“I might’ve jumped the gun a little.”
“I believe you jumped the hell out of her.”
“You know how you get anxious.”
“Got to stay cool,” Clement said. “Evidently you got somebody made a car somewhere-”
“At the scene, for one.”
“Yeah?” Non-committal.
“And at the Hazel Park track,” Raymond said. “The car belongs to Del Weems, a friend of Sandy Stanton.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s staying at Del Weems’ apartment, using his car sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
“So are you. I know I can place you over at 1300 Lafayette if I talk to enough people. And there’s a good chance I can put you in the car at Hazel Park, the same time the judge was there, same night he was killed.” Raymond looked at the wall clock. “About twenty-two hours ago… What did you think when we got on you this fast?”
“You got a tape recorder going some place?”
Raymond raised his hands, helpless. “For what?”
“Won’t do you any good if you have.” Clement looked up at the ceiling and raised his voice as he said, “You can’t use anything I’m saying, so fuck you!”
“I can hear you fine,” Raymond said pleasantly. “I’m not trying to pull anything, legal or otherwise. I just thought you and I might save some time if we know where we stand.”
“That sounds like it makes sense,” Clement said, “except I think it’s pure bullshit. There’s no way I can be doing myself any good sitting here. This is a miserable fucking place, you know it?”
“You never went before Guy, did you?”
“No, I was never in his court.”
“So it couldn’t be anything personal.”
“Jesus, you got your mind made up, haven’t you?”
“The only other reason I can think of, somebody must’ve paid you.” Raymond waited. Clement didn’t say anything. Raymond smiled slightly. “That person finds out you’re in custody I think it would clutch him up some… the kind of situation you get into when two or more people are involved in a murder. Like the guy that was shot in front of the Soup Kitchen, the promoter. You remember him? This past summer. Who was convicted? The shooter. Not the guy that arranged it. He copped and we gave him immunity.”
“Jesus Christ,” Clement said, “you’re starting to sound like that other chicken-fat dick, giving me this scary story like I got grits or something for brains.”
“I guess I ought to come right out with it,” Raymond said.
Clement nodded. “I think you’d feel better.”
“Okay,” Raymond said, “what’s gonna happen as soon as we put you in the Buick-we already have the Buick at the scene-you’ll want to start talking deal. You’ll give us something if we’ll ease up a little. Except by then it will probably be too late. We settle for Clement Mansell, he gets the mandatory, that’s it. Did somebody pay him? Who knows? Or more to the point, who cares? See, there isn’t that much wrath, you might say, or righteous indignation involved. Some people think the guy who did the judge ought to get a medal instead of a prison term. But it’s a capital crime, so we have to go through the motions. I want you to understand now we will nail you down, there isn’t any doubt about that… unless, before we put in all these hours and get pissed off and cranky and unreasonable… you say okay, here’s what happened, here’s the name of the guy that put up the fee… then we could probably do something for you. Talk to the prosecutor about second degree, maybe even get it down to manslaughter and put the mandatory on the guy that hired you. You see what I mean?”
Clement leaned his right forearm on the desk and stared across the ten feet at Raymond Cruz.
“You got a nice, polite way about you. But underneath all that shit, you really want my ass, don’t you?”
“I don’t have a choice,” Raymond said.
“You feel this as something personal? I mean this particular case?”
Raymond thought a moment; he shrugged.
“Shit no,” Clement said. “What’s bothering you, three years ago you guys blew it. You had me convicted on a triple, air-tight with witnesses, and I walked. That’s been bothering the shit out of you. So now you’re gonna try and get me on this one to make up for it. See, now it does get personal. Right? You don’t care who hit the judge, you just want me. Am I right or wrong?”
Raymond took his time. He said, “See, we’re finding out where we stand.”
“Am I right or wrong?”
“Well, I have to admit there’s some truth in what you say.”
“I knew it,” Clement said. “You got no higher motive’n I do, you talk about laying things on the table, see where we stand. You don’t set out to uphold the law any more’n I set out to break it. What happens, we get in a situation like this and then me and you start playing a game. You try and catch me and I try and keep from getting caught and still make a living. You follow me? We’re over here in this life playing and we don’t even give a shit if anybody’s watching us or not or if anybody gets hurt. We got our own rules and words we use and everything else. You got numbers, all these chicken-fat dicks that’d rather play the game than work; but I got the law to protect me and all I got to do is keep my mouth shut, don’t associate with stupid people and there’s no way in hell you’re gonna lay this one on me… or any of the others.”
Raymond nodded, thoughtful but at ease, alert but not showing it. He said, “You know what, Clement? I think you’re right.” There was a silence. “What others?”
And again, a silence.
Clement leaned on his arm that rested along the edge of the desk, as if to draw a little closer to Raymond Cruz.
“You know how many people I’ve killed?”
“Five,” Raymond said.
“Nine,” Clement said.
“In Detroit?”
“Not all in De-troit. One in Oklahoma, one in Kansas.”
“Seven in Detroit?”
“That’s right. But five-no, six of ’em was niggers.”
“Counting Judge Guy.”
“Count who you want. I ain’t giving you a scorecard lineup.”
“When you were with the Wrecking Crew, huh?”
“Most by myself. Well, kind of by myself. Other fella didn’t do shit.”
“Going into dope houses, huh?”
Clement didn’t answer.
“Like the one on St. Marys, the triple?”
Clement didn’t say anything.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Raymond said. “You arouse my curiosity.” He sat back in Norb Bryl’s stiff swivel chair and placed his legs on the corner of the desk. “It’s interesting what you said, like it’s a game. Cops and robbers. A different life that’s got nothing to do with anybody else.”
“Less we need ’em,” Clement said. “Then you get into victims and witnesses. Use who you can.”
“But what it comes down to,” Raymond said, “what it’s all about, I mean, is just you and me, huh?”
“That’s it, partner.”
“Some other time-I mean a long time ago, we might have settled this between us. I mean if we each took the situation personally.”
“Or if we thought it’d be fun,” Clement said. “You married?”
It took Raymond by surprise. “I was.”
“You got a family? Kids?”
“No.”
“So you get bored, don’t have nothing to do and you put more time in on the job.”
Raymond didn’t say anything. He waited, looking at the wall clock. It was 11:15.
Clement said, “You ever shoot anybody?”
“Well… not lately.”
“Come on, how many?”
“Two,” Raymond said.
“Niggers?”
He felt self-conscious. “When I was in Robbery.”
“Use that little dick gun?… I been meaning to ask why you put the rubber bands around the grip.”
“Keep it from slipping down.”