by A. W. Gray
He stood. “Sure, if you are.”
She winked and let the lighter dangle by her side, removed the cigarette from between her lips, stood beside him and stuck one hip out at a saucy angle. “About the twenty-two bucks, buster,” she said. “I’m not forgetting it, in case you were wondering.”
4
CARLA LIVED IN DUNCANVILLE, IN FAR SOUTH DALLAS COUNTY, and Bino made the drive at seven in the morning with a hangover. She stood alongside her driveway and waved, then pranced to the front door of her duplex as he thought, I’m too old for this. He stopped in a 7-Eleven, bought a couple of Alka-Seltzers, bummed a glass of water in which to mix the fizzy stuff, then climbed into the Line and fought stop-and-go traffic all the way downtown.
He trudged through the crosswalk at Akard and Main with the honking horns pounding in his ears like drums. Inside the Davis Building he entered the elevator and pressed the sixth-floor button, then steadied himself against the wall as the car ascended. On the way down the corridor to the door marked w. a. Phillips, lawyer the floor seemed to tilt.
As he came in, Dodie Peterson said, “You’re early. Kek! Wow, you look like death warmed over.” Crystal blue eyes softened in pity.
“I’m a little under the weather, Dode. Something going around, I think.” He went through the reception room, entered his own spacious office, and sank into his chair thinking about an ice pack.
For long moments he just sat and stared at the picture hanging above his imitation leather couch. The twenty-year-old photo featured a jubilantly celebrating basketball team, young men with upraised clenched fists and block-letter S.M.U.’s stitched across the fronts of their jerseys. The Bino of the sixties was in the top row, giant Southwest Conference trophy held aloft over his flattop haircut. Bino thought, They look too happy. I’ve never been that happy. And Dodie, yeah, she’s punishing me, too. She’s found out about last night, and she’s giving me hell by banging all those drawers around out there. He just didn’t have the strength to reflect on his some-times-lovers, sometimes-friends relationship with his secretary. In fact he didn’t have the strength for anything but a nap. He considered stretching out on his desktop and copping a few z’s.
Dodie came in grinning cheerfully. She wore a sleeveless peach-colored blouse over a pale green skirt, had file folders stacked in the crook of one arm, and carried a cup of coffee. She placed the steaming black liquid before him, then sat in a straight-backed visitor’s chair. Her blond bangs were carefully tousled, and normally just the sight of her brightened his day. Bino groaned.
“Drink it, boss,” she said, opening a file on her lap. “You’re going to need it. I need to ask you a few things so I can get the motion ready.”
Bino raised the Styrofoam cup to his lips, sipped and swallowed. The blistering hot liquid scorched his tongue. “Wha,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and said, “What motion?”
“The motion for continuance. You’re in no condition for a hearing. Besides, I think you’d probably want to put the hearing off even if you weren’t … sick. There’s another nasty story on page one this morning and a big picture of Lieutenant Clinger, and I don’t know how the papers manage to make him look so mean.” She readied a pencil. “So what do you want the motion to say? It had better be good, I don’t think fudge Sanderson’s going to want to put this one off. Too much publicity, and with the trial starting Monday she’s going to want to get the preliminaries out of the way.” Visible through the window, the morning sun glinted from the mirror-walled skyscraper next door. The day was going to be another scorcher.
Bino pinched his nose. “The story’s only about Tommy Clinger? Just my client? What about Rusty Benson’s guy? And what about all those other cops going to trial? Nothing about them?”
Dodie shook her head. “The entire piece is quotes from Mr. Goldman. He says he’s going to prove all sorts of bribes and things on Lieutenant Clinger, but doesn’t say a word about anybody else.”
Bino closed his eyes and murmured, “Shit,” softly under his breath. No wonder Rusty had vanished last night, he’d already known about the newspaper story. Bino said, “I’m sure we’ve got big problems, then, but don’t worry about filing any continuance motion. I already talked to Goldman yesterday. He’s cancelling this morning’s hearing and setting it for Monday, just before the trial begins. Goldman told me something new had come up, and now that you’ve told me what’s in the paper, I got a pretty good idea what the something new is. My client’s neck in a noose and Rusty’s boy as a federal witness. Anyhow, there’s not going to be any hearing.”
Dodie chewed her lower lip. “Are you sure about that?”
Bino lifted his cup and blew on the coffee’s surface. Slowly but surely, his head was clearing. “Yeah. Goldman told me himself.”
Dodie frowned. “I don’t think you heard him right, boss. Mr. Goldman’s office called a few minutes ago, wanting to know if you’d like to meet with him before the hearing. His secretary said he’s already on his way upstairs to court.”
Bino sipped the cooled-down liquid. It was better. “That can’t be, Dode. Goldman said he was getting Judge Sanderson to postpone while he investigated these other matters. Hell, it was Marv Goldman that suggested since we weren’t having the hearing today, maybe I should get together with Rusty and play some golf. Blow off a little … ” Bino paused in midsen-tence as it dawned on him. He gave a long disgusted sigh as he finally said, “Steam.”
He had a sudden mental image of Goldman, thin lips in an evil smirk over his black goatee, his ear flattened against the receiver, throwing broad winks at a grinning FBI agent across his desk while he fed Bino a line of shit about putting the hearing off. Probably giving the agent the old thumb-and-forefinger circle sign as he told Bino to go play some golf and blow off a little steam. The picture in Bino’s mind rolled on, now shifting to Goldman calling Rusty Benson, telling Rusty that if he’d be sure the white-haired lawyer stayed out really late, there’d be some extra perks in it for Rusty’s client come plea bargain time.
Bino stood quickly, ignoring the throbbing in his temples. “Get Tommy Clinger on the phone, Dodie, and fast.” He grabbed his attache case and opened the snaps, taking the files one by one from Dodie’s lap, reading the labels, shoving some of the folders into the satchel and stacking the others up on his desk. “It’s a good thing I told Tommy to hang loose, just in case. Tell him to beat it down to the courthouse, that the hearing’s on. Also tell him that I’m afraid Nolby’s going to testify for the feds. Jesus, Goldman’s done it again.”
Dodie’s jaw slacked, her gaze darting back and forth between Bino and the stack of files. “But the motion, boss, I can get it ready in time. Surely the judge won’t go ahead with the hearing if—”
“No good, Dode.” He shook his head vigorously. “That’s why Goldman’s already sneaked down to Judge Hazel B.’s office. Probably took the old heifer some coffee and doughnuts. Five’ll get you ten he’s going to have her sitting there with her gavel raised, ready to bang it down and deny the motion for continuance she expects us to file. Well, we’re not going to give them the satisfaction. Hell, Rusty Benson knew we were going ahead with the hearing last night, it’s another reason he ducked out on me. What does he care? He knows his client is going to be the snitch, and he’s probably already got a signed deal from Goldman giving his frigging client immunity. Hustie, Dode. Get Tommy on the phone.” He snapped the loaded attaché case closed.
Dodie got it in gear, practically running in her high heels back to her desk. Bino grabbed up his coffee and drained the cup as he strode into the outer office with his navy coattails flying and his satchel swinging at his side. He glanced toward the closed door to Half-a-Point Harrison’s cubbyhole, wondering if Half was having a good time in Vegas and wishing he was out there with Half, shooting a little craps and playing some poker. After marching to the hallway door Bino paused and snapped his fingers. He turned back. “Uh, sa
y, Dode.”
She looked up. “Yes?”
“Listen, could you spare ten bucks? Just until the banks open and I can cash a check. I’m running a little short.”
She put down the phone and rummaged in her purse, yanking out car keys, lipstick, and rouge, dropping them in a pile on her desktop. “Seven-fifty’s all I’ve got, but you can have it. Robert’s buying my lunch.” She held out three bills and a couple of quarters.
Bino scratched his forehead as he took the money. Yesterday she’d said Robert was “coming by.” Before that she’d told him that Robert was “in the cement business.” Bino wondered who this Robert could be, but it was really none of his business; his friend-secretary-lover relationship with Dodie was confusing enough as it was. Besides, she’d never ask him about the other women in his life. Would she? Naw, whoever Robert happened to be, it was none of his …
“Who the hell is Robert?” Bino said, slipping the seven-fifty into his pocket.
“Oh,” she said with a secretive smile, “no one. Just a friend.” She picked up the phone and punched Tommy Clinger’s number in. “No one important, boss.”
Bino mumbled to himself as he headed down the hall toward the elevators, his temples throbbing with every step. It was starting out to be one helluva day.
5
THE TROUBLE HAD BEGUN FOR LIEUTENANT TOMMY CLINGER two years earlier, when Darius Grant Fontaine made an illegal left turn off Pacific Avenue. The unpredictable maneuver carried Mr. Fontaine directly into the path of a Dallas Area Rapid Transit Authority Park ‘n’ Ride commuter bus in five o’clock traffic, causing the jam-packed DART vehicle to jump the curb—scattering sidewalk pedestrians like fleas while miraculously failing to run anyone down—and slam into the side of the old Republic Bank Tower. The collision shook the historic structure to its foundations and sent four bricks clattering from the building’s face onto the sidewalk, there later to be claimed by souvenir hunters.
Darius Fontaine was a light-skinned black youth of nineteen. He had the misfortune to make his illegal turn in full view of a Dallas Police cruiser which was stopped at the northbound traffic light on Harwood Street, catty-cornered across the street from the Republic Bank Tower. Patrolman Waddy Meyers, a white two-year veteran known by his black and Hispanic peers as a wild-eyed bigot, was at the wheel of the squad car. His partner was a thickset black officer named Whit Whit-ley, whose regular patrol compadre was out sick, and who was more than a little pissed at having to buddy around with Patrolman Meyers to begin with. As Darius Fontaine fishtailed his way north on Harwood, Patrolman Meyers remarked, “Lookit that stupid nigger,” causing Patrolman Whitley nearly to choke on his chicken-fried steak sandwich. The police car’s radio was operational at the time, and the tape reel at Main Headquarters recorded Patrolman Meyers’s untimely remark. Patrolman Meyers then switched on the bubblegum flashers and siren, floorboarded the accelerator, and burned rubber through the intersection in hot pursuit of Mr. Fontaine.
Inasmuch as Darius Fontaine was piloting a black 1991 Buick LeSabre he’d stolen from a West End parking lot, and inasmuch as the skinful of pop he’d injected earlier had played some havoc with his senses, Mr. Fontaine wasn’t about to surrender peacefully to no motherfuckin’ laws. He careened to his left, jumped the curb to pass a line of moseying homebound commuters, whipped to his right against one-way traffic onto Bryan Street, and left the policemen behind in a wake of exhaust fumes. With Patrolman Meyers driving and Patrolman Whitley reporting details to the higher-ups via radio, the chase was on. The duty officer responsible for coordinating police activity in cornering the suspect was Lieutenant Tommy Clinger.
What followed was to become a bone of contention in court, but it is undisputed that Daritis Fontaine led quite a parade in his twisty, zigzag path through near East Dallas. The pursuit vehicles eventually numbered four, and the chase came to an end in the middle of the block on Fitzhugh Street between Ross Avenue and San Jacinto Boulevard. Seeing his forward path blocked by two police cars, and desperately aware of Patrolman Meyers’s twisted features in the side-view mirror as Meyers pursued relentlessly in his own black-and-white, Darius Fontaine slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and took off on foot. Mr. Fontaine was a former star running back for the South Oak Cliff High Golden Bears, but was no match for the anger-crazed Patrolman Meyers. Meyers sprang from the front seat of the cop car, charged across the asphalt, and hit Darius Fontaine with a flying tackle. At that instant, police tape reels recorded someone shouting, “Whip his black fuckin’ ass for him,” such words later alleged by federal prosecutors to have originated from Tommy Clinger.
Seated on his front porch a stone’s throw from the action was a white unemployed bricklayer named Wilfred Creech. Mr. Creech had been out of work for three months, having injured his back carrying a hod up a ladder, and was in convalescence on the advice of his attorney, who was negotiating settlement with Mr. Creech’s employer’s workers’ compensation insurance carrier. When Officer Meyers brought Darius Fontaine down in full view of Mr. Creech, Mr. Creech had just been thinking of his Magnavox CVR 325 video recorder, which lay in a closet inside Mr. Creech’s rented house. He’d been thinking of the recorder with the idea of carrying it down to the nearest pawnshop on Bryan Street, but as the fight broke out before his eyes Wilfred Creech got other ideas. Up he sprang from his rocker and dashed into the house, returning in a few seconds with the recorder to preserve the incident between the cops and Darius Fontaine forever on videotape. Unfortunately for Mr. Creech, insurance company investigators had their own video camera going in an upstairs room across the street, and Mr. Creech’s agile retrieval of the Magnavox was to seriously reduce the size of his workers’ compensation benefits.
Nonetheless, mercilessly recorded by Wilfred Creech, Patrolman Waddy Meyers and several other officers proceeded to beat the living hell out of Darius Fontaine. Mr. Creech sold his videotape to Channel 8 News for a hundred and fifty dollars, thus saving his Magnavox from the pawnbroker’s clutches, and the entire incident was the lead story on that night’s ten o’clock newscast. The Police Internal Affairs Division investigated the attack on Darius Fontaine and—influenced in no small part by claims that Darius Fontaine was drawing a pistol when tackled by Officer Meyers—ruled the beating justified, thus incensing the black community into a series of riots. Within weeks the FBI had interviewed all involved to determine whether the officers had, under color of law, violated Darius Fontaine’s constitutional rights by reason of race, color, or creed. The feds determined that Mr. Fontaine’s rights had indeed been sullied. Indictments came down in short order against Patrolman Waddy Meyers, two cops from another pursuing squad car, and Lieutenant Tommy Clinger for the instructional racist remark leading to the beating of the motorist. Patrolman Whit Whitley resigned from the force to become the U.S. Attorney’s key witness against his fellow officers, and soon found employment as a GS-9 transporting federal prisoners on behalf of the U.S. Marshals Service. Auto theft, unlawful flight, and heroin possession charges against Darius Fontaine simply disappeared into the sunset. Assistant United States Attorney Marvin Goldman headed up the federal prosecution team.
Enter Bino. The big white-haired galoot of a lawyer undertook to defend Tommy Clinger after an interview in his Davis Building office. The hour spent with the steady-eyed police lieutenant, accompanied by his pretty, concerned, and equally steady-eyed wife, Molly, convinced Bino that his new client was getting the royal shaft, and the thought of facing Goldman in court—particularly in a case where public pressure had brought the indictments and the evidence wasn’t likely to be up to snuff—was absolutely mouth-watering.
Law enforcement malignment of Half-a-Point Harrison’s dual role as Bino’s private investigator and one of the leading bookmakers in the area aside, Half’s preti ial work on the case uncovered quite a bag of worms. Much of the ammunition which Bino used in questioning government witnesses—the fact, for example, that Wilfred Cree
ch’s Magnavox bore the same serial number as one stolen during a burglary at Ralph’s Camera Shop—was nothing but a smoke screen, but the real bombshell he reserved for his questioning of Whit Whitley, the black officer-turned—U.S. marshal who was the feds’ star witness. It seemed that voice prints of the racial slur contained on police tapes indicated that Tommy Clinger hadn’t spoken the words at all, and that the voice on the tape was then-Patrolman Whitley’s. The jury convicted Patrolman Waddy Meyers and two other officers, but quickly acquitted Lieutenant Tommy Clinger on all charges. As Tommy and Molly tearfully hugged each other, and then threw their arms around Bino’s neck after the verdict came in, Bino himself had a cold warning chill as he caught Marvin Goldman’s glare from across the courtroom. Bino accepted his client’s thanks, then returned to his normal duties while waiting for the next shoe to fall. He didn’t have the heart to tell Tommy at that point, but the expression on Goldman’s face had told him that the feds weren’t through with Lieutenant Clinger by a long shot. Anyone who beat Goldman once in the courtroom was likely to have the chance to whip old Marv a second time.
Bino didn’t have long to wait. Ever since he’d been practicing law—eighteen years, though it was hard for him to believe it had been that long—rumors had floated around about corruption in the city police’s Vice Division. Since most of the stories about cops looking for handouts in return for keeping the heat off of certain illegal businesses had come from his clients, and since most of the clients had themselves been looking at serious time in TDC when they suddenly remembered the bribe solicitations, Bino hadn’t paid the stories much heed. He had his own deep convictions about victimless crimes, and knew that cornered pimps, hookers, and two-bit gamblers were likely to say anything to make things easier on themselves. For the past two years, Tommy Clinger had headed up the Vice and Patrol Divisions. His boss was a ferret-faced police captain named Terry Nolby.