Freedomland

by Richard Price

  “I hear you,” Lorenzo said automatically, his experience both better and worse. The job had introduced him to a bushel of straightout rednecks, but there were others, like Bump, for whom he would risk his life.

  “But I got to tell you,” Billy plowed on. “Brenda? It never came up, the racial thing. With sex, with conversation, it never came up. As much as it was humanly possible, she treated me like—I mean, we were just two people.”

  “OK, Billy,” Lorenzo said impatiently, knowing now that there wasn’t anything here for him. He eyed the clock again: five-fifteen. The presser was less than three hours away, and they couldn’t postpone it. The news of the arrest was probably already deep into the streets by now.

  “So, like, with this carjacker she concocted?” Billy cruised on. “I’ll tell you, knowing her as I do? If I didn’t know what I know about what had happened, I’d’ve believed her in a heartbeat.”

  “Billy.” Lorenzo pushed Record, officially ending the chat.

  “I guess that shit is just bred in the bone,” Billy said, gazing off.

  “Billy—”

  “I hate this fuckin’ city.” Billy’s eyes went shiny again. “This city’s got no heart.”

  “Billy? At this time I have to once again advise you of your rights—”

  “This city just killed my mother.”

  26

  Arriving at the press conference a few minutes before the announced starting time of seven-thirty, Jesse slipped into the crowd and regarded the local hitters assembled before and above her on the granite steps of the Dempsy City Hall. Backdropped by the neoclassical pillars, which lent the setting an almost operatic air, stood the mayor, the prosecutor, the chief of police, Bobby McDonald, Lorenzo Council, and that car-smacked off-kilter statue of the Dutchman, now lit a pinkish gold by the dying sun.

  Behind this crew, elevated another few steps up the facade, stood a grim-faced municipal choir, which included eight of the twelve players who had been hit-listed on the back of Lorenzo’s dry-cleaning slip. Rumors of Brenda’s arrest had doubled the media presence, and a bristling army of shooters and reporters faced the microphones, backed by an even greater number of civilians.

  On the border, between the media and the natives, Jesse saw that many of the locals displayed their allegiance with buttons or T-shirts, as if this were a political rally. Most whites and some blacks sported Cody-feeding-the-goat buttons; a good number of blacks wore those T-shirts emblazoned with the police sketch of the bogus jacker; and a few people wore both, which, to Jesse’s mind, served only to underline the grimness of Brenda’s scam.

  The confession, edited to spare Lorenzo grief, would hit the streets in less than an hour, the Dempsy Register the only evening newspaper on either side of the Hudson to carry the arrest in tonight’s news cycle.

  And, given Brenda’s “confession,” Jose had held up Jesse’s second diary installment, her account of the Friends of Kent visit to the apartment. Only the first one had run; the second, Jose felt, would need to be rewritten in the context of Brenda’s culpability. Reflective in nature, it would keep for a few days, until the smoke cleared. More pressing now was Jesse’s account of Brenda’s breakdown in the ruins of the Chase Institute; he wanted that one for tomorrow evening’s paper. But before she could sit herself down and begin her battle with blank-page malaise she wanted to see this here—be this here—and bodysurf the shock wave that would inevitably sweep through this crowd the minute the prosecutor made the announcement.

  Turning back to view the crew on the steps of City Hall, she locked on Lorenzo, who was pacing like a cat, his vexed and fretful gaze trained on the back of the crowd. Jesse wheeled around again to see what he saw: a growing, percolating contingent that wore neither T-shirts nor buttons, a mob of D-Town youngbloods from the projects and JFK Boulevard. Loud and raucous, more and more of them slammed themselves into the back of the pack, a few heads abruptly popping up above the height of the crowd, as if squeezed vertically by the pressure of those around them. The milling agitation caused a surge that rippled straight through to the front lines of the press. Jesse bucked forward a few steps before she could check herself, then watched as those directly in front of her were forced into the same clumsy dance. Her eyes traveled back up to Lorenzo, who was just plain freaking now. Jesse knew that he was breaking down that rear guard into individuals, into followers and leaders, reviewing case histories to assess the potential for mayhem—knew that, in the coming half hour or so, she could use Lorenzo’s face as a kind of rearview mirror.

  “Good evening.” Peter Capra, the county prosecutor, stepped up to bat, waiting out a last-second jostle of adjustment among the media people, then reading off a typed page: “At 2:30 P.M. today, the members of my office, working with the members of the Dempsy Police Department, recovered the remains of a male child believed to be Cody Martin.” A low croon surged through the cluster of locals directly behind Jesse. “And in accordance,” Capra said, then hesitated, Jesse chilled with expectancy, “and in accordance, charged Brenda Martin, the mother of Cody Martin, with homicide and conspiracy to commit homicide.”

  The reaction to this second verbal blow was a louder, more pervasive croon—of surprise, of betrayal—punctuated with scattered shouts. The woman directly behind Jesse barked “No!” Someone else shouted out an almost gleeful “Yes!” People swayed with emotion, the conversion of street buzz to stone-cold fact purging them of all tentativeness.

  The prosecutor waited it out, then plowed on: “And charged William F. Williams, an acquaintance of Brenda Martin, also with homicide and conspiracy to commit homicide.” Billy’s arrest was almost ignored, or the response to it hard to gauge, because most people were still reacting to Brenda, to the death of Cody, the crowd whirling in place, cooing with anger, with horror, with satisfaction.

  Jesse looked to Lorenzo, and his expression made her turn to the rear of crowd, where she saw some of that no-button, no-T-shirt mob lurch left, lurch right, then break off completely, like a chunk of ice worried by a strong current until it finally separates from the mother floe. Watching as a few dozen mobbers marched off, quiet but intent, Jesse wondered if they knew where they were going. Then she saw a few shooters shadowing them at a safe distance. Jesse wanted to go, too, but was stopped by the prosecutor’s next words.

  “Investigators were led to a burial site today at Foley’s Point, Gannon, where the body of a child was exhumed, final identity of which is pending an autopsy.” This last bit of information—graphic, specific—once again intensified the barking, the eerie cooing of the crowd. Jesse spotted a Cody button sailing off like a flying saucer, heard someone yelling, “I told you!” Lorenzo was up there on the steps, literally bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tried to follow the movements of that breakaway crew into the distance. Then he leaned into the ear of Ernie Hohner, the chief of police, a squat, pug-faced bulldog of a man, who nodded at Lorenzo’s urgent whisperings and shrugged—a gesture not of indifference but of confidence. But Lorenzo looked none too convinced, anxiously rocking from side to side as if he were about to explode.

  “What about Curious George,” someone shouted from within the press pack.

  A hoarse bellow came from the rear of the crowd: “The nigger was framed!”

  “Mr. Howard was released on his own recognizance earlier this evening,” Capra said evenly, “the charges pending against him to be adjudicated at a later date.”

  “Charges for what. He didn’t do it, motherfucker!”

  “Where she being held…” That came from up front.

  The prosecutor plowed over the last question. “I want the people of this city to understand something.” Jesse tracked Lorenzo’s eyes to another break-off from the rim of the crowd. No one back there was listening to anything being said; mostly they were just rolling shoulders, talking with their eyes, waiting to see who was going to split next. “I would like the people of this city to understand that, given the initial accounts of Brenda Martin’s story
, we had no choice but to pursue the elements of that story as told to us.” Capra read from a second typed page, Jesse recognizing Lorenzo’s phone rap nearly word-for-word.

  “I would like the people of this city to understand that, to the best of our knowledge, we were operating under the assumption that a child’s life was at stake and we had to proceed with thoroughness and diligence in order to save that child’s life, and that the, the heinousness of the crime committed is further compounded by the hoaxlike nature of Miss Martin’s original story. Working with the false information given us regarding a carjacking at the Armstrong Houses, we recognize that this fabricated event might possibly have caused a series of well-intentioned but possibly over-zealous police actions—”

  “Possibly?” someone shouted, causing the prosecutor to drop a stitch.

  “Police actions, to bring this investigation to a successful conclusion. And in response to that possibility”—the prosecutor continued, flipping the page, the Reverend Longway and a few others in the municipal choir shaking their heads in a gesture of theatrical cynicism—“there will be an independent commission established to investigate the actions of various members of the Dempsy County law enforcement community.” Capra was speaking in a fast monotone now, a lawyer muttering his way through a contract. “And if there are any findings that any member of said law enforcement community transgressed in their zeal to apprehend a perpetrator, those findings will be brought forth before the grand jury and investigated thoroughly.”

  Jesse watched a number of reporters as they muscled their way to the back of the crowd to track the breakaway crews and document whatever bedlam was to follow.

  “Hey.” Ben sidled up next to her, breathing hard but smiling.

  “Are they busting it up back there?” she asked.

  “Nah,” Ben growled happily. “They’re loaded for bear.”

  “Who’s loaded for bear?”

  “Tonight I feel there is a great, hurting in this city.” The voice turned Jesse back to the microphone, the Reverend Longway up there now, doing his bit for world peace. “I feel there’s a great, anger. It’s an old anger, a righteous anger, an honorable anger.”

  Lorenzo, probably unable to bear it any longer, removed himself from the press conference, sliding off left, into the shadows, Jesse guessing he was heading straight to Armstrong.

  “However,” Longway continued, the crowd only half listening, “I feel that I must implore the, the bearers of this, this rage in the same way that I implore it of myself—to express it, constructively, to express it, wisely. I implore the wounded members of our community to bear it with dignity, because I promise you… We are owed, we are owed, and we will collect.”

  Despite the bombastic thump of his delivery, Longway looked shaky up there, Jesse thought, his facial expression registering an internal unsteadiness.

  “However, that being said,” Longway went on, mimicking the flat legalese of the prosecutor, “I would turn to the powers that be, assembled up here tonight behind me, and I would ask them as a token of their sincerity if they would, right here, right now, publicly apologize to the citizens of Armstrong for what had to be endured.”

  “Oh shit,” Jesse whispered, unconsciously grinning, Longway pulling a fast one, making them eat it. The prosecutor, the chief of police, and the mayor instantly went stiff with anger.

  “This is fucking great,” Ben murmured.

  The press conference had come to a dead stop, Longway standing there hogging the mikes, almost gathering them up in his arms, his body language implying that they would have to drag him away in front of all these cameras if no one responded to his challenge.

  Capra finally took up the gauntlet, stepping forward and almost shouldering Longway off to the side as he leaned into the mikes. “As I said. The police reacted to the story as originally told to us. Also, as I said, there will be an investigation into all police activity, and any behavior deemed remiss will be investigated forthwith.” No notes this time, the prosecutor’s terse delivery heavy with rage.

  “Is that an apology?” someone up front asked.

  Capra gave it a full five seconds, staring at his interrogator. “I would characterize what I just said as a sincere and heartfelt explanation.”

  “Fuck you!” That come from what remained of the rear guard, who aimed a brace of raised middle-finger salutes the prosecutor’s way. “Punk-ass bitch!”

  Capra seemed to expand, his fury transforming him into something red, mean, and low to the ground. “I would also add that the law is the law,” he said, addressing the rear mob directly now. “Tonight is no holiday from that law, and any criminalistic behavior, no matter from what quarter or stemming from whatever motivation, will be dealt with swiftly, and succinctly.”

  Jesse flinched, Capra busting them in advance.

  “Fuck you!” came again from the rear, people turning, squinting, scowling, everybody getting spooked and confused.

  “This press conference is over,” Capra announced. “There’ll be no more questions.”

  “Why not?” a reporter down front called out through cupped hands—Jesse laughing, One in every crowd.

  With the conference at an end, the press split into two armies, Jesse joining the one crowding around Longway, the only player from the choir willing to talk. The other faction made a beeline for any black people in the crowd, cornering them, shoving cameras in their faces, and asking them if they thought Longway was right, if the prosecutor owed any apologies to anybody. The mad scramble was something like musical chairs, crews racing one another to lay claim to the limited number of blacks still hanging around, those crews unable to find their own subjects forced to piggyback on other impromptu interrogations, the losing shooter having to stand on tiptoe and raise the Betacam as high as he could, tilting it downward over the primary camera.

  Jesse knew that very few of those man-on-the-street interviews would be usable, most of the people being filmed having rarely, if ever, been asked their opinions on anything. Now, suddenly thrust into the role of national spokesmen for racial injustice, they would come off either blinky and tongue-tied or profane and long-winded.

  “It’s the same ol’ same ol’,” Longway declared, shielding his eyes from the sun guns. “A black man did it, a black man did it. She knew her product and she knew her customers. A black man, boogie man, hottest item in the store, can’t even keep it in stock. And the city of Gannon, the city of Dempsy were bumping each other in line to see who’d be the first to slap their money down and buy her story. Man, it sounded so good to them, they didn’t even bat an eye, didn’t even ask how much.”

  Jesse could actually hear the sound of writing. Bent over their pads, the reporters would sporadically snap upright, their heads swiveling almost a full 360 to track and locate any discordant bark, bang, or noise, everybody wired to the gills.

  “But they should have inquired about the price, because an entire race has been maligned here these last few days,” Longway declared. “And I will not give up until an apology, a public apology, comes out of somebody’s mouth. I’ll take it from the prosecutor, the mayor, or the chief of police and I’m gonna be on them, calling them out until I get it.”

  “What else do you want?” Jesse asked Longway combatively, just to keep him lively, see if he’d repeat any of the rap he had practiced on her back in the housing office.

  “What else do I want?” He reared back, his face suddenly turning ashy, his mouth hanging open. “I want everything you got,” he said weakly, pointing a trembling finger at her.

  “Like…” Jesse was egging him on but pretty much knew he wouldn’t bite in the way she wanted.

  “You’re a bright lady.” He popped what Jesse assumed was a nitro pill under his tongue. “You answer that for yourself.”

  With the presser over, Jesse wanted to cruise the city, take its temperature. As she and her brother rolled off in the Chrysler, the sky slowly changed from a brassy gold to a sullen violet, changed like a fac
e. Within a few blocks, Jesse could almost see it, in the streets, the storefronts, the stoops and porches; in the mouths and eyes of the men and boys who moved toward Ben’s car with a territorial saunter every time he stopped at a light, slowed down to take a corner. She could see it in the deepening purple of the air itself, the city like a balloon slowly filling with water, no one knowing when it would blow, where it would blow, no one, including those who would ultimately do the blowing.

  Circling back toward City Hall, Ben drove Jesse past what seemed like a corral of teenagers. A good chunk of that rear mob from the press conference was now detained, in a deserted lot between two apartment houses, by a squad of helmeted cops, who were patting them down, checking IDs, and running their names through dashboard-mounted computers for outstanding warrants.

  “Jesus,” Jesse said mildly, assuming this was more about intimidation and dispersal than about making arrests.

  “That’s nothing,” Ben crowed. He drove her to a bluff overlooking the Roosevelt Houses, the largest projects in Dempsy where three police buses sat parked, engines running, the smoke from dozens of cigarettes wafting from the open windows, Jesse seeing rows of visored helmets, in silhouette, within. Ben then drove her to Bailey Street, three blocks from Armstrong, where the buses held roughly the same number of cops on standby. The ground beneath these bus windows, too, was littered with flicked butts, chainsmoking being Dempsy’s idea of transcendental meditation. Ben parked the car a few hundred yards from the Bailey Street platoons and looked at his sister. It was eight-forty-five, the sky giving up all its nuanced shades and dropping into dead night.