we are, solving the world’s problems one organic egg at a time.” Sister handed an egg to Mr. Gooden from the apron tied at her waist. He put it in, closed the carton, and walked over to Salt. “I haven’t gotten to see you since the court hearing.” He grabbed her in a hug. “I don’t get how the news people got all that so wrong.” He pushed back, holding her at arm’s length. “I sure get tired of worrying about you.”
“Old man, haven’t you figured out by now that this blue-eyed girl got seven kinds of mojo workin’?” Sister wiped her hands on the apron.
Old Bones Page 26