and CPAC troopers. Had we confirmed that Braxton was staying here? Had we felt pressured to make an arrest in this case? Would the warrant hold up? Was it a no-knock warrant? Had we knocked and announced, or just barged right in? Who fired the shot? I answered as patiently as possible, even when the questions became more accusatory. What were you doing there in the first place? Did you feel pressure from any Boston cops to do anything you felt was inappropriate? Or were you trying to prove something?
I measured my words carefully, I told as much of the truth as seemed necessary. ‘No, we did not feel pressured to make an arrest.’ ‘Yes, we knocked and announced’ (but then the damn cowboys from the A-3 decided to smash the door anyway). ‘Yes, I think proper procedures were followed.’ I repeated these near-truths because they were as true as anything else I might have said, and as I recycled my answers they became the truth, or at least one version of it. Eventually my voice took on a whingy, impatient tone. ‘I think I’ve answered that,’ I told them, and ‘My statement already covered that.’ Someone from BPD reassured me I would not be hung out to dry on this, which made me feel all the more vulnerable — it had not occurred to me that anyone would be hung out to dry. And if it came down to it, no doubt, they would sacrifice the hick from Versailles, Maine, rather than one of their own.
One question caught me flat-footed. In hindsight, would you do anything differently? It was another way of asking who was at fault, and I was beginning to think I knew the answer. Danziger’s killer was to blame. For all this — for the raid, for the priest’s death, for these questions. It was just as Bobby Danziger had confided to Caroline — I felt revulsion at the defendant, not because he’d committed a crime, but because he’d set the whole irresistible machine in motion, he’d made us do it. And revulsion at myself too, for participating.
An hour later, I made my way to the hotel downtown, utterly exhausted, where I promptly fell into a deep, black sleep.
At some point during the night I felt a presence in the room, very faint, like a pinpoint of light that unfolded and unfolded until the presence could not be ignored and I was startled awake. I had no idea what time it was or how long I’d been sleeping. The only thing I knew for sure was that, at precisely the moment my eyes opened, there was a ripping sound which I recognized as the Velcro closure of my holster. I lifted my head off the pillow an inch, no more, before it was pressed back down by the barrel-end of a gun. The steel ring slid around in my hair. To this day I can feel it nuzzling my scalp as if it were snuffling for a familiar scent.
‘I trusted you, motherfucker,’ a voice said. Braxton’s voice, coming from the other side of the room, near the window.
I whispered, ‘Don’t, don’t-’
‘I thought we were friends, you and me.’
‘Friends. We are friends.’
‘This is how you do your friends? You kill Reverend Walker? Motherfucking cop motherfuckers, you killed him. Why?’
‘We didn’t. He had a heart attack or something. He just died. We didn’t touch him, we didn’t do anything.’
‘You broke into his — There was a little kid there. You see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She was running. Somebody picked her up. I didn’t see her after that.’
‘That was my daughter.’
The gun sniffed at my scalp again. I pressed down into the mattress to move away from it. The only sound was the whisper of my own breathing. ‘I can try and find her,’ I offered. ‘I’ll try and get her back.’
He made a scornful sound.
‘What’s your daughter’s name?’
‘Tamarrah.’
‘Okay, where should they bring her?’
‘To her grandmother. I’ll write down the address here.’
‘Okay, good. I’ll try’
There was a delay, then Braxton said, ‘Let him up, cousin.’
The gun lifted, and slowly I sat up on the edge of the bed.
Braxton was standing by the window, gray and featureless in the phosphorous city light. His wiry silhouette was unmistakable, though, with its little tufted ponytail. His arms were folded and he was holding a gun — my gun, presumably. The other man, Braxton’s muscle, stood in the gloom by the door. About all I could make out was the enormous shadow of his outline, a nylon jacket, and the white band of a skullcap he wore low around his brow.
I began to get up, and the shadow by the door pointed a howitzer at me. I protested, ‘I’m just getting my pants. Do you mind?’ The man picked my jeans up off the floor, frisked them, and threw them at me. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
Braxton turned to look out the window. The lights of the South End winked below. ‘This is a fine view.’
‘Haven’t had time to look at it.’
‘You should make time. I want my little girl back tonight. Hear me? Tonight. I don’t want her in no foster homes or shit. You can make that happen.’
‘She’s probably back already. The cops aren’t interested in baby-sitting a four-year-old girl.’
‘She’s six. And she’s not back yet.’
‘Alright, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘What about Fasulo and Raul and all that? You check it out?’
‘Did I check it out? No, I didn’t check it out.’
‘Why not? What you been doing all day?’
I was stepping into my pants at the time, but I stopped so I could straighten and face him. ‘What have I — Harold, I’ve been looking for you. The whole city’s looking for you. They have an arrest warrant.’
‘For what? I didn’t do nothing.’
‘For killing Danziger. They have a witness who says you confessed.’
‘Who’s saying that?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Oh, it’s like that? You’re one of them now? You listen to me, dog, I don’t know what’s going on there, but I did not shoot that man and I did not confess to no such thing. Somebody’s feeding you shit. Where’s the evidence?’
‘There’s evidence, Harold! The witness!’
‘Here we go again with that shit. Who’s the witness? ‘Raul’? Did you see him?’
‘I saw him, yeah.’
‘For real?’
‘For real. And there’s other evidence too. The warrant is good, Harold.’
Braxton shook his head and turned back to the window. ‘So why don’t you go on and arrest me?’
‘Okay, you’re under arrest. You too,’ I told the giant at the door. ‘If you could throw down your weapons, I’d appreciate it.’ The giant didn’t smile. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think so.’
‘You got to get ahead of this, man.’
‘Harold, how can I get ahead of it if you won’t give me anything?’
‘I already gave you the whole thing. I told you, it’s something about Fasulo.’
‘What about Fasulo? What does Fasulo have to do with this?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’
‘You don’t know? All this and you don’t know? Then how the fuck do you know Fasulo is connected at all?’
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘Oh, come on, Harold. You’re giving me nothing. Just more of the same bullshit.’
The lummox at the door emitted a groan as a sort of inarticulate warning, but I knew by now they did not intend to hurt me. I could not help Braxton’s daughter if I was dead. This was an empowering thought, like realizing the pit bull that’s been growling at you is actually on a chain. I sneered back at the guy, ‘Would you just shut up.’
