Уолтер Мосли - Down the River unto the Sea

“And he was the one who arrested you?”

“No. I was picked up with my, with my, um, boyfriend at that time, Chester Murray. They brought me to the station house on One Thirty-Fifth.”

“The thirty-second precinct?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But it was on One Thirty-Fifth. I remember that it smelled like disinfectant.”

“They all do at some time or other.”

“I guess they must,” she said, trying to let my poor attempt at levity in. “I don’t remember the names of the officers that arrested me. Chester was driving, but I had leased the car. There was twenty pounds of cocaine in the trunk. They took me to this room and wouldn’t let me talk to Chester or call a lawyer or anything. They didn’t even let me go to the toilet...”

Beatrice went silent there for a minute or more. I knew what she was thinking. If a cop wants to turn an arrest into an agent, he puts a scare into him, or in this case, her. Hunger, humiliation, and hurt are the tools. Not all worked on every perp. You had to create a specific cocktail for the personality. For Beatrice it was fear of isolation, maybe a little withdrawal, and a bladder so full that she had to relieve herself without benefit of the facilities.

“I was there for at least a full day before Detective Cortez came to see me.” She was once again defeated by the illegal methods. This reminded me of Rikers and the burn on my face when I was slashed by the jagged edge of a number ten tomato can lid.

After another long pause she continued. “He said that they could hold me for two days more without pressing charges and by then Chester would have turned on me.”

“You think he would have?” I asked. I don’t know why.

“Yeah. Chester once gave evidence on his cousin just so they wouldn’t put another mark on his record. He wouldn’t have even gone to jail, but he turned Jerry in anyway.”

“What did Adamo look like?”

“Short for a man. Black hair with a pretty thick mustache. His skin was brown like a brown egg if it was shellacked.”

“Did he have an accent?”

“I... I don’t remember.”

“What did he say?”

“That I’d get a year in prison for every pound in the trunk.” A sob escaped her reserve. “That I’d never have children or even a chance at a decent life.”

“And,” I deduced, “I was the price to get you out of it.”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you exactly what he wanted you to do?”

“Yes.”

“What to do in the living room, what you should tell me to do, everything?”

“Yes.” That time the word hurt.

“And did you really go so far as to press charges?” I asked, wondering why I wasn’t angry.

“He had me transferred to another station. There he gave me some papers to sign.”

“What then?”

“He took me to a house in Queens and kept me there for a week. I was in restraints most of the time. He — he raped me.”

“And then he let you go?”

I could almost hear her nodding. “Yes.”

Beatrice and I shared the next spate of silence. I could hear her breathing — over a thousand miles away.

“Do you remember anything else?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to press charges against Detective Cortez?”

“I hadn’t even thought about that. Isn’t it — isn’t it too late?”

“Yeah. But you could fuck up his retirement pretty good.”

“I know you’re upset, Mr. Oliver, but could you not use that kind of language, please?”

“Sorry.”

“Why do you want to know if I want to press charges?”

“The guy you were arrested with was named Chester Murray?” I asked instead of answering.

“Yes.”

“Did you see him again?”

“Never.”

“Was he your pimp?”

“That was another time, Mr. Oliver. When do you want me to come to New York?”

“What makes you think I want you to come out here?”

“To testify. To prove that you didn’t do what they said you did.”

“I don’t think I need you for that, Mrs. Summers. You gave me a name and a trail. That’s enough.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“So that’s it?”

“Unless you remember something else.”

“The thing you asked about Detective Cortez.”

“What thing?”

“He had an accent. It was a very New York kind of talking. You know what I mean?”

“I certainly do. Thank your husband for me, Beatrice,” I said, and then I hung up.

I was deep into the cases and not even a day had passed.

I cleared off the desktop in my apartment and on a pink sheet of paper I wrote — Someone in the department was definitely involved in the false accusations against me. At the 32nd a man named Adamo Cortez, posing as a detective, coerced Nathali Malcolm into pressing charges against me for rape. Correct spellings and her testimony are attached below.

After taping Beatrice’s letter at the bottom of the page I placed the pink sheet in the center of the green blotter on the empty desk. This simple act sent a thrill through my scalp and shoulders. Finally it had begun.

Leaving the excitement on the third floor, I took the trapdoor rope ladder from my apartment down into the office below. I usually take the hallway stairs between floors, but that morning felt secret, outlaw.

There was a pulley system to roll the hemp rungs back up and a long pole kept in a far corner to close the trap. I sat at the window in my private office and stared down at the working-class pedestrians being shown up and disdained by the street.

I didn’t say or do anything but ponder for the next couple of hours. I hadn’t had much sleep because my mind could not shut down completely. The lack of sleep and deep disposition of mind caused a descent into a fugue-like state. There was no me but just the details of future blue and pink pages. There was an eggshell with a mustache and a ranger with a pistol in his hand. There was a dark hole that seemed to hold intelligence, and a girl-child all grown up.

The phone pulled me out of the temporary retreat.

“Hello,” I answered, maybe a little dreamily.

“Joe?”

I was still in that faraway place. The voice was familiar but nameless.

I groaned and the vibration brought knowledge.

“Hey, Henri. Yeah, it’s me. I must’a dozed off. What time is it?”

“Three thirty. What kinda shit you into, man?”

“How’s your father?” I asked while trying to remember the e-mail I sent that morning.

“Adamo Cortez,” my caller insisted.

“What?” I said, and then, “Oh... yeah.”

“Yeah. I called in and said that there was a guy saying that he was a CI for a Detective Adamo Cortez. They said they never heard that name; it wasn’t in their files. But a few hours later on, two suits from One Police Plaza came down to the street to see me. The street, Joe.”

“What they want?” I asked, the void receding behind me.

“They wanted to know everything. Everything. Where I met him. What he said. Was it near a video camera?”

“What you say?” I asked, almost fully back to normal.

“I just made shit up. Said I was doin’ a foot patrol in Central Park, which I was, and this guy comes up and tells me that I should tell my superior that Bato Hernandez has to make a drop. He said to say that he needed to speak to Adamo Cortez, that Cortez knew how to make contact.”

“What they say?”

“They wanted a complete description. What the guy wore, how old he was, and everything else. They even asked if anybody saw us.”

“They wanted an eyewitness alibi?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you ready?”

“You’re the one told me that I always had to be ready with a lie, Joe. That I should have one all worked out in my head because you never know.”