“Sounds like you have some ideas about what should come next.”
He laughed. “I always do. That’s why they never made me bird colonel.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I always say the best defense is a good offense. So does Clausewitz. When your force is small, concentrate it and hit them where they’re weak.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
“The same people who shut down your farm. The same people who attacked you.”
“Those people are Americans.”
“It isn’t American to do those things. America means more than being born here. It means believing certain things.”
“So we should shoot those who disagree?”
“Only if they shoot first.”
“I don’t want more blood,” she said.
“Then you went into the wrong business, woman. Blood’s about all that’s guaranteed from here on in. And you can’t stay here forever. You’ve got to keep moving. Move or die.” The screen door whispered closed behind him.
Levon
LEVON COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE was hearing.
Reverend Jim Crawford sat there, in the conference room of the MGM Grand—the room had already been scanned for bugs and been found clean—in his expensive suit, explaining why he thought Levon should get his people off the street. Now.
Levon had seen Big Jim’s press conference with the mayor the previous week. The mayor, still sporting a bandage over his gashed forehead, had thanked Big Jim profusely for stopping the violence, for cutting short the possibility of a riot. Big Jim grinned the high-wattage grin, and told the mayor that he did so knowing that the two of them could work together to fix the deeper problems plaguing the city. Problems of inequity, he said. Problems of racial justice. Mayor Burns nodded along, knowing that he had no choice—he could use the photo op with the civil rights icon in his reelection campaign.
Newsweek put Big Jim on its cover. The headline: “THE PEACEMAKER.” The photo framed his head with a halo. In the piece, Big Jim said that Detroit would have to pursue a complete makeover of its obviously racist police department. That meant community policing in the truest sense: drawing police officers from the community itself. That didn’t mean hiring officers from outside, the way they’d hired Ricky O’Sullivan. It didn’t even mean hiring black cops from outside the city and forcing them to live in the city to get to know the people they protected. It meant hiring longtime residents of the city, even people with backgrounds. “America,” said Big Jim, “is the land of second chances. You want to know why our community doesn’t trust the police? They don’t trust the police because to them, the police are strangers, and the other way around. And it takes more than living in the community a few months to earn trust.
“I’ll tell you what,” he told the Newsweek reporter. “It takes more than even being a good policeman. It means having been through what these folks have been through. It means knowing that just because somebody got sent up to prison for some stupid drug crime that wouldn’t have gotten a white boy six months in the can, that doesn’t mean their life should be over. It means understanding that there is a legacy of racism in this country, and that the police have historically been the arm of the racist establishment. That’s stuff you can only know if you’ve lived it.”
The reporter asked, “Are you saying that everybody on the force must be black?”
“No,” replied Big Jim. “I’m saying that everybody has to have the right kind of experience. And if that means being black, that means being black.”
The interview had caused an uproar. They’d even quoted Levon in it, asking him what he thought of Big Jim’s leadership. Levon told them that without Big Jim, the whole street would have gone up in flames. “Big Jim,” he told them, “is standing up for us. So long as he does, and so long as we get justice, we can make this city whole again.”
Now, however, Levon regretted he’d ever laid eyes on Big Jim. He’d been foolish to have trusted the man; he’d figured he could always outplay him. Everybody thought Big Jim was past his prime, that he’d run his course. After a youth of rabble-rousing and race-baiting, he’d entered the mainstream. He’d been invited to the White House. He’d appear from time to time outside some big chain store, accusing them of institutional racism, then pick up a large donation for his action group and disappear again. Jim Crawford, Levon had thought, could be handled.
Clearly not.
“Listen, Levon,” Big Jim said, leaning back in his leather chair. “We’ve done a lot of good here. Justice Department will come in, force the PD to engage in some systemic change. The DA will probably indict O’Sullivan. You’ve got the mayor on the run—just keep on top of him, and he’ll do most of what you ask for. You’re gonna be big in this city. One day you’ll be able to get what you want out of these people, you play the cards right.”
Levon just stared at him. “So that’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“And what was I? The sucker?”
“No. You were the bad cop. And I was the good cop. That’s how the game is played. You’re too young to remember Marion Barry. Now that was a professional. Played the game to perfection, man. He told the Black Panthers that they ought to make a little trouble in town. Then he played the moderate, told the white folks that he could calm them down if they just signed a few checks. One time he told me, ‘I know for a fact that white people get scared of the Panthers, and they might give money to somebody a little more moderate.’ You, Levon, are the new Panthers. And I’m the moderate.”
“So what did you get out of the deal? A big donation to the action fund?”
The reverend grimaced. “What’s so wrong with that? Every dollar in is a dollar we can use to fight the system. And don’t worry. Everybody has to play bad cop sometimes. I did it back in the day. Now it’s your turn.”
Levon hesitated. Then he slowly clenched his fist. “And what if there’s no room for good cop? What if the time for the good cop is over?”
Big Jim actually laughed. “You think you’re the first one ever to feel that way, don’t you? Boy, you don’t know shit. This ain’t slavery. This ain’t Jim Crow. This is just the ghetto. I’ve seen ’em all over, and I’ll tell you what: burning the ghetto down doesn’t do anything but make room for people like me to clean up. You’ll know that some day.”
Levon went quiet. Then, after a long pause, he spoke. “Reverend, opportunities like this come along once in a lifetime.”
“No, boy, they come along once every three weeks or so. I know. I’ve mapped it out.” He stood, then put his heavy hand on Levon’s shoulder. “Now, Levon, if you think I’m gonna leave you hanging like this, that’s where you’re wrong. See, I’ve got a proposition. Here’s what I’m gonna propose. The mayor needs a community group to give him the green light for his activities, lend him political cover. I’m not going to be in town long enough to carry that forward. But you can. You’ll be a big man in this city, Levon. Go mainstream.”
Levon stood up, peered down at Big Jim. “There’s only one issue, Reverend. You said that the white cop might be indicted. What if he isn’t?”