ever inhabited.
I was worried because they didn't follow the routine. I had played the game of 'cops and nigger' before. The cops pick you up, take your name and fingerprints, then they throw you into a holding tank with other 'suspects' and drunks. After you were sick from the vomit and foul language they'd take you to another room and ask why you robbed that liquor store or what did you do with the money?
I would try to look innocent while I denied what they said. It's hard acting innocent when you are but the cops know that you aren't. They figure that you did something because that's just the way cops think, and you telling them that you're innocent just proves to them that you have something to hide. But that wasn't the game that we were playing that day. They knew my name and they didn't need to scare me with any holding tank; they didn't need to take my fingerprints. I didn't know why they had me, but I did know that it didn't matter as long as they thought they were right.
I sat down in the chair and looked up at the leaves coming in through the window. I counted thirty-two bright green oleander leaves. Also coming in through the window was a line of black ants that ran down the side of the wall and around to the other side of the room where the tiny corpse of a mouse was crushed into a corner. I speculated that another prisoner had killed the mouse by stamping it. He probably had tried in the middle of the floor at first but the quick rodent had swerved away two, maybe even three times. But finally the mouse made the deadly mistake of looking for a crevice in the wall and the inmate was able to block off his escape by using both feet. The mouse looked papery and dry so I supposed that the death had occurred at the beginning of the week; about the time I was getting fired.
While I was thinking about the mouse the door opened again and the officers stepped in. I was angry at myself because I hadn't tried to see if the door was locked. Those cops had me where they wanted me.
'Ezekiel Rawlins,' Miller said.
'Yes, sir.'
'We have a few questions to ask. We can take off those cuffs if you want to start cooperating.'
'I am cooperating.'
'Told ya, Bill,' fat Mason said. 'He's a smart nigger.'
'Take off the cuffs, Charlie,' Miller said and the fat man obliged.
'Where were you yesterday morning at about 5 a.m.?'
'What morning is that?' I stalled.
'He means,' fat Mason said as he planted his foot in my chest and pushed me over backwards, 'Thursday morning.'
'Get up,' Miller said.
I got to my feet and righted the chair.
'That's hard to say.' I sat down again. 'I was out drinking and then I helped carry a drunk friend home. I could'a been on my way home or maybe I was already in bed. I didn't look at a clock.'
'What friend is that?'
'Pete. My friend Pete.'
'Pete, huh?' Mason chuckled. He wandered over to my left and before I could turn toward him I felt the hard knot of his fist explode against the side of my head. I was on the ground again.
'Get up,' Miller said.
I got up again.
'So where was you and your peter drinkin'?' Mason sneered.
'Down at a friend's on Eighty-nine.'
Mason moved again but this time I turned. He just looked at me with an innocent face and his palms turned upward.
'Would that be an illegal nightclub called John's?' Miller asked.
I was quiet.
'You got bigger problems than busting your friend's bar, Ezekiel. You got bigger troubles than that.'
'What kinds troubles?'
'Big troubles.'
'What's that mean?'
'Means we can take your black ass out behind the station and put a bullet in your head,' Mason said.
'Where were you at five o'clock on Thursday morning, Mr. Rawlins?' Miller asked.
'I don't know exactly.'
Mason had taken off his shoe and started swatting the heel against his fat palm.
'Five o'clock,' Miller said.
We played that game a little while longer. Finally I said, 'Look, you don't have to beat up your hand on my account; I'm happy to tell you what you wanna know.'
'You ready to cooperate?' Miller asked.
'Yes, sir.'
