Socrates let his shoulders slump down when he remembered the words of his crazy auntie and Muriel's dying sigh. The men hovering about him were in charge. They could do whatever they wanted and so he wasn't responsible for a thing.
You worried, huh? Kirkshaw said, mistaking Socrates' relaxed shoulders for defeat.
Socrates looked at the man's shoes thinking that it wasn't the first time he'd been kicked.
The questioning went on for about five hours. Finally the shift was up and the overtime was no longer worth it. They hit him with rolled-up newspapers and open-hand slaps. The only blood was on the inside of his mouth. Bruises didn't show on black skin unless there was swelling.
When they brought Socrates to his cell, he was tired. He'd learned that the girl in the silver miniskirt, the one found in his alley a month earlier, was Minnie Dawn Lee, a party girl. The police were investigating but they had no leads until someone said something about the ex-con who lived in that alley. They got his records from the prison authority and figured they could close the case before Friday.
He wasn't a suspect, they said, and so he didn't get read his rights or given a lawyer. All he got was some questions, that's what they said.
Socrates was put in a holding cell with another man, Tiny Jones.
He was the kinda man, Socrates told Darryl a few days later, scare the panties offa some white woman at Bounty. Nineteen years old an about three hundred fifty pounds. He come up to me not one minute after I was there an' say, You got some fuckin cigarettes on you, old man?'
What you say? Darryl asked.
I pushed him wit' one hand an' he fount himself up against the wall. After that he just went back to his cot an' stayed quiet.
Fortlow. The voice came from far away. Socrates imagined a black giant that sometimes appeared in his dreams. A big man with powerful limbs who came to remind Socrates, now and then, that there was a lot of work left for him to do.
Fortlow. But it was only a policeman, a guard really. Your lawyer's here.
Have I been charged?
Come on, the uniformed guard said. I don't have time to waste on you.
Ernesto Chavez, the lawyer said to Socrates. He was slender and sharp with a razor thin mustache and eyebrows that might have been plucked. His skin was olive and his eyes were the sleek color of a black widow spider's skin.
Who sent you? Socrates asked.
Marty Gonzalez asked me to represent you.
Shit, Socrates said through the mouthpiece in the wire-reinforced plate glass. Man, I couldn't even buy you pomade.
Ernesto Chavez had perfect white teeth and a good sense of humor to show them off.
You got that right, bro, he said. But this is free.
Free?
Marty used to bring me a care package from the store every week when I was in law school. You know Chavez finished the sentence by rubbing his hands together indicating how one washed the other.
Socrates understood.
So, Ernesto continued. You got a problem here.
Somebody killed a girl and dumped her in the alley not too far from my door. I was in for a murder in sixty-one. They think it's in my blood.
Did you tell them anything?
Nuthin' to tell.
But maybe they made something up, Ernesto suggested. Your eye's kinda swollen.
I asked 'em for a lawyer. They said that there wasn't no charge.
The young man's eyes rolled and a smile flitted underneath his mustache.
You have some good friends, Mr. Fortlow. They came down here with the money to get you out but I think a quick call to the court will work just as well. You didn't tell 'em anything, right?
Socrates stood up and gestured to the guard that he was ready to leave.
Outside the police station that morning Socrates found Marty Gonzalez, his friend Howard Shakur and Darryl, along with the lawyer, Ernie Chavez. Howard was by far the largest of the men and Socrates was most surprised to see him there.
Darryl called me, triple-chinned Howard said. He got my number from Luvia and called out to Venice.
Are you okay, Socco? Marty Gonzalez asked. Did they do that to your eye?
Socrates didn't answer Marty's question. There were too many things going through his head. It was early in the morning. Each man there was missing something, work or sleep or a paycheck or school.
You okay, Mr. Fortlow? Ernesto Chavez asked.
Man, I don't even know you, Socrates said.
He's my cousin, Marty Gonzalez said.
All Socrates could do was stare. His friends looked at each other.
Well, big Howard said. I got to go home and get to bed. You know I just did the graveyard shift. You wanna ride to school, Darryl?
The boy looked at Socrates.
Try to stay in it this time, Socrates said.
You wanna ride to work? Marty asked.
No. Socrates was curt. I got to do some things at home first. I'll be in at about noon.
You wanna a ride home before I take Darryl? Howard wanted to know.
Just lea'me alone, all right?
They left him standing on the street in front of the police station. Again he was like a statue; a slightly larger than life-size image of a black man against white stone. His khaki pants and black T-shirt were tight over arms and legs that bulged with angry strength. His head tilted up slightly.
The assistant manager Jason Fulbright looked at the clock when he saw Socrates coming through the sliding glass doors of Bounty. Socrates followed his immediate boss's eyes to see that it was two fifteen.
Socrates stifled the urge to go up to the younger black man and say, I have a good excuse, boss man. I had to wipe the prints offa my thirty-eight and go hide it under a wreck in the empty lot down the alley from my place. 'Cause you know a ex-con been down for double murder and rape cain't own no pistol to protect himself in this country. In this country they got to protect niggahs like you.
Socrates realized that he was speaking under his breath, saying what he was thinking and building into a fury. So he turned away and went to the back of the store where he could find some hard work for his hands to do.
The police came to see me today before you got here, Marty Gonzalez, the store manager, told Socrates.
It was ten fifteen that night and the last customer had been let out of the front door with a key by Sarah Shulberg and her best friend, the black girl Robyn Craig.
Oh yeah?
They said that you killed two people, that you raped the woman, and that you were labeled incorrigible at a prison in the Midwest.
They were standing next to a bin of pink grapefruits that were piled in a pyramid.
Oh yeah? What you say?
I said that to begin with I knew about your record and that Bounty had a policy of giving people a chance to reform. And then I told them that midwestern prisons must be pretty strange to release incorrigibles and let them move out of state.
I ain't told you 'bout my record, Socrates said.
It's not any of my business and those cops were wrong to tell me.
Socrates wanted to hit Marty. He wanted to pick up a grapefruit and squeeze it until all of the bitter juice was wasted on the floor. His distress was physical. His head ached and his stomach was ready to roll over. Socrates' mouth was filling up with saliva when he said, I got to get outta here, Marty.
The shorter supervisor put his hand on Socrates' right biceps.
I still want you for my produce man, Socco.