One night, I was sitting next to his bed listening to his confession. I did that a few times. It was part of the job. The men were afraid of dying and there just weren't enough chaplains. Besides, I'd recognized that he was one of us. I knew whatever he'd want to say wouldn't sit well with a chaplain.
So, as that night wore on, I'd held his hand and listened as he whispered stories about the boys he'd loved, the streets he'd played on, the still heat of the hot New Orleans summer, and how much he wished he could taste his momma's food one more time. He was obviously on his way out. You could always tell. Finally, he pulled on my hand and I leaned in. He said, "I never told anyone on the ship this, but I'm a quadroon."
I had no idea what he meant and said as much.
He smiled weakly. "My momma's pa was a colored man. You know what they say, one drop is all it takes."
I had never heard anything like that before. I just looked at him, searching for any hint of his being a Negro. I couldn't see it. He frowned and turned his head. "I knew I shoulda kep' my mouth shut."
I took his chin very tenderly in my hand and turned his head back in my direction. Very slowly and very gently, I put my lips on his and kept them there for a while, until he sighed.
I pulled back and smiled. He smiled as much as he could and looked in my eyes. We sat there for a long time until he closed his eyes and was gone.
. . .
After breakfast, an officer with a badge that said, "Brown," came to my cell and said, "Williams."
I stood up and said, "Yes, sir?"
"Follow me. Super wants to see you."
I followed the man as we walked down the row to the common area. I had a chance to glance into each cell as we walked by. They all looked alike. I also noticed that some cells had more amenities than others. I saw some men smoking, others had radios playing softly, and at least one had a small library of books. I wondered how they came by these things.
We walked through a gate just past the common room and down the long hall that led to the jail's entrance. On the right, we passed the laundry and the infirmary. At the end of the hallway was the supervisor's office. The officer knocked on the door. A voice said, "Come in."
The jail supervisor stood up as we walked in. He was a thick-chested man who stood about 5'9" and wore a thick chestnut mustache. He was somewhere north of 40 and was somewhat muscled. But too much beer was causing the muscle to move to his gut. He was thick everywhere, including his hands which seemed oddly large compared to the rest of his body. He had brown hair with bits of silver in it. His dark brown eyes were cold, even if his general demeanor was genial and friendly.
He said, "Mr. Williams, my name is Randall Fitzsimmons. I'm the Jail Supervisor. Technically, I'm a Deputy Sheriff, but they gave me a title to make sure everyone knows I'm in charge of the jail." Pointing to the officer, he said, "This is Officer Brown. He supervises the row where you are housed. He works the day shift." I nodded. "Officer Brown, thank you for bringing Mr. Williams to my office. I'll take charge of him now. I need time to fill him in on how it works around here."
The officer nodded without expression and left, closing the door as he did. Fitzsimmons pointed to the chair across from his desk and said, "Have a seat, Mr. Williams."
I said, "Thank you," and did just that.
The supervisor sat down, crossed his thick arms, and looked at me for a long moment. "My, my, my, my." He looked me over as if he was appraising a side of beef. "What do we have here?" He grinned. It would have been handsome if his eyes weren't so cold. "A real-life millionaire sitting across from me." He paused for two beats and then asked, "Is your cell comfortable?"
I nodded and said, "Yes, sir." I could tell the shakedown was coming.
"Mr. Jones, as you probably noticed, is housed in Row B. You're in Row A. I put you at the end of the row for your own protection."
I nodded and said nothing.
"You and me can get along, no problem. I'll be honest, we have a lot of physical plant needs around here. You might have noticed. Marin County could use a brand-new jail. I understand you just bought Universal Construction in San Francisco."
I nodded and said, "Yes, sir. I did."
He paused thoughtfully. "Your attorney is in the visitor's room. He's brought you and Mr. Jones a nice care package. I've approved the whole lot. Wanted to let you know that I understand your predicament."
He paused. I smiled and said, "I appreciate that."
"And I'm sure you understand mine. We need some improvements around here and I just can't convince the county Board of Supervisors to appropriate the money for it. Seems like they wanna keep the property tax low. Who can blame 'em?" He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. All I could see was a narrow alley, choked with weeds.
"The county was flush with cash during the war. All those jobs at Marinships. Real boom in those days. We got a little crowded in here, from what I'm told, but that was just a buncha shiftless niggers, shipped out from down South to work at the shipyards. You been to Georgia. You know how that is."
I nodded and said, "Yes, sir." I felt like a broken record.
He stood up and patted his beer belly. "So, you know that things are tight in the budget around here." He grinned down at me and said, "I heard all about that briefcase of cash you carry around with you. Or did that burn up with everything else?" He'd obviously done his homework. I wondered who he'd talked to. The only people who knew about the briefcase were in Georgia.
I said, "It was stolen by the men who set the fire."
He nodded, crossed his arms, and frowned. "Well, that's a real crying shame." Acting as if he'd just had a brilliant idea, he spread his arms and said, "But, you just sell a building or two or some of that American Telephone & Telegraph preferred stock, and you can fill it right back up."
I nodded.
"I've let the staff know that if your attorney was to bring you a briefcase, they are to bring it to me and I will take care of it, personally. For your protection, of course."
I fought the urge to cross my arms, so I kept them by my side. I had to admire the man. It was one of the most clever shakedowns I'd ever been privy to. It helped that he was in charge here. I wondered how much the Sheriff knew. And whether he cared.
"Yes." He scratched the side of his face. "You just tell that attorney he can bring you a radio, all the books or magazines you can read, playing cards, anything to help you pass the time while you're here waiting for your trial. Hell, he can bring you a nice single bed from that mansion of yours on Nob Hill. You can sleep on satin sheets, if it floats your boat. Same goes for Mr. Jones." He smirked at me and got in my face by leaning down and putting his hands on his thighs. In a low voice, he said, "Only thing is none of our cells are double occupancy. Course, men do get frisky. You were in the Navy. You understand." He stood back up and stretched. "You probably fucked the Navy. Or it fucked you." Looking down at me with a lascivious expression, he asked, "Which was it?"
I smiled and said, "I was just a corpsman."
He nodded, walked back over to his desk, and sat down as if that was the perfectly normal answer to his perfectly normal question. He was good. "Well, of course you were. And damn good, from what I've heard." He slammed his fist down on his desk and said, "Well, I'm damn glad we had this little chat. And I'm glad we understand each other. Now," He stood up and motioned for me to do so, so I did. "You take all the time you want with that lawyer of yours. I know how these trials work. You need to be prepared, don't you?" He opened the door and stepped back, extending his hand indicating I should go first, which I did.
As I passed by him, he grabbed hold of the back of my dungarees and pulled me towards him. He whispered in my ear, "Son, we're gonna get on real fine in here. You play ball and we won't have any problems." He released my trousers and slapped me hard on the ass. Then he laughed as he walked into the hall.
Opening the door next to his office, Fitzsimmons put his hand on the small of my back, like Carter might do, and pu
shed me in. It was a small visiting room. Kenneth was alone, sitting at the table. There were a couple of cartons on floor.
"Well, I'll let you two get to it. I know you'll be busy. When you're done, Mr. Wilcox, you just step around to my office. If I'm not there, just wait and I'll be back. If you get hungry for lunch, just let me know and I'll have the diner down the street deliver in whatever you want."
He paused and looked at me. He winked and turned to Kenneth. "I think we all know how this is going to work. You two do your part and we'll all get along just fine. Course." His eyes got dark and his face lost all of its animation. "If you don't, we have a nice hole for you here that's just big enough to almost stand up in." He smiled again. "But not quite."
I took a deep breath. I could do anything but not the hole.
Kenneth said, "Thank you, Mr. Fitzsimmons."
The supervisor smiled and said, "You're welcome, Mr. Wilcox." Looking at me again, he winked one more time and then left.
The first thing I said was, "Were you here long?" I used my hands to motion at him like I was prompting him.
He said, "Not, really." He looked at me with a question on his face.
"Good. Were you whistling that song you whistle all the time? I know you like to make some sort of noise to keep yourself company."
Kenneth narrowed his eyes and leaned over. He mouthed the word, "What?"
I sat down and grabbed his notepad and pencil. "Can you hand me that paperwork so I can read it?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
I wrote, "Did u make any noise while u waited?"
He shook his head.
I nodded and wrote, "His office on other side of wall."
Kenneth nodded in recognition. He grabbed the pencil. "Shakedown?"
I wrote, "And how"
He sighed.
Just in case we were being listened to, I said, "Can you read this page and tell me what you think?"
Kenneth smiled. "Sure."
I wrote, "Go ask for a typewriter. I'll hum. You listen."
"I really need to send them a letter. I wonder if we could borrow a typewriter?"
Kenneth stood up and said, "Let me find out." Opening the door, Kenneth walked over to the office. I began to hum the song that was always in my head, "Some Enchanted Evening." I was a terrible singer, but I decided to try some of the lyrics. "...across a crowded room..." It sounded so bad that I switched back to humming.
I looked up as Kenneth walked in and closed the door behind him. "He was gone. I listened and could hear you from the hallway. You're a terrible singer, by the way."
"I know. Even I can't stand it."
He smiled. "I looked for any sort of speaker and didn't find any."
I nodded and started scribbling. "Mic?"
We went over every corner of the room but couldn't find anything that looked remotely like a microphone. I pressed on every crack in the wall to see if any of them hid a secret compartment. There was nothing. I did notice that the room was extremely clean. Obviously someone was sweeping and mopping every day. But jails tended to be like that. Lots of free labor.
We sat down at the table. I asked, "What's in the cartons?"
"Marnie put them together. Fitzsimmons approved everything. Underwear. Socks. Levi dungarees. Dark undershirts. Two of everything for you and Carter. There's even a pair of shoes for each of you." I kicked off the ones I was wearing and said, "Thank God. These are awful."
Kenneth wrinkled his nose. "Yes. I can tell."
After I'd pulled on the athletic socks, I put on what were essentially the kind of thick shoes that a delivery man would wear. They were amazingly comfortable compared to the leather-soled shoes I usually wore. They reminded me of what the nurses at the city hospital used when I worked there back in the 40s.
"What else do you need?" asked Kenneth.
"I will gladly pay a hundred dollars for a cake of dime-store soap. Anything other than the homemade stuff they have here."
Kenneth smiled and then sobered up. "Speaking of that, tell me about the shakedown."
I gave him the details. When I was done, I asked, "What do you think?"
He sighed. "I need to make some inquiries with other lawyers around town. I want to find out if this is a one-time deal or regular practice. We could all get in a lot of trouble if it's a one-time deal. Otherwise, I say you pay to play. Does that bother you?"
I shook my head. "I've threatened to dump cash off the Golden Gate Bridge, so I don't care. If he wants a new jail, we'll build him a new one."
Kenneth laughed. "Let's do this one step at a time." He looked at his watch.
I said, "Bring me a radio. With a clock in it. I can't stand not knowing what time it is." I held up my left wrist to show that it was empty.
Kenneth made a note on a list he'd started.
I added, "And bring Carter the same things you bring me, if you would." I looked at my wrist. "And let's do this other thing."
"What?"
"Let me dictate to you what was in my pockets when we were processed. I don't care about the cash, but I've been carrying around the platinum and sapphire ring my father gave me for Christmas. And I was wearing the gold band Carter gave me when he proposed."
Kenneth looked up and smiled. "Proposed?"
I nodded. "It was last year when we were in Ensenada. We walked down the beach and he got on his knee and everything."
Kenneth sighed. "Romantic."
I smiled and said, "Yeah."
Chapter 9
Marin County Jail
Tuesday, July 13, 1954
Just past 1 in the afternoon
There were four of us in the interview room. Carter and I were sitting on one side of the table. Kenneth was sitting next to a local attorney by the name of Benjamin Ross. We were all eating sandwiches and drinking out of Coca-Cola bottles.
Ben said, "If this room is bugged, I've never heard about it. So, anything we say should be on the level and OK." He was a lean man, about 35, with thinning brown hair and hazel eyes. He wore brown glasses that kept slipping down his nose as he talked. Kenneth had left me at 10:30 and had made a couple of phone calls. One of his buddies in the City pointed him to Ben, who was in the life. Meanwhile, Fitzsimmons had happily ordered lunch for all of us and paid for it himself.
"Tell Nick and Carter what you told me." That was Kenneth.
"This guy is known for his shakedowns. It's standard procedure, all right. He gave you the 'Board of Supervisors' story, right?"
I nodded as I munched on a sour pickle.
"That's the usual one. This place is in fine shape. But," Ben grinned. He wasn't handsome, but he had a certain charisma that I found charming. "That little alley is kept covered in weeds just so you can see how strapped for cash the place is. Truth is, the jail always rolls over their appropriations every year. I think the last time the Board talked about the jail in regular business was in 1941, when it was remodeled."
I asked, "What about the briefcase?"
Ben paused. "The way I see it is you can play it one of two ways. First way would be to just give him the cash. Did he ask for a specific amount?"
I shook my head.
"Smart. Give him the cash. Say ten thousand. In marked bills. Prepare a notarized affidavit explaining why you're doing it under duress." Ben over his glasses looked at me and then at Carter. "Has he propositioned either of you yet?"
I looked at Carter who shook his head. I told them how he'd leaned into my face and what he'd done as I was leaving the man's office. I put my hand on Carter's arm as I told the story. I could feel him tense up. I said, "It's not a big deal, Chief." He nodded. I could see his jaw working, though.
"Then I file the affidavits under seal with the Marin County clerk. And we make a copy for the F.B.I. and hold it, just in case. It's useful leverage."
I asked, "Have you done that before?"
Ben shook his head. "No. It's an idea that a few of the other attorneys in town have kicked around. I think it's been done be
fore, particularly in the South where this kind of thing is rampant." He tilted his head. "Never had to do it because I've never had a client with this much money before."
I looked at Kenneth, who said, "He's now officially co-counsel. We're going to file his appearance when we leave here. We couldn't all be here together, otherwise. Remember Ike?"
I nodded. Kenneth had let Carter and me sit in on an interview with Ike when the kid was in jail in San Francisco. It could have been a problem since neither Carter nor I were lawyers but, fortunately, it wasn't.
I looked at Ben. "What's the second option?"
Ben smiled. "Don't play and take your licks."
I looked at Carter who said, "No. We'll play."
"What if we drip the cash instead?"
Kenneth looked at me. "Drip?"
"Sure. We give him a C note a day with the promise of a payoff at the end."
Ben smiled. "Smart. That way he can't take the money and run."
Kenneth asked, "How do we let him know it's waiting for him?"
Ben looked up at the ceiling. "Bus terminal locker?"
I shook my head. "That's too much like a movie."
Carter asked, "Safety deposit box?"
Kenneth nodded. "That might work. We could take a photograph of the box and give that to him as proof."
I smiled. "We could even go ahead and give him the key but not tell him what bank it is. Put it over in Oakland or something."
Kenneth shook his head. "Good movie plot but you don't want to be in a position where he could coerce you into telling him where it is."
Carter asked, "When is the trial?"
Kenneth said, "Next Monday at 10 a.m."
I asked, "That fast?"
Ben laughed. "The docket is pretty much empty. It's Marin County. This trial is the biggest thing that's happened here since the rum-runners during Prohibition. It's the only thing anyone around town can talk about."
Carter asked, "Can I have a pencil?" Kenneth handed him one of his. Carter began to scribble some figures on a paper napkin. Once he was done, he looked at me. "This could get expensive." I just shrugged. "Give him a hundred a day until the trial and during the trial. Let's say the trial runs three days--"
The Iniquitous Investigator (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 8) Page 10