She coordinates with the Bakersfield boys. They park near Bailey's camper. In the new dawn, she knocks on his thin metal door. When he answers, she dangles the search warrant. She tells a stunned Bailey that she's looking for stolen property. She's looking for Ladeenia Pryce's panties, so that's partly true. Frank drops the warrant loosely to her side. By not drawing attention to it, she hopes Bailey will disregard it.
He protests, "I ain't stole nothin'."
"Well, let's just have a look," she says. Swinging into the doorway, she forces Bailey to jump down. Frank steps inside. Behind her, Bailey jabbers about harassment and planting evidence, just like they did to O.J., but in Frank's head it is quiet. This is her moment.
Though the camper reeks of stale grease and cigarettes, it is clean. Frank lays her hand on the built-in table to her left, aware of an old-fashioned, diner-style sugar dispenser. She studies the metal finish encircling the Formica. The same material girdles a narrow counter opposite. Frank pulls a picture from inside her jacket. When she smoothes it against the table, she sees her hand is trembling. There are four smudged lines in the bruise on Ladeenia Pryce's thigh. There are four raised ribs in the metal band. She holds a small ruler against the table edge. The ribbing corresponds roughly to the spacing on Ladeenia's bruise, and Frank gets shaky.
"Easy," she whispers, her voice as thin and gray as the light seeping through the curtains. She shifts her focus to the rest of the camper, wondering what else it might be hiding. She puts the picture away and allows a quick smile before hopping down to join Bailey.
"What did you find?" Bailey demands.
"What should I have found?"
"Nothin'," he insists.
"I still need you to come downtown and fill out a statement for me.
"A statement? For what? I ain't done nothin'."
"That's what I need you to explain to me." Frank makes a show of checking her watch. "Sooner we get this over with, the sooner you're back home. And the sooner I'm home."
"Yeah, and I'ma sooner your lily-white ass good. This is harassment. Plain and simple. You only checkin' me 'cause I'm a black man."
"If that were the case, Mr. Bailey, then there's a half a million other black men I could have picked on." She guides him toward the unit, explaining, "The boys'll take you in and bring you back as soon as we're done. Let's get this shit cleared up and be on our way."
"Yeah, you wanna get this shit cleared up all right, 'cause you done fucked up, white girl. You picked on the wrong nigger this time."
She slides him into the back of the unit, assuring him, "If that's true then this ain't gonna take long."
"It's gonna take long for you," Bailey fires back. "I'ma have the ACLU and the Anti-Defamation League crawling up your ass!"
The cop behind Frank murmurs, "Isn't that for Jews?"
Rolling her eyes, Frank closes the door and taps the hood. The car pulls away. She follows, leaving the second unit with instructions to impound the camper. Ahead of her, Bailey rants. It's like watching TV with the mute on. She'd requested a unit with a Plexiglas panel to separate the front and rear seats so Bailey can't ask for a lawyer en route to the station.
Frank drives into a smudgy sunrise, vaguely aware of the smell of her sweat. She's nervous but refuses to dwell on how much is riding on this interrogation. Pulling in a lungful of brown air, she tells herself, "Steady as she goes, girlie-girl."
Joe used to wink that at her as they stepped into the box. She wishes he were here. Wishes Noah was too. Maybe he is.
"Then it's time to pull a rabbit out of your ass, buddy. Help me nail this baby- fucker."
Frank tucks her apprehension away. Bailey's what she should be thinking about. Nothing else. She's got to be on him like crumbs on toast. She has to think like him and then three steps ahead of him. It's a chess game, his every gesture, nuance and word, the pieces.
Interrogating perps reminds her of the fable about the sun and the wind. The sun and the wind saw a man walking down the road one day. The wind said, "I bet I can get him to take his coat off faster than you can."
The sun thought about it and replied, "You're on."
So the wind blew and blew. The harder it blew, the tighter the man clutched his coat. Exhausted, the wind finally gave up.
"Let's see what you can do," the wind panted to the sun.
Smiling, the sun turned to face the man. She shined on him until sweat popped out on his face. The man kept walking and the sun kept beaming. Pretty soon the man stopped to wipe his face. The sun shined on and the wind started to gloat. The man walked a few steps more, then paused.
"Phew," he said, and then wiping the sweat from his brow, he took his coat off.
Based on the sister's description of his temperament, Frank had decided to work Bailey with persuasion rather than aggression. His behavior so far reinforces her decision. He didn't read the search warrant. He didn't refuse to come in. He hasn't asked for a lawyer and he's still shooting his mouth off. These are all good signs. She's just going to shine on him like a hot sun. Later she'll blow.
Bailey doesn't have an extensive police history, and without underestimating his intelligence, she believes she can manipulate his legal naivete. And his pride. The man's gotten away with murder— and Christ knows what else—for six years, and waltzed on two priors. He probably feels pretty good about himself and Frank wants to keep it that way. She wants to make him feel confident enough to talk without a lawyer, hoping to get him so entangled in lies that he hangs himself.
The unit pulls into the police station and Frank parks next to it.
"Here we go," she whispers. "Showtime."
Chapter 39
When she opens his door Bailey picks up where he left off.
"This ain't right. I want—"
"I know, I know" she interrupts loudly. "We all want a lot of things, Mr. Bailey. I'd like to win the lottery and you'd probably like to be left alone. I can't win the lottery, but you can probably go home if you just answer a couple questions for me. So what we're gonna do is take you inside here, get you a nice cup of coffee and see if we can't clean this mess up. If we can, then I'll cut you loose and you'll be on your way. No fuss, no muss, and you can start your lawsuit against me."
"I'm gonna," he mutters. "You best believing that."
Escorting Bailey through the station she maintains a running patter. Frank emphasizes getting him home and clearing this up, as if it's all a mistake that can be explained, no big deal. Frank wants Bailey thinking he can talk his way out of this jam.
She leaves him in a small interrogation room, returning with two cups of coffee. His has cream and sugar.
"Taste it," she tells him. "I think that's just the way you like it."
He does as instructed and Frank watches.
"S'okay?"
Bailey nods, suspicious. "How you know I like it like that?"
Frank pats her fat murder books. She's brought the open box of taped interviews in for effect. Indicating all these, she says, "That's just the tip of the iceberg, Mr. Bailey. I know a lot of things about you, so don't even try to bullshit me. I got a very sensitive bullshit meter. Be square with me and we can clean this mess up. Get the fuck outta Dodge." Punching the record button on a tape recorder, Frank tells Bailey, "This is for your protection. If I try to beat you up or force you into doing something you don't want to do, you can take this tape to the ACLU and say, 'See here? She made me do this.' Now let's play this back so you know it's working okay." While the tape rewinds, she slips in, "I should probably read you your rights, too, before we go any further, else that'll be something else for you to nail me with."