by A. C. Fuller
“How’d you get upstairs?” Alex asked.
“Known the security guard for a long while.”
“Why the gun? I saw it in your belt.”
“It’s not for you. Plus, you the one threw me down the stairs.”
“Sorry about that,” Alex said. “How’s your head?”
“Had worse.”
Alex believed him. His face was more than thin—concave almost, and scarred. His dark green eyes looked tired. In addition to the bright bird on his neck, Downton had a fading Tweety Bird tattooed on his left forearm. On his right wrist, the number 76845 in blocky lettering. But despite Downton’s ragged appearance, the more Alex studied his face, the safer he felt.
The waitress came and they both ordered coffee.
Downton looked up at Alex. “You writin’ the case of the boy they say killed the professor?”
“Santiago. Yeah.”
“What you know about him?”
“Why do you want to know about Santiago?”
“‘Cause the kid didn’t do it, at least not like the police have been sayin’. Wonderin’ why he’s takin’ the fall.”
Alex was skeptical but pulled his notebook from his bag. “The fall for what? What the hell are you talking about?” He remembered the strange voice from the call the day before. “Did you call me yesterday?”
“I ain’t even got a phone.”
Alex couldn’t think of a reason not to tell Downton about Santiago. Everything he knew was in the paper anyway, and it would give him a chance to study Downton’s reactions, and possibly draw him out.
“Santiago’s from a military town near the bases in San Diego. His father was killed in Iraq in 1990, leaving his mother with seven-year-old Eric and sixty hours a week in a department store. Don’t know much else about her or the rest of his family.”
The waitress brought the coffee. Alex sipped his black as Downton added teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar.
“As a teenager, he won chess tournaments and baseball games. He was small, but a good shortstop. Made the all-star team in little league and the all-county team in high school. In old photos, he looks like a pretty normal kid.”
Downton stirred the sugar into his coffee. “He was on the baseball team here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Used to play a bit myself.”
“With your height, I would have thought you played basketball.”
Downton smiled. “Played a bit of that, too.”
“In high school, Santiago had a terrible problem with acne. Not just normal outbreak stuff but boils all over his face. Left deep scars. Can’t figure out why he came across the country, because he got offers from a bunch of California schools that actually care about baseball.
“People who know him from school aren’t talking, and in court he just stares into space. Must be smart enough if he got into NYU, but he just gives you this weird feeling, like he’s not all there. He’s never spoken to a reporter, and nobody knows why he killed Professor Martin.”
Downton rubbed the numbers on his wrist. “Maybe that’s because he didn’t.”
Alex sighed. “Yeah, the boy didn’t do it. So you said. But why follow me? Why not just e-mail me like everyone else with a story to sell?”
Downton laughed. “E-mail? Gotta get to know you a bit ‘for I can truss you.”
“How do you know he didn’t do it?”
Downton leaned in and spoke in a whisper. “Saw it go down.” He looked over each shoulder before adding, “I’m the guy who made the anonymous call to the cops that night.”
He had Alex’s attention now.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Downton explained that he was a small-time pot dealer who sold mostly to NYU students in Washington Square Park. Alex had spent quite a few afternoons there as an undergrad, and realized now why he had recognized Downton.
“Was workin’ the night the prof died,” Downton said. “Hangin’ ‘round the west end of the park, a ways from the statue, when the prof come through. He wasn’t staggerin’ too bad, but you could tell he’d had a few. Looked like just another drunk in the park.”
“Did you know Professor Martin before you saw him that night?”
“No. Didn’t know neither of ‘em. But I see everybody. That’s my business. You get to know who’s who—where they goin’, who dey hang wit’. You got to, so you can tell if somethin’ ain’t right.”
“You sure you didn’t know Santiago?” Alex asked. “Defense said he was in the park to buy pot that night.”
“I told you, I never sold to him.”
“Okay. So what happened when Professor Martin came through?”
“He stopped at the statue and stood there a few minutes.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Dark clothes, white hat—one of those kinda golf caps or captain’s hats. I don’t know what you call ‘em but only white people wear ‘em.”
Alex perked up. If Downton was lying, at least he’d taken the time to learn a few details. “Then what?”
“The kid come from the east end of the park and walked straight by the prof. I was workin’ a deal, watchin’ the prof out the corner of my eye, and a few minutes later he was on the ground.”
“How do you know the kid didn’t attack him while you weren’t looking?”
“Look, I don’t know exactly what happened, but the kid never went near enough to do what they say. You all ain’t been writin’ the truth.”
“I write facts,” Alex said. “The truth is different.”
“The truth is the truth.” Downton leaned back and looked around the coffee shop.
Alex usually knew if a source was lying within a few minutes, but he was still unsure about Downton. He looked down at the man’s tattooed wrist.
“Prison number,” Downton said. “Did three years at Eastern, upstate.”
“For what?”
“Didn’t do it.”
“What were you convicted of?”
“Assault.”
Alex leaned back in his chair. “Look, I appreciate you coming forward, but I need another source on this, someone who will go on record and isn’t a . . . well, someone who will go on record.”
Downton looked at the table.
“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.
Downton closed his eyes, then opened them. “You ever dunk a basketball?”
“What?”
“You know that feelin’ you get when your daddy is proud of you? First time I dunked a ball I was thirteen years old. It was my birthday and I got a real leather ball from my daddy. Was the only kid on the block who had one and he took me to the park and I dunked it. He looked at me like I was somethin’ and my chest got all warm and I felt like I could do anything.”
Alex nodded. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”
“I knew then that he would sit courtside and watch me play at The Garden someday. Then he died and, well . . . ” Downton went quiet and ran his fingers along the grain of the wooden table.
“My father died, too,” Alex said. “And my mother.”
“How?” Downton asked.
Alex sipped his coffee. “You have any kids?”
Downton smiled. “Had a wife. Left me when I did the bit upstate. She never minded the dealin’. Never did more than sell twenty-sacks to rich teenagers. But she couldn’t stick with it when I went upstate. Gotta daughter who’s grown now. Lives up in Queens near my mama.”
“You seem like you have something else to say.”
Downton looked into Alex’s eyes, then stared down into his coffee cup. “There’s a video,” he said quietly.
“Of what?”
“The night. The kid. You know, the night in the park.”
Alex shot up in his seat. “What?”
“You need another source, right? I don’t have another source for you, but I’ve got a video.”
“What? What’s on it? Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Downton scanned the coffee shop. “Well,
didn’t want to give it up. Could be bad for me. I told them I don’t have it.”
Alex finished his coffee in one long sip. “Told who? What are you talking about?”
“I’ll tell you everything, but you gotta do something for me.”
“What?”
“Get me into a Knicks practice. Want to see how it looks from down on the floor.”
Alex reached into his bag and took out his mini tape recorder. He set it on the table. “Okay, but let’s start from the beginning.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“NEED EVERYTHING ON Demarcus Downton!” Alex called, approaching a desk in a dark corner of the thirtieth floor.
James Stacy sat, headphones on, staring at two giant computer screens, his desk littered with papers, chip bags, and soda bottles. His wide back spilled over both sides of the chair. He was a college dropout who had been at The Standard about a year, and looked like he was still a teenager to Alex, but he could always find things online that Alex couldn’t.
“Hey Jaaa-aaames.” Alex stood behind him, pulling the headphone away from his left ear. “Helloooooo?”
As James turned, the chair squeaked and buckled under his weight. His skin was pasty white, his blond hair tied into a long, messy ponytail. He pulled the headphones off and waved Alex away.
“What’s that case thing?” Alex asked, pointing to a white device on James’s desk.
“An iPod. They’re the f-f-future. They’re—”
“That’s great,” Alex cut in. “But right now I need everything we have on Demarcus Downton.”
“Who is he to us?” James asked. His eyes shifted back and forth from Alex to the screens on his desk as he spoke.
“Possible source. He deals pot in Washington Square Park, was arrested at some point, did time at Eastern. Inmate number 76845. May have played sports locally, too.”
James took a long sip of root beer. “He involved in the S-S-Santiago case?”
“Might be,” Alex said. “Hey, do you know any way to trace one of those zero-zero-zero numbers that comes up on a caller ID?”
“Not without a court order and special equipment. C-Companies are using them to get around new t-telemarketing laws.”
Alex walked to the other side of the desk and looked over the screens into James’s eyes. “How do they work?”
James looked up. “You just run a regular phone l-line through a box that hides the c-c-caller ID. Costs a few hundred bucks.”
“How long on the other thing?”
“Half hour.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Alex said over his shoulder, walking across the newsroom. “I need everything you can get in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
Alex knocked as he pushed the door open. “I’ve got something, Colonel.”
“Ever considered waiting until I actually tell you to come in? What if I’d had someone from upstairs in here?”
Alex smiled. “I knew you didn’t. I can tell when you have a boss in here because everyone in the office gets this look like they’re working hard. They don’t have that look today.”
Baxton adjusted a stack of papers so they made a ninety-degree angle with the corner of his desk. “What do you have?”
Alex looked at the papers. “They look straight to me, Colonel.” Baxton didn’t look up, so Alex continued. “I’ve got a guy on the Santiago thing who says he was there that night. Says Santiago didn’t do it.”
Baxton shot up in his seat. “You serious? Is he credible?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Why didn’t he go to the police? Why isn’t he a witness?”
“Let’s just say he lives slightly outside the law. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with the police.”
“A criminal?” Baxton asked.
“You could say that.”
“What does he say happened?”
Alex put his hands in his pockets and paced the office. “Says he saw Santiago in the park that night. Saw the professor, but Santiago never touched him. He identified the professor’s hat, too.”
“He could have gotten that from police reports, or even the paper. We published that. Hell, everyone published that.”
“There’s more. He says—”
“This sounds pretty thin, Vane. I’m not saying don’t work it, but you’re gonna have to do a lot better.”
Alex was startled. He usually got a fatherly pat on the back from Baxton when he had a good lead. “Don’t work it? It may not be true, but if it is, it could be huge for us.”
Baxton stood up. “And get you on TV? You don’t have anything yet. We can’t be the paper that blows up the Santiago case. You know how important it’s been for the city. We love hating this kid.” Baxton smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want there to be something to what he says?”
“What? This isn’t about me.”
“Vane, c’mon. We all know you—”
“Colonel! Listen! He says he has a video.”
“Of what?”
“The night.”
Baxton reached down and straightened his papers for a moment, then slowly looked up. Alex had never seen Baxton look afraid, but his sharp eyes appeared to have receded further into his head.
“What’s on it?” Baxton asked. “How’d he get it?”
Alex felt a knot in his stomach. He had never lied to Baxton before, but he had never had a reason to feel suspicious of him before either. “I don’t know yet. Gonna get it tomorrow.”
Baxton peered over Alex’s shoulder and moved pencils from one cup to another. Alex knew the conversation was over.
When he was halfway out the door, Baxton asked, “Alex, by the way, what happened with the woman from the courthouse? You get anything on her?”
“Nah. She was just a court fan. No connection to the case.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ALEX SAT ALONE at Dive Bar and sifted through the research James had given him. Downton’s name had come up in dozens of articles, most from local papers in the mid-seventies. It took Alex an hour to piece together his story.
Downton grew up in the Bed-Stuy neighborhood of Brooklyn, raised by his African-American father and Sri Lankan mother. In the seventh grade, and already standing six-foot-five, Downton led his basketball team to the state finals. The next year, coaches from St. John’s and City College started attending his games and the old folks in the neighborhood began calling him “Baby Wilt.” His coaches and peers called him “Downtown D.”
By his junior year, now six-foot-nine, Downton was a local celebrity. He dominated the competition in high school—averaging twenty points, ten rebounds, and five assists—and was known as a great kid around the neighborhood. Article after article mentioned his volunteer work and good grades. Alex laughed out loud when he found a photo of Downton helping a lady up some steps with her groceries. Who was this guy?
In 1977, Downton accepted a full scholarship to play at St. John’s. He never attended, but Alex couldn’t figure out why. The next year, his name appeared in an article about a deadly fire at a meat packing plant. One of the victims was Tyree Downton, Demarcus’s father. In 1985, Downton served six months for dealing marijuana. In 1988 he did another year for the same crime, and in 1992 he was sentenced to three years for beating up a man in Washington Square Park. He hadn’t appeared in the papers since.
Alex was on his second drink when Lance walked in. “I was hoping you’d show up,” Alex said.
Lance took the stool next to him, ordered a beer, then glanced Alex’s way. “Vodka and soda again? Be careful. That lime wedge might have a third of net carb in it.”
Alex half-smiled and looked up from his drink. “Have you ever known the Colonel to sidestep a story?”
“What? No, ‘How was your day, honey?’ I’m deeply hurt.”
“Seriously,” Alex said. “You’ve been here forever. Has the Colonel always been straight with you?”
The bartender delivered the beer and Lance took a long sip, smacking his lips. “If I�
�m gonna be your therapist tonight, you’re buying.”
Alex turned to face him. “I mean, I know stories sometimes get stuffed for political or financial reasons, but today he didn’t want me looking into something. Something big. I just got the feeling that—”
“That you’re not the golden boy anymore?” Lance laughed then took another long swig of beer.
Alex mashed the lime wedge into the bottom of his glass with a little red straw.
“Boy, you’re really hot for something, huh? Got that youthful exuberance and everything. The Colonel? Yeah, he’ll stonewall you every now and then.”
“What should I do?”
Lance took a moment to finish his beer then waved at the bartender. “Nothing you can do. You know that invisible wall between the news people and the ad people we talk about?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s getting thinner. Time was, we never even thought about the ad guys. They did their work and we did ours. But it changed in the nineties. Started getting the sense that, when assignments were handed out, we could never afford the personnel to do certain kinds of reporting.”
Alex glanced at a group of women at the end of the bar, then back at Lance. “But I’m talking about when you’ve got something real, already in hand.”
Lance took a cigar out of the inside pocket of his jacket and ran it under his nose. “You know they’re gonna ban smoking in bars any minute now. Next, they’ll probably ban carbs. Then we’ll all look like you.”
“Lance, please. You ever had a big story just stuffed?”
Lance put the cigar on the bar and rolled it back and forth with his thumb. “Remember a few years back when they changed the name of the football stadium from the Meadowlands to SunLife Tech Stadium? I had a column ready on how the Giants’ owner had been on a board with the CEO of SunLife way back when. Everyone knew they were buddies, but I found something solid enough to print. So I wrote that maybe the Giants could get more money for the naming rights if they opened up the bidding instead of just making this back room deal. I’m no crusader, and the piece didn’t come off like that. It was from a fan’s perspective, you know? I was saying, ‘If you’re gonna sell out and name the stadium after some damn company, at least make the bidding competitive so you can drop the price of hotdogs by twenty-five cents.’“