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“And then it will be your attorney’s turn to convince the jury that it wasn’t you. If you can find someone, someone the jury would believe, who will go into court and swear that you were with them during the time of the robbery, that might help. Or if you could explain how the photograph of Officer Kellog and the silver frame and tapes and the other things came into your possession, that would help your case.”
“People are always throwing shit over the fence,” Leslie said.
“That might explain the photograph,” Washington said, reasonably, “but not the frame, which was found inside your house.”
Leslie looked uncomfortable.
“Your defense counsel could also have as witnesses people who know you, and would testify to your character, to try to make the point that you’re not the sort of fellow who would do something like this,” Washington said. “But if he did that, under the law Mr. Callis could introduce evidence to the contrary. You’ve been arrested, I understand, for bur glary on several occasions.”
“So what? That doesn’t mean I did the cop.”
“There is an alternative,” Washington said.
“What?”
The door opened and another detective, this one a huge white man wearing cowboy boots, stepped inside.
“Excuse me, Mr. Washington, District Attorney Callis is on the telephone for you.”
“I was afraid of that,” Washington said. “I don’t know how long this will take, Mr. Leslie, but I’ll try to come back.”
He left the interview room.
“Who the fuck uncuffed you?” the large detective asked rhetorically, walked quickly to Leslie, grabbed his right arm, clamped the handcuff on his wrist, muttered, “Fucking Special Operations hotshot!” under his breath, and stormed out of the interview room, slamming the door closed and leaving Mr. Leslie alone again.
Outside the room, he walked directly to Sergeant Washington, who was sitting on a desk holding a mug of coffee in his hands.
“That’s my mug, Jason.”
“I won’t say I’m sorry, because I am not.”
The large detective laughed.
“I didn’t think you would be. You think this is going to work?”
“I think we have established in his mind that (a) you don’t like him; (b) that shooting a policeman is not socially acceptable conduct; and (c) that he can’t beat this unless the nice black man comes up with some solution. The test of these assumptions will come when I go back in.”
“You want me to go back in there and accidentally bump him around a little?”
“I think that would be counterproductive. As frightening as you are, Arthur, I think his imagination should be allowed to run free.”
“Your call. Changing the subject: There’s a story going around that your pal Payne climbed out on a thirteenth-floor ledge of the Bellvue-Stratford to fix a wire?”
“All too true, I’m afraid. I have remonstrated with him.”
“What’s with him, Jason?”
“He’s young. Aside from that, he’s a damned good cop.”
“I meant, if he’s got all the dough everybody thinks he has, why is he a cop?”
“He has all the dough everybody thinks he has,” Washington said. “Did you ever think, Arthur, that some people are, so to speak, born to be policemen?”
“You, for example?”
“It’s possible. You and me. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“Shit, neither can I. What would I do? Sell used cars?”
