Antoine′s lawyer, Miles Goldberg, had arranged for me to bring a videographer to shoot some video of his client. We weren′t allowed to talk through the plastic partition-the lawyer would do all the talking later.
To hear Luke or any other cop describe Antoine, the boy was nothing but a gangbanger who′d killed Jana for easy money. Luke had called Antoine a ″scumbag.″ But that description didn′t jibe with what I was seeing through the divider between us. Antoine had the soft, studious features of a mathlete, right down to the rimless glasses. We sat opposite each other without speaking, which felt supremely weird. In fact it felt almost invasive, like Antoine had been trucked out to be videotaped like some kind of zoological specimen.
Antoine sat motionless for several moments, staring down at the graffiti-scarred desk in front of him. Then abruptly, he shifted to the side and reached into his pocket for something.
I felt a surge of alarm, even though there was a plastic partition between us. Then I realized that the object that Antoine was pulling from his pocket was a piece of paper, not a weapon.
Staring at me with large, liquid brown eyes that were rimmed with black lashes, Antoine held the paper up to the plastic. He flattened it out so that I could read the writing.
In careful, square-edged lettering, the paper said:
When you see my mama, please tell her that I love her.
And please tell her that I′m sorry.
An hour later Frank and I were riding in the broadcast truck, on our way to interview Antoine′s mother. They lived in the Centerville projects in east Durham. If you want to get an idea of what the projects are like, take any bad section of town you′ve ever seen, and then quadruple it. Then add streets patrolled by sociopaths carrying automatic weapons. That gives you the flavor of Centerville. It′s the worst of the urban worst. I knew from Jonathan that the cops donned full-body Kevlar armor and brought plenty of backup whenever they responded to an incident in the projects. They always had to be prepared to deal with the M Street Crew gang, which controlled the streets. Allegedly, Antoine was a gunman for that gang.
I had to find out whether that was true.
Chapter 29
″Vanish″ Your Lines with a Klingon Cloaking Device
We all fret about ″marionette lines,″ the ones that run from the nose to the lips, and from the edges of the lips to the chin. To minimize them, first dot a highlighting concealer along the lines. Then use your synthetic foundation brush to blend in the concealer. It′ll do wonders for ″lifting″ those downward-drooping marionette lines.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
″I know everyone thinks my Antoine is a cold-blooded murderer. But they don′t know my son. Only I know him. My Antoine would never, ever kill anyone. He′s a good boy.″
Violet Hurley stared at me across the wooden table. We were sitting in her well-appointed and immaculately clean kitchen. A picture of Christ, his eyes cast upward and hands clasped in prayer, hung on the wall over the sink. Several tall votive candles were lined up on the window ledge. All were lit.
Next to Violet was a trim man who sat on the edge of the kitchen chair at an angle. He radiated intensity. It was Antoine′s lawyer, Miles Goldberg. He was a well-known criminal defense attorney in the tristate area.
Just for the record, I did not want to do this story. Lainey had handled all the stories so far about Jana′s carjacking and Antoine′s arrest. In fact, she′d done little more than regurgitate what officials had told her on the record. But Beatty had insisted that I do this one, for some reason. When I objected, orders came down from the GM for me to do the piece. God knows why they had a bug up their ass. Maybe they thought Lainey′s police stories were too soft.
But because this story involved my friend′s murder, I was uncomfortable in the extreme. I′d have to summon up all my objectivity to remain professional.
Frank, who had his camera on a tripod in the corner of the room, was adjusting the lens focus. He gave me a nod to indicate that we were ready to roll tape.
I looked at Violet. ″Mrs. Hurley, why do you think the police arrested Antoine if he′s innocent? ″
″I′ll answer that question,″ Goldberg the lawyer interjected smoothly. ″We believe that Antoine is being blamed for a crime that was actually committed by someone else. By someone in the M Street Crew gang.″
Rolling up a ball of tissue in her hand, Violet said, ″I told Antoine, ′Stay clear of those M Crew boys; you′ll wind up dead. They′re killers.′ I told him and told him. Now look at what′s happened. That poor woman died, her child got hurt, and they′re blaming my son. My son. He′s an honor student at his high school. He gets all As. Did the police tell you about that?″
″No, they didn′t,″ I said.
″They never do. Not when they′ve already decided who they want to hang for the crime.″
I looked at Goldberg. ″What about the witness ID?″
Goldberg cast a sideways glance at Violet. ″Are you okay to hear these details, Violet?″
Violet scrubbed the tears off her cheeks with the tissue. ″Please go ahead, Mr. Goldberg. I want to hear everything about my son′s case. The good and the bad,″ she said with a quiet dignity.
″Antoine hijacked the Miller′s car; that′s true,″ Goldberg began, looking at me. ″But he was forced to do it. And despite what the police are saying, Antoine didn′t have a gun. Gang members were threatening to kill him and his family. That′s the way that gang operates. Violet filed several complaints about the fact that the M Street Crew had been threatening her and her son. But the police did nothing.″
″That′s right, Mr. Goldberg,″ Violet said, rocking back and forth in her chair. ″If you live in the projects, you′re invisible to the police. Only when somebody gets killed do they bother to show up. Especially when someone from outside this area gets killed. I hope you′ll do a story on that someday, Miss Gallagher.″
″It sounds like I should,″ I said.
Goldberg leaned toward me. ″The bottom line is that my client Antoine had nothing to do with killing Mrs. Miller,″ he said, keeping his eyes fastened on mine. ″They forced him to get in that car.″
″Forced?″
″Yes. Someone with a gun forced Antoine into that car, and that was the person who later shot Mrs. Miller.″
″Who?″
″It was Mad Dog!″ Violet blurted out the name in a scream.
Covering her eyes with her hands, she continued, ″Mad Dog told Antoine they needed the car to go to a party, and then they were going to dump it. Antoine was afraid not to do what Mad Dog said. Everyone is. Mad Dog will kill you as soon as look at you. It′s terrible out there for young men these days, Miss Gallagher.″
Goldberg glanced at Violet. ″Mad Dog′s real name is Akito Carver. He′s a major narco dealer with ties to Miami cartels.″
Removing a picture from another folder, he pushed it toward me. ″This is Akito Carver. Also known as Mad Dog.″
The photo showed a young African-American male with shoulder-length dreadlocks.
At the sight of the photo, Violet visibly recoiled ″Mad Dog′s a monster,″ she said. ″My son is getting punished for what he did.″