“Cheap fuck, get a holster. Shit, get a regular size weapon first, ‘stead of that little parlor gun.”
“It does the job,” Raymond said. It sounded familiar: a table of cops at the Athens Bar drinking beer.
Clement said, “Yeah?” and let his gaze move around the squad room before returning to Raymond Cruz, sitting with his feet on the desk. “Say you’re pretty good with it, huh?”
Raymond shrugged. “I qualify every year.”
“Yeah?” Clement paused, staring at Raymond now. “Be something we had us a shooting match, wouldn’t it?”
“I know a range out in Royal Oak,” Raymond said. “It’s in the basement of a hardware store.”
“I’m not talking about any range,” Clement said, staring at Raymond. “I was thinking out on the street.” He paused for effect. “Like when you least expect.”
“I’ll ask my inspector,” Raymond said, “see if it’s okay.”
“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” Clement said, “cause you know I’m not kidding.”
They stared at each other in silence and Raymond wondered if this was part of the game: who would look away first. A little kids’ game except it was real, it was happening.
He said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Like what?”
“Why’d you shoot Guy?”
“Jesus Christ,” Clement said, “we been talking all this time, I think we’re getting some place-what difference does it make why? Me and you, we’re sitting here looking at each other, sizing each other up-aren’t we? What’s it got to do with Guy, or anything else?”
SOME MONTHS BEFORE, a story in The Detroit News Magazine, part of the Sunday edition, had featured eight “Women At Work” in which they described, beneath on-the-job photos in color, exactly what they did for a living. The women were a crane operator, automotive engineer, realty executive, homemaker, attorney, waitress, interior decorator and city assessor.
The attorney was Carolyn Wilder, photographed in an ultra-suede jacket leaning against her dining-table desk. Framed on the wall behind her and almost out of focus was an enlarged printed quotation that read:
“Whatever women do, they
must do twice as well as men
to be thought half as good.
Luckily, this is not difficult.”
CHARLOTTE WILTON
Mayor of Ottawa, 1963
Set in two columns beneath the photo, the text read:
CAROLYN WILDER, Attorney, Senior Partner of Wilder, Sultan and Fine, Birmingham.
“At one time I thought I was an artist. In fact I attended The Center for Creative Studies three years, believed I could draw, paint adequately, set out with my portfolio and found work in the art department of a well-known automotive ad agency where the word ‘creative’ was heard constantly but appeared exiguously, if at all, in their advertising; married a ‘creative’ director and was both fired and divorced within fifteen months on two counts of insubordination. (No children, a few samples.) The switch to law is an involved tale; though I did have clear visions, goals, that saw me through the University of Detroit Law School and two years with the Legal Aid and Defender Association. The latter prepared me for criminal law as it is served in the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice on a daily basis. My clients, for the most part, are charged with serious felonies: varying degrees of murder, rape, armed robbery and assault. Seventy-nine percent of them are acquitted, placed on probation, or, their charges are dismissed. Implicit in the question I’m most frequently asked-why am I in criminal law?-is the notion that women by nature abhor violence and would never, under any circumstances, help violent criminals remain at large. The truth is: criminals are a police problem; individuals accused of crime are mine.”
Another notion, that life can be simple, if you base it on a fairly black and white attitude about behavior, appealed to Carolyn in providing answers to dumb questions. It made her sound at least curt when not profound and helped develop her courtroom image as an incisive defense counsel. Wayne County prosecuting attorneys referred to her, not altogether disparagingly, as the Iron Cunt. She might say hello on an elevator; she might not. She would never, under any condition, give her view of the weather. When facing her in court the prosecutor had better have his case documented far beyond implications or dramatic effects or Carolyn would counterpunch him to a decision with pure knowledge of law. Recorder’s Court judges were known to sit up straighter, listen more attentively, when Carolyn was working their courtrooms.
Raymond Cruz ran into her on the fifth floor, where two of the Frank Murphy courtrooms were holding pretrial examinations and witnesses and families of defendants were waiting in the corridor.
It was 11:00 A.M. Raymond was coming out of an exam, having identified the photograph of a woman, bound and gagged with a pantyhose and shot twice in the back of the head, as Liselle Taylor, and testified that upon showing the photo to Alfonso Goddard, Mr. Goddard denied knowing the deceased until, after several hours of questioning, he stated: “Oh, yeah, I know her. See, you asked me if she was my girlfriend and I said no to that, because she wasn’t my girlfriend, we was only living together, you understand?”… There were two more exams scheduled this week… five cases in the squad’s “open” file… when Carolyn Wilder stopped him, taking him by the arm in the crowded corridor.
She said, “Don’t ever do that to me again. I don’t care if you just wanted to buy him a drink, when I say you can only talk to a client in my presence it means exactly that.”
Raymond touched her hand on his arm, covering it with his own in the moment before she drew it away.
“What did he tell you?”
“He was arrested-how you used that drunk-driving charge-”
“We let him go, didn’t we? Listen, I don’t even know how he got home. But if he keeps driving without a license he’s gonna get in serious trouble.”
Carolyn didn’t smile. She seemed genuinely disturbed, her esteem damaged. Raymond stepped quickly, quietly, inside her guard. He said, “What did Clement tell you last night? In your office.”
And there was the vulnerable look again, a glimpse of the girl who could be uncertain, afraid.
“If he scared you, and I mean that as a compliment, then he said something pretty bad.”
“You’re out of line. Whatever my client says to me, if you don’t know, is privileged information-”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. He didn’t confide something, he scared you. The look on your face-you could have filed a complaint for assault. Or improper advances, lewd suggestions… Let me tell you something if you don’t already know it.” Raymond looked around. He took Carolyn by the arm then and guided her through the waiting people, held doors open and followed her into an empty courtroom.
“You want to sit down?”
She went into one of the spectator rows that were like widely spaced church pews, sat down, crossed her legs beneath a gray skirt, smoothing it, and turned on the contoured bench to face him or to keep some distance between them.
“What?”
“Clement Mansell killed the judge and Adele Simpson. We know he did.”
“All you have to do is prove it,” Carolyn said.
Raymond took time to gaze all around the courtroom before looking at Carolyn again. He said, “Just quit being the lawyer for a minute, all right? Clement Mansell has killed nine people. Four more than we know of and seven more than he’ll ever be convicted for. He isn’t a misguided boy, somebody you can defend, feel sorry for. He’s a fucking killer. He likes it. He actually likes killing people. Do you understand that?”