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He’d toyed with the idea of having a white officer-a very large, happy, smiling Irishman who would look good in the background of news photos came to mind-but before he could make the appointment, he’d seen Washington striding purposefully though the lobby of the Roundhouse, and asked who he was.
That night he had mentioned the enormous lieutenant to his wife, Beatrice, at supper.
“I thought you knew Jason,” Beatrice said. “He’s Martha’s husband.”
The mayor knew his wife’s friend, Martha Washington. Beatrice, as the mayor thought of it, was “into art and that sort of thing,” and Martha Washington was both a very successful art dealer and a painter of some repute.
“No, I don’t,” the mayor confessed. “How do you think he’d like to be the mayor’s driver?”
“I don’t think so,” Beatrice had said. “I can’t imagine Jason as a chauffeur-yours or anyone else’s.”
“You’re going to have to get used to being the mayor’s wife, precious.”
Mayor Martin had taken the trouble to meet Washington socially, which had proven more difficult to do than he thought it would be.
The mayor had arranged for the Washingtons to be invited to a friend’s cocktail party, and when they sent their regrets, to a second friend’s cocktail party, which invitation they also declined with regret. On the third try, he finally got to meet them, and Alvin W. Martin’s first impression of Jason Washington that night was that he was going to like him, possibly very much, and that he would look just fine in the background of press photos.
Washington was an imposing man, superbly tailored, and erudite without rubbing it in your face. The mayor, studying Washington’s suit with the eye of a man who appreciated good tailoring, wondered how he could afford to dress that well on a detective’s salary. He decided the artist wife picked up the tab.
He finally managed to get him alone.
“I’d really like to get together with you, Jason. You don’t mind if I call you ‘Jason,’ do you?”
“Not at all.”
“I’m in the process of selecting a driver. Would you be interested?”
“With all possible respect, Mr. Mayor, absolutely not.”
“Actually, it would entail more than just driving the limo,” the mayor had said. “I really need someone around who can explain the subtleties of the police department to me.”
“I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding such a person, Mr. Mayor.”
“And, specifically, I need input from someone knowledgeable about what I might be able to do for our fellow blacks in the police department.”
“I can tell you that, Mr. Mayor, in a very few words: Really support a meaningful pay raise; get it through the City Council. Policemen often have a hard time making ends meet.”
“I was speaking specifically of black police officers.”
“There are two kinds of police officers, Mr. Mayor. The bad ones-a small minority-and all the others. And all the others are colored blue.”
“That’s a little jingoistic, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”
“Simplistic, perhaps, Mr. Mayor, and perhaps chauvinistic, but I don’t think jingoistic, which, as I understand the word, carries a flavor of belligerence I certainly didn’t intend.”
“Let me be very frank,” the mayor said. “When I asked around for the name of an outstanding black officer to whom I could turn with questions regarding the police department generally, and black officers in the department specifically, your name immediately came up. You have a splendid reputation. And I wondered how it is you’re a lieutenant.”
“ ‘Only’ a lieutenant? Is that what you mean?”
“All right, if you want to put it that way. You don’t think race had anything to do with you having been a policeman twenty-three years before being promoted to lieutenant?”
“Mr. Mayor, I’ve spent most of my career in Homicide…"”
“You’ve been described to me as one of the best homicide investigators anywhere.”
Washington ignored the compliment, and continued:
