The Stones Cry Out

by Sibella Giorello

  May-Ling sipped. "So what brings you here, Raleigh, at almost midnight?"

  In the vaguest terms possible, I explained the civil rights investigation, that the Bureau was looking into the rooftop deaths.

  "It was you," she interrupted. "On the building? With the rope?" She laughed, slapping the table. "I knew it!"

  I nodded. "Did you ever come across Detective Falcon on your cops beat?”

  "Raleigh..." She stabbed the straw into the crushed ice. It sounded like "sh-sh-sh."

  "No, May, it's my turn. And you can answer with the same terms. Deep background, off the record, no attribution."

  "You swear on Mary Lyon's grave?"

  Mary Lyon, the woman who founded Mount Holyoke. In 1837, education was supposedly "wasted" on females. I raised my right hand.

  "I swear on the grave of Mary Lyon."

  She glanced out the diner's window. So much grease was on the plate glass that the traffic light at Fourth and Main was a smear of primary colors. "People speculated Falcon was dirty.”

  "Dirty?"

  "On the take."

  "What kind of people said this--cops?"

  "I can't say who. But he bought a new house in Hanover County. And a new boat. You know cops don't make that kind of money."

  "Maybe he inherited it."

  "Or not," she said. "There was a rumor he was even considering early retirement. Meanwhile his wife just had a kid. Cops with expenses don't cut out early."

  I had read the file on his private security firm. He budgeted $150,000 in billing for the first-year. "Maybe he was going into another profession.”

  “I've made good sources, Raleigh. People who know things." But then she shrugged. "It doesn't really matter now. Nobody’s ever going to say anything bad about that guy. Not now. He's a hero."

  "You ever meet him?"

  She rolled her eyes. "You don't read my stories, do you?"

  "Nothing personal. Newspapers give me heartburn."

  "I wrote a feature story about the cold case unit. With Detective Greene?"

  "We've met."

  "It was like interviewing two walls, but their clearance rate’s incredible. Do you know they've solved almost eighty percent of the re-opened cases?"

  "That could mean the cases shouldn’t have been closed." I was thinking of Phaup. Somewhere in the Richmond Police Department, she probably had a clone, or two. And I was thinking of my father’s case. “Back to the accusations about Falcon. Could it be professional jealousy?"

  She shook her head. “I doubt it. These were good sources. And cops sometimes go bad. Even good detectives can turn.” She stabbed her soda again. “Not that I really blame them."

  "How's that?"

  “They don't make a lot of money. If they mess up, reporters like me swoop in and write big stories about how they goofed. It’s a hard job."

  "You're sorry?"

  "No," she said, firmly. "The press keeps the cops honest. I'm just saying, the temptation is real."

  When she glanced at her watch, I took the hint and laid two dollars on the table. She picked up her radio scanner.

  Outside the midnight humidity felt soft as sea foam. The empty street glistened from the rain.

  "What was your opinion of Falcon?" I asked. "Not the sources. You."

  She turned up the volume on her scanner. "He seemed like your basic veteran cop."

  "And what's that?"

  "Tired. Didn’t like reporters. Sort of angry."

  "But dirty?"

  She was walking faster now, listening to the radio crackle out a police call. "You're too late, Raleigh."

  The dispatcher was calmly reporting an armed robbery in progress on South Jackson. Two cruisers heading over.

  May-Ling said, "I gotta go."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  She jogged for the newspaper building, calling out in the dark. “I told you, the guy's a hero now. You're too late."

  Chapter 23

  Early the next morning I drove my mother to the Pentecostal camp in the old Mercedes Benz. She was humming to herself. Madame stood on her lap, keeping her nose out the window.

  At this early hour, the worship service was sparse. A wiry man stood with his family on stage, speaking about obedience and grace. My mother sidled over to the electric organ, swaying with the melody. Madame ran into the fields, and I sat in the row farthest from the stage. After fifteen minutes, when the man still talking and my mother was still dancing, I snuck out of the tabernacle, running across the campground like a refugee.

  But when I got to the big black car, Madame was there.

  I stared at her. She was uncanny.

  "No," I said, opening the door. "You have to stay here."

  She jumped into the driver's seat.

  "Madame. Out."

  She lifted her paw, placing it on the steering wheel.

  "Fine, all right, you can come. But stay close. Understand?"

  We headed north on Route 1 and five miles later turned right, driving directly into the morning sun. Another two miles passed until we reached the Bull Island Paper Plant, followed by a narrow overpass bridging the river. I parked the car on the soft shoulder.

  “No running off,” I told Madame.

  An ancient river, the South Anna was riddled with twisting turns and deep oxbows, a river that moved sideways as much as forward. Kudzu vines smothered the banks and climbed the gum trees, reaching across the muddy water like leafy bridges leading to nowhere. I walked down the concrete boat ramp. Madame followed me to the water's edge. Sure enough, the stone was crumbling where it touched the acidic soil. Taking out a film canister, I collected some of the colluvium of rock fragments then filled another canister with soil. Trailer wheels had cut creases in the dirt, and at the water's edge, I filled two more canisters. Rubbing the sediment between my fingers, I felt the fine-grained texture. Creamy, almost sensuous. I took off my tennis shoes, waded into the water and plunged several more canisters to the river bottom, scraping for samples, then waded back to the boat ramp. I checked my watch, waiting for Madame to finish her own investigation.

  A blue Chevy truck was coming down the road, hauling an aluminum fishing boat. The driver pulled a four-point U-turn across the narrow two-lane road then backed toward the ramp. He leaned out his window, and the fishing lures dangling from a faded green hat glinted in the sunlight. When he threw the truck into Park, and jumped out, he said, "How ya doin'?"

  "Good.” I smiled.

  He bustled to the back of the trailer, unlatching the boat.

  "Nice and quiet,” I said.

  He nodded. The lures danced. "And I want to keep it that way. Know what I'm saying?"

  "Sure do."

  He touched his hat, almost a salute, then floated the boat onto the muddy water.

  Just the way I imagined Detective Falcon might do.

  ===============

  When we got back to the tabernacle, my mother was sitting in the front row facing the stage. Her black curls looked limp, sagging beside her pretty face. The air felt saturated, leaden and sticky from last night’s rain.

  "It's too hot to dance," she said.

  I drove her home, changed my clothes, then motored the K-Car to the office and was back in my cattle stall before noon, dialing the mineralogy lab in Washington. I told Eric to expect some soil comparison samples, arriving via Bureau mail.

  "How’s it going?" he asked.

  "I'm working on it. Can you transfer me to Hairs and Fibers?"

  I waited for Mike Rodriguez to pick up, glancing over my shoulder. Something told me Phaup was lurking.

  "I didn't send you that report?" Rodriguez said.

  "No, Mike, you didn't. And I needed it two days ago."

  Five minutes later, the preliminary report from Hairs and Fibers arrived by fax. I snapped the pages from the machine, scurrying back to my desk like a mouse that hoped the cat didn't wake up. Rodriguez’s report said the strands lifted from the exterior of the Fielding factory ca
me from several different origins. The wiry black strand was indeed hair "most likely of African-American descent." The soft tissue from the scalp attached at the follicle could provide a DNA profile—"further instructions needed."

  The blue fibers were nylon and the red fibers were heavily treated leather, “perhaps suede.” I typed up another request for Rodriguez, asking for a nuclear DNA profile on the hair, and was picking up the phone to tell him when I noticed someone standing to my right, where the cattle stall opened into the B squad yard.

  Phaup.

  "Raleigh, did you get that declination?"

  I waved the phone receiver. "Calling the attorney's office right this minute."

  She walked away, adjusting her slip. I held the phone, thinking about my lie, and decided it really was time to call the U.S. Attorney's office.

  Charles Reynolds was third-in-command with our lawyer branch. He had worked with our joint task force that got Milky his plea deal, and when I explained to him that the FBI was looking into possible civil rights violations which may have occurred on the roof of the Fielding factory, he said, "I read the paper, you know."

  I told him we had soil from the roof -- very specific soil, the minerals distinct as fingerprints -- and the FBI’s Hairs and Fibers unit could get a DNA profile of at least one person.

  "But we don't have any witnesses. And the Richmond PD refuses to release the victims' belongings. I have asked for the shoes, specifically, but Internal Affairs claimed they don't have to cooperate since they have their own investigation pending."

  "You want a subpoena?" Charles asked. "Is that why you're calling?"

  I was pretty sure most of my troubles came from sins of omission rather than commission. Rather than lying outright, I usually withheld vital information. For instance, telling my mother I was a geologist and leaving out the part about the FBI. Worse, omission meant I could still convince myself I wasn't lying. Not exactly something to be proud of. And I felt a stab of shame as I did it all over again, leaving out the reason why I was asking the next question.

  "Charles, what about a declination?" I asked.

  His voice barreled through the phone line, blasting me like a double-ought shotgun. Just like I knew it would.

  "What – what did you say? A declination? I didn’t hear that. Tell me I didn’t hear you right."

  “We don't have witnesses. And it is a civil rights case. I’ve heard we never solve them."

  The shotgun-blast voice boomed in my ears again. Southern Black Male, the more heated Charles got, the more lyrical he became. I listened to the righteous tone undulating with inflections, ringing on the syllables.

  "I grew up on Southside--I know these people. I belong to these people. And if y'all blow past this one, saying we can't solve it, we're all gonna lose. Whatever fraction of credibility we might enjoy in that particular community, you can kiss it good-bye. And forget about future cooperation. These folks will see to it our goose is cooked and cooked good."

  I tried once more, one for the boss who made my life difficult. "But, Charles, I've got no witnesses. Six hundred people were out there, and nobody saw a thing. How can we go to court without witnesses?"

  "I don't care. This whole thing happened—when—last week? Already you're asking for a declination? Girl, what's the matter with you?"

  My pride begged me to save face. Tell Charles the declination wasn't my idea. It was Phaup's lousy idea. But I clung to one last shred of integrity, and chose not to hang her out to dry publicly.

  And his lambaste continued.

  "Let me tell you another thing. You're not going to get witnesses. Not honest ones. So forget about witnesses. It's Southside--that's how the place works. Know why? Because the Feds do stupid things like close a civil rights case that's been open one week. Declination, my eye."

  I waited, wondering if the chastisement is over.

  No, it wasn’t.

  "And for that matter, why didn't you call me when the cops wouldn’t give you the evidence?"

  "I'm calling you now."

  He grunted. "Get on down here. I'll have the subpoena ready."

  "You're sure about this?"

  "I'm saying it, Raleigh. No declination."

  ===============

  In her office, Phaup was reading some green sheet reports, which meant some poor agent was going to have to account for every single routine procedure and decision. She was the bureaucratic equivalent of asking for a hall pass to use the restroom.

  She motioned toward the chair.

  I sat down, readying myself. "I just called the attorney's office."

  "Excellent. I do realize, Raleigh, that this is difficult for you. We train agents to pursue cases to their conclusions. But with some more experience, you'll understand why we closed this one."

  I opened my mouth, but she cut me off.

  "Civil rights is a hornet's nest. We step in and get stung." She smiled, enjoying her metaphor. I bet she had a drawer full of them. "I'm simply sparing you the pain."

  "Yes, ma’am, but I --"

  "Every agent eventually learns to let certain cases go. Now you can move on."

  "I could, provided the attorneys wanted the declination."

  Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

  "The US attorney's office just refused to grant the declination."

  "Refused?"

  I nodded.

  "But we’re requesting the declination."

  "Yes, ma’am. That's what I told them."

  "And they refused?"

  "They’re drawing up a subpoena for the physical evidence at the Richmond PD."

  Her small gray eyes were trying to read my face, but I was granite. Stone. Garden statuary. She finally swiveled her enormous office chair toward the window facing Parham Road. I stared at the chair's wide back until she turned around. Her voice was as flat as a delta. "With whom did you speak?"

  "Charles Reynolds."

  She punched a button on her phone and told her secretary to dial the attorney’s office downtown. She had the speaker on, so I heard her getting transferred twice. But when Charles' supervisor came on, she lifted the receiver, severing the voices. I could only hear her explanation. How the case wasn’t coming together. How we were deferring to the police investigation. How we had manpower needs in other areas.

  She never said civil rights was a waste of time.

  I waited, barely breathing.

  She hung up. "Congratulations."

  I willed myself not to move. Not even a blink.

  "Understand my words, Raleigh. Because if you force me to say this again, there will be dramatic consequences."

  I pressed my forearms down into the chair.

  “Get what you need from the Richmond PD. Then close this case. Immediately. Are we clear?"

  I nodded, and stood to leave.

  She swiveled back to the window. "And Raleigh?"

  "Yes, ma’am."

  "I expect this matter closed by tomorrow afternoon. Will that be a problem for you?"

  "No problem," I told the chair.

  Chapter 24

  At 5:46 p.m., in the tiled lobby of the Richmond Police Department, I waited for Charles Reynolds to finish blotting the glistening beads of sweat from his forehead. The moisture made his black skin look like polished obsidian.

  "You want to look over the subpoena?” His handkerchief was so heavily starched it barely absorbed the perspiration.

  I shook my head. “I know it’s airtight. You want that evidence as much as I do.”

  “And I’m telling you, don’t mess this up. Southside’s ready to riot.”

  He folded the handkerchief, tucking it into the chest pocket of his gray seersucker jacket and signaled the desk officer who buzzed the double doors. We walked down the hall, past Detective Greene's office, to the end of the corridor. A stout man wearing a blue police officer’s uniform waited for us, standing in front of a steel door with the stenciled words, “EVIDENCE Authorized Personnel Only.”

  Char
les handed the subpoena to him. I read his brass name badge. Harrold Teddrow.

  "Wait, this is why you called?" Teddrow held the paper with both hands. “You said you just wanted to see something.”

  "Yes, sir," Charles said. “I do.”

  Teddrow shook the subpeona. His blue uniform fit him badly, puckering at the buttons, sagging at the shoulders, like clothing released from evidence for him to wear. "You couldn't give me some warning?"

  "It's legit, Teddie," Charles said.

  "I figured that. But I’m wondering who’s gonna get ticked off at me more. The chief, or that ferret in IA."

  The ferret. Jeremy Owler, I presumed.

  "Sorry, not our problem," Charles said. "And we don't have time for you to send up a signal flag."

  "Signal flag? They’re going to send me up the pole, tarred and feathered."

  “Open the door, Teddie.”

  Teddrow sighed. "I want to go home."

  He pulled a six-inch key ring from his belt and unlocked the steel door. The evidence room was cold and looked like the communal garage for the deranged. A prosthetic leg standing next to a stained-glass window cracked from bullet holes. A white rug spattered with brown blood. Three mangled screen doors. An electric amplifier, the mesh front was sliced open. But Teddrow keyed open a tall yellow locker and took two plastic bags from the shelves. He handed one bag to Charles, the other to me. The bag felt heavy, but my heart felt suddenly light.

  "Thanks, Teddie," Charles said.

  "You got the papers, you get the goods."

  "I meant, thanks for not making waves."

  Teddrow shrugged. The uniform scrunched across his shoulders. Then he slammed the lockers shut. "I don’t need to make waves. When they find out what just happened, it’s gonna be like a tsunami hit this place."

  ===============

  I walked with Charles back to the federal courts building, promising to come to his church in New Kent soon. With bagged evidence in the trunk of the K-Car, I drove out Broad Street to the office, trying to decide which emotion was stronger -- excitement or anticipatory dread.