Color of Justice

by Gary Hardwick

  “It was politics, not life,” said Hamilton. “I know it’s your job to come here and make your little incriminating remarks, Detective, so I won’t be offended. But don’t ever think that I’m not catching them.”

  “You said the Bakers embarrassed you when the company failed,” said Danny, not responding to Grace’s arrogance. “Why did you care so much?”

  “My reputation is all I have, Detective,” said Grace. “And there is an election for president at the convention in Detroit this year.” He put down his drink. “I have been married twice, once to my son Logan’s mother, Erica, and now to Kelly, whom you just met. I have an adopted son, Jordan, who is actually my biological son born out of wedlock to another woman named Carin Wilson. Jordan and Logan are the same age, hence the first divorce. When all this came out, I did the right thing and took Jordan in. I made some mistakes in the past and they cost me. People punish you for being human. Ask Bill Clinton. That’s why I cared about being deceived.”

  “Were the Bakers spreading stories of your past around?” asked Danny.

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Grace. “I try to stay above pettiness.”

  “Wasn’t there concern about the way you’ve handled the organization’s finances?” asked Erik.

  “I wouldn’t call it concern,” said Grace with definite scorn. “We had a bad year. Some money was lost.”

  “How much money?” asked Danny.

  Hamilton set his drink down and his eyes narrowed a little. Erik had obviously gotten to a sore spot with this powerful man.

  “The organization lost five million on a bad investment I recommended,” said Hamilton.

  “So, when you add New Nubia to that,” said Danny, “didn’t some people doubt your ability to lead the organization? I mean, the Bakers made you look like a man who’s foolish with money.”

  “I’d be careful in the way you phrase things with me, Detective,” said Hamilton.

  “Like you said, we have to ask these questions,” said Danny. “We have people to answer to.”

  “Yes, and I know them all,” said Hamilton. “They’re good friends of mine.”

  Danny and Erik both got the gist of this statement. Don’t mess with me because your bosses know how powerful I am and I’ll get your ass. Grace was obviously happy to see the Bakers dead. It helped him in many ways, the money, his reputation, and it was one less political enemy between him and reelection.

  The servant came back looking worried. “Sir,” she broke in, “the news crew is here.”

  “Okay, Moira,” said Grace. “Detectives, Moira here will show you out. If you don’t mind, I need you to avoid the news crew.”

  Grace stood up and extended his hand, signaling that the interview was over whether they liked it or not. Danny and Erik checked with each other. They had as much as they needed for now. He had given them a lot of words, but precious few clues as to how he could have engineered the death. And the thing that bothered Danny the most was Grace didn’t seem upset about the interrogation. It was almost as if he’d been expecting it. Either he was the coolest customer on the planet or he was innocent.

  Moira walked briskly around the back of the house with the detectives in tow. Danny was acutely aware of being sneaked out like some kind of mutated relation they kept in the basement.

  There was a news van outside, but no sign of the crew, which had already been taken into the house by someone else.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” said Moira. She turned quickly and walked off.

  “He played us,” said Danny. “He talked a lot, but he didn’t say a damned thing.”

  “You know, that man has done a lot for our people,” said Erik. “You think he’s a killer?”

  “Somebody did it,” said Danny. “That means somebody ain’t what they seem. I’m not taking him off my list. Not yet.”

  Erik cut Danny a hard look They stared at each other for a moment. They didn’t disagree a lot, but Erik had his limits on all things and he didn’t care if Danny agreed or not. Danny could see that Erik admired Hamilton Grace.

  A loud voice broke the silence and Danny and Erik turned toward the driveway and garage. They saw Kelly and Jordan standing next to a Range Rover with Logan, the hip-hop son.

  “Fuck that,” said Logan.

  “No need to swear,” said Jordan.

  “Really, Logan,” said Kelly. “You don’t have to go. Your father wants you to.”

  “You just be sure to tell him that it was your choice,” said Jordan.

  “Look, I got some shit to do,” said Logan. “Y’all can go do that white people shit by yo’self.” Logan walked away, got into a little BMW roadster, and pulled off.

  Kelly and Jordan saw the detectives looking at them, and quickly got into their car.

  “Interesting family,” said Erik, forgetting his anger at Danny.

  “Looks like the real son don’t like the rich lifestyle,” said Danny. “He’s probably rollin’ hard with some brothers from the hood.”

  “I know the type,” said Erik. “Trying to prove something about being black.”

  Erik’s statement made Danny think about his last session with Dr. Gordon for a moment. Then his mind shifted back to the family. They were screwed up, but that much was obvious. What he wondered was how far Jordan would go to protect his father from those who would harm him. Conversely, he wondered what the other son would do to prove just how tough he was.

  The Range Rover rolled by the detectives, and Danny could vaguely see Jordan’s face obscured by the dark tinted glass.

  The Holyland Survival of Ministry stood regally against the blue sky as Danny and Erik got out of their car. Danny remembered when the building was called St. Michael’s Cathedral. It had been a Catholic church for fifty years until the city turned black. Then the church did, too. The archdiocese participated in the “white flight” of the sixties and seventies and sold the church, building a new one in the suburbs. Danny remembered going to the church, taking Communion, and hearing adults talk about the changes going on in the city. The memory was vivid. People stood in God’s house talking about how men were ignoring his word.

  “This place brings back the memories,” Danny said to Erik as they walked toward the big wooden doors of the church. “I used to go here when it was a Catholic church.”

  “Please, don’t tell me you were an altar boy,” said Erik. “I couldn’t live with that image.”

  “No,” said Danny. “My mother wanted me to, but I was more interested in baseball.”

  On their way to Holyland, Danny and Erik had noticed there were many properties for sale in the neighborhood near the church. Pale blue and white signs dotted the landscape. Danny knew that many black churches liked to buy up land around them for commercial purposes. What he didn’t know was why someone was selling these lots.

  They stepped into the building and Danny saw that the place had not changed much. They’d kept all the stained-glass windows and the pews were still as he remembered. But the confessionals were gone, replaced by more pews that didn’t match the others.

  The Holyland Survival Ministry had lost close to a million dollars in New Nubia.com. A lot of money for a church. Holyland was widely viewed as a fundamentalist cult because of its extreme views and practices. Danny was thinking that a disgruntled true believer might have done harm to the Bakers. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had killed in the name of religion.

  A heavyset black man walked into the sanctuary followed by two other black men. They moved quickly to Danny and Erik, who met them halfway across the expansive room.

  “Can we help you?” asked the heavyset man. Danny noticed that all three men wore blazers that had HSM embroidered on the front pocket. They were hard-looking men, not the kind you’d expect to see in a house of worship.

  “We’re detectives from Special Crimes,” said Danny as he flashed his badge. “We need to speak to the reverend.”

  “About what?” asked the heavyset man. Now his voice had an
edge of irritation in it.

  “The reverend will know,” said Erik.

  The heavyset man thought about this for a second, then led Danny and Erik through the church into an annex. They moved quickly into the office of the pastor. It was a nice office, the kind a businessman might have, only it was filled with religious decorations. Crucifixes, portraits of Jesus (black and white), framed passages of the Bible on colorful velvet. It was enough to save your soul just stepping inside.

  “Cops here to see you, Rev,” said the heavyset man as Danny and Erik entered.

  A tall, well-built man with sharp features stood up from behind the desk. He was dressed in an expensive suit. He looked more banker than minister.

  “Thank you, Carl,” said the reverend. The three young men moved to the back of the room and stood, watching.

  The reverend smiled at Danny and Erik and motioned them to sit, which they did. Danny preferred to conduct his interviews standing, but there was something commanding about the church, and he couldn’t fight it.

  Reverend Rashus Boltman was an all-state basketball player in the South during the seventies. He was a fearsome power forward who was known for hard play and harder living off the field. He graduated from high school and took a scholarship to a college. But when he flunked out of school, he was thrown back into ghetto life without any hope of ever getting out again.

  Boltman quickly found the drug crews and that life replaced his lost fame on the court. He lived pretty high for a while, but a bloody gang war killed all of his friends and sent him to prison for ten years. In prison, he found God and a new purpose in life. When he got out, the Reverend Bolt, as he was now called, dedicated himself to his new vocation and started a small storefront church, in the South which grew into a large one. His success led him to Detroit, where ministers were power brokers and community heroes.

  “So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” asked Reverend Bolt.

  “Unfortunately, we’re here on business,” said Danny.

  Reverend Bolt smiled at Danny. “You one of us, I see. I got two white members just out of the joint sound just like you.”

  Danny didn’t know whether this was a compliment or not. He decided the smile on Bolt’s face meant it was.

  “So, one of my congregation in trouble again?” asked Reverend Bolt.

  “No, sir,” said Erik. “This is about the Bakers.”

  Reverend Bolt’s face showed no change in expression. He sat down and leaned back in his leather chair, taking just a second to look up at the ceiling.

  “My heart is still heavy for the loss of John and his wife,” Reverend Bolt said finally. “I understand that there is an investigation, a tracking of the killer.”

  “Yes,” said Danny. “We believe the Internet company New Nubia was somehow involved. We understand that losses incurred by the church’s investment resulted in some hardship.”

  “Yes,” said the reverend. “We lost some funding—”

  “Those people were devils!” said Carl loudly from the back of the room.

  “Blasphemers!” the other two young men said.

  “That’s enough, Carl,” said Reverend Bolt, holding up a hand. The men quieted down obediently. Reverend Bolt turned back to Danny and Erik, pleased with his control over the men. “Excuse them, Detectives. They’re full of the holy spirit.”

  Danny thought about Reverend Bolt’s rise to power and how it was not unlike the rise of a businessman, a politician, or a criminal. No one got to the top of his game by being a nice guy. He wondered what a man of God had to do to reach his pinnacle.

  “New Nubia only listed how much money you invested, Reverend,” said Erik. “We need to know what that investment capital came from. So we’ll need to see all of your records on the deal if you don’t mind.”

  “Actually, I do mind,” said Reverend Bolt. “My financial deals are kept strictly private. It’s a church rule.”

  “But don’t you make the rules?” asked Danny.

  “God makes the rules,” said Reverend Bolt. The other men in the room clapped at this. “I just do what’s necessary to carry them out.”

  “We respect that, Reverend,” said Danny, “but everyone else involved is cooperating. I wouldn’t want your refusal to raise suspicion.”

  “My ministry has taken its lumps,” said Reverend Bolt. “The righteous are always set upon, but God watches over this house, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Danny realized that he was up against more than a suspect. Reverend Bolt’s life was his vocation. The black church’s power in the community was legendary and formidable. It was the salvation of blacks from the time they arrived in the country and had produced almost all of its great leaders. The reverend was obviously unwilling to allow anyone to see just how much the Bakers had hurt his institution. He was not going to open up his church to the cops, the IRS, and the newspapers. To that end, he was standing behind God himself.

  “If you change your mind, sir, you can call us,” said Danny. He had to tread softly with a man of God. Nothing was frowned upon more in Detroit than harassing a black minister.

  “We won’t be changing our mind,” said Reverend Bolt. “What’s done is done.”

  As they started to go, Danny had one more thing to ask.

  “I notice a lot of your neighbors are leaving, selling their homes,” said Danny.

  “We own those lots,” said Carl. Then he stopped suddenly as the reverend shot him a look.

  “We haven’t gotten around to removing the signs yet,” said Bolt casually. “This way, Detectives.”

  Danny and Erik were not so much shown out as they were dismissed. Danny wasn’t sure what the reverend’s last statement meant. Were they buying up houses or trying to sell them?

  Danny knew that Reverend Bolt had been giving a sermon on the night of the murder, but he still had deep suspicions. Bolt was a man who was not too far removed from the violent tendencies of his past. But he was no fool, and so Danny was more interested in where the three true believers in the back of the room were the night the Bakers were killed.

  13

  RED DAM

  Cameron Cole hated Detroit. It was a sick, diseased pile of shit, a depraved animal that ate itself, populated by people who were less than human. And he knew this because he was one of those people, a ruthless, violent parasite who feasted on weakness and the good intentions of normal people; then again, this was his occupation and a man had to make a living.

  Cameron collected the money from the young girl. She shoved the crumpled green paper into his hands impatiently. The newer bills made that beautiful crackling noise as he grasped them. Cameron counted the money quickly then sent the girl and her date into a back room. The couple smiled behind their wet, druggie eyes and staggered off, using each other for support.

  “Wait,” Cameron called to them.

  The couple stopped in their tracks, almost tumbling over in the process.

  “Here, use this,” said Cameron as he shoved a condom at them.

  “Thanks,” said the young girl, grabbing the small package. Then she continued her staggered walk into the back room.

  Cameron checked his supply of condoms. He was getting low. He’d bought an economy box of fifty just two days ago and now he was down to ten. He made a mental note to go out and get more. Cameron didn’t much care if they had safe sex, he just didn’t like cleaning up when they didn’t.

  Cameron walked through his rented home. It was a large, boxy place with high ceilings and crown moldings that had terrible cracks in the corners. He rented the place from an old Jewish couple who lived in the suburbs. Cameron always paid in cash, on time, and they never bothered him.

  As he moved through the house, he heard the moans and cursing attendant to people having sex. Even though he was disgusted by his street clientele, he was still turned on by the sound, and he wasn’t above peeking through a door when he needed to.

  Cameron ran a sort of motel for local drug-using women. The girl
s traded sex for drugs, but they needed a safe place to make the exchange. For a small fee, Cameron let them use his place. Business was good. It seemed the only thing people liked more than drugs was sex. And he had witnessed every kind of deviance and depravity you could think of. He even had a trick die in bed with a girl once. It was a messy affair that had him dumping the body in an alley at three in the morning.

  Cameron was a tall, thin man who had just turned fifty-three a few days ago. His hair was thinning badly and he was fond of jeans and T-shirts with logos. Today, he was wearing one that read BACK THAT ASS UP.

  He was from what most people would call a good family. His father was a trucker and his mother, a postal worker. Cameron and his three siblings enjoyed a nice, peaceful, blue-collar family life. But Cameron, the eldest, was not satisfied with that life. He had shunned his parents encouragement to go to college and taken up with one street crew after another. Inevitably, he ended up in jail at fifteen. After that, he’d spent most of his life in prisons of one kind or another, his hope fading with his morality.

  Cameron halted at a room just off the living room. He heard a particularly loud couple inside. He stopped to listen, and realized that it sounded like two men. He grew angry. He knew what that meant.

  Cameron opened the door, which he told his girls never to lock. He looked inside and saw two men about twenty or so going at it with a girl who looked to be no more than sixteen. She was bent over by one man and had the other in her mouth. The men were loud and high-fived with each other over the girl’s back.

  Cameron slammed the door shut and the threesome stopped their activity. The girl pulled the man from her mouth and turned her face away.

  “What the fuck is this?” demanded Cameron. “You know this freaky shit is extra.”

  “Yo, man, we fuckin’ in here,” said the man on the back end of the girl.

  “I don’t give a shit if you playing poker with Jesus, muthafucka,” said Cameron. “One of y’all snuck in here and that cost extra.”

  Cameron waited as one of the men gave him some money. He counted it, then walked out of the room, ignoring the faint curses he heard behind him.