Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

Jose clamped him into a bear hug and brought his mouth close to Frank’s ear. “Let… it… go, brother.”

The words came slow and deep, and Frank tensed as though to break Jose’s grip.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jose said.

“I want to talk to that bastard.”

“Not now.” Jose tightened his grip on Frank. “You go in there now, all you’re gonna do is get a ration of his shuck-and-jive bullshit. Then you’ll get more pissed an’ do something dumb.”

A moment like a year finally passed and the roaring inside faded into the distance and he could breathe again and he felt Jose’s arms loosen.

Jose squeezed the back of Frank’s neck. “Let’s go find R.C.”

Renfro Calkins lived on T Street, NW, in the 1700 block, not far from Dupont Circle. The house was on the end of a group of four red-brick row houses in a diverse neighborhood at an intersection of Washington’s black, white, gay, and Hispanic communities. A block west, the semiluxurious Washington Hilton, where Ronald Reagan had been shot. A block north, the beginnings of Adams-Morgan. A small brass plaque by the doorbell announced that the row houses, built in 1887, had been registered with the National Trust for Historic Preservation.

Frank rang the bell.

The door swung open.

“Yes?” The smile of surprise began before the question died away. “Jose! Frank!” Elsa Calkins pulled the two men through the doorway and into the living room. Petite and fine-boned, Elsa stood on tiptoe to kiss each of them on the cheek. She smelled of vanilla and nutmeg, and her dark curly hair glistened in the light.

“How’s he doing, Elsa?” Jose asked.

Tears welled in her eyes. “He’s better than I am. Come on.” She led them down a hallway lined with framed displays of exotic seashells. “Almost twenty years,” she said, her voice bitter. “Now this. They throw him out. Shut the gate.”

“It’s only a suspension, Elsa.”

She stopped at a closed door and turned to face Frank and Jose. “It’s a travesty.” She glared at them, then turned, knocked once, and opened the door.

Shelves and bookcases covered the walls. An antique walnut desk in the center of the room faced French doors leading to a small walled-in garden.

Renfro Calkins, seated at the desk, swiveled around. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by a look of withdrawing caution, as though he’d pulled himself back into a protective shell. He stood, one hand on the back of his chair, the other resting on a large ledger open on the desk. Several smaller notebooks also lay open. He followed Frank’s and Jose’s gazes.

“Updating my journal. If I don’t capture my thoughts right away, they just fly off.”

Jose nodded. “What happened, R.C.?” he asked in a voice heavy with concern.

Calkins gestured toward a couple of chairs. He and Elsa exchanged a wordless message, and she left, shutting the door behind her. The sound of the door had a finality to it, and the three men sat as though time had stopped.

Jose broke the silence, asking again, softly, “What happened,

Calkins thought about how he might describe it, then lifted a piece of paper out of the clutter on his desk.

“Two gentlemen from IAD walked in, served me with this.”

He handed the paper to Jose.

Jose studied it, then handed it to Frank. It bore the Internal Affairs Division letterhead.

“It says IAD’s investigating procedural compliance,” Jose said.

“It also says,” Calkins added, “I’m suspended.”

“With pay.”

“Nice of them.”

“Internal Affairs,” Frank asked, “they say anything?”

“I asked. They just pointed to that.” Calkins gestured to the letter.

“Then what?” Jose asked.

“Then they sealed my files, my computer, my office door. Then they escorted me out of the building.” Calkins’s eyes moved to middle distance, reliving the scene. “In front of all my people… they escorted me out of the building,” he said in wonderment, as though he couldn’t believe it had happened. He brought his eyes back to focus on Frank and Jose, then smiled ruefully. “At least they didn’t cuff me.”

Frank felt a vicarious flush of embarrassment and stole a glance into the garden. A sparrow fluttered in a lichen-covered birdbath, and Frank searched for something to say. Jose got there first.

“How you doin’, R.C.?”

Calkins frowned at Jose like a man who’d been asked an impertinent question. “Doing? Why, I’m updating my journal.” He motioned to his desktop. “Later, I’ll be cataloguing additions to my stamp collection…”

“That’s not what we mean, R.C.,” Frank put in. “Inside… you okay?”

That brought Calkins to a halt. He pondered that for a moment, then ventured out. “Am I disturbed?” Another second’s thinking. “Yes. Certainly, I’m disturbed.”

A pause.

“Am I angry? Yes… I suppose so… somewhat.”

Another pause, then, “But am I despondent?” Calkins shook his head emphatically. “No. Definitely not. Evidence will out, Frank, evidence will out. We run a responsible and professional shop. And that’s what’s going to be found out when the evidence is in.”

Frank found part of himself cheered at Calkins’s certainty, another part worried about the same certainty. He tried to shut out the worry side.

“I’m sure it will, R.C.”

Italian sausage, Muhammad.”

“Jose?”

“Steak supreme.”

Muhammad scratched out the orders and handed Frank and Jose their numbered call slips.

Mon Cheri Cafe was open six a.m. to three a.m. Sunday through Thursday, and twenty-four hours a day Friday and Saturday. Gleaming white ceiling with bright fluorescents, scrubbed floors of large black-and-white square tiles. Muhammad or one of his brothers was always there. So was a steady stream of police, laborers, taxi drivers, and old-time Georgetown residents.

Frank and Jose took a table at the back along the wall. At a table toward the front, an old man sat by himself, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.

“This is a clean and pleasant cafe,” Frank said. “It is well lighted.”

Jose squinted at Frank. “You been reading Hemingway again?”

Frank smiled. “Can’t help myself.” He watched the old man get up and take his cup to the front for a refill. “You know, don’t you, how IAD’s going to go after R.C.?”

Jose nodded. “But R.C.’s a man with faith in the system.”

“Let’s hope he’s not disappointed.”

Muhammad called their numbers. Frank added a Diet Coke to his tray, Jose picked out a cranberry juice. For several minutes they ate in silence, concentrating on keeping their overstuffed sandwiches together.

“I’m full.” Jose put down the last of his sandwich and wrung out a paper napkin. He wadded the napkin and dropped it on the table. “R.C.,” he began experimentally, “you don’t think there’s a chance IAD can tag him with something? Anything? I mean, Emerson needs a scapegoat bad.”

Frank shrugged. “I think there’s always a chance. But do I think there’s any probability?” He shook his head, answering his own question. “Slim and none. R.C.’s too meticulous.”

“Yeah.” Jose nodded.

“So?”

“So maybe we ought to talk to Milt some more.” After a second thought, Jose finished off his sandwich.

The two men locked eyes.

“IAD investigation’s under way,” Frank cautioned. “Milt’s a material witness.”

“Unh-hunh.”

“We go talking to Milt, that could bring down a load of shit.”

“Unh-hunh,” Jose agreed. “Sure could.”

First the sleek sound of precision-milled metal turning. Then light breaking the darkness, framing a man in a doorway. The figure flicked a wall switch. Nothing. A muttered curse. The man closed the door behind him and made his way through the dark. A table lamp suddenly snapped on. The light caught Milton in the middle of the living room, keys still in his right hand.