Reardon closed the hidden two-way mirror for the third time and turned in time to see Christie Opara crossing the office, greeting Marty Ginsburg.
“Hey, Marty, you still here?” she asked in a sleep-heavy voice.
Reardon barreled across the office toward her at the instant the door from the interrogation room was flung open. His shoulder hit against her face, blocking her view, but she heard Stoner’s voice, loud and angry, not like Stoner at all: “This bum is leaving. I want him out. He shows his face around here again, kick him out.”
Christie couldn’t see Reardon’s face, for he spun her around and his fingers dug into her arm as he pushed her. “God damn it,” he said, his voice furious in her ear, “I told you to stay in my office. Now do what I told you!” He pulled the door closed behind her and Christie stood, stunned, inside the cool office. She turned and stared at the closed door and it all caught up with her: anger, humiliation, pain, pain all over her, in her mouth, her eyes, her knees, her elbows. She kicked the metal door as hard as she could; then her foot hurt and she threw herself on the green leather couch, face down. God damn Reardon. Damn him. She could get killed doing her job, knocking herself out, doing her best—better than the rest of them even. She found Champion. She was the one who ... Christie pressed her clenched fists into the leather and let the tears come. She felt great sobs forming deep inside her and for one quick moment wanted to let them come, take over, but if that happened she would fall apart and that was one thing Reardon wasn’t going to see. She ground her teeth together, pulled herself up and walked to the window, her back to the door.
Stoner Martin hadn’t seen Christie; he saw only Claude Davis, moving uncertainly into the dark corridor. The boy looked around at the shadows, searching for a stairway or a trap.
“Take the elevator,” the detective told him, stabbing the down button, waiting with him.
Claude felt dizzy and sick, expecting someone to pounce on him from the darkness, someone invisible, but his eyes stayed on Stoner. The detective’s face was calm, all traces of anger gone. He dug into his back pocket, removed a scrap of paper, frowned over it for a moment, then held it up for Claude to see in the dim light over the elevator door. There was a telephone number written on the paper. In green ink.
“Before you leave, son, verify this for me, will you?”
Claude narrowed his eyes, and to help him Stoney read the number. “Melrose 8-6174. That’s the right number, isn’t it? That’s the Royal Leader’s direct line, isn’t it?”
The threat no longer seemed from some invisible, unseen enemy lurking somewhere behind him. Claude Davis felt a sickening chill along his spine. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Stoner jabbed at the button again. “Damn thing never seems to come this time of night.” He glanced up, saw the red light shining. “Good, here it comes. Five minutes, Claude. You be gone, because I’m going to come looking.”
The elevator door slid open and Claude faced the small cubicle. It was dimly lit by a fluorescent light, and small and square as a box. Stoner Martin hit the flat of his hand against the rubber that lined the door, and with his other hand he pushed Claude forward, but Claude’s feet dug into the floor and he didn’t move. “What you going to do?”
“What do you think I’m going to do?”
Stoner Martin turned abruptly and headed back toward his office. Without breaking stride, he shrugged off Claude’s hand, which clutched at his shoulder, and seemed not to hear the voice, hoarse and frightened. “But I didn’t say nothing. You know I didn’t say nothing, Detective Martin.”
Stoner whirled about and pushed Davis against the corridor wall. The hardness was in his voice as well as in his eyes. “You try and tell them. When I get finished with my phone call, you’re a dead man and you know it.” Claude’s head rocked back and forth, denying, but Stoner’s hand reached up and grasped his chin and held his face immobile. “Whatever I know about the Secret Nation—and, baby, I know what there is to know—that’s what I’m going to tell his Royal Bastard. And then I’m going to tell him I got all my information from you.”
Claude’s knees seemed to dissolve. His legs bent sideways and he swayed, his hands sliding against the wall. There was a sound in his voice that was unknown to him, yet it was his voice. “Jesus, Detective Martin. You know what they’d do to me. Jesus, Detective Martin. Don’t do that, you can’t.”
Stoner felt no triumph, not even relief. All he felt was a cold and sickening disgust. He turned his back and walked into the squad office, followed by Claude Davis, who slumped into a chair Stoner indicated with a jerk of his thumb. No one was even set to guard him. He just sat there, ignored by the detectives. Reardon glanced at him once, then signaled Stoner Martin into his office.
TWENTY-NINE:
CHRISTIE TURNED FROM THE window and stared at Casey Reardon. She tried to arrange her features into a glare but it was difficult. Her mouth was numb and her eye was swollen. Actually it was a waste of effort because Reardon was too busy talking to Stoney to even notice her.
“It worked,” Reardon said to Stoney.
“It worked,” Stoney affirmed.
Reardon glanced at his watch, but the time—1 A.M.—didn’t convey anything to him. He ran his hand over his face, dug at his eyes. “Well, buddy, we better start touching some bases and real fast. We have been treading on some very dangerous ground. You know that, don’t you?”
Stoner nodded, then his eyes moved to Christie and Reardon turned. He pulled at his mouth, grimaced. “Christie, come over here.” He motioned toward the couch. “Sit down and listen. You have been in here since you arrived, right? You didn’t see anything and you’re not hearing anything. You got that?”
And you don’t see anything either, Mr. Reardon, do you? Not my cuts and lumps and ... Her voice was acid. “Yes, Mr. Reardon. Right.”
There was a slight flicker in his eyes, which lingered on her for the barest instant, but it was impossible to know if he was getting any message from her. He turned back to Stoner, his hand guiding him across the room, but Christie could hear his words.
“Send Davis out the back way. Tell him to walk around the block and come in the night entrance. He is to sign in at the elevator, present himself to us. He wants to make a statement. We read him his rights, tell him he’s entitled to remain mute until he has legal representation—et cetera.”
“Right, Casey.”
“See if there are any cleaning people in the building—any civilians at all. Get someone in the office, tell the night man downstairs we spilled some coffee or something and want it cleaned up.” Stoner nodded, understanding Reardon’s request for a witness. Then to Christie: “Opara, you never saw Davis, right?”
Christie frowned. “Who?”
Sharp, terse: “Forget it. You don’t know anything.”
Christie searched his words for the insult, but Reardon waved at her to relax. “Stoney, we never laid eyes on Davis in this office, right?”
“Right. I saw him uptown when he chopped Champion, so I recognize him when he walks in.”
Reardon stood for a moment, his eyes closed, his breath a tired sighing sound. His voice was softer now, concerned. “Buddy, we could all hang on this. You know that, don’t you?”
Stoner Martin smiled. “I’m not looking to hang, boss.”
“Neither am I. Let’s get going.”
Reardon looked down onto the darkened street and watched the two figures: Claude Davis, uncertain, moving cautiously yet without choice. The second figure, Tom Dell, was almost invisible and would remain so. Davis would never know he had been followed, except of course if he changed his mind and decided to run. Then Dell would help him to think clearly. He turned from the window and looked at Christie Opara.
“Christie, Christie.” His, voice was a mixture of annoyance and concern. “Come over here. Let me get a good look at you.”
Christie lifted her chin, tried to hold onto her anger, but Reardon’s concern seemed genuine. He moved to
ward her. “My God, you are one hell of a mess. How’d you get the eye and the cut lip?”
Christie shrugged, her fingers automatically touching the wounds. “During the melee—I’m not sure. Maybe when I was taken into custody.”
Reardon’s voice tightened. “Did those bastards—”
Christie spoke quickly. “I don’t know, really. The whole thing was rough and—”
“They give you any first aid? Put anything on the cuts?” She shook her head and Reardon went to the metal locker where he kept a first-aid kit. “Come on, sit down on the couch. This will sting a little but that cut by your mouth looks dirty.” He held her chin and dabbed antiseptic on her cut with ą wad of cotton. The sting brought tears to her eyes. “You want a shot of Scotch, Christie?” She shook her head again. “How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep. Just to sleep. She heard Reardon’s voice on the intercom. “Ginsburg, you there? Good. Listen, go around the corner to that all-night greasy spoon and bring in hot coffee. A lot of it.” The button clicked off and Reardon’s voice was crisp again. “Come on, Opara. You can sleep another time. We got a lot of work to do.”
THIRTY:
STONER MARTIN LOOKED UP from his typewriter, his face a blank mask.
“My name is Claude Davis and I want to make a statement,” the tall, dark young man told him in a monotone.
The statement was not made immediately, however. Claude Davis was advised by Supervising Assistant District Attorney Casey Reardon, in the presence of Detectives Stoner Martin, Marty Ginsburg, Arthur Treadwell, Bill Ferranti and Christie Opara, and in the presence of Mrs. Mary Bathgate, a sixty-two-year-old cleaning woman, that he was entitled to legal representation. When he learned that Claude Davis had no funds for such representation, Reardon earnestly advised him to request the services of a Legal Aid attorney.
The Legal Aid attorney, a small young Negro honor graduate from St. John’s, with odd rimless glasses, appeared forty minutes later, spoke quietly with Davis, then asked Reardon to provide a stenotypist. The stenotypist arrived nearly an hour later.
In the intervening time, Casey Reardon received two telephone calls from the Mayor’s office, one call from the Police Commissioner, six calls from permanent and temporary members of his squad. He made four telephone calls, relaying his collection of up-to-date information. Five armed members of the Secret Nation had been arrested by his people, in addition to fourteen armed suspects arrested by other Police Department personnel. Yes, his people were preparing reports of the night’s events; yes, he would arrive at the Police Commissioner’s office with his statements before morning. Reardon stared at the telephone for a moment, then pressed the intercom. “Detective Opara.”
She was chalk-white and Reardon carefully kept any sympathy from his voice. “How you doing on that report?”
“The best I can,” she answered shortly.
“Well, hurry it up because we’re going over to the PC’s office in about an hour. The Mayor will be there and ...” He stopped speaking. She looked so exhausted and battered and vulnerable; he didn’t know how the hell she would get through the rest of the night. “When was the last time you ate?”
Christie shrugged. That wasn’t important. There was something else, and she stood there, deciding. Reardon told her, “All right, let’s have it. What’s the problem?”
Christie laughed shortly. It was a bitter, harsh sound. “The problem? Mr. Reardon, you have to be kidding.”
Reardon leaned back in his chair. “Sit down and say it and make it fast.”
“All right: Will you please bring me up to date? I’m walking around in a fog. Is Eddie Champion dead? Did I kill him? Who’s Davis? What’s happening? How did you and Stoney know where I was? What—”
Reardon held his hand up. “You want me to answer, then keep quiet for a minute. Champion isn’t dead. So you didn’t kill him. Stoney was tailing Davis, hoping Davis would lead him to Champion—and he did. Champion is in Harlem Hospital with a shattered vocal cord—”
“I shot him in the shoulder,” Christie interrupted.
“Yeah, but Davis chopped him in the throat, as he went down from your bullet and ...”
Christie felt the words whirling around inside her head; questions, responses leading to deeper confusion. She saw Reardon through a haze of weariness. His voice receded into a meaningless hum. Her head felt so heavy. Then Reardon’s voice cracked into her consciousness.
“Detective Opara, I have some pertinent questions to ask you.”
Christie’s head jerked up in surprise. “What?”
“You shot Champion in the shoulder?”
His voice came through very clearly. “Yes, I told you that.”
“Where the hell were you ever taught to aim for a shoulder?” She started to protest but Reardon continued coldly, his words reaching into her. “As far as I know, the only reason a police officer draws a revolver is with full intent to shoot and the only intention in shooting is to kill the person you’re aiming at. If you’re not justified in killing a person, you have no justification to pull the trigger in the first place. Didn’t you know that?”
It was like ice water, hitting her in the face, alerting her, shocking her back into the moment. Her hands tightened around the armrest and the voice was controlled but angry. “I did exactly what I set out to do. Under the circumstances, I had to use my best judgment and ...”
Reardon stood up and raised his clenched hand. “One,” he said, straightening his index finger, “your assignment was to escort Barbara Reardon to the wake and back to her home. Don’t interrupt; just listen, Opara. You spotted Champion, left your assignment and took off after Champion. You stayed with him all the way from Brooklyn up to 125th Street. Wasn’t there any opportunity, anywhere along the line, of bagging him before he got uptown?”
All the tiredness disappeared; Christie felt new energy flow through her body, quickening her, sharpening her. She tried to interrupt, but Reardon continued, counting her mistakes on his fingers as she breathed in short, furious breaths of cool air.
“Don’t interrupt, just follow what I’m saying. Assuming there had been no opportunity, once you got to the site of the rally—there were uniformed men all over the place—couldn’t you have contacted one of them? Okay: assuming the opportunity didn’t present itself—and I will have to assume that—when it finally came down to your taking a shot at Champion, why the hell didn’t you shoot to kill?”
The silence was so unexpected that Christie hesitated for a moment, waiting for him to continue. This time he waited for her answer and it was clear and a little louder than she intended. “There was no need to kill him; I knew you’d want him alive.”
“If this other guy inside, this Davis, hadn’t shown up and chopped Champion down, what makes you so sure Champion couldn’t have gotten off a few more shots?”
Quickly, she told him, “Champion fired at me and his gun misfired.”
Reardon’s mouth opened. He hadn’t known that, but he latched onto the information immediately. “If he had had the opportunity to keep pumping, his gun could have fired. Christ, you were lucky.”
She started to say something more, but she stopped. Reardon was right. Champion might have been able to get a bullet off. She couldn’t quite grasp the possibility, not fully, not yet. She shrugged. “But he didn’t.”
“Christie—” Reardon sat down again, rubbed his eyes, then looked at her. “Another thing. Why the hell were you so surprised that Stoney and Tom and I were uptown? You think the rest of us have been sitting around on our tails all day while you’ve been carrying the ball for us?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said coldly.
“Well, you know now. Go on and type up your report and, for God’s sake, wash your face and comb your hair before we leave for the Commissioner’s office. You look like hell.”
She slammed the door behind her and Reardon felt a hollow thud i
nside his stomach. She was okay now, she’d make it through the night and for however many hours into the day, but—Christ—he hadn’t known about Champion firing at her. He didn’t even want to think about it.
THIRTY-ONE:
IT WAS PAST THREE in the morning and Christie, finished with her report and waiting for Reardon to take her to the Police Commissioner’s office, was relieving Art Treadwell on the telephone. She glanced through the logbook which they had started keeping some twenty-four hours ago, then told the elevator man, “Hang on a minute, John, I’ll check it out.” She pushed the hold button and took the log with her.
She tapped twice on Reardon’s door and Stoner Martin opened it. “Excuse me,” she said quietly, “but John downstairs is on the phone. There’s a Mr. Richard C. Jackson to see Stoney. Says its important. According to the log, he’s been calling pretty steadily since about four P.M. yesterday. Or today, or whatever it is.”
Stoney shook his head in response to Reardon’s question. “Never heard of him.”
“What the hell, tell him to come up. Find out what his beef is, Stoney, then get rid of him. I told Tom to bring the car around. Opara, you ready to leave?”
She resisted the impulse to tell him she’d been ready to leave for the last few hours. “Yes, sir.”
She relayed the message to the man on the phone and pushed the log aside. Whatever they had been hoping to learn from Claude Davis, apparently, had not come through. She overheard Stoner telling Reardon that “the dumb bastard thinks it’s strictly on the level; he was trying to assassinate Champion as a threat to the Nation.” Well, that was their problem. Christie had done all she could. And more.
He stood in the doorway, an elderly, drawn, tired Negro in a neat dark suit. The edges of his starched collar bit into his thin neck and he clutched a soft leather portfolio to his chest.
The Witness Page 17