Chapter 11
F
reelance reporter Henry Moore sat in the visitors’ area of Abbottsford Hospital’s intensive care unit and watched as Latoya Thomas sat stone-faced, determined not to grieve for her twin brother.
Moore couldn’t have known that her grim expression came from too many years of watching her brother destroy his life. Nor could he have known that she would have given anything to have had her brother attend her college graduation, or witness her rise to junior partner at her law firm, or give her away at her wedding.
The only thing Moore could tell by watching her was that she wasn’t the type to go for a scam. But she was his key to getting an interview with the only man who had actually witnessed what happened in that crack house. So Moore took a deep breath and struck up the conversation that he hoped would get him an exclusive interview with Butter.
“My daughter’s supposed to be transferred from intensive care sometime today,” Moore said nervously as he stared straight ahead in mock grief.
Butter’s sister looked over at him and picked up a magazine, dismissing his attempt at conversation.
“I wish I could go in there and sit with her,” Moore continued. “But the truth is, I can’t stand to see her that way. It’s like she’s . . . They’ve got all these tubes attached to her and she just lies there.”
He broke off, placing his face in his hands as he tried to act overwhelmed.
Butter’s sister lowered the magazine. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter,” she said, her words coming out in a clipped monotone.
Moore extended his hand and introduced himself as she raised the magazine again. “My name’s Henry Moore.”
She peered over the top of the magazine at his outstretched hand, then turned the page and adjusted herself in the seat. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Moore lowered his hand.
“Do you have a name?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes, I do,” she said, and turned another page.
He was starting to get angry now. But he held his attitude in check and forced it out as mild sarcasm. “I’m sorry. I just thought that since we’re both obviously waiting for word on our loved ones, maybe we could talk to pass the time.”
“I’d much rather read, but thank you just the same.”
Moore had to give it to her. She was cool. Even if he didn’t get the interview, he could amuse himself by trying to break through that cool while he waited for the detectives to come and interrogate her brother.
“Do you have a relative here?” Moore asked.
“You’re asking a lot of questions, Mr. Moore.”
“I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to pry, Ms. . . .”
She didn’t fill in the blank with her name. Instead, she lowered the magazine and looked at his eyes. She peered into them and through them, staring so intently that Moore could have sworn she could see what was going on behind him.
When she spoke, it was in a creamy voice. But her words were pointed and deliberate. “Whatever it is you want, Mr. Moore, I wish you’d get to the point. But please, don’t insult my intelligence with clumsy lies. I don’t have the time or the patience for that.”
She looked at him and waited for him to respond. And for the first time since Moore could remember, he was speechless. She gave him a few minutes before she put down the magazine and got up from the chair.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, “my brother is dying.”
Moore watched her walk over to the nurses’ station to ask if there’d been any change in her brother’s condition. The nurse said the doctors were with him, and that they would know in a few minutes. Moore walked over to her with his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a voice that only she could hear.
She turned around, and he could tell that she was willing to listen, but not willing to talk.
“My name really is Henry Moore. And if I’m not mistaken, Darnell Thomas is your brother.”
She gave no indication that he was right.
“I’m a reporter. I’m here to find out what really happened last night in that crack house, and your brother is probably one of the only people who knows.”
“Well, I’m not interested in talking to any reporters, Mr. Moore,” she said, and walked back over to her chair and sat down.
“That’s okay,” he said, following her and standing up beside her seat. “Because I was hoping that I could talk to your brother.”
She looked at him, and for the first time, her eyes flashed anger. “My brother is burned over ninety percent of his body, Mr. Moore. And in case you didn’t know, he’s been unconscious since he got here, so I don’t see how you’re going to talk to him. As far as finding out what happened in that house, I don’t see any reporters banging down any doors to write stories about those houses any other time. And I think it takes a lot of nerve for you to come in here to ask my brother questions about it now, when he’s this close to dying.”
“You’re right,” Moore said. “It takes a lot of nerve. But if I don’t ask him, the truth might never come out.”
“Oh really? Who made you the keeper of the truth?”
“Look, I’m not saying I can write a story that will make any of this go away. I’m not even saying that it’ll say exactly what you or your brother think it should. But wouldn’t you rather take your chances with a black reporter than with someone else?”
Latoya shook her head in disbelief. “Please spare me the black man routine. My father was a black man. I’ve never seen him a day in my life. My husband was a black man. He ran around with every woman in a fifty-mile radius. My brother’s a black man. He’s a drug addict and probably an accessory to murder. Do I have to go on?”
Moore could tell that there was more to her attitude than her brother’s condition. No matter what angle he tried to take, she was going to shoot him down. So he decided to tell her the truth.
“No, you don’t have to go on,” he said as he sat down next to her. “But this is what’s going to happen to your brother, whether he talks to me or not. Some detective is going to ask him to tell him what he saw in that house. If what he says doesn’t jibe with what the D.A. wants to hear, they’re going to tell him what to say. If your brother lives, he’s going to repeat what they told him to say in a court of law when he testifies against the piper of their choice. And no matter what, he’s still going to get some jail time out of the deal. If he doesn’t die here, in this hospital, he’ll probably die there. Because nobody likes a snitch.”
As a lawyer, she knew he was right. The first thing they would do would be to offer him a deal in exchange for testimony. But as Darnell’s sister, she knew that the deal would probably be his only chance at survival. Because if he didn’t deal, he would probably get the death penalty along with everyone else involved.
“So what do you think you can do about it, Mr. Moore?”
“I can give him a chance to say what really happened. I can give him a chance to go against the system that’s swallowing up so many of us, before they come and feed him into the system, too.”
“Spare me the idealism,” she said cynically. “You want to get the story, or make up the story—whichever is more expedient—before the rest of the media get a chance to do it.”
He looked down at his hands and then back up at Latoya. “Do you know who died in that house last night?”
“Yes. It was that city councilman. Johnny Podres.”
“Yes, it was Johnny Podres. It was a guy who came up the hard way in the Badlands, right around 5th and Glenwood. Put himself through college washing dishes down at Bookbinders. Got a full scholarship to Wharton and graduated near the top of his class with an MBA. He was a guy who could’ve written his own ticket, but he never left the neighborhood. He stayed and spent most of his life fighting the cops.”
Latoya looked like she was starting to listen, so Moore shifted into high gear.
“He fought against the brutality under Rizzo, then the shakedowns and payoffs that came later. He won some, he lost some, and nobody paid too much attention. But when he got elected to city council and became chairman of the Police Civilian Review Board, people started to notice. It wasn’t just Podres testifying for a good kid who’d been arrested, or Podres fighting for a foot patrol in his neighborhood. It was Podres breaking up drug rings in the department and getting cops indicted. The man had powerful enemies in the department and even in city council. And I know in my gut that those enemies had more to do with his death than your brother or anyone else in that house. I just need to talk to your brother to prove it.”
Latoya looked into Moore’s eyes again, that same piercing look that she had given him just a few minutes before. But this time the look softened. She was just about to speak when a doctor walked over to where they sat.
“Miss Thomas. I’m Dr. Roberts. Your brother is awake and he’s asking for you. He’s still very weak, but you can talk to him for ten minutes. And I think I should let you know that some detectives are on the way here to speak with him, too.”
“Thank God he’s awake,” Latoya said, then turned and buried her head in Moore’s chest.
Unsure what to do, Moore hesitantly placed his arms around her. She looked at him and smiled a hint of a grin. And then Latoya surprised even herself with what she said next.
“This is my husband, Henry. I’d like to take him with me to speak to my brother. The two of them are very close.”
Moore’s mouth nearly dropped to the floor. But he recovered quickly and began fumbling in his pocket for his tape recorder.
“Okay,” the doctor said, oblivious to what had just occurred. “But only for a few minutes.”
Latoya took Moore over to the nurses’ station and the two of them signed the visitors’ list that was mandatory for prisoners. Then Moore tugged at her arm.
“I want you to take this,” he said, and slipped his tape recorder into her open purse. “If the detectives come, they’re going to ask me to leave while they question him. If you stay in the room, you can tape what he says to them.”
Just then, homicide detective Reds Hillman got off the elevator with another detective. When Latoya and Moore walked inside, identifying themselves for the policeman guarding the door as Darnell’s sister and brother-in-law, Hillman and the other detective flashed their badges and walked in behind them.
Latoya had barely managed to speak to her brother before Hillman got down to police business. “My name is Detective Hillman. I work Homicide.”
“I’m Darnell’s sister, Latoya Thomas. And this is Henry.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask this,” Hillman said with disarming sincerity. “But it’s very important that we speak with Mr. Thomas about what happened last night. I’m going to ask everyone to leave. We’ll make it as brief as possible so you can come back and visit with your brother.”
The officer who was stationed inside the room got up and walked outside the door. Moore also left. But Latoya didn’t move.
“I’m a lawyer, and I’m representing my brother in this matter,” she said.
“The way he’s looking right now, I don’t think he’ll know the difference,” Hillman said.
They all looked down at Butter, who was fading in and out of consciousness.
“I’m going to the john,” said the other detective. “I’ll be right back.”
Hillman nodded as the detective walked out the door. Then he looked at Latoya and shifted uncomfortably.
“You were going to advise my brother of his right to counsel, weren’t you?”
When Hillman didn’t answer, Latoya reached into her purse and turned on the tape recorder. As she saw her brother’s eyes flicker open, she began to speak.
“Darnell, this man is a detective. He’s going to ask you some questions.”
She felt a tear forming in the corner of her eye as she reached down and touched her brother’s bandages. Her voice cracked as she tried and failed to maintain a professional demeanor. “It’s my duty to inform you that you don’t have to answer anything that you feel may incriminate you.”
Butter heard his sister’s voice as his mind struggled back toward reality. But he couldn’t see her. His vision was filled with the detective’s face. And his mind was hazy, still caught in a space between the gunshots at the house and the twisting, fiery wreck on Roberts Avenue. His skin felt tight across his bones, like it was stretched to the breaking point.
When he tried to move, white-hot needles shot through his body, and the one image that wouldn’t leave his mind came crashing through the pain until he couldn’t help blurting it out.
“He had on a bracelet,” Butter said.
Hillman and Latoya leaned in to listen closer.
“Who had on a bracelet?” Hillman said as he scribbled on a notepad.
“It was a white man with a big gold bracelet. A link bracelet.”
Latoya was beginning to think that her brother was delirious. But Butter went on, raising his voice as his mind traveled back to the shooting.
“Rock took the gun and tried to shoot him, but he missed. The white man pulled back the curtain and . . .”
For the first time, Butter realized what he had seen. It was clear now, and as the image came into focus, an overwhelming fear consumed him. Because he knew that no one else had seen it, and that the shooting was a lot more than just a robbery.
But somewhere beyond the fear, there was a need for him to come out and tell what he had seen. There was a need for him, just once, to give his sister a reason to be proud of him.
“It was the white man.”
“What was the white man?” Hillman said, now thoroughly confused.
“Don’t say anything else, Darnell,” Latoya said. “Save it for the preliminary hearing.”
But he was determined to get it out. She could tell by the way he struggled to pronounce each word.
“He had on a white shirt and black pants,” Butter said. “He was tall, with blond hair and blue eyes. And he had on this big link bracelet.”
“And what did the white man do?” Hillman said as he feverishly scribbled notes.
“He shot the Puerto Rican. He reached out from behind that curtain and shot the Puerto Rican.”
Hillman stopped scribbling. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But then again, he could believe it. It was like he’d felt it somewhere in the back of his mind all along, known that the suspects were just a little too convenient. He was so convinced that he was hearing the truth for the first time that he almost dropped his notepad. And then Butter was speaking again, picking up steam as the vision came to him full-on, the bits and pieces assembling themselves into a complete picture.