Direct Evidence, page 6
“And what if you act all sorry ‘n shit in front of Judge Chiarelli?”
“He do this thing with his wrinkled ass face, and even though he don’t say nuttin’ you know what he thinkin’: he thinkin’ why you be all sad now, if you sad, you shouldna done in the first place.”
“That’s right,” Rodrick said with a laugh. “All right, get tha fuck outta here.”
Carter nodded and went back to his crew.
When they were alone again, Rodrick said to Stu, “See? Just lemme know who you gots, Gramps, and I’ll help you out. Oh, and don’t think cuz you an old cracker that things be different, you know? These judges done seen it all.”
Stu thanked Rodrick, then popped a piece of gum in his mouth.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me out?”
Rodrick shrugged.
“Why? I dunno… I guess cuz I just know how it goin’ be in ESP. And it ain’t going to be like this. Nothin’ goin’ be like this up der.”
It was a strange, nonsensical answer, perhaps the first that Rodrick had given him since opening his mouth.
“You going to ESP?”
Rodrick looked away and took a breath.
“Yeah, prolly. Like you, they got me on a hot one. And I think I’m going down for it this time.”
Chapter 12
Tate reached across the passenger seat and opened the door.
“Get in.”
Floyd hesitated.
“Where we going?”
“Just get in the car,” Tate said. “C’mon, we don’t have all day.”
The second Floyd sat and before he’d even closed the door, Tate pumped the gas and pulled away from Grassroots.
“Jesus,” Floyd said, hurrying to buckle up. “What’s the rush?”
What’s the rush? The rush is I have one day to come up with an ungodly amount of cash I don’t have, Tate thought. That’s the rush.
That didn’t sound right, even in his own head, so Tate ignored the question and changed the subject.
“How was your appointment? Clean checkup? No gonorrhea? Crabs?” his face remained stoic despite the jokes.
“Naw, it’s all good,” Floyd replied in a far-off voice.
“Yeah?” Tate was genuinely interested now.
“Clean bill of health.” Floyd hesitated then added, “Seriously, thanks for making me go in there. I think it really did help.”
“No problem,” Tate said, but he was distracted now. They’d arrived in one of the seedier areas of Suffolk County and he slowed, his eyes scanning the sidewalk and alleyways. This place reminded him of Junkie’s Row in Columbus. Every city had one, of lesser or greater degrees, and Quantico was no different. But he wasn’t looking for just any junkie.
Tate was searching for someone specific.
“You okay?” Floyd asked. The seriousness in his partner’s tone caused Tate to look over at him.
“I’m fine. Why you asking?”
Floyd made a face and shrugged.
“Sorry,” Tate said, realizing that he was being unduly harsh. “I’ve just been having one of those days.”
“You eat something bad? Something didn’t agree with you?”
It took Tate a few seconds to realize what the hell Floyd was talking about. He looked down at himself and realized that he was hunched, and his shoulders were rolled forward. He still felt the impact of the blow to his stomach. His abs were knotted and tight and he couldn’t seem to draw a full breath.
“Oh, yeah, gas station sushi. Does it to me every time.”
Tate did his best to assume a more natural posture and then went back to staring out the window.
He spotted a face peek out from a particularly grimy alley before ducking back into the shadows.
“What are we doing here anyway? What are you looking for?”
Not what, but who, Tate thought.
“This is a local drug hangout. Pushers and pimps, that sort of thing. They all hang out here.”
Floyd shrugged.
“Okay, so… what are we doing here? Did you grab another case while I was seeing Dr. Matteo? Something local?”
“Nope,” Tate said, popping the ‘p’. “Nothing like that.”
Floyd sighed and he rubbed his eyes.
“Then what—“
Tate cut him off by suddenly pointing at a kid with a shaved head. His pants were nearly at his ankles, and he held his crotch as he strutted.
“I know you didn’t come from law enforcement, have no experience with it. You literally skipped basic math and went directly to calculus. And let me tell you something, Floyd, calculus is fucking hard.”
Floyd’s upper lip curled.
“What? Can you speak plainly for once? I have no idea—“
“There!” Tate slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car.
“Tate?” Floyd cursed and followed his partner onto the street. “What the hell are we doing here?”
“Learning basic math,” Tate shouted over his shoulder.
The wannabe thug heard Tate and craned his head over his shoulder. When he saw who it was, his eyes went wide, and he hiked up his jeans.
Then he started to run.
“Shit!” Tate yelled. He pointed down an alley. “Go that way! Floyd, go that way! Cut him off!”
Floyd held his hands up.
“What are—“
“Just go that way!” Tate swore. “Cut him off!”
He waited for Floyd to finally start to move, before chasing after the thug. It didn’t take long to catch him; his pants were like a parachute, slowing him down. In truth, Tate didn’t mean to shove the much younger and smaller man to the ground, but the man’s gait was incredibly awkward, and their feet got tangled.
And as Tate was going down, he decided that it was in his best interest to go down on top of the other man.
“You been hiding from me, Frankie,” Tate said, pinning the man’s arms to the ground beneath him.
He shot a glance over his shoulder. Floyd was nowhere to be seen.
“I ain’t been hiding, Tate. Now, let me the fuck up.”
“Quiet,” Tate hissed. He moved the man’s thin wrists together, over his head, and pressed them down with one hand. Then Tate used his free hand to start rifling through the man’s oversized pockets.
“What the fuck, man?” Frankie protested. “It’s been slow, I ain’t—“
Tate pulled a thick wad of bills, held together by a blue elastic band from the back pocket of the man’s jeans.
“Slow my ass.” He let go of Frankie’s arms and wagged the stack in front of his face. “Is this what you call slow?”
“I need that. It ain’t even mine.”
Tate sat up, then got to his feet and brushed off his knees.
“That’s the first true thing you’ve said to me.”
He slipped the bills into his own pocket and Frankie sucked his teeth.
“What the fuck? You don’t understand, that—“
Tate suddenly reached down and grabbed the man by the collar and pulled his slender upper body off the ground.
“No, you don’t understand. We had a deal. You give me ten percent of your take and let me know when any big deals are going down, and I don’t haul your sorry ass to jail each and every morning. That’s the fucking deal. And you haven’t paid up recently, which means, you’re not upholding your part of the bargain. So, I’m keeping this cash.”
Frankie’s face started to turn red, but before he had a mind to protest, Tate shoved him back down.
The young man grunted when his shoulder blades smacked off the cracked asphalt.
“Ten percent,” Tate hissed. “Ten—“
“Tate! Everything okay?”
Floyd, breathing heavily, appeared at Tate’s side.
“I’m fine.” Tate brushed himself off again, this time surreptitiously adjusting the stack of bills in his pocket. “Perfectly, a-okay.”
“A-okay? This motherfucker just robbed me,” Frankie cried, making his way to a seated position. “This corrupt motherfucker robbed me.”
Chapter 13
“Why you look so shocked, Gramps? You tell me you’re in here for a hot one, when I tell you the same, you look like you just shit your pants.”
Stu was tempted to correct the man. He hadn’t said anything about why he was in here, Rodrick had asked the guard.
“I get it, it’s cuz you didn’t actually do nobody, right? Falsely accused?”
Stu nodded ever so slightly, and this made Rodrick laugh.
“You wanna know somethin’ funny, Gramps?”
“Sure,” Stu replied dryly.
“I didn’t do mine either.” Rodrick made a grandiose gesture, indicating everyone in the meeting area, including the kid who had come over earlier. “But that’s what erryone in this room would tell ya. Difference is, if you’s tellin’ the truth, then so am I.”
Rodrick let this hang in the air as if begging Stu to challenge them, which he had no intention of doing.
Even though the reality of being caged had set in, the entire scenario was still surreal. If someone had told Stu two days ago that he would be in jail, sitting in a blue CCDC jumpsuit across from a six-foot-five black man with a tattoo on his face telling him his life story, he would’ve thought that he’d accidentally switched his micro dose of psilocybin for fentanyl.
But here he was, and Stu didn’t see any other options at the moment other than just going with the flow.
“You wanna go first, or me?” Rodrick asked. Stu wasn’t really sure what was being proposed, so he said nothing. The big man sighed. “Look, Gramps, if you go down for the hot one you didn’t commit, you better get used to listenin’ and telling stories. Because that’s all we do. People whine about how they got fucked by the system, how dey black and that’s why they’s in here… day in, day out, they run their mouths. And when they all outta stories of they own, they just tell other people’s stories. By the end of yer first year on the inside you’ve heard them all—and I mean, all. The only way to stop hearin’ ‘em is to start tellin’ ‘em some of yer own.” Rodrick grinned and interlaced his fingers. “So, you wanna go first, or should I?”
Stu mulled over the man’s words and then shrugged and started to speak. He’d been told that he was a good storyteller, that this was one of the skills that had helped him turn his business from low nine figures to ten. But his wasn’t much of a story.
“There’s a video,” Stu said, eyes downcast. “There’s a video of someone who looks exactly like me shooting one of my employees in the head. Twice. I don’t know this guy—never met him. I don’t do the day-to-day thing with any of my companies…”
Rodrick stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Stu admitted with a shrug.
“You cappin’, homie. That can’t be everything. What about disclosure?”
“Haven’t seen it yet. That’s all they told me. I’ve seen the video though, and it looks like me. Like, a lot.”
“Aw, shit,” Rodrick said, a slight grin appearing on his face as he leaned backward in the hard metal chair.
“What? I didn’t do it. I know it looks like me, but it’s gotta be a fake.”
“Now, not that.” Rodrick waved Stu’s comments away. “It’s just, they must really have it out for you, Gramps.”
Stu’s eyebrows knitted.
“Why’s that?”
“Because they holdin’ on ya, waiting until the very last moment to show you what they got on ya. I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow right before your arraignment you get a visit from the DA offering you a deal at the same time, they show you what they got. They tryin’ to sweat you, confuse you, and overwhelm you. They keep you locked up in here until the twenty-third hour then spring erryting on ya. It’s called being in the cooker. Just surprised they doin’ to you… normally they only pull out them bush league tactics for niggas like me.”
Rodrick was smiling, but Stu wasn’t.
He was angry.
“But here’s the thing, Gramps, whatever deal they offer you tomorra, it goin’ be der six months from now before your trial. They tell you it ain’t, but it will. And it’ll get better, too. Like I said before, Gramps, ain’t nobody wanna go to trial. Trial cost money and time and ain’t nobody got neither a’ dat. That just ain’t the way things work.”
Stu tucked this information away, making a mental note to bring it up with Will Porter.
“What about you?” Stu asked. “What’s your story?”
Asking Rodrick about his case was good etiquette, inside jail or elsewhere. But Stu was genuinely interested. Fact was, walking cliché or not, Big Roddy was an interesting man.
“I got a call.” The smile fell off Rodrick’s face as he began to talk. “A homie said they was in trouble and needed a pick him up. So, that’s what I did, I got into my whip and picked ‘em up. They jumped in the car and just told me to go. Drove right into a roadblock. I did the right thing, the thing that every black man is told to do when the po-lice is on ya: put ya hands on the wheel, look straight ahead, no sudden movements. I ain’t gonna lie, Gramps, I got a few convictions on my record, but nothing major. But my boy… well, they dragged his ass out the car. They found a piece on him and some cash. They say he capped someone and robbed them, then called me for a pickup.”
Rodrick stopped and Stu waited for the man to finish his story.
But that appeared to be the end of it.
“That’s it? And for that… they charged you with murder?”
Rodrick shrugged.
“I mean, they prolly goin’ knock it down to manslaughter, but yeah. They says I was the getaway driver. And it don’t matter that I ain’t never pulled the trigger. My mans was robbin’ someone and all parties be guilty of all crimes during the commission of a felony.”
“Did anybody put you at the scene?”
“Naw.”
“What about you friend? Did he—“
“I dunno what he say, but it don’t really matter. Thing is, erryone be all tough and they say they ain’t never gonna snitch. But when a suit tells you you goin’ away for life? You tweet like a motherfuckin’ bird. Trust.”
“But was your car spotted at the scene?”
“Naw, I wan’t der.”
“And you know nothing about this robbery or shooting?”
Rodrick shrugged.
“I know nuttin’.”
“Who’s this other guy?”
“I know him from the hood. Motherfucker got a rap sheet longer than Santa Claus’ list.”
Rodrick was playing a role—in here, they all were. He was the tough guy, the one who saw jail as just part of life.
But Stu heard something in the man’s voice. He wouldn’t go as far as to say it was fear, but it was close.
More like regret.
Rodrick, who had been looking off to one side, suddenly clenched his jaw and popped his knuckles.
“Anyway, that’s my story, and that’s why I’m goin’ away for a long, long motherfuckin’ time, Gramps.”
Chapter 14
“I’m gonna rob you of your freedom in a minute, Frankie,” Tate warned, shooting the man on the ground a death stare.
Floyd was confused by what was happening. Tate had gone from forcing him to see Dr. Matteo to taking him on a field trip that he got the impression was supposed to look spontaneous and random but was anything but.
Even Tate’s bizarre mathematical analogy didn’t fit. On many an occasion, his partner had told him directly then sometimes you were better off if you came to the Bureau without a background in policing. That way you didn’t bring your baggage and biases with you.
“Whatever,” Frankie grumbled. Tate continued to glare at the skinny man, who could have been anywhere from fifteen to thirty-five years of age, as he struggled to get to his feet. “Can I go now?” He hiked up his pants, which were large enough to contain three of him. “Can I fucking go?”
“Yeah, just keep your nose clean.”
Frankie flipped them off, hiked up his pants, and sauntered away.
“What was that all about?” Floyd asked as they watched the man go.
“I thought he was someone else,” Tate said. “Anyway, he didn’t have anything on him. Come on, let’s go.”
Floyd was even more confused when he got back into Tate’s car.
“Who did you… who did you think he was?” Floyd asked.
Tate started the engine.
“Nobody.”
“But you—“
Tate’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Look,” he said sharply, “I was just trying to teach you a lesson on the basics, alright? Just forget about it. It was stupid.”
Tate was a master of disguise. Floyd knew this better than most. The man had an uncanny ability to ascertain very quickly what he needed to become in order to obtain whatever it was he wanted: be it information or a confession or just gossip.
This made Tate, the real Tate, a very difficult man to read. You never knew if what you were seeing at any given moment was the real Tate.
But this… this tightly wound, and slightly manic version of his partner seemed genuine. Paradoxically, it also seemed nothing like the man Floyd knew.
Or thought he knew.
Floyd decided to push the issue a little more than he normally would.
“Right, just so we’re c-clear, you thought that instead of looking into new cases, we should drive around looking for what? Junkies? That guy back there—Frankie, or whatever—what would you have done if you did find something on him?”
“What anybody would do: call the cops.”
The response was so bizarre that Floyd found himself unable to continue with the conversation.
“Tate, c’mon. What’s going on? You send me to Grassroots and—“
“There, right there.” Tate pointed out Floyd’s window. “You see that guy?”
Floyd followed the man’s finger, which was aimed at a young black kid sporting a wife beater and low-hanging jeans. Not as low as Frankie’s but close.
“Yeah,” Floyd said hesitantly. “I see him. What about him?”
“I’ll go right for him, you dart down the alley like last time, in case he runs.”
“He do this thing with his wrinkled ass face, and even though he don’t say nuttin’ you know what he thinkin’: he thinkin’ why you be all sad now, if you sad, you shouldna done in the first place.”
“That’s right,” Rodrick said with a laugh. “All right, get tha fuck outta here.”
Carter nodded and went back to his crew.
When they were alone again, Rodrick said to Stu, “See? Just lemme know who you gots, Gramps, and I’ll help you out. Oh, and don’t think cuz you an old cracker that things be different, you know? These judges done seen it all.”
Stu thanked Rodrick, then popped a piece of gum in his mouth.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me out?”
Rodrick shrugged.
“Why? I dunno… I guess cuz I just know how it goin’ be in ESP. And it ain’t going to be like this. Nothin’ goin’ be like this up der.”
It was a strange, nonsensical answer, perhaps the first that Rodrick had given him since opening his mouth.
“You going to ESP?”
Rodrick looked away and took a breath.
“Yeah, prolly. Like you, they got me on a hot one. And I think I’m going down for it this time.”
Chapter 12
Tate reached across the passenger seat and opened the door.
“Get in.”
Floyd hesitated.
“Where we going?”
“Just get in the car,” Tate said. “C’mon, we don’t have all day.”
The second Floyd sat and before he’d even closed the door, Tate pumped the gas and pulled away from Grassroots.
“Jesus,” Floyd said, hurrying to buckle up. “What’s the rush?”
What’s the rush? The rush is I have one day to come up with an ungodly amount of cash I don’t have, Tate thought. That’s the rush.
That didn’t sound right, even in his own head, so Tate ignored the question and changed the subject.
“How was your appointment? Clean checkup? No gonorrhea? Crabs?” his face remained stoic despite the jokes.
“Naw, it’s all good,” Floyd replied in a far-off voice.
“Yeah?” Tate was genuinely interested now.
“Clean bill of health.” Floyd hesitated then added, “Seriously, thanks for making me go in there. I think it really did help.”
“No problem,” Tate said, but he was distracted now. They’d arrived in one of the seedier areas of Suffolk County and he slowed, his eyes scanning the sidewalk and alleyways. This place reminded him of Junkie’s Row in Columbus. Every city had one, of lesser or greater degrees, and Quantico was no different. But he wasn’t looking for just any junkie.
Tate was searching for someone specific.
“You okay?” Floyd asked. The seriousness in his partner’s tone caused Tate to look over at him.
“I’m fine. Why you asking?”
Floyd made a face and shrugged.
“Sorry,” Tate said, realizing that he was being unduly harsh. “I’ve just been having one of those days.”
“You eat something bad? Something didn’t agree with you?”
It took Tate a few seconds to realize what the hell Floyd was talking about. He looked down at himself and realized that he was hunched, and his shoulders were rolled forward. He still felt the impact of the blow to his stomach. His abs were knotted and tight and he couldn’t seem to draw a full breath.
“Oh, yeah, gas station sushi. Does it to me every time.”
Tate did his best to assume a more natural posture and then went back to staring out the window.
He spotted a face peek out from a particularly grimy alley before ducking back into the shadows.
“What are we doing here anyway? What are you looking for?”
Not what, but who, Tate thought.
“This is a local drug hangout. Pushers and pimps, that sort of thing. They all hang out here.”
Floyd shrugged.
“Okay, so… what are we doing here? Did you grab another case while I was seeing Dr. Matteo? Something local?”
“Nope,” Tate said, popping the ‘p’. “Nothing like that.”
Floyd sighed and he rubbed his eyes.
“Then what—“
Tate cut him off by suddenly pointing at a kid with a shaved head. His pants were nearly at his ankles, and he held his crotch as he strutted.
“I know you didn’t come from law enforcement, have no experience with it. You literally skipped basic math and went directly to calculus. And let me tell you something, Floyd, calculus is fucking hard.”
Floyd’s upper lip curled.
“What? Can you speak plainly for once? I have no idea—“
“There!” Tate slammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car.
“Tate?” Floyd cursed and followed his partner onto the street. “What the hell are we doing here?”
“Learning basic math,” Tate shouted over his shoulder.
The wannabe thug heard Tate and craned his head over his shoulder. When he saw who it was, his eyes went wide, and he hiked up his jeans.
Then he started to run.
“Shit!” Tate yelled. He pointed down an alley. “Go that way! Floyd, go that way! Cut him off!”
Floyd held his hands up.
“What are—“
“Just go that way!” Tate swore. “Cut him off!”
He waited for Floyd to finally start to move, before chasing after the thug. It didn’t take long to catch him; his pants were like a parachute, slowing him down. In truth, Tate didn’t mean to shove the much younger and smaller man to the ground, but the man’s gait was incredibly awkward, and their feet got tangled.
And as Tate was going down, he decided that it was in his best interest to go down on top of the other man.
“You been hiding from me, Frankie,” Tate said, pinning the man’s arms to the ground beneath him.
He shot a glance over his shoulder. Floyd was nowhere to be seen.
“I ain’t been hiding, Tate. Now, let me the fuck up.”
“Quiet,” Tate hissed. He moved the man’s thin wrists together, over his head, and pressed them down with one hand. Then Tate used his free hand to start rifling through the man’s oversized pockets.
“What the fuck, man?” Frankie protested. “It’s been slow, I ain’t—“
Tate pulled a thick wad of bills, held together by a blue elastic band from the back pocket of the man’s jeans.
“Slow my ass.” He let go of Frankie’s arms and wagged the stack in front of his face. “Is this what you call slow?”
“I need that. It ain’t even mine.”
Tate sat up, then got to his feet and brushed off his knees.
“That’s the first true thing you’ve said to me.”
He slipped the bills into his own pocket and Frankie sucked his teeth.
“What the fuck? You don’t understand, that—“
Tate suddenly reached down and grabbed the man by the collar and pulled his slender upper body off the ground.
“No, you don’t understand. We had a deal. You give me ten percent of your take and let me know when any big deals are going down, and I don’t haul your sorry ass to jail each and every morning. That’s the fucking deal. And you haven’t paid up recently, which means, you’re not upholding your part of the bargain. So, I’m keeping this cash.”
Frankie’s face started to turn red, but before he had a mind to protest, Tate shoved him back down.
The young man grunted when his shoulder blades smacked off the cracked asphalt.
“Ten percent,” Tate hissed. “Ten—“
“Tate! Everything okay?”
Floyd, breathing heavily, appeared at Tate’s side.
“I’m fine.” Tate brushed himself off again, this time surreptitiously adjusting the stack of bills in his pocket. “Perfectly, a-okay.”
“A-okay? This motherfucker just robbed me,” Frankie cried, making his way to a seated position. “This corrupt motherfucker robbed me.”
Chapter 13
“Why you look so shocked, Gramps? You tell me you’re in here for a hot one, when I tell you the same, you look like you just shit your pants.”
Stu was tempted to correct the man. He hadn’t said anything about why he was in here, Rodrick had asked the guard.
“I get it, it’s cuz you didn’t actually do nobody, right? Falsely accused?”
Stu nodded ever so slightly, and this made Rodrick laugh.
“You wanna know somethin’ funny, Gramps?”
“Sure,” Stu replied dryly.
“I didn’t do mine either.” Rodrick made a grandiose gesture, indicating everyone in the meeting area, including the kid who had come over earlier. “But that’s what erryone in this room would tell ya. Difference is, if you’s tellin’ the truth, then so am I.”
Rodrick let this hang in the air as if begging Stu to challenge them, which he had no intention of doing.
Even though the reality of being caged had set in, the entire scenario was still surreal. If someone had told Stu two days ago that he would be in jail, sitting in a blue CCDC jumpsuit across from a six-foot-five black man with a tattoo on his face telling him his life story, he would’ve thought that he’d accidentally switched his micro dose of psilocybin for fentanyl.
But here he was, and Stu didn’t see any other options at the moment other than just going with the flow.
“You wanna go first, or me?” Rodrick asked. Stu wasn’t really sure what was being proposed, so he said nothing. The big man sighed. “Look, Gramps, if you go down for the hot one you didn’t commit, you better get used to listenin’ and telling stories. Because that’s all we do. People whine about how they got fucked by the system, how dey black and that’s why they’s in here… day in, day out, they run their mouths. And when they all outta stories of they own, they just tell other people’s stories. By the end of yer first year on the inside you’ve heard them all—and I mean, all. The only way to stop hearin’ ‘em is to start tellin’ ‘em some of yer own.” Rodrick grinned and interlaced his fingers. “So, you wanna go first, or should I?”
Stu mulled over the man’s words and then shrugged and started to speak. He’d been told that he was a good storyteller, that this was one of the skills that had helped him turn his business from low nine figures to ten. But his wasn’t much of a story.
“There’s a video,” Stu said, eyes downcast. “There’s a video of someone who looks exactly like me shooting one of my employees in the head. Twice. I don’t know this guy—never met him. I don’t do the day-to-day thing with any of my companies…”
Rodrick stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Stu admitted with a shrug.
“You cappin’, homie. That can’t be everything. What about disclosure?”
“Haven’t seen it yet. That’s all they told me. I’ve seen the video though, and it looks like me. Like, a lot.”
“Aw, shit,” Rodrick said, a slight grin appearing on his face as he leaned backward in the hard metal chair.
“What? I didn’t do it. I know it looks like me, but it’s gotta be a fake.”
“Now, not that.” Rodrick waved Stu’s comments away. “It’s just, they must really have it out for you, Gramps.”
Stu’s eyebrows knitted.
“Why’s that?”
“Because they holdin’ on ya, waiting until the very last moment to show you what they got on ya. I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow right before your arraignment you get a visit from the DA offering you a deal at the same time, they show you what they got. They tryin’ to sweat you, confuse you, and overwhelm you. They keep you locked up in here until the twenty-third hour then spring erryting on ya. It’s called being in the cooker. Just surprised they doin’ to you… normally they only pull out them bush league tactics for niggas like me.”
Rodrick was smiling, but Stu wasn’t.
He was angry.
“But here’s the thing, Gramps, whatever deal they offer you tomorra, it goin’ be der six months from now before your trial. They tell you it ain’t, but it will. And it’ll get better, too. Like I said before, Gramps, ain’t nobody wanna go to trial. Trial cost money and time and ain’t nobody got neither a’ dat. That just ain’t the way things work.”
Stu tucked this information away, making a mental note to bring it up with Will Porter.
“What about you?” Stu asked. “What’s your story?”
Asking Rodrick about his case was good etiquette, inside jail or elsewhere. But Stu was genuinely interested. Fact was, walking cliché or not, Big Roddy was an interesting man.
“I got a call.” The smile fell off Rodrick’s face as he began to talk. “A homie said they was in trouble and needed a pick him up. So, that’s what I did, I got into my whip and picked ‘em up. They jumped in the car and just told me to go. Drove right into a roadblock. I did the right thing, the thing that every black man is told to do when the po-lice is on ya: put ya hands on the wheel, look straight ahead, no sudden movements. I ain’t gonna lie, Gramps, I got a few convictions on my record, but nothing major. But my boy… well, they dragged his ass out the car. They found a piece on him and some cash. They say he capped someone and robbed them, then called me for a pickup.”
Rodrick stopped and Stu waited for the man to finish his story.
But that appeared to be the end of it.
“That’s it? And for that… they charged you with murder?”
Rodrick shrugged.
“I mean, they prolly goin’ knock it down to manslaughter, but yeah. They says I was the getaway driver. And it don’t matter that I ain’t never pulled the trigger. My mans was robbin’ someone and all parties be guilty of all crimes during the commission of a felony.”
“Did anybody put you at the scene?”
“Naw.”
“What about you friend? Did he—“
“I dunno what he say, but it don’t really matter. Thing is, erryone be all tough and they say they ain’t never gonna snitch. But when a suit tells you you goin’ away for life? You tweet like a motherfuckin’ bird. Trust.”
“But was your car spotted at the scene?”
“Naw, I wan’t der.”
“And you know nothing about this robbery or shooting?”
Rodrick shrugged.
“I know nuttin’.”
“Who’s this other guy?”
“I know him from the hood. Motherfucker got a rap sheet longer than Santa Claus’ list.”
Rodrick was playing a role—in here, they all were. He was the tough guy, the one who saw jail as just part of life.
But Stu heard something in the man’s voice. He wouldn’t go as far as to say it was fear, but it was close.
More like regret.
Rodrick, who had been looking off to one side, suddenly clenched his jaw and popped his knuckles.
“Anyway, that’s my story, and that’s why I’m goin’ away for a long, long motherfuckin’ time, Gramps.”
Chapter 14
“I’m gonna rob you of your freedom in a minute, Frankie,” Tate warned, shooting the man on the ground a death stare.
Floyd was confused by what was happening. Tate had gone from forcing him to see Dr. Matteo to taking him on a field trip that he got the impression was supposed to look spontaneous and random but was anything but.
Even Tate’s bizarre mathematical analogy didn’t fit. On many an occasion, his partner had told him directly then sometimes you were better off if you came to the Bureau without a background in policing. That way you didn’t bring your baggage and biases with you.
“Whatever,” Frankie grumbled. Tate continued to glare at the skinny man, who could have been anywhere from fifteen to thirty-five years of age, as he struggled to get to his feet. “Can I go now?” He hiked up his pants, which were large enough to contain three of him. “Can I fucking go?”
“Yeah, just keep your nose clean.”
Frankie flipped them off, hiked up his pants, and sauntered away.
“What was that all about?” Floyd asked as they watched the man go.
“I thought he was someone else,” Tate said. “Anyway, he didn’t have anything on him. Come on, let’s go.”
Floyd was even more confused when he got back into Tate’s car.
“Who did you… who did you think he was?” Floyd asked.
Tate started the engine.
“Nobody.”
“But you—“
Tate’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Look,” he said sharply, “I was just trying to teach you a lesson on the basics, alright? Just forget about it. It was stupid.”
Tate was a master of disguise. Floyd knew this better than most. The man had an uncanny ability to ascertain very quickly what he needed to become in order to obtain whatever it was he wanted: be it information or a confession or just gossip.
This made Tate, the real Tate, a very difficult man to read. You never knew if what you were seeing at any given moment was the real Tate.
But this… this tightly wound, and slightly manic version of his partner seemed genuine. Paradoxically, it also seemed nothing like the man Floyd knew.
Or thought he knew.
Floyd decided to push the issue a little more than he normally would.
“Right, just so we’re c-clear, you thought that instead of looking into new cases, we should drive around looking for what? Junkies? That guy back there—Frankie, or whatever—what would you have done if you did find something on him?”
“What anybody would do: call the cops.”
The response was so bizarre that Floyd found himself unable to continue with the conversation.
“Tate, c’mon. What’s going on? You send me to Grassroots and—“
“There, right there.” Tate pointed out Floyd’s window. “You see that guy?”
Floyd followed the man’s finger, which was aimed at a young black kid sporting a wife beater and low-hanging jeans. Not as low as Frankie’s but close.
“Yeah,” Floyd said hesitantly. “I see him. What about him?”
“I’ll go right for him, you dart down the alley like last time, in case he runs.”
