“Could you describe the truck?”
“No, sorry, I can’t. I don’t really know much about cars and trucks.” She ground out one Pall Mall and lit another.
“Did the police come by and ask about the robbery?”
“They did come, yes. They had a picture of that nice colored boy who works at the station. They wanted to know if I’d seen him. Of course I had, I told them. When I walk by and he’s out, he always waves. Nice young fellow, like you are. Polite.”
I wrote everything out, asked her to read and sign it. She did, and invited me back anytime. I coughed a bit myself, thanked her, and left.
What I should have done was go to Dad and give him the story Mrs. Bishop had told me. But I went to Tree first, because I wanted him to know that I was on the case, and that I wouldn’t let him be railroaded. I felt bad about everything that had happened, starting with how I got the job, right up to Tree being framed, all because Basher didn’t like a white doing a colored job. Also because we’d made Basher look stupid, and he never forgave an offense.
Tree and I figured the best thing to do was take the statement to his public defender. He was a young lawyer who didn’t have much experience, but this information seemed like it would give him an edge. Reasonable doubt, that’s what we thought. I also knew I wanted to impress Dad, to show him I could fix my own mess without his help.
Shows how dumb I was. The thing I didn’t think through was that the public defender had to share evidence with the prosecutor, and the prosecutor works with the police. Meaning Basher. By the time I’d filled in Dad-and gotten a dose of reality, delivered in a long and loud lecture about my lack of brains, judgment, and all-around suitability as a functioning human being-a new public defender had been appointed, the evidence from Mrs. Bishop had been misfiled and lost, and Basher had paid her a visit. She refused to speak to me again, even when I showed up with a pack of Pall Malls.
The fix was in. What we didn’t fully understand was how deep and twisted the fix was. At the last minute, the prosecutor offered Tree a deal. Testify that the theft had been my idea all along, and he’d walk with probation. Then the district attorney would file charges against me. Whether they stuck or not didn’t really matter. What mattered to Basher was teaching us a lesson. And he’d have something to hold over my father’s head. Dad wasn’t exactly an angel when it came to the small stuff. Hell, our kitchen was furnished with a lot of stuff that fell off trucks after a robbery. But Basher was corrupt in a big way, the kind of corruption that led to organized crime and dead bodies floating in the harbor. Dad resisted him every step of the way, but the cop code of silence kept him from doing any more than that. With me coming up for trial, Dad might be tempted to exchange an illegal favor or two to derail the court date.
Tree told the DA to go to hell. Not to save me from trouble, but because he wanted a trial. Probation meant a conviction, and even though he wouldn’t serve time, it would kill his chances of college. Pop Jackson had a Negro lawyer, Irwin Dorch, lined up to defend Tree. Dorch was head of the Boston National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and Mr. Jackson said he’d paid his dollar a year to belong since he came back from the war, and it was time to collect. Dorch took the case pro bono, and he planned to use it not only to exonerate Tree, but to agitate for more Negro police officers.
The whole thing was a far cry from the simple summer job I’d originally signed up for.
Tree and I began to drift apart as rumors swirled about Dorch taking the case. All of a sudden it seemed like it was the whole department, not just Basher, against him and me. It became a case of us and them, with me sitting on the
I tried again with Mrs. Bishop, but she was gone. Took her nest egg and moved to Maine to live with her daughter, the neighbors said. Conveniently outside of the local jurisdiction. Looked to me like any nest egg she had went into buying smokes, and I wondered if Basher had shown up with a wad of cash. No wonder my single pack of coffin nails hadn’t opened any doors for me.
I went to see Tree after that. I said I’d talked to the DA, that he’d been to the house a few times, and was what my dad called one of the good guys. Even among lawyers, cops, and robbers there were good guys and bad guys, and you couldn’t always count on the uniform or suit coat to tell them apart.
Tree said no, let it go to trial. That way I was in the clear, and he stood a chance of keeping his record clean. I didn’t see it that way, but he was in the hot seat, so I told him he was probably right.
But I never said I wouldn’t talk to the DA.
I waited outside the courtroom the next afternoon. A big trial was wrapping up, and I knew DA Flanagan would be there for the cameras. He was. As the flashbulbs popped and he puffed out his chest in the August heat, I strolled around the edges of the crowd. Finally I caught his eye, and as the crowd dispersed and he walked to his waiting sedan, he waved me over.
“What are you doing here, Billy?”
“Waiting to talk to you, Mr. Flanagan. About Tree … I mean Eugene Jackson,” I said.
“Your father know you’re here?” He’d stopped and given me his full attention, tapping out a cigarette and firing up a gold lighter.
“No, sir. This isn’t his idea, it’s all mine.”
“And what exactly is it you want?” He drew in smoke and exhaled through his nose. It looked strange, and I unaccountably thought of dragons.
I told him about how Basher had treated us, about Mrs. Bishop and the statement I’d given to the first public defender. “I just want Eugene to get a fair shake. But Basher’s got everything lined up against him.”
“Billy, the police have presented sufficient evidence for my office to act. If Mrs. Bishop will come forward and give a proper statement, we’ll be glad to take it into consideration.”
“She’s gone. It looked like she didn’t have a dime to spare, and now she’s moved up to Maine with a nest egg.”
“So all I have is your word,” Flanagan said.
“Yes, sir.”
“It might look very bad for your father if word got out his son tried to influence the prosecution in favor of a defendant,” Flanagan said. He moved toward his automobile and the driver hopped to and opened the rear door. He stopped, took a drag, and crushed the cigarette out on the curb. “I wouldn’t try this again, young man. You might stir up trouble your family doesn’t need.”
“Yes, sir,” I said to the door as it slammed shut.
I went back to mopping floors as the summer ended. Tree’s trial was scheduled for right after Labor Day. The day before the holiday, Dad came home with good news. The prosecutor had offered Tree a deal. A terrific deal. All charges dropped except breaking and entering. And he was given a choice about how to do his time. Take one year in jail, or join the army.
Tree hadn’t wanted to take the deal. He was ready for a fight, and thought Dorch could win the case. But Pop Jackson wasn’t so sure, and told Tree to take the offer. He wasn’t a guy you argued with, whether he was your boss or your father. So Tree took the deal.
I made the mistake of telling Tree that I had been the one to talk to the DA. I was bragging about it, to tell the truth. I thought I’d gambled and won, and I wanted my friend to know. Flanagan had believed me, or at least knew enough about Basher to reconsider his case. I thought Tree would be happy, even thankful. But he was roaring mad. I was the one who’d taken away his chance to prove himself innocent and make his own choices about college or the army. It wasn’t my place to decide for him. I wasn’t that much better than Basher, when it came down to it. Both of us used the system to get what we wanted, without giving Tree a choice in the matter. We had a big blow-out fight, and Tree told me to never come around again.
I didn’t. He chose the army, of course.
“And here we all are,” Tree said. “I thought my life was over. No college, no future. But we didn’t see this war coming. I’d be in the army anyway by now. This way, I’m a non-com in a combat outfit. I don’t know if you guys know what that means for a Negro. I’m going to fight for my country, and if I get home, I’m going to fight for myself, and my people.”
“You’re satisfied how it worked out?” Big Mike asked. “You’re not still sore at Billy?”
