by Lee Hurwitz
“Washington signed this piece of shit?”
Watson threw the papers in the snow. Klosky picked them up and put them back in his pocket.
“Mr. Mayor, we’d like to make this procedure as easy for you as possible.”
“Well, fuck you, Klosky. You’re a disgrace to the police department.” He turned to Vliet. “Who’re you?”
“Detective Mohammed Vliet, Mr. Mayor.”
“Well, brother, what do you think about this? The leader of your people being led in chains by this motherfucking Jew bastard?”
Vliet was expressionless. “Is that true, Sergeant Klosky?” he asked. “Do you have sex with your mother?”
“Mr. Mayor, we’d like to do this without handcuffs,” Klosky said. “Please accompany us to the front of the house.”
Watson dusted the snow off his coat and looked around. He was surrounded by four men. There was no chance of escape.
“Let’s walk to the front of the house,” Klosky repeated.
Slowly, the five of them walked through the snow. When they got to the front Fenner sprinted ahead to the car and opened the doors.
Klosky, Watson, and Vliet got in the back. Bradshaw moved into the passenger seat.
The snow-covered streets were slippery as Fenner drove up Van Buren Street onto Piney Branch Road, the main artery in the Takoma neighborhood.
“You fellas realize what you’re doing? I’m in the middle of my third term as Mayor. I own the Metropolitan Police Department. Your careers are finished if you go through with this. Do you hear me? Finito.”
There was dead silence in the packed sedan as Fenner headed south on Georgia Avenue.
“I’ll tell you what, fellas. Just drop me off here on Georgia Avenue. I mean, no one will know anything about what happened. No one will find out. I won’t tell anyone and everyone will be clean.”
Nothing.
“Vliet.” Watson rolled the name around in his mouth, and then turned to the Detective. “Your wife has cancer, doesn’t she?”
Vliet said nothing, looking straight ahead.
“That’s a hell of an expensive disease,” Watson mused. “We in DC Government are so lucky to have the health coverage we have, don’t you think?” Watson waited, enjoying the silence. “Be a terrible thing if somebody was to reopen that shooting incident three years ago and a detective was to lose his job over it.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Mayor,” Klosky said.
“And Rabbi Klosky!” Watson whipped his head around to face the arresting officer. “I understand you’re looking forward to opening your own security business after you retire! Good for you! Maybe I can put in a good word for you! Because if I don’t,” and here Watson’s smile turned into a sneer, “not even the Jews will hire you.”
Klosky bit back a response. He knew that they were only a few blocks away from headquarters.
Watson must have known it too, because his patter grew more desperate. “Bradshaw!” he said. “You have a brother with a coke problem…” Bradshaw said nothing. “I’ve been watching over him,” Watson said, the words tumbling out. “Kept him out of jail two, three times.”
“My brother died six months ago,” Bradshaw said softly.
They drove in silence to the 4th district police headquarters. They pulled into the parking lot.
“Okay, fellas, you win. But I’ve got something for each of you guys. There’s a safe deposit box in a downtown bank with some cash. In fact, it’s got a lotta cash. I’m serious, fellas, a real lotta cash. Why don’t we do this? You drive me to this bank and I can take this money outta the safe deposit box. I’ll give you guys each ten thousand. No record of anything. Ten grand in cash for each of you guys. Then we all go home. Okay?”
“Mr. Mayor, we have to take you inside,” Klosky said.
“Okay, fellas, I’ll tell you what. Twenty thousand for each of you. Twenty grand in cash and then everyone goes home. Okay?”
Klosky sighed. “Don’t you get it, Mr. Mayor? We don’t take bribes. Not from you. Not from anyone. When we talk to Mr. Altman, we’ll certainly tell him about your offer today. I’m not going to speculate about additional charges, but I think that there’s a good chance the US Attorney will find something. Now, Mr. Mayor, it’s time for us to go inside.”
They got out. The snow slackened off to flurries as they walked slowly in the snow-covered parking lot toward the fourth police district station.
Klosky approached the police station’s front desk and flashed his badge to Officer J.L. Walker.
“Good evening, officer. I’m Detective Sergeant Klosky, Criminal Investigations Division, downtown. These are my colleagues, Detectives Vliet and Bradshaw, and Officer Fenner. You might find this kind of unusual, officer, but we’ve arrested Mayor Watson for obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact. We have a warrant for his arrest.” Klosky took the arrest warrant papers out of his breast pocket and gave them to Walker. Walker looked at the papers and gazed at the five men standing in front of him.
“You wanna do what?”
“We have an arrest warrant for Mayor Watson, and we’ve apprehended him a few blocks away in Takoma. We need to arraign him. Mayor Watson is a citizen just like you and me. If you or I were to commit a crime, we would be arraigned just like everyone else. The warrant is signed by a judge at the DC Superior Court. So now we’d like to proceed with the arraignment.”
“Well, I dunno. I gotta tell the desk lieutenant.”
Walker left the front desk and came a minute later with Sergeant C.C. Craig.
Craig looked at Watson and the five other men and said nothing.
“Good evening, Sergeant. I’m Detective Sergeant Klosky, Criminal Investigations Division, downtown. Did Officer Walker show you the arrest warrant?”
“Um, yeah. Walker showed it to me.”
“Well, sergeant, we’d like to proceed with the arraignment.”
“Detective, I’m the acting desk lieutenant. Uh, you wanna arraign Mayor Watson?”
“That’s right, sergeant. We have an arrest warrant signed by a judge. We’ve apprehended him and we’re ready to proceed.”
“Well, detective, I dunno. I gotta ask the Captain or the Inspector.”
Craig left the desk and walked to the back of the police station. Two minutes later, Mike Harrington, wearing a white Inspector’s shirt with three gold bars, walked to the front desk.
“Hey, Klosky,” he said nervously.
“Hey, Harrington, how are you doin’?”
“Well, I don’t know. Are you really trying to arraign Mayor Watson?”
“Yes, we are, Inspector. Have you seen the warrant? It’s signed by Judge Washington.”
“Uh, yeah. Craig showed it to me.”
“Well, Inspector, we have a warrant, we’ve arrested the suspect, and now it’s time to arraign the suspect. We need to fingerprint him first.”
“Klosky, do you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course I know what I’m doing. This case is as solid as any one that I’ve worked on in the last fifteen years. Just take a look at the warrant, Harrington.”
“All right, lemme look at it again.”
Harrington read the arrest warrant line by line.
“Well, uh, Mayor Watson, uh. They do have an arrest warrant.”
“FUCK THE ARREST WARRANT. HARRINGTON, WHERE’S DEPUTY CHIEF WHITE?”
“He’s on vacation, Mr. Mayor.”
“WELL, CALL HIM AT HOME. I PROMOTED THAT MORON LAST SUMMER. TELL HIM TO GET HIS BLACK ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW.”
“Uh, Mr. Mayor, he’s on vacation in Florida. I’m the acting deputy chief in the fourth district.”
“OKAY, FINE, HARRINGTON. I’M THE MAYOR AND YOU’RE THE ACTING DEPUTY CHIEF. GIMME THE WARRANT.”
Harrington handed the warrant to Watson.
Watson ripped each page of the warrant into small pieces and scattered the pieces on the floor.
“Where’s your warrant now—huh? It’s time for me to leave
.”
“Mayor Watson, the last thing that I want to do is arraign and fingerprint you. I mean, this is crazy. But we don’t have any choice in the matter.”
“HARRINGTON, IF YOU LET THESE HONKIES AND THIS UNCLE TOM GO AHEAD WITH THIS, I’LL HAVE YOUR SUBURBAN WHITE ASS OUTTA HERE IN NO TIME. I’ll HAVE YOU DEMOTED TO CAPTAIN AND WORKING THE MIDNIGHT SHIFT IN ANACOSTIA TOMORROW MORNING. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“I regret having to do this, Mr. Mayor. Follow me, fellas. The fingerprint room is down the hall.”
Watson put up no resistance as Harrington led the six of them to the fingerprint room. The Mayor was fingerprinted, photographed and booked. Charges as serious as obstruction and accessory—soon to be joined by attempted bribery—would assure that he would at least be held overnight, until he could be arraigned before a judge. And during that time, they could put the screws to Hightower. Who knows what they might be able to charge Watson with by tomorrow?
“Inspector Harrington, I believe I’m entitled to call my lawyer,” Watson said, “in private.” Klosky was impressed with the amount of dignity he had regained while being fingerprinted and photographed.
“Of course, Mr. Mayor.” Harrington led Watson into a small office with a desk and a telephone. He closed the door and motioned Sergeant Craig over. “Escort the Mayor to holding cell four when he’s done on the phone,” Harrington said. “Take him in the back way. Make certain that nobody else is in the cell.” To Klosky he said, “Cell four’s around the corner from the rest of the cells. The other prisoners won’t see him.”
They walked back toward the front desk. “This is crazy, Klosky,” Harrington complained. “Press’ll get wind of this and the parking lot won’t be big enough for all the reporters and cameras. Does Pitts know about this?”
“Pitts wrote up the warrant. Pitts sent me here.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Watson listened for their footsteps at the door until he was sure they were gone. Then he picked up the phone. Stupid motherfucking honkies. He remembered Altman, remembered the motherfucker’s corruption probe. Should’ve cut his balls off then. Well, he won’t make that same mistake this time. He’ll fuck him good. He’ll fuck them all. Hell, he didn’t need a lawyer. He dialed. This time, he’d get himself a Judge.
Chapter 17
The Chief Judge peered down his long, patrician nose at Altman. The Assistant US Attorney tried again.
“Your honor, I’ve been with the United States Attorney’s Office for twelve years. I have never known a Judge to go to a lockup in order to institute bail proceedings. Not at ten o’clock at night.”
The Chief Judge allowed himself a brief smile. “I’ve been a judge for thirty-five years. And I’ve never seen the Mayor of this City hauled out of his house, arrested and fingerprinted before, either.”
“Judge Washington signed the arrest warrant.”
“Fair enough. And Judge Ashford has arraigned him and set bail.”
“At ten o’clock at night. With no effective notice to the United States Attorney…”
“It’s not Judge Ashford’s fault you all go home at night, counselor.”
“And, with all respect, your honor, Judge Ashford did not set bail. He released Mr. Watson on recognizance.”
“With all respect to you, Mr. Altman, the Mayor of the City of Washington is hardly a flight risk. You know where he lives. You know where he works. And at ten o’clock Monday morning, I suspect that if you saunter up to the fifth floor of the District Building…”
But of course he would not be there on Monday morning, or ever again, because he knew the game was up, that his chances were irreparably gone. There would be no Park Avenue Offices for Wendell Watson; no sipping sixty-dollar scotch with Wall Street titans. His ambitions had changed. He thought of the Duke of Norfolk, Henry VIII’s ambitious courtier who had induced the King to marry his niece, the beautiful and hot-blooded Catherine Howard. Queen Catherine, he remembered, had cuckolded the King with her own cousin and Henry had them both beheaded. Afterward, someone asked Norfolk what his ambitions were now. “To die in my bed,” Norfolk replied.
That was Wendell Watson now. His goal was to die in his bed.
That’s why Watson was in the Florida Avenue Grill, eating, but not tasting, a stack of thick pancakes gooey with syrup. He knew that it was where Mr. Fitzpatrick ate his breakfast.
He knew a lot about Mr. Fitzpatrick. He knew how Mr. Fitzpatrick had used the GI Bill to get a business education and then used his knack for business to build one firm after another until he owned enough money to buy himself a bank. And he did, the first Black-owned bank in America. He knew how Mr. Fitzpatrick multiplied his wealth, and the bank’s, tenfold when the District of Columbia decided to deposit all its funds at his bank shortly after Wendell Watson took office. He knew that Mr. Fitzpatrick wasn’t above giving Wendell a mortgage at three points less than the going rate, and had the balls to wait out the heat from the press. And he knew that Mr. Fitzpatrick would be at the Florida Avenue Grill for his breakfast this morning.
When William B. Fitzpatrick walked into the restaurant, Watson gestured for him to join him at the back wall.
“Did something happen to you last night, Wendell?”
“Yeah, something happened, Bill. Something definitely happened. Let me ask you. I know that it’s inconvenient. But I need a favor.”
“Sure. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“I need to get into my safe deposit box.”
“Uh, well, Wendell, normally that would be okay. But you might know that we’ve closed the bank for an audit. I’ve given our staff today and tomorrow off. Can’t you wait until Thursday?”
“No, Bill, I can’t wait. I need to get into the safe deposit box today. Like right now.”
“Okay, right now. Well, Wendell, um, I don’t know. I’ll have to make some calls. Why don’t we have breakfast first?”
“Bill, I need the contents of the safe deposit box now, right now. Not after breakfast. Right now.”
“Okay. Let me go out to my car phone and make some calls.”
Watson went back to his booth to get his check and watch Fitzpatrick walk to his car.
Ten minutes later, Fitzpatrick came back into the restaurant. Watson was sipping on a cup of coffee.
“Come with me, Wendell. I’ve arranged to open up the building and let you get into your safe deposit box.”
Watson and Fitzpatrick left the Grill and got into Fitzpatrick’s Mercedes. He drove south on Eleventh Street NW for the short ride downtown.
“Wendell, I realize that it’s none of my business. But why’s it so important to get into your safe deposit box now?”
“You’re right, Bill. You’re absolutely right, my friend. It’s none of your business.”
Fitzpatrick said nothing else and ten minutes later pulled his Mercedes up to Industrial Bank’s branch at Sixth and F Streets NW. Watson switched on the radio and they sat silently for fifteen minutes. Finally, a blue Chrysler with Maryland tags pulled up behind Fitzpatrick’s car.
“That’s her. That’s Terry. She was doing some last-minute Christmas shopping. She has to disable the alarm.”
“Bill, give me your car phone. I need to make a call.”
Fitzpatrick handed Watson the telephone receiver and got out to talk to his branch manager. Watson dialed a number on the car phone.
“Happy holidays. Alpha Travel. Miss Parsons speaking.”
“Miss Parsons, this is Wendell Watson. I have to talk to Al. Is he in?”
“Merry Christmas, Mayor Watson. Nice to hear from you. We’re very busy now. Mr. Carter is on the phone. Can you hold for a moment?”
“Sure, Miss Parsons. Tell Al that it’s really urgent.”
Watson listened to Christmas Muzak for a moment, then: “Wendell, buddy, how ya doin?”
“Not so great. Listen, Al, I’m at Sixth and F. I have to take care of something here and then I’m going to head over to your office. I need a favor.”
> “Sure, Wendell, whaddya need?”
“I need to get out of town. To Rio de Janeiro.”
“I hear ya. This winter weather’s really brutal. When ya wanna leave?”
“Now.”
“You wanna leave now?”
“That’s right. Now.”
“Uh, Wendell, it’s five days before Christmas. You can’t get a flight to Brazil.”
“That’s right, Al. I want to leave for Rio de Janeiro today. Within the hour, if possible.”
“WITHIN THE HOUR?”
“You heard me, Al. Within the hour. I’ll be over in ten minutes.”
There was dead silence on the phone.
“Um, all right, Wendell. Uh—okay. Come on over. I’ll be here. We’re really busy today. Everyone and his brother is trying to get out of town. But come on over.”
Watson hung up the phone, slammed the Mercedes door closed, and walked over to the bank. “You got a case?” he called over his shoulder, to Fitzpatrick.
Watson’s safety deposit box was actually closer in size to a small safe. Watson opened it and carefully withdrew 5,000 thousand-dollar bills. Before he put them in the case which Fitzpatrick provided he peeled one off the top and gave it to the astonished Terry. “Thanks for interrupting your Christmas shopping,” he said.
“Captain wants to see you,” Burt Hayes called from the doorway, pointing at Hawk.
Hawkins shook his head. Since they had arrested Hi, he had been a bundle of nerves. He figured that somebody among the higher-ups was gunning for his job. Somebody would phony up some charge. Or Hawk would screw up on his own. He wished Hi was still around. Hi would know what to do.
Well, Hawk knew what to do now. When the Captain called, you came.
Hawk pushed himself into the Captain’s well-appointed office. There was someone with him, a thin, very dark man. He seemed vaguely familiar.
“Hawkins, this is Captain Elijah Pitts. He’s Chief of the Criminal Investigations Division.”
Hawkins stared, first at his own captain, then at the guy from C.I.D., unsure of whether he should salute or shake hands. “What did…”
“Ronald Hawkins,” Pitts said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Sharon Scott. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you. You have—”