Last Call lf-4

by Baxter Clare

"A statement? For what? I ain't done nothin'."

  "That's what I need you to explain to me." Frank makes a show of checking her watch. "Sooner we get this over with, the sooner you're back home. And the sooner I'm home."

  "Yeah, and I'ma sooner your lily-white ass good. This is harassment. Plain and simple. You only checkin' me 'cause I'm a black man."

  "If that were the case, Mr. Bailey, then there's a half a million other black men I could have picked on." She guides him toward the unit, explaining, "The boys'll take you in and bring you back as soon as we're done. Let's get this shit cleared up and be on our way."

  "Yeah, you wanna get this shit cleared up all right, 'cause you done fucked up, white girl. You picked on the wrong nigger this time."

  She slides him into the back of the unit, assuring him, "If that's true then this ain't gonna take long."

  "It's gonna take long for you," Bailey fires back. "I'ma have the ACLU and the Anti-Defamation League crawling up your ass!"

  The cop behind Frank murmurs, "Isn't that for Jews?"

  Rolling her eyes, Frank closes the door and taps the hood. The car pulls away. She follows, leaving the second unit with instructions to impound the camper. Ahead of her, Bailey rants. It's like watching TV with the mute on. She'd requested a unit with a Plexiglas panel to separate the front and rear seats so Bailey can't ask for a lawyer en route to the station.

  Frank drives into a smudgy sunrise, vaguely aware of the smell of her sweat. She's nervous but refuses to dwell on how much is riding on this interrogation. Pulling in a lungful of brown air, she tells herself, "Steady as she goes, girlie-girl."

  Joe used to wink that at her as they stepped into the box. She wishes he were here. Wishes Noah was too. Maybe he is.

  "Then it's time to pull a rabbit out of your ass, buddy. Help me nail this baby- fucker."

  Frank tucks her apprehension away. Bailey's what she should be thinking about. Nothing else. She's got to be on him like crumbs on toast. She has to think like him and then three steps ahead of him. It's a chess game, his every gesture, nuance and word, the pieces.

  Interrogating perps reminds her of the fable about the sun and the wind. The sun and the wind saw a man walking down the road one day. The wind said, "I bet I can get him to take his coat off faster than you can."

  The sun thought about it and replied, "You're on."

  So the wind blew and blew. The harder it blew, the tighter the man clutched his coat. Exhausted, the wind finally gave up.

  "Let's see what you can do," the wind panted to the sun.

  Smiling, the sun turned to face the man. She shined on him until sweat popped out on his face. The man kept walking and the sun kept beaming. Pretty soon the man stopped to wipe his face. The sun shined on and the wind started to gloat. The man walked a few steps more, then paused.

  "Phew," he said, and then wiping the sweat from his brow, he took his coat off.

  Based on the sister's description of his temperament, Frank had decided to work Bailey with persuasion rather than aggression. His behavior so far reinforces her decision. He didn't read the search warrant. He didn't refuse to come in. He hasn't asked for a lawyer and he's still shooting his mouth off. These are all good signs. She's just going to shine on him like a hot sun. Later she'll blow.

  Bailey doesn't have an extensive police history, and without underestimating his intelligence, she believes she can manipulate his legal naivete. And his pride. The man's gotten away with murder— and Christ knows what else—for six years, and waltzed on two priors. He probably feels pretty good about himself and Frank wants to keep it that way. She wants to make him feel confident enough to talk without a lawyer, hoping to get him so entangled in lies that he hangs himself.

  The unit pulls into the police station and Frank parks next to it.

  "Here we go," she whispers. "Showtime."

  Chapter 39

  When she opens his door Bailey picks up where he left off.

  "This ain't right. I want—"

  "I know, I know" she interrupts loudly. "We all want a lot of things, Mr. Bailey. I'd like to win the lottery and you'd probably like to be left alone. I can't win the lottery, but you can probably go home if you just answer a couple questions for me. So what we're gonna do is take you inside here, get you a nice cup of coffee and see if we can't clean this mess up. If we can, then I'll cut you loose and you'll be on your way. No fuss, no muss, and you can start your lawsuit against me."

  "I'm gonna," he mutters. "You best believing that."

  Escorting Bailey through the station she maintains a running patter. Frank emphasizes getting him home and clearing this up, as if it's all a mistake that can be explained, no big deal. Frank wants Bailey thinking he can talk his way out of this jam.

  She leaves him in a small interrogation room, returning with two cups of coffee. His has cream and sugar.

  "Taste it," she tells him. "I think that's just the way you like it."

  He does as instructed and Frank watches.

  "S'okay?"

  Bailey nods, suspicious. "How you know I like it like that?"

  Frank pats her fat murder books. She's brought the open box of taped interviews in for effect. Indicating all these, she says, "That's just the tip of the iceberg, Mr. Bailey. I know a lot of things about you, so don't even try to bullshit me. I got a very sensitive bullshit meter. Be square with me and we can clean this mess up. Get the fuck outta Dodge." Punching the record button on a tape recorder, Frank tells Bailey, "This is for your protection. If I try to beat you up or force you into doing something you don't want to do, you can take this tape to the ACLU and say, 'See here? She made me do this.' Now let's play this back so you know it's working okay." While the tape rewinds, she slips in, "I should probably read you your rights, too, before we go any further, else that'll be something else for you to nail me with."

  She verifies that the tape is picking them up clearly while Bailey says, "Damn right you better read me my rights. I know I got 'em, too."

  "Yes, you most certainly do. Just so you know, you have the right to remain silent. You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to. Do you understand that?"

  "Yeah, I understand."

  "Okay," Frank continues. "So what we say here can be used in a court of law, and you can also have a lawyer here, if you want one. If you can't afford one, I'm not saying you can't, we can appoint one for you. You can talk to me if you want, but you don't have to," Frank reiterates in a rush. "Do you understand all this? I know we woke you up kinda early this morning and I don't always understand too much without my first cup of coffee. So I just want you to be clear that we can hang out here and wait for a lawyer if that's what you want."

  On tape it will sound as if Frank's going out of her way to help Bailey, when in reality she's distracting him from the implications of being Mirandized.

  "Shit, I don't want no lawyer, I just wanna get outta here."

  "Me too," Frank sympathizes. Bailey's sister had mentioned that he hates Bakersfield, so she adds, "I don't know about you, but I'd like to get out of here and outta this town. Too much fuckin' dust and too many shitkickers."

  The cop who's followed Frank in as a witness glares but remains mute. Frank grins at Bailey, broaching a rapport with him.

  "Sorry about waking you up so early, but like I said, I just want to get this over with. So do you want to work this out? Just you and me? Do you want to give up the right to remain silent and talk this out without an attorney? Just you and me, one on one?"

  Being a white cop, Frank is usually at a disadvantage when trying to gain a minority suspect's trust, but being a woman, plus a blonde, gives her a subliminal edge. Most men have enough pride to think they can con some dumb bitch, especially a blonde one. Bailey is no exception.

  He nods.

  "Is that a yes? You want to talk to me?"

  "Yeah, I'll talk," he grumbles. "I got things to do."

  As she slides him the waiver and a pen, she distracts him by asking, "Do y
ou want to know what I was looking for in your camper?"

  "I ain't took nothin' so how would I know?"

  "I admire your confidence." Frank smiles. She opens a folder and leafs through it, waiting Bailey out.

  "What you think I took?"

  "Hmm?" She glances at Bailey.

  "What'd you think I took? What was you lookin' for?"

  "Pair of panties, Mr. Bailey."

  "Panties?"

  "Yeah. From a little girl."

  Bailey laughs. "You think I stole a little girl's panties?"

  "Stranger things have happened."

  Bailey laughs again and wiggles in his chair, like a dog shaking water. Frank smiles. She asks simple questions. Where was he last night? Where'd he been before that? Can he produce witnesses to verify this? She lets him tell the truth. Lets him get comfortable.

  Then she pushes a picture of a young girl across the table. The girl is naked on her back. She's slit all over, like a leg of lamb ready to be studded with garlic cloves.

  Bailey winces and pushes his chair back.

  "Found her a while back," Frank tells him. "Her clothes were folded right next to her. Real tidy. Everything was there except her panties. We know she was wearing them because she'd complained to her mother they were her last clean pair."

  When Frank pauses, Bailey asks, "Why you showin' me this?"

  "Why do you think?"

  "You think I got somethin' to do with this?"

  "Do you?"

  "Hell, no!"

  Frank knows he doesn't, but she wants him thinking she does. One of the last gifts a cop has is legal wherewithal to lie to a suspect. They can't physically coerce a perp into a confession but they can still mentally fuck them silly. Her plan is to get Bailey thinking he's wanted for various murders. If she can get him sweating about that, it might make him willing to cooperate, to admit to a lesser crime like rape.

  She hands him a similar picture. Another dead girl, her intestines popped out of the gash in her belly. "Recognize her?"

  "I ain't never seen her before."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, really. Girl, why you wasting my time with this shit?"

  Sliding a picture of Ladeenia Pryce toward him, Frank asks, "How about this one, Antoine? We never found her panties, either."

  Bailey stares hard, for just a second, then says, "I ain't never seen her neither."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure."

  Frank nods. She hands him a picture of the Pryce site. "Ever seen this place before?"

  Bailey barely glances at the picture before answering, "No."

  Frank makes a loud buzzing noise and slaps the table. "Antoine, you done set my bullshit meter off! Come on, man. You gotta level with me here. Don't," she stresses slowly, "fuck with me. Or I'll fuck you back. Is that what you want?"

  Antoine turns his head away.

  Frank repeats, "Is that what you want?"

  "No," he mumbles.

  Sliding the scene photo under his face again, she tells him, "All right. Then I'ma get straight with you too." Frank taps the picture. "I got witnesses telling me you were here when they found these kids. I got your sister Sharon on tape, saying you and her stopped by here to see what was going on. I know you were there, Antoine. So let's start over. I'ma reset my bullshit meter, and you're gonna tell me the truth this time. Have you ever seen this place?"

  Bailey checks out the photo. "I guess. Maybe. But it was a long time ago. I didn't recognize it, s'all."

  "So were you there the day these kids were found?" Frank deals another photo from the deck. Trevor and Ladeenia smiling together, hugging a teddy bear.

  "I guess." Antoine pouts.

  "Good. What were you doing in the area?"

  "I was at my sister's. Collecting my check like I do every month."

  "Okay."

  Frank leads him through the day and the day prior. Bailey stays close to the alibi he and Ferris built for Noah. He trips on a couple key details but doesn't notice. Frank leads him on, building his confidence, letting him reinforce his errors.

  Suddenly she turns in her chair and faces him head on. "What if I told you this is all a pack of lies, Antoine? Everything you been telling me so far, it's all lies. You dumped so much shit on my bullshit meter you broke it."

  "Nah, it's all true. Ask Sharon. She'll tell you."

  "I did ask Sharon." Frank pulls Ferris's statement. She lays it on the table where Antoine can read it. "She told me a different story, Antoine. Said you and she had a big fight that day."

  "No, that ain't true. We ain't never fought."

  "Never?"

  "Nah, never."

  "How about when Kevin kicked you outta the house back in 'ninety-two? Or that time a couple years ago when you borrowed his car without asking? How about the night before these kids were found, when your sister asked you to leave?"

  "She didn't ask me to leave. It was Kevin askin' me. He always the one. He jealous is all. My sister loves me. She ain't never said nothin' bad about me."

  "She's tired of covering for you, Antoine." Frank pats the statement. "It's all here. The fight. How you stayed in your truck all day. How you left the next morning. All here. She ain't backing you this time. She's tired, Antoine. Tired a watching after her baby brother."

  "That ain't true."

  "Yeah, it is. You know it is. Go easy on yourself. Tell me what really happened that day. Sharon already has, so you got nothing to lose. If you come clean now, this won't come down on you so hard."

  "What won't come down on me?"

  "Antoine," Frank croons. "We know those kids were in your camper with you. We know how you took 'em, front and back, doggy style." Still seductive, she alludes to evidence they don't have. "Got sperm all over 'em, man. You know about DNA."

  "Not the boy," Bailey blurts out. "I ain't no faggot! I ain't touched no boy."

  Bingo! Cool as summer rain, Frank shrugs. "Just the girl then. Tell me how she went down."

  But Bailey suddenly balks. "I want my lawyer. I got a right to a lawyer and I want him now."

  Frank's exhilaration pops like a cheap condom. "You sure that's what you want, Antoine? We can clear this up right now. Just you and me. Let's do it."

  "Nuh-uh." He shakes his head hard. "I know my rights. I want a lawyer."

  "All right." Frank sighs. "I'll get you one."

  Chapter 40

  Bailey is silent during the drive to L.A. Frank tries to get him talking but he maintains, "I ain't saying nothin' else until I get a lawyer."

  She drives slowly, finding the most congested routes. She stops at a Del Taco for lunch. By dragging her heels, they get Bailey processed into County during a shift change. His paperwork gets lost. When they find it, he gets transferred to Pitchess. Then back to County.

  While Bailey rides the legal merry-go-round, Frank has his camper towed to the LAPD garage. Because the case is such a low priority, it will be weeks before the vehicle is processed. Frank searches it carefully. There's no sign of the panties. Nothing that can be considered a souvenir. Frank needs more for McQueen. After his arraignment she visits Bailey in lockup.

  "How they treatin' you?"

  "Shit," he complains.

  "How'd it go with your attorney? They spend a couple hours with you?"

  "Hours?" Bailey's incredulous. "She wasn't here but ten minutes."

  "That happens." Frank shrugs. "They got a lotta cases—I'm not being cold, it's just a fact—that are probably a lot more important than you. Anyway"—Frank slaps a stack of printouts—"we got your blood work back. Doesn't look good, Twan. You better give her a call. Let her know."

  Bailey's eyes are all over Frank. She can almost smell him thinking. He doesn't know that any possible physical evidence was lost years ago and she lies to him with a confidence born of knowing how public defenders prioritize their schedules. There's no way a PD will get back to him this far from the pretrial.

  "Anything you need in here?"

 
"Shit. What I need'd fill a phone book."

  "A'ight. I'm outta here."

  As she's leaving, Bailey calls out, "Toothpaste."

  "Any particular flavor?" she answers without looking back.

  "Crest. Regular."

  "You got it."

  Frank gives Bailey two days, letting the scum build up on his teeth. He's not overjoyed to see her, but he's not disappointed either.

  "What'd your lawyer say about the DNA?"

  "I ain't talked to her yet. She ain't returning my calls."

  Frank pitches her ball. "You never been in here before, have you?"

  "Nah."

  "Antoine." Frank wriggles close to him. "You're lucky if your lawyer reviews your case five minutes before it goes to court. Look around you, man. How many people you see in here? You think each one of these bastards got Johnnie Cochran reppin' 'em? Hell, no. They all got PDs just like you. There are about six hundred public defenders in the system. Only half of 'em do felonies. On any given day there are about twenty thousand people in and outta these jails. Not counting Juvenile Hall and CYA. You do the math. Soon as a PD gets one case cleared she gets slammed with three more. She ain't calling you back till you're dressed for court, man."

  Frank shakes her head in disbelief.

  "You're staring down two murder counts, Twan. You gonna put your faith in a stressed-out, overworked, underpaid, court-appointed PD? Man, if you just poked the Pryce girl admit it now and move on. Look at this place. It's packed so fuckin' tight the judge'll probably kick you in the ass, tell you not to do it again and make you serve six months. But you're gonna take a chance on a murder one rap over a little piece a poonannie? You're crazy, Twan. Rape's a longways from murder."

  Bailey considers this, eyeing Frank like a granny he's fixing to jack.

  "Well, the good news," Frank says with a grin, "is you ain't young and pretty like that boy over there." Frank gives the nod to a delicately featured man-child, sobbing to his mama. "At least you got that going. Most you'll likely have to do is clean the shit stains outta your cellie's drawers. Could be worse."

  "Just 'cause you slept with someone, don't mean you killed her," he says slowly.

  "That's what I'm trying to tell you. And that's exactly what your lawyer's gonna say. Admitting to boning the girl can't hurt you in the long run, 'cause it makes you look honest. And like you said, screwing someone's a long way from killing them."