Socrates turned toward his fellow black man but he didn't say anything.
?The key to those chains is the truth.? Inspector Beryl spoke for the first time.
He almost cursed them but Socrates knew that any show of feeling would bring on some sort of assault. They'd wait until he opened up a crack and then they'd concentrate on that chink until he was either dead or guilty.
But Socrates could outwait any man who had a home to go to. From the moment those policemen showed up at his door he was a convict again. And a convict could wait his whole life without cracking a smile or shedding a tear.
?You killed a woman in Indiana,? Biggers, the Negro cop, said. ?Did you shoot her too??
Socrates' nose itched but he wouldn't have scratched it even if his hands were free. Just that small gesture would have given up too much to the thugs who called themselves law.
It had already been over two hours. All Socrates had asked for was a lawyer or some kind of charge. He was thirsty and thinking about the woman he'd murdered thirty-six years before, Muriel. He could feel the husky gust of her last breath against his face. He didn't remember the night of the murder at first but this last gasp had returned to him in a dream he had in prison many years later.
?Tell us about it, Fortlow,? Kirkshaw said. ?What happened with Minnie? You wanted a blow job for free? Is that it??
The words were from his aunt Bellandra after the first time Socrates had been brought home for fighting in the street.
Socrates let his shoulders slump down when he remembered the words of his crazy auntie and Muriel's dying sigh. The men hovering about him were in charge. They could do whatever they wanted and so he wasn't responsible for a thing.
?You worried, huh?? Kirkshaw said, mistaking Socrates' relaxed shoulders for defeat.
Socrates looked at the man's shoes thinking that it wasn't the first time he'd been kicked.
The questioning went on for about five hours. Finally the shift was up and the overtime was no longer worth it. They hit him with rolled-up newspapers and open-hand slaps. The only blood was on the inside of his mouth. Bruises didn't show on black skin unless there was swelling.
When they brought Socrates to his cell, he was tired. He'd learned that the girl in the silver miniskirt, the one found in his alley a month earlier, was Minnie Dawn Lee, a party girl. The police were investigating but they had no leads until someone said something about the ex-con who lived in that alley. They got his records from the prison authority and figured they could close the case before Friday.
He wasn't a suspect, they said, and so he didn't get read his rights or given a lawyer. All he got was some questions, that's what they said.
Socrates was put in a holding cell with another man, Tiny Jones.
?He was the kinda man,? Socrates told Darryl a few days later, ?scare the panties offa some white woman at Bounty. Nineteen years old an about three hundred fifty pounds. He come up to me not one minute after I was there an' say, ?You got some fuckin? cigarettes on you, old man?'?
?What you say?? Darryl asked.
?I pushed him wit' one hand an' he fount himself up against the wall. After that he just went back to his cot an' stayed quiet.?
?Fortlow.? The voice came from far away. Socrates imagined a black giant that sometimes appeared in his dreams. A big man with powerful limbs who came to remind Socrates, now and then, that there was a lot of work left for him to do.
?Fortlow.? But it was only a policeman, a guard really. ?Your lawyer's here.?
?Have I been charged??
?Come on,? the uniformed guard said. ?I don't have time to waste on you.?
?Ernesto Chavez,? the lawyer said to Socrates. He was slender and sharp with a razor thin mustache and eyebrows that might have been plucked. His skin was olive and his eyes were the sleek color of a black widow spider's skin.
