For most of my career, I wore cordovan oxfords that I shined myself, twice a week. They were the shoes of a striver, a man on the make. They showed that I was careful and deliberate. They represented the version of myself I wanted to show a world that aimed to pigeonhole me on the basis of my race.
These days, tying a shoelace takes too much out of me, so I wear slip-on canvas sneakers. They look like nurse’s shoes, and they say a lot about me as well. They tell you a story of resignation, a story of decline. They tell you about the stream of compromises that have steadily eroded my foundation and turned me into the rickety ruin I have become. But I can step in and out of them without bending over. My doctor—one of my doctors—told me that his goal in treating patients like me is to get us through the day with as little pain as possible. So, slip-on shoes. There’s nothing left for me to aspire to anymore, anyway.
Just as I was lying down on the bed, the cell phone rang.
“Don’t pick it up,” Rose said.
I picked it up. “I’m not supposed to talk to you,” I said to Watkins, who was the only person who would be calling me on that line.
“Says who?” Watkins asked.
“My grandson,” I told him.
“Your grandson gets to tell you what to do?”
“Nobody tells me what to do.”
“That’s for sure,” said Rose.
“So why does it matter what your grandson says if nobody gets to tell you what to do?” Watkins asked.
“He thinks you have it in for me,” I said. “He thinks there’s nothing good that can come from you and me talking. He thinks I shouldn’t dignify your little program with any response except silence.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Watkins was unimpressed. “And what do you think?”
“I think he might have a point.”
“He said, as he did exactly what he had been advised not to do,” said Rose.
“He’s not recording this,” I told her.
“Yes, I am,” Watkins said. “Anytime we talk, I’m running the recorder. I’m probably not going to use this, though. It’s not much good to me. I’d like to sit down with you in person and have a real conversation.”
“I think I am going to take my grandson’s advice,” I said.
“There’s a first time for everything,” said Rose.
“Mr. Schatz, I’m just trying to tell this story—the whole story—the best way that I can. We’re serious about journalism at NPR, and I’m after the facts. If you’re willing to share your side of this story, we’ll put it in front of our listeners. If not, the story I broadcast is going to be missing that piece of the puzzle, and that would be a real shame.”
I laughed. “You’re not going to fool me with that. I invented that,” I told him.
“What do you mean? What did you invent?”
I cleared my throat. “Listen, son, if you want a lawyer, you’ve got a right to a lawyer. You give me the say-so, and I’ll walk out that door and find you one. But if that happens, we’re done talking. I’m going to have to file the paperwork charging you with murder one and pass this case along to the district attorney, and that’s who you’re dealing with from now on. The district attorney is a good man, I guess. But he’s a politician. All he cares about is getting convictions and showing his constituents that he’s tough. Whatever you’ve got to say, he’s not interested in hearing. Now, me—on the other hand—all I want is to get to the truth. And that includes your side of the story. So if you want a lawyer, you can have one, and I’ll go fill out my paperwork. Or I can find us some coffee, and you can say your piece, and I am willing to listen. It’s up to you.”
“I never thought of you as the good cop,” Watkins said.
“I was the best cop,” I told him.
“Well, if you want to square that with what you did to Chester March, I’ll open up my air to you.”
“I’ve got nothing to say about Chester March.”
“Suit yourself.”
TRANSCRIPT: AMERICAN JUSTICE
CARLOS WATKINS (NARRATION): I have contacted the Memphis Police Department several times about Buck Schatz. They won’t provide anyone to sit with me for a recorded interview. Clarence Mathis, the media relations officer for the Memphis Police, sent me this written statement, which I will read in its entirety:
Baruch Schatz is one of the most decorated detectives in the history of the Memphis Police Department. He retired in 1976. No officer currently employed by the Memphis Police worked with Detective Schatz or has any firsthand knowledge of his methods or professional behavior. No officer currently employed by the Memphis Police Department investigated Chester March, or any of the murders he has been convicted of. No Memphis Police officers have provided testimony in any court proceedings regarding these cases in the last two decades. We have responded to your requests to provide copies of Detective Schatz’s records, and we have complied to the extent required by law. We have no further information to provide to you regarding this matter. You may find it more productive to contact a local historian; there are several who are well versed in the history of the Memphis Police.
When I received that, I was angry. I felt they were stonewalling me a little bit. But on further reflection, maybe this is fair. They don’t know Buck Schatz. They don’t employ Buck Schatz. There’s no institutional memory to tap into here; nobody currently working there knows anything about this case. All they can do is look at the same documents that I have already looked at and tell me things I already know. Nonetheless, I was hoping that an official with the Memphis Police would try to defend Schatz’s conduct or else repudiate his actions. They weren’t willing to do either.
So I called up the Memphis Police Association, which is the union that represents Memphis police, including retired police. One of the first things a journalist learns when covering crime is that you always call the police union when the police department won’t talk to you. These guys are less constrained by bureaucracy, and they tend to be larger-than-life characters who give great sound bites. They also represent Schatz, so they have to speak to me.
RICK LYNCH: Hi there, I’m Rick Lynch. I’m a former police detective, out of St. Louis, and now I work for the Memphis Police Association, negotiating with the city and dealing with media on behalf of Memphis police officers.
WATKINS: How well do you know Buck Schatz?
LYNCH: I spoke to him recently—him and his grandson. They wanted to let me know you might be getting in touch. I’m not exactly a young man, but I ain’t old enough to have been around during Buck’s heyday. So what I know about him is what is in the records. I went through them after I got your e-mail. It’s a thick folder, and it’s got a lot of commendations in it. It’s got a lot of letters from family members of murder victims talking about how Detective Schatz was relentless in his pursuit of justice for their loved ones. Folks were grateful that he always seemed to take their losses personally, when other institutional actors seemed indifferent. That’s a mark of a good detective. And he seems to have been a good detective. Schatz was willing to work the cases other detectives didn’t want, but his clearance numbers were among the best in the department, every year, from the mid-’50s to the mid-’70s.
But the file has also got some complaints about excessive force, and some of the reports that the department produces after internally investigating a police-involved shooting. In every case, Detective Schatz was cleared of any wrongdoing, but there are a bunch of them. He killed a lot of criminal suspects, and he beat up a lot more. I understand you’ve seen the same documents, so I am not sure what I more I can tell you.
WATKINS: Do you think that’s acceptable, all those shootings and beatings?
LYNCH: Well, here’s what I can tell you: Memphis is a majority-minority city, and today’s Memphis police make community outreach a core value. Our department is headed by an African American police director, and many other top leadership roles are also held by black officials. We’re proud, as well, of the diversity we’ve achiev
ed among our rank and file, and of the trust we’ve built in Memphis’s minority communities. And the work we do to build a police force that represents the community yields exceptional results. The Memphis Police Department clears about three-quarters of our homicides. In demographically and socioeconomically similar cities like Baltimore, New Orleans, Chicago, and Detroit, police clear less than half their murders. Some of them, less than a third.
WATKINS: I’m not sure that answers my question.
LYNCH: The compassion Schatz evidently showed to victims and their families is something we like to see in detectives. And he closed a lot of cases and caught a lot of bad guys. But he was quick to resort to force, and we wouldn’t tolerate that from a detective today. And the frequency with which he used lethal methods is honestly shocking.
WATKINS: Do you know any other police officers who have been involved in as many shootings as Buck Schatz?
LYNCH: No. If an officer kills a suspect today, any department is going to take a real close look at the circumstances in which he made that decision. If an officer who has killed a suspect before kills another suspect, every aspect of his conduct in both instances will need to be completely unimpeachable for him to be allowed back onto the street. I can think of a very small number of officers who have fired their service weapons in more than one incident, and none who have done it more than twice. We place a lot of value on our relationship with the community, and we can’t maintain that with killer cops running around.
WATKINS: So you’re saying that Buck Schatz’s conduct is unacceptable.
LYNCH: I’m saying he’s from a different time. He joined the force after getting back from World War II, and he was a cop during Korea and Vietnam. He prowled these streets in the middle of a century defined by the worst carnage in human history. Maybe in the ‘60s it was considered normal for a detective to go out and shoot all the bad guys. I don’t know what it was like then, but based on the records, he was viewed as a good cop by the standards of his day.
That isn’t how we do things anymore. Modern officers have less lethal ways to deal with violent suspects, things like pepper spray and Tasers and beanbag guns. Schatz only had a nightstick and a sidearm. Today, we have newer, more sophisticated training and tactics, far better communications technology, and a lot more officers. That means it’s a lot easier to call for backup, and help will arrive a lot faster. A suspect being pursued by one detective is more likely to flee or resist than a suspect who is surrounded by a dozen cops. So we have fewer incidents in which use of force is likely to be necessary. Officers today also have training on how to defuse volatile situations that Detective Schatz’s generation didn’t get. And we have officers and paramedics who are specially trained to deal with addicts and the mentally ill.
WATKINS: What do you think about beating confessions out of suspects in detention?
LYNCH: I can’t imagine that’s ever been an acceptable police practice.
WATKINS: All right, Mr. Lynch. Thanks for your time.
16
The doctor’s office didn’t look like a doctor’s office. Pincus and another headshrinker shared a suite in a regular building off of Poplar Avenue, and his neighbors were lawyers and accountants. It made sense; if people had to come see him every week, they wouldn’t want to have to visit a hospital or one of the medical parks and see all the real sick folks in the parking lot.
A little bell rang when Rose opened the door, which let him know we were there. He had a waiting room—windowless, with a couple of cheap-looking sofas and a coffee table with some magazines on it. There was no receptionist. The sofas were low to the ground, and I knew I would have a hard time getting up once I sat down on one, but I didn’t know how long Pincus would keep me waiting. Even with the walker to lean on, I wouldn’t be able to stand for very long. Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. I lowered myself onto the rough woven upholstery.
Pincus left us in there just long enough that I couldn’t have stood, but not quite long enough to make the effort required to sit down and then get back up feel worthwhile. I disliked him immediately, but when he offered his arm to help me pull myself off the couch, I took it.
“Dr. Mohammed has told me a lot about you, Mr. Schatz, and I must say that it’s an honor to meet a man with your distinguished record of service.”
I recalled something Tequila had said, which seemed appropriate for this situation: “Eat a dick.”
“Buck!” said Rose.
“Why don’t you step inside, and we can discuss where this hostility is coming from,” Pincus said, and he opened his door.
“How about let’s not and say we did,” I suggested. But Rose walked into the office, and I pushed my walker behind her.
The doctor’s inner sanctum was a lot nicer than the waiting room. The office took up a lot of space, for starters; thirty feet by eighteen, I figured. Bigger than the room we lived in at Valhalla. In one corner he had a heavy wooden desk, like the kind a ship’s captain might sit behind while he consulted his charts. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of serious-looking medical and psychological texts that Pincus had probably never read. The middle of the room was mostly occupied by a leather sofa and a somewhat imposing-looking armchair. Between the chair and the sofa was a glass-topped coffee table, upon which rested a leather-bound notebook, a Montblanc pen, and a box of tissues. No ashtrays in sight.
“The Kleenex are a nice touch,” I said.
“Things can get pretty real in here sometimes, so those are here in case my patients need them,” said the doctor.
“You mean because all of this is a big jerk-off?” I asked.
Pincus stared at me, his face expressionless. This guy was about as sharp as a baseball bat.
“You’re not as funny as you think you are, Buck,” Rose said.
“Yes, I am,” I told her.
The doctor smiled at me. He was in his mid-forties and clean-shaven, with thinning hair, wearing a collared shirt with no jacket and a pair of khaki pants. He looked like a church pastor or a child molester, if there’s even a difference between those things. “Before we begin, can I offer you a glass of water or anything?” Ever congenial, this guy.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. “You’d better get me a glass or an ashtray unless you want a mess on your rug,” I said.
I expected him to tell me I couldn’t smoke in his office, but he flipped a switch on the wall to turn on his ceiling fan, and then he went and found an ashtray in his desk drawer.
While he was doing that, I sat in the armchair.
“Oh, that’s my seat,” Pincus said.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to take it with me when I leave.”
Pincus shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “This is a safe and friendly space, but it has to be bounded by certain rules, and one of the rules is that the chair is mine. I need you to sit on the sofa.”
I scratched my chin. “Listen, Dr. Pincushion, I appreciate where you’re coming from, but I am an older gentleman, and it takes a fair bit of effort for me to get up. Perhaps you noticed my mobility assistance device.” I gestured toward the walker. “If it’s all the same, I’d prefer to just sit here.”
“It’s not all the same, and you may not sit there,” he said. “As soon as you move, we can begin.”
I turned to Rose. “Is this guy serious?”
She sat on the sofa. “Why don’t you join me over here?”
“Fine,” I said, but I made a show of stretching out the process of hauling myself out of the cushy recesses of the armchair. As soon as I was clear of it, Pincus slid into the seat and folded his hands in his lap, to watch as I pushed the walker over to the couch. I grumbled, cursed, and complained the whole way.
When I finally situated myself, he picked up his notebook and unscrewed the cap of his fancy pen. It was a ballpoint, not the fountain. Who buys a Montblanc ballpoint? What a phony.
“You knew when you sat down that this was my
chair, didn’t you, Mr. Schatz?” he asked.
“I didn’t think that much about it, to be honest,” I said.
“I don’t think you’re being very honest at all,” Pincus said. “I’m sure, even if you have never been to a psychologist’s office, that you have seen one on television. Most people know that a psychologist sits in his chair and the patient sits or lies on the couch. Even if you were unfamiliar with that convention, you could see, based on where my notebook and my pen were situated, that I intended to sit here. I believe you recognized that this was my position, and you immediately moved to occupy it. Why do you think you did that?”
Rose shifted her weight next to me and began pawing around in her handbag, in search of nothing in particular.
“The chair looked more comfortable than the couch,” I said. “Like your guy Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
“Well, maybe. But I think you were challenging me, and I don’t believe you ever would have trusted or respected me enough to get anywhere in therapy if I hadn’t stood up to you in your little dominance ritual.”
“And you think I respect you now?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Mr. Schatz. But I think, in the future, you will stay out of my chair,” Pincus told me.
I laughed at him. He was not smiling.
“Dr. Mohammed referred you to me because he thinks you’ve had a rough last couple of years. He told me that you were shot and have had a difficult and incomplete recovery. He told me that, as a result of your injuries, you had to move out of your home and into a more accessible facility, and you had to give up driving.”
I was holding the pack of Lucky Strikes in my hand. Pincus reached into his pocket, produced a plastic Bic lighter, and offered it to me. I took it from him, lit the cigarette, and tossed the lighter onto the table.
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