But there was power in his standing up. Power in words and pictures just like the crazy self-centered Lavant Hall had said. And he had swung that power like a baseball bat.
At night Socrates attended his dreams almost as if he were awake and watching a movie screen. He saw the images of his mind and questioned them or laughed at them. He never lost the strand of his investigations during the whole three days he was the guest of John Law.
And then the police came to the room and took him to another room where he found Marty Gonzalez's cousin, the lawyer Ernesto Chavez.
“Mr. Fortlow,” the well-dressed lawyer said. His smile was perfect and his mustache was a razor's edge. “Looks like you're in the fire again.”
“I still cain't pay you, man,” Socrates said. He had to sit down because he was weak after walking down the stairs.
“You okay, bro?” the lawyer asked.
“Food ain't too good here,” Socrates said. “I want some'a Iula's corn bread. Yeah, that's what I need.”
“Well we'll see what we can do about that,” Ernesto said with an irrepressible smile. “And as far as money, I should be paying you for a chance like this.”
“Huh?”
“You're famous all over the world, Mr. Fortlow. China, France, everywhere. They got your picture holding up that sign on Time magazine and in the New York Times. Cardwell's history. And it was you wrote the book. You don't really need a lawyer. It's them who need the lawyers, man. You got them on the run.”
The video cameras that captured the image of the testimony against Cardwell had played on every TV station though they must have known it would cause violent tension in the black community. There had been demonstrations at the police station. Sporadic violence had broken out over the three days. The mayor himself had called Ernesto because he was the only lawyer on record to have represented Socrates in L.A.
“They shit on your rights and that Cardwell is a bad dude. Even the Republicans like you, man. You could run for office after some shit like that.” Ernesto smiled at his client, checked over his shoulder and then winked. “But I say you should go for the money, Mr. Fortlow. You could clean up after a mess like they made.”
“Can I get outta here?”
Ernesto snapped his fingers and cocked his head to indicate that it was already done.
Commander DeWitt apologized to Socrates on behalf of the police chief and the mayor.
“They have suspended Officer Cardwell,” he informed his recent prisoner. “I guess we never put together all of the information like you did on that sandwich board.”
If Socrates were to go by the tone of the commander's voice, instead of his words, he would have been looking for a fist rather than the handshake offered.
They removed Socrates by a side entrance and took him to the Saint-Paul Mortuary where his friend Topper had offered a place to stay.
“Reporters been callin',” the mortician said to his friend. “What are you going to tell them?”
“I ain't got nuthin' to tell the papers, man,” Socrates replied. “They can make up their own lies without me helpin'.”
“But, Mr. Fortlow. You got power now. You got the ear of the press. You could make a difference out here.”
“I know what you sayin', Nelson,” Socrates told his prosperous black friend. “But it ain't nuthin' I could say that they don't already know. Them reporters know all about Cardwell an' cops like him.They know all about men who been in prison. They already know. It's us who don't know.”
“Us?” Nelson Saint-Paul said. “Every black man, woman and child knows what it's like to be poor and mistreated and held back. Even me. You know they didn't wanna know about me at the funeral directors' society. I had to make all kindsa stink just to belong.”
Socrates looked at his small friend and shook his head. It wasn't a conscious move and he was sorry when he saw the pain in Saint-Paul's eyes.
“What do you mean that we're the ones who don't know?” Nelson asked again.
“We had the whole city scared, Nelson. But nuthin' changed. No one said, ‘Hey, lets get together an' vote or strike or just get together and say somethin' true.’ Me complainin' to some newspaper is like me tellin' the warden that I don't like his jail.”
“But this is different…” Nelson Saint-Paul began.
“Ain't nuthin' different. Just look out here in the street. No, Nelson. Me talkin' to the newspaper or the TV is just like if they made me into a cartoon. A goddamned cartoon.”
“They fired you,” Marty Gonzalez said on the phone. Socrates had called to see if there was any fallout from his being in the papers. “Mr. Ricci himself read the article that said you were a murderer and a produce manager in his store. Shit. I almost lost my own job. I'm sorry, Socco.”
“You don't have to be sorry, Marty,” Socrates consoled. “I knew it couldn't last. You know some men just born to be fools. And they signt me up when I was only a child.”
Socrates moved in with Luvia Prine for a while after his incarceration. She shooed away reporters and served his meals at eight, one, and six thirty. He didn't ask her for the respite. She called Howard Shakur and told him to pass the offer on.
Their relationship was cold because Luvia would never approve of a man like him.
“But you did what you could and they treatin' you hard,” she told him on the first day he moved in. “And Right would'a asked me to shelter you I know. And even if he's dead I will still respect his wishes in my home.”
Socrates was looking out of his window on Marvane Street while Hoagland Mars played his trumpet across the hall. The music was so loud that Socrates barely heard the weak knock at his door.
“Yeah?”
“It's me. Darryl.”
“Come on in.”
He was an inch taller than the last time Socrates had seen him. His chest was wider too.
“Hey,” the boy said.
Socrates nodded.
“What you lookin' at?”
“Just outside,” the ex-convict said.
“I went over your house to feed Killer and Mr. Malone said that you went here.”
“Yeah.” Socrates nodded again.
“Mr. Malone said that you could come back though. He said that you'n him could work sumpin' out on the rent if you ain't got a job.”
“He said that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Damn.”
“What you gonna do now?” Darryl asked. Socrates could see that he was worried.
“I lost my job.”
“I know. You gonna try'n work someplace else?”
“Got to eat,” Socrates said. “An' if you wanna eat then you got to work.”
“How you gonna get a job?”
“Sit down, boy. Sit in that chair.”
Darryl obeyed and Socrates sat on the sill of the open window.
“I got some money put away. I got enough for a year or so if I don't eat too many steaks. You know, it was the money they give me for movin'.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe I'll go back home, back to King Malone's place. Maybe if I take enough time I can figure out a business or sumpin'.”
“Like what?”
“I'ont know. But not where I'm workin' for somebody who if they find out who I am they gonna let me go. 'Cause you know there ain't nuthin' wrong with me.”
“But you ain't gonna leave?” Darryl asked nervously.
“Leave where?”
“Howard said that the best thing for you to do is to get out of California. He said that they know who you are now and once they know that about a black man he got to go.”
“A smart man maybe,” Socrates agreed. “But I ain't all that smart.”
“You smart. You the smartest man I know,” Darryl said. “Not like in a book maybe but books cain't make you smart anyways.”
“I'm not leavin', Darryl. I'ma stay right here or maybe down at King Malone's. Some place. And I'm gonna do sumpin' too.”
“What?”
“Ever since I saw all those people jump up to save me from the cops I knew that there was sumpin' goin' on. Not like Lavant says. Not like Nelson Saint-Paul says neither. Poster board don't get it. Goin' on TV with white people don't get it neither. You cain't see it or show it, not yet.”
“Then what if you cain't say it or see it?”
“You got to dream it. You got to make it up. And when you get it right then it'll be there.”
Luvia brought up lemonade and ginger snaps for the man and boy. After a little coaxing Darryl started to talk about his grades and his new girlfriend. Socrates listened happily.
After the boy had gone Socrates laid back on the bed and listened to Hoagland Mars practicing across the hall. It was a sweet sound from a sour man but it was better than any radio.
“It's just that one sweet note,” his aunt Bellandra said in his dreams. “Just that one sweet note and everything is sometimes turnt around.”
a cognizant original v5 release november 04 2010
Walter Mosley Page 21