Bill Morris - Motor City Burning

IT TURNED OUT TO BE A SMART MOVE ON JIMMY ROBUCK’S PART to let Alvin Hairston stew in his cell overnight before beginning the interrogation. For on that very night, while Jimmy and Flo were at home eating ratatouille, while Doyle and Cecelia were talking late at his house over a bottle of Chianti and plates of ravioli in puttanesca sauce, a man who was obviously not a newspaper subscriber or faithful viewer of the eleven o’clock news dropped by the Riopelle warehouse to check on Alvin and the Armageddon II arsenal. His name was Kenneth Smith. He was arrested by the detectives staking out the place, and he, like Alvin Hairston, spent the night alone in a seventh-floor cell at 1300 Beaubien, wondering what the morning would bring.

Though he had a mild hangover from the wine and lack of sleep, Doyle showed up for work before Jimmy. It was all he could do not to take Alvin Hairston into the yellow room by himself, but he knew that would be a mistake. So he drank coffee and read about the Tigers in the Free Press and tried to ignore the clock.

Jimmy finally showed a little after nine, raving about Flo’s ratatouille. Doyle wasn’t about to tell him that Cecelia had raved about his ravioli and puttanesca sauce — or that she was charmed by the buckets scattered around his bedroom floor to catch the rainwater that came through the Swiss-cheese roof.

Doyle and Jimmy took turns working on Alvin Hairston. First, Doyle got him to initial and sign the Miranda warning while he distracted him with some ice-breaking small talk and assurances that the paperwork was just a formality. It was a technique Doyle had developed shortly after joining the squad, and it worked so well it had become standard department procedure. It was every cop’s wet dream: The perps did the paperwork, and the paperwork guaranteed that the cases against them wouldn’t get thrown out of court. Kiss my ass, Earl Warren.

But after three hours Alvin Hairston hadn’t given up a thing, and the detectives adjourned to the hallway for a conference. While Alvin had not yet insisted on seeing a lawyer, he had refused to go for any of their bait. When Jimmy showed him a picture of the.30-caliber Winchester rifle that had just been positively identified as the weapon in a riot-related murder and pointed out that his fingerprints were on it, Alvin shrugged and said he’d handled several of the guns in the warehouse but had never fired a single one. He said he was in Cleveland during the riot attending his mother’s funeral. He even volunteered the name of the funeral home.

Out in the hallway Jimmy said, “Let’s look at the situation straight on, Frank. We don’t got shit on the nigger and he knows it. I just called the funeral home in Cleveland and his alibi checks out. I say we ship his ass back upstairs and let him go to trial on the weapons charge and get on with our lives.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Doyle said.

“I’m listening.”

“We both know Alvin didn’t pull the trigger, but he knows more than he’s letting on. I’m sure of it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as where that gun came from. I know he knows.”

Jimmy, the great respecter of gut instincts, said, “So what’s your idea?”

“You go get Kenneth Smith and walk him by in the hall real nice and slow. No handcuffs. I’m going to go back in with Alvin and leave the door open.”

“Not the oldest play in the book, Frank? You really think Alvin’s that stupid?”

“I know he is.”

Fifteen minutes later, Doyle watched Alvin Hairston’s eyes widen at the sight of his fellow revolutionary, Kenneth Smith, being led down the hallway by the big black detective.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Doyle said, glancing over his shoulder. “We picked up your buddy Kenneth at the warehouse last night. Guess he hadn’t heard about the raid. Man, Kenneth’s a pussy.”

“What you mean?” Alvin sat up straight.

“What I mean, Alvin, is that Kenneth rolled over in five minutes flat.”

“Rolled over?”

“Yeah, Kenneth’s on his way home.”

“Home? I don’t take your meaning. I thought you just got through tellin me you picked him up at the warehouse.”

“We did. But it’s not exactly a capital offense to walk into an empty warehouse, is it? I got to tell you, though, Kenneth’s not the smartest guy I ever met.”

“No, he a dumb motherfucka.”

“Yes, Alvin, he’s a dumb motherfucker, all right. He’s so dumb, in fact, that he actually believed we’ve got enough evidence to pin a piece of that riot murder on him — accessory before and after the fact. But the reason he’s going home now is because he was smart enough to cut a deal and sign a statement for us.”

“A statement?”

“That’s right.”

“What it say?”

“It says you pulled the trigger, Alvin. We’re talking Murder One here, my friend. Do you know what the punishment is for Murder One in the state of Michi—”

“You a lyin motherfucka!” Alvin shouted toward the hallway, springing to his feet.

Doyle had to bite a knuckle to keep from laughing. He’d guessed right about Alvin’s intelligence. Doyle said, “Sit the fuck down.” Alvin sat down. Doyle walked over and closed the door and returned to his chair. “Maybe Kenneth is a lying motherfucker, for all I know. But we’ve got his name on a signed statement, we’ve got your fingerprints on a murder weapon, and I know a guy in the District Attorney’s office who’s an old pro at getting all-white juries. Now let’s you and me do the math here, Alvin. We’ve got a dead woman — a dead white woman — who was shot during the riot. We’ve got a defendant — a black defendant, namely you — who’s been identified as the shooter by an eyewitness. Your fingerprints are on the murder weapon and, to make matters worse, you were caught red-handed in a warehouse full of guns and you’re a known troublemaker who thinks it’s time to get rid of the white race. You with me so far, Alvin?”

Silence. But Alvin was chewing his lip, so Doyle pressed on.

“What do you think that all-white jury’s gonna do when it comes time to reach a verdict in this case, Alvin? You think they’re gonna believe you? And I don’t want to hear any more shit about your momma’s funeral.”

“I ain’t killed nobody.”

“You know something, Alvin? I want to believe you. I really do. But the only way you’re going to convince me is if you start talking — right now — about where those guns came from and who was planning to use them. And when. And where. I need names, Alvin, and I need them right now. It’s your ass or theirs. You don’t deserve to go down with these people, and they are going down. It’s your call.” Doyle stood up. “I’m gonna go smoke a cigarette. I’ll be back in ten minutes, Alvin, and when I come back in here I want names.”

Jimmy was standing in the hallway gazing at Alvin through the one-way mirror. “Man, Frank, that was good.”

“You think?”

“No, I know. He yours. Since when you start smokin cigarettes?”

Doyle laughed. “Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

When they got back to the one-way mirror, Kenneth had his forehead on the table. Doyle said to Jimmy, “You got that picture of Wes Bledsoe?”

“Got it right here,” he said, motioning to the folder under his arm. “U.S. Navy sent it over yesterday.”

“You got some other mugs to go with it?”

“Three.”

“Two’ll do. No sense confusing the man.”

Jimmy handed over two mugshots and the photocopy of the U.S. Navy’s official discharge picture of Seaman W. B. Bledsoe. Doyle shuffled them and took them into the yellow room. Alvin actually flinched when he heard the door open. Jimmy was right, Doyle thought, we’ve got Alvin. Doyle laid the photos face-down on the table and sat down.