?I still cain't pay you, man,? Socrates said. He had to sit down because he was weak after walking down the stairs.
?You okay, bro?? the lawyer asked.
?Food ain't too good here,? Socrates said. ?I want some'a Iula's corn bread. Yeah, that's what I need.?
?Well we'll see what we can do about that,? Ernesto said with an irrepressible smile. ?And as far as money, I should be paying you for a chance like this.?
?Huh??
?You're famous all over the world, Mr. Fortlow. China, France, everywhere. They got your picture holding up that sign on
magazine and in the
Cardwell's history. And it was you wrote the book. You don't really need a lawyer. It's them who need the lawyers, man. You got them on the run.?
The video cameras that captured the image of the testimony against Cardwell had played on every TV station though they must have known it would cause violent tension in the black community. There had been demonstrations at the police station. Sporadic violence had broken out over the three days. The mayor himself had called Ernesto because he was the only lawyer on record to have represented Socrates in L.A.
?They shit on your rights and that Cardwell is a bad dude. Even the Republicans like you, man. You could run for office after some shit like that.? Ernesto smiled at his client, checked over his shoulder and then winked. ?But I say you should go for the money, Mr. Fortlow. You could clean up after a mess like they made.?
?Can I get outta here??
Ernesto snapped his fingers and cocked his head to indicate that it was already done.
Commander DeWitt apologized to Socrates on behalf of the police chief and the mayor.
?They have suspended Officer Cardwell,? he informed his recent prisoner. ?I guess we never put together all of the information like you did on that sandwich board.?
If Socrates were to go by the tone of the commander's voice, instead of his words, he would have been looking for a fist rather than the handshake offered.
They removed Socrates by a side entrance and took him to the Saint-Paul Mortuary where his friend Topper had offered a place to stay.
?Reporters been callin',? the mortician said to his friend. ?What are you going to tell them??
?I ain't got nuthin' to tell the papers, man,? Socrates replied. ?They can make up their own lies without me helpin'.?
?But, Mr. Fortlow. You got power now. You got the ear of the press. You could make a difference out here.?
?I know what you sayin', Nelson,? Socrates told his prosperous black friend. ?But it ain't nuthin' I could say that they don't already know. Them reporters know all about Cardwell an' cops like him.They know all about men who been in prison. They already know. It's us who don't know.?
?Us?? Nelson Saint-Paul said. ?Every black man, woman and child knows what it's like to be poor and mistreated and held back. Even me. You know they didn't wanna know about me at the funeral directors' society. I had to make all kindsa stink just to belong.?
Socrates looked at his small friend and shook his head. It wasn't a conscious move and he was sorry when he saw the pain in Saint-Paul's eyes.
?What do you mean that we're the ones who don't know?? Nelson asked again.
?We had the whole city scared, Nelson. But nuthin' changed. No one said, ?Hey, lets get together an' vote or strike or just get together and say somethin' true.? Me complainin' to some newspaper is like me tellin' the warden that I don't like his jail.?
?But this is different?? Nelson Saint-Paul began.
?Ain't nuthin' different. Just look out here in the street. No, Nelson. Me talkin' to the newspaper or the TV is just
