Twenty minutes later he was through the Criminal Court Building and into the jail. The mountainous officer at the door led him through an interrogation room to the cellblock. The center tier was murderers’ row.
When they appeared at his cell, Bailey leaped from his cot. “Officer—the judge really going to hear my case tomorrow?”
He was smaller than Bill remembered. Perhaps captivity had done that to him: shrunk him. Bill had seen it before. Prison shrank one’s world, the action of one’s mind, even one’s physiognomy. Or perhaps he was confusing Bailey with Abraham Price, the man Bill had shot dead on the night of the murder. He tried to forget about Abraham Price.
“That’s a detective,” said the prison guard.
“Mr. Detective. Is the judge going to hear my case tomorrow?”
“Tell me first—what school did you attend?”
“You seen my lawyer? Mr. Doyle?”
“Answer his question,” said the prison guard.
“Maybe we can have a conversation,” said Bailey. “A conversation means two people talking to each other.”
“Boy, you will die a convicted cop murderer,” said the guard. “And it will not be a pleasant die.”
“That’s fine, Officer,” said Bill. He waited until Bailey resumed eye contact. “You answer my question, Mr. Frank. Then I’ll answer yours.”
“What school did I attend?”
“Yes, sir.”
“McDonough 6. Left when I made twelve. They taught me nothing. But teach me this: Do you know Detective Harry Dodson? Theodore Obitz’s partner.”
“Of course I know him.”
“Did you know that he was the man who killed Obitz?”
“Shut your face,” said the prison guard, advancing heavily toward the cell.
“That’s fine,” said Bill. All he needed was the answer to a single question. He could play along. “Let him tell his story.”
“I fired three shots as I ran, but none of them took effect. I fired as I ran and could not take aim. It must have been Obitz’s partner, Dodson, who did it. One of Dodson’s bullets, intended for me.”
“That’s an interesting theory.”
“My question is who is going to pay for the death of Abraham Price and Louis Johnson, the two innocent Negroes who were shot down when they were hunting me?”
“I ask about your schooling because I noticed the quality of your penmanship in your confession note.”
“Are they going to hear my case tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I can ask.”
“The confession note was coerced. I was given the third degree.”
“They taught you to write at McDonough 6? They taught you to make those loops and flourishes?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. Detective William Bastrop.”
“Bastrop … ain you the one who shot Abraham Price?”
Bill realized his mistake. It was too late to lie now.
“Why am I to pay for the death of Detective Obitz,” said Bailey, “and you won’t pay for the death of Abraham Price?”
Bill silently offered three answers, none of which he could utter without enraging Bailey further.
“There are two innocent Negroes dead on account of Detective Obitz,” said Bailey. “I’m going to make three. Where is the justice in that?”
Bill raised his hand to still the guard. “Do you remember,” he asked Bailey, “the name of the teacher at McDonough 6 who taught you how to write so fancy?”
“It wasn’t anybody at McDonough 6 that taught me script.”
“You said that was the only school you attended.”
“I learned it out in the country. From Mr. Peter Davis at the Waifs’ Home.”
Bill wrote the names on his pad. He liked how they looked there—solid enough to dress up in clothes. They went next to Gown Man—forests under forests—river flows both ways—jalapeno for bowels—cancer in the rain forest—Spencerian.
“Have you heard anything about Miss Virginia Gabriel?”
“Is that the woman who turned you in?”
“Wondered if she come ask about me.”
“I’ll find out. Just a few more questions.”
“Ask about Verge and ask about the trial tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Is this conversation going into the court proceedings against me?”
“Answering the questions will only help your position. I promise you that.”
“Promises from a navy.” Bailey shook his head.
Bill touched his temple. Something was active there, a seismic activity beneath his skin, swelling and contracting, fixing to explode. “When were you at the Colored Waifs’ Home?”
“From 1913 to 1915. I was charged with stealing thirteen chickens. I trace my misfortune back to the chickens.”
“Stealing chickens is a hundred miles away from holding up men. Let alone murdering a detective.”
“It wasn’t the chickens. It was their number: thirteen. I knew when I counted them that I was cursed.” Bailey closed his eyes and opened them. “I didn’t kill that policeman.”
“Who was there with you at the home? Other students, teachers?”
Bailey’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t recall. It was a long while ago.”
“Four years?”
“Time and me aren’t friends anymore.”
“You know anything about the Axman murders?”
Bailey looked confused. “Only what I’ve read,” he said. “Hasn’t he heard of a gun?”
Bill had had enough. Bailey wasn’t nearly as dyspeptic as the others said he was. Or the dyspepsia had been beaten out of him. “I’ll mention you to Judge Baker.” Bill almost meant it. “I’ll say you were helpful.”
“If you see Virginia Gabriel, please tell her that I request a word.”
As Bill walked past the cells and the shrunken men inside, he felt a strange envy rise through him. These men had been condemned to a life so restricted that there was never any need to ask questions. How different that was from a life of questioning, and of questioning his own questioning!
When he returned to the open air he marveled at his foolishness. The time to think was exactly the problem. What finer torture than being left alone with your thoughts, free to explore the shape of eternity and your position in it? The questioning habit was a kind of game, when you came down to it. The thousands of little questions that arose during an investigation, or during a marriage, were little puzzles that distracted from the big, central puzzle. Without all of life’s little questions you would be left alone, in silence, to study the central puzzle. And that puzzle’s pieces never fit, no matter how roughly you tried to force the edges together.
Even this brief glimpse of the big question complicated his breathing. Better to think about the Colored Waifs’ Home. He could get out there in fifteen minutes if he borrowed one of the Department’s automobiles. That would give him just enough time to come up with questions for Peter Davis, a series of little questions that might just lead him to resolve the big question. Now those questions—what were they?
MARCH 25, 1919—CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT
“If they walk the dog,” said Bailey, “you may as well sign my death warrant.”
“They’re not going to bring in any dog.” Isadore hunched forward so he could whisper over the bar into Bailey’s ear. “Even the DA has more self-respect than that.”
Bailey turned and looked at Isadore as if he were crazy. Isadore frequently received that look from Bailey. He had learned not to be offended by it. Bailey, he could tell, was comforted by Isadore’s presence, elated to have someone to listen to his complaints. Isadore was happy to be here. He did not say as much to Bailey, but he saw his presence at the murder trial as a way of thanking Bailey for not revealing his role in the holdups. Bailey had proven his loyalty. Besides, there was little chance that he would even be tried for the highway jobs. They had him dead to rights for murdering a detective.
“It’s not about self-respect,” Bailey whispered loudly, spraying saliva into Isadore’s inner ear. “It’s about theater. That’s the secret to good prosecution: theater. Don’t you know anything?”
Bailey’s attorney made a subtle lowering gesture with his palm. It meant Quiet down, the jury is watching. The attorney, E. Warren Doyle, was gourd shaped with a bushy yellow mustache and a spray of irregular small reddish moles like fire ants across the left side of his face. When he addressed the jury, he positioned his body in an unnatural profile to avoid showing his moles, which only made the jurors more determined to see them. Isadore could see their distraction whenever Doyle spoke. It wasn’t a good sign for Bailey, Isadore didn’t suppose.
The prosecutor had proposed the dog experiment during one of the early motions hearings. No mark or ash had been found on Detective Obitz’s clothing. A small ring of charred flesh encircled the wound. Both findings, the coroner argued, suggested that the gun was fired from close range, with minimal distance between muzzle and flesh. This was a good break because Obitz’s partner, Dodson, had testified that the shooter fired from approximately a dozen yards away. Bailey had known better than to let himself become excited but it was the best news he’d had since the arrest.
That’s when the district attorney, Luzenberg, came up with the dog idea. He would wrap an actual police uniform around a dog, press a revolver against the animal’s chest, and pull the trigger. The experiment, Luzenberg argued, would show that a revolver so fired would not only singe the flesh but leave distinctive burn marks on the clothing, disproving the coroner’s finding.
Doyle had ordered Bailey a close shave for the trial and provided him with a weathered suit and black spats. In this costume Bailey looked older, dignified even, despite his ankles and hands being shackled. His face was darkened by anguish but his eyes did not participate in it. The old irascible spirit flickered within them.
“A daddy, huh?”
“This is the first I left Orly since she was born.”
“What’s the child’s name?”
“Isadora.”
“Orly let you leave?”
“The nurses said I was getting in the way.”
“They say girls are easier to raise but I wouldn’t be so positive about that.”
“I’m not positive about anything in this world right now.”
Doyle glanced over sharply and Bailey was quiet another minute. Luzenberg was explaining the properties of flesh char.
“I’m glad you came,” Bailey whispered. “I need to tell you a few things.”
“Like what?”
Bailey nodded in the direction of Doyle. Presently he stood to rebut the district attorney’s argument. As he approached the bench in his sideways, crablike manner, Bailey started again.
“A detective came to see me in jail. Man who shot Abraham Price on the night of the Obitz murder.”
“You think he’s involved?”
Bailey shook his head. “Asking about the Waifs’ Home. Questions about penmanship.”
Isadore didn’t know what to say.
“Handwriting, like.”
“Sure—but why?”
“Something to do with the Axman.”
Isadore shot a glance at the judge. Had he heard anything? Isadore had the idea that if Judge Baker heard the word Axman and looked in Isadore’s direction, the judge might just interrupt Bailey’s trial to haul Isadore to jail.
As if on cue, Baker interrupted Doyle in the middle of a frantic plea. “Denied. Mr. Luzenberg, call your witness.”
Doyle threw up his arms in exasperation. His moles flushed a richer pink.
“I call Barko, Your Honor.”
“Barko?” whispered Bailey.
The door to the courtroom swung open. Isadore turned at the sound but saw no witness, only two navies striding in. One of the officers held a leash.
“Bring me the death warrant to sign,” said Bailey, a little too loudly. One of the jurors, an older agrarian type, glanced over. Doyle gave Bailey a warning hiss. It made no difference.
“Bring the death warrant!”
The judge pounded the gavel. “Defendant, you are warned!”
The dog, a wolfish mongrel that appeared to have been injected with a sedative, was brought—dragged—through the gate into the middle of the floor.
“I call Mrs. Eloise Obitz,” said Luzenberg.
A slim woman in a black drawcoat and long black skirt entered the gallery. Against the blackness of her mourning clothes her yellow hair glowed. She carried a folded garment. Her eyes twitched but the set of her head and the movement of her legs were determined, vengeful. Isadore could not concentrate on the widow, however, or Barko. He could only think about his handwriting. It was a funny handwriting, fancier than what was normally practiced, but that was how Mr. Davis had taught them. If the script was good enough for Platt Rogers Spencer, Mr. Davis said, it was good enough for the children of the Colored Waifs’ Home. A man who could not write in a dignified manner should not expect other men to treat him with dignity. It hadn’t occurred to Isadore to write the letter in any other script. It would have looked childish if he had tried.
“Why was the officer asking about the Axman?” asked Isadore, leaning forward. “What does that have to do with penmanship?”
“I’m hearing the Axman didn’t write the letter to the newspaper.”
“Who said that?”
“Guys in the block.” Bailey did not elaborate because the widow took the stand.
“Objection,” said Bailey under his breath. Doyle nodded but did not say anything.
“Mommy!” shouted a young girl in the gallery, waving. The widow Obitz, sitting in the witness stand, waved at her daughter.
“Mrs. Obitz,” said the district attorney, “can you please tell the court what you hold in your arms?”
“This is my late husband’s police coat.”
“How does it resemble the coat that Detective Obitz was wearing at the time he was attacked by the murderous Negro sitting right there?”
“Objection!” shouted Doyle.
“I sustain,” said the judge.
“How does this resemble the jacket worn by Detective Obitz at the time of his death?”
“It is identical. Or, rather, as close to identical as possible without being the same jacket. He had two pairs. They are issued by the New Orleans Police Department.”
“Theater,” said Bailey. “Help me Christ.”
“Please show the coat to the jurors, Mrs. Obitz, so they can see it has not been tampered with.”
“Who said the thing about the Axman?” said Isadore.
“I don’t know. A few of the dagos. They say the Axman isn’t one for writing letters to the editor.”
“They know who it is?”
“Sure they do. Ah, Hell.”
One officer held down Barko’s haunches; the other guided his front paw through a sleeve of the police coat.
“You know that isn’t his real coat,” said Bailey, appealing to his lawyer. Doyle ignored his client. He looked defeated. He had forgotten to shield his strange moles from the jury. But they didn’t appear to notice. They were staring at the cur, which, having been dressed in Obitz’s coat, laid its head on its paws. Barko on some primitive level seemed to know what was going on. So did Bailey. He also laid his head in his hands.
“Aren’t you going to object?” said Bailey.
Doyle shook his head. “Already objected all I could do.”
The clerk handed one of the officers a revolver that had previously been entered into evidence. With a ceremonial air—thumb and forefinger pinching, pinkie extended—the officer extracted a single bullet from a leather pouch on his belt.
A sob erupted in the gallery. Bailey, astonished to find an unexpected ally in the courthouse, looked for the source of the outburst. When he saw it was the widow’s daughter—a slim reed of eight or nine with bright blond hair—his eyes widened.
“Don’t
shoot!” she shouted. “Don’t shoot the doggy!”
“Yes, girl,” said Bailey. “Tell ’em!”
The officer with the revolver froze, uncertain. Barko froze too. He appeared to have fallen asleep. The adults seated near the child tried to calm her but it was useless.
“Child,” said the judge, placating, but that only made her sobs stiffen into a breathless shriek. The judge stood. “Mrs. Obitz, will you please remove your daughter from the courtroom?”
The girl resisted and her mother was powerless to move her. There was agitation in the gallery, murmurs of distress. The officer with the revolver swiveled between the judge and the sobbing girl.
“Your Honor,” said Doyle, “I move to suspend the execution of the dog.”
“That dog,” said the judge, “will be executed.”
The girl’s shriek could not possibly increase in volume but it increased in pitch.
The judge pounded the gavel. “We’ll take a five minute recess,” he said. “Somebody tend to that child.”
The jurors were led out of the chamber. “Maybe,” said Bailey, turning to face Isadore, “this is my lucky day.”
The bailiff approached the widow and her daughter. Most of the audience in the gallery rose to stretch their legs or to leave the courtroom.
“Listen,” said Isadore, putting his hand on Bailey’s shoulder, “what did you hear about the Axman?”
Bailey gave him a look. “Don’t tell me you’re involved in that business.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Frank,” said Doyle. “We need to go over a couple things.”
“One second, lawyer Doyle.”
Doyle, shaking his head, went to chat with Luzenberg. Obitz’s daughter, having been told that the dog would be spared, was led gently up the aisle.
“I’ll explain,” said Isadore. “But you first.”
“Lot of Italians in the block. Southern Italians, you know?”
“They talk to you?”
“They talk to each other. But I hear. There aren’t proper walls, you know.”
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