Color of Justice (18 page)

Danny sat for an hour in a stairwell before he paged Dr. Gordon and asked for an emergency session. Gordon told Danny he'd be at his office as soon as he could. Danny beat Gordon there by twenty minutes and Gordon arrived to find Danny sitting on the floor outside the locked suite.

They went inside and Danny quickly unloaded on his doctor. He told him about the breakup with Vinny, which seemed like good news compared to what he'd learned from Fiona. Gordon just listened with the same passionless expression he always had.

“Do you feel your father had something to do with her death?” asked Gordon.

“He lied,” said Danny. “He covered up the death with a friend of his, a doctor. He consciously got another man to commit a felony.”

“That's not an answer,” said Gordon calmly.

“My answer is no,” said Danny, “but that don't change the fact that something is wrong. I'm going
to find out why she died. He's going to tell me, or I'll—”

“What?” asked Gordon.

Danny calmed himself and let his grief subside. He loved his father and he would never do him any harm. Besides, Danny thought, Robert Cavanaugh could probably still take him.

“I just need to know the truth,” said Danny. “All of it. My father was in that house punishing himself each day and there has to be a reason for it. A man doesn't do that kind of thing unless he's got sin in his heart. I know, believe me, I know.”

“You think interrogating your father will make you feel better?” Gordon asked. Danny got the feeling that this question was more for Gordon than it was for himself.

“My mother is gone. I'm never going to see her again.” Danny took a long pause, fighting all the things he was feeling. “I have to know why.”

Danny shifted in the chair and felt like a child in the principal's office. Gordon knew every embarrassing thing in his life, and now he knew his mother might have been killed and his father involved in some kind of cover-up. Danny knew there was a doctor-patient privilege, but he always wondered if it was kept.

“My life is falling apart,” said Danny. “My father…Vinny…and I'm no closer to catching the killer of the Bakers and Olittah Reese than I was yesterday. I got nothing. Asking my father what really happened is all I have right now.”

Gordon put down his pad and looked directly at
Danny, something that suggested he was no longer his doctor at this moment.

“Do you think that your problem with Vinny is the same as your concerns about your father?”

“How?” asked Danny urgently and with a little anger in his voice. “How are those two things the same?”

“You have to find that out,” said Gordon. “All I know is you seem to be drawing from the same pool of emotions for both problems. You've reacted to the loss of your mother and Vinny in the same manner.”

Danny didn't argue with Gordon. He was a smart man and had helped him immensely since he'd started coming to him. Gordon was trying to be objective, to lead him to what he thought the problem was.

“I can see that, I think,” said Danny. “They are so much alike, those two. I was the only one who could see it.”

“If that's the case, then how does that make you feel about talking to your father?”

“Like it's maybe the place to begin to solve all of my problems,” said Danny.

“Normally, I would never ask a patient to explore these matters without supervision, but I confess that this is new to me, and you—” Gordon stopped as if he were trying to choose his words carefully. “—you're a unique man.”

Danny talked for a few more minutes then left Gordon's office. He stepped out of the office complex into the coolness of the night air. He had been
with the doctor for a long time and night had fallen. Danny was thinking that he'd faced many dangerous situations in his life, but nothing seemed as frightening as the prospect of knowing what had driven his mother to her death.

Reverend Bolt was worried. The detectives who had come calling asked embarrassing and dangerous questions, poking their noses around in his financial business. In addition, the losses he'd sustained from New Nubia were threatening to crumble his empire and maybe get the authorities looking at those same finances. He could not let that happen. He'd worked too hard for too long to let it all slip away now. So many years of struggle had been put behind him, he thought. He could not afford to be stupid or weak now. His people needed him more than ever and he would not let them down.

He examined the gun carefully as he loaded a clip and placed it into a holster under his suit coat. He was never a man to take chances. He'd taken many precautions since his days in the South. He went to his bar and poured himself a scotch.

That was a long time ago, a lifetime. He thought sadly about the man he used to be, the evil, pa
thetic human being who had destroyed lives and taken from others. But God did indeed move in mysterious ways. He had led Bolt to prison, where he'd found The Word and the way. He was transformed and when he was released he set out to give back some of the joy that he'd stolen from the world.

Bolt had discarded his old name and identity. He'd left Herman Bady in a Texas prison cell and tried never to think of him again. He'd transformed himself into a self-ordained minister and covered up his tracks, going through three states, assuming a new identity in each, slowly changing his look while changing his life. The last name he took was that of his religious mentor, Cleophus Boltman. Cleophus, then deceased, was a former basketball star, hardened lifer, and prison minister. Rashus, his new first name, was taken from a religious book he'd read while in prison.

Bolt ended up in Detroit, where he briefly worked at a halfway house while he preached on the streets on the weekends. Eventually he got a storefront church and started a full-time ministry.

Soon his church began to grow, and with the growth came controversy. Holyland was cited by many as too extreme in its practices. Men and women sat on opposite sides of the church, and women who wore dresses above the knees were told to go home. They also held fasting vigils and all-night prayer meetings and encouraged followers to donate part of their salary to the church, no matter how little they made.

More controversial was Reverend Bolt's outreach program to the state's prison. Prisoners were recruited while still incarcerated, and once they came out, the church took them in, making them family. The reverend saw this as essential to the making of his ministry, and he was known to keep these men close to him.

Despite controversy, the congregation was loyal. Reverend Bolt's fiery sermons and layman's approach to The Word mesmerized the hopeless and gave them hope. Bolt was now deemed a living work of God's power. He was where he had always wanted to be in God's light. So, he could not let the Bakers and their evil scheme end his ascension. He was going to build his religious empire and nothing would stop him.

He was going to see a man who admittedly worked on the other side of the law. He hated to do it, but these were desperate times. The players in the hood were really no worse than a banker, he told himself, and he'd exhausted all his legitimate resources. He walked the edge of law with his prison ministry, but now he was crossing back over. He had made a solemn promise long ago never to reenter the world of crime. He'd done terrible things in the past and the memories of that sinful life clung to him no matter what he did. Even giving his life to the church had not cleansed him. So what he had in mind today hung heavy in his heart.

Bolt finished his drink. He said a prayer, then exited his office. He walked through the sanctuary,
taking his time to gaze at the pictures of Jesus and the apostles on the stained-glass windows. When he got to the back of the room, he was joined by two of his deacons. They flanked him as he walked out of the church into the night. A white Cadillac DeVille was parked at the curb. Bolt got in and the car sped off, headed toward Woodward Avenue.

 

Across the street, the Bady brothers watched their father come out of the church surrounded by men. Muhammad had carefully read the file he'd stolen. It wasn't hard to find him after they burned the office at Oasis.

Muhammad could barely contain himself. He wanted to press a button and blow the Cadillac off the face of the earth. But that would be too easy, he thought. Too good for the man who had spawned death and sadness in their lives. No, their father's death would have to be as glorious as the pain he'd inflicted.

“Don't lose him,” Muhammad said to Rimba as Bolt's car pulled away.

The brothers started off after Bolt, following him down Woodward to the boulevard. Suddenly, the Cadillac pulled over and stopped by Clairmount Avenue. The Bady brothers stopped behind Bolt, parking a block away.

Bolt's car sat for ten minutes, unmoving. Muhammad became nervous. What was their father up to? Had he seen them?

“Get ready to take him,” said Muhammad. He reached under his seat and took out his weapon.
Rimba pulled out a knife, and Akema took out a 9 mm and checked the magazine. “Hold up,” said Muhammad.

Two other vehicles had pulled up next to Bolt's car. One was another Cadillac, an Escalade. The other was a green Jeep. The Escalade pulled in front of Bolt's car, the Jeep settled in behind it.

Muhammad remembered a white Escalade was present the day the would-be killers came to their old home. He focused on the new vehicle, waiting for the occupants to emerge.

Desandias Locke pulled himself out of the passenger side of the SUV and into the backseat of Bolt's car. He moved quickly and had a distinct air of fear about him.

“Shit, somebody loves me,” said Muhammad. He laughed a little, which surprised his brothers.

“Who's that?” asked Akema with interest.

“Just another dead man,” said Muhammad. “Just another dead man.”

Danny knocked on the door of Marshall's house in Palmer Woods and waited. He was always a little jealous when he came there. A friend always likes to think of his peers as equals. But Marshall had done so much better than he had in the money department. The house was massive and well kept. The kind of place Danny could only dream about. The door opened, revealing Chemin, Marshall's wife.

“Danny,” she said brightly, flinging open the screen door. “Come on in.” She pulled him inside. “How are you? Come and see the kids.” She smiled a smile that he could only describe as happiness itself. Danny realized that Marshall had done better than he had in the life department, too.

Danny stepped inside thinking how different Chemin was these days. About a year ago, he would not have recognized this pleasant woman. Chemin and Marshall were having a terrible problem that resolved itself and ended in the birth of a
baby boy. She was now the person Danny remembered when they'd first met, a feisty, distractingly beautiful woman, who was funny, sensitive, and strong.

“So, how's Vinny?” she asked. Then finally she noticed his expression. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” said Danny.

“Is it that case?” she asked. “The murders?”

“Yeah, and other stuff.”

She looked at Danny and he felt that she knew everything. Chemin had always been a formidable woman and one of the smartest people he knew, maybe smarter than the man he had come to see.

“Marshall's in the back,” she said. “I'm sure he'll want to see you. We have company, but they're about to leave.”

“Who is it?” Danny asked. He didn't want to socialize unnecessarily.

“Just Marshall's mama and her friend.”

They walked through the house to the den, where they found Marshall on the floor play fighting with a little boy of three. His mother, Beatrice, was sitting on the sofa next to a black man in his sixties.

Beatrice held Marshall's son while Marshall played with his nephew, Kadhi, who was his brother Moses's illegitimate son. Moses was bad news, a hard-core killer and career criminal who was Marshall's fraternal twin. He was the black sheep, or maybe that should be white sheep, of their family, Danny thought.

“Look who's here,” said Chemin.

“Danny,” said Marshall. He started to get up, but couldn't with the kid in his arms. Chemin came over, took the child, and Marshall got to his feet.

Danny quickly walked over and kissed Beatrice as he said hello. He knew that if he waited too long to show her respect, she'd get on him, and he'd never hear the end of it.

“Hello, Danny,” said Beatrice. She was a big woman with a good nature who always had a kind word for everyone. When he was young, he saw her as much as he did his own mother. Her husband, Buford, had died many years ago and although there had been suitors in the past, this was the first one Danny had seen in a long time.

“Hi, Ma,” said Danny. She insisted that he call her “Ma” like a second mother since his own had died.

“This is Deacon Walton from my church,” said Beatrice.

Danny shook hands with the deacon. “Hiya doin', Rev,” said Danny.

“They're dating,” said Marshall.

“Stop it,” said Chemin. She put Kadhi down and took her own son from Beatrice.

“We gotta go now, Bea,” said the deacon. He got up, stuck out his hand, and helped Beatrice up from the sofa. It was a simple, elegant gesture that spoke volumes about what they meant to each other.

Beatrice and the deacon said good-bye and walked out of the house. Marshall escorted them to the door. Danny checked his friend's face. He
was happy for his mom to be seeing a man, but just a little resentful in that way that a son has to be.

“I guess you two want to talk,” said Chemin. “I'll get these kids out of your way.”

“See you later, man,” Danny said to Kadhi, and they slapped five in the sloppy way a kid does.

“Daniel, say 'bye to Uncle Danny,” said Chemin. She held the little baby out to Danny and he took the boy with a smile.

“That's Godfather Danny,” Danny corrected. “Like Marlon Brando.”

“Come on, honey,” Chemin said to the baby. “Let's let the big men do their thing.”

Danny gave her the baby as Marshall came back. Chemin gave her husband a concerned look, then she bounced out of the room with the two boys.

“Still can't believe you named him after me,” Danny said to Marshall.

“She wanted to name him Lynn after her grandfather, remember that shit? A girl's name. Anyway, it's nice having both the kids here. Kadhi's mama is in school now, and he's here most of the time. All of a sudden, I got a full house.”

“Chemin's still working from home?” asked Danny.

“Yeah, and she loves it. Personally, I don't think she's ever going back.”

“I hardly recognize her. What a difference a baby makes, huh?”

“So, what can I do for you, man?” asked Marshall. “That look on your face is pretty serious.”

Danny stared at his friend, wanting terribly to unburden himself about his father. Marshall was the only person in the world whom he really trusted, and he wanted to share his secret with someone. Hell, he thought, he wanted sympathy if nothing else.

“My mother didn't die in a fall,” said Danny calmly. “I found out that she might have taken an overdose of drugs. And my father…he tried to cover it up.”

Marshall reacted as if hit in the face by a blow. He looked at the ceiling for a second as if something were written on it.

“Jesus,” said Marshall. “Are you sure?”

Danny just nodded and Marshall made another exasperated sound. Then he thought for a moment more.

“Talk to him,” said Marshall finally. “Your father is a good man. My father thought so and so do I. I know he'll have an explanation. And keep an open mind.” He gave Danny a knowing look. “Remember what you thought about Chemin.”

Danny nodded, recalling that he'd suspected Marshall's wife of a similar crime over a year ago and he'd been wrong.

“I will,” said Danny. “I just—this is a fuckin' nightmare.”

They sat in silence for a while and Danny thought about leaving. He felt like an intruder in this happy home. But he knew that if he tried to go now, Marshall would not have any of it. They were too close for him to go running off trying to be the
strong silent cop. Their friendship was based on turning away from that terrible habit of men avoiding their feelings.

“Vinny moved out,” said Danny flatly. “It's been coming for a while I guess.”

“Man,” said Marshall. “What the fuck is happening to you, man?”

“I've been asking myself that same question,” said Danny. “It's like a snowball. Vinny and me, we fell out over nothing, some friends of hers came by.”

“It's never about nothing,” said Marshall. “That's just the thing that broke it. So, what are you gonna do?”

“Nothing,” said Danny. “I'll just let it go for a while. Do some work.”

“Maybe I can talk to her,” said Marshall almost to himself.

“No,” said Danny. “She'll think I put you up to it and it'll only make things worse. Vinny said that maybe I needed some white friends, like I was closed off from reality or something.”

“Shit,” said Marshall. “I thought you two were over that whole thing.”

“I think school and hangin' out with the black elite is doing it. And her sisters, of course.”

“I don't know what to say, man.” Marshall rubbed his hands together in frustration. “I know what it's like to have this problem. It's a hell of a lot bigger than me.”

“Well,” said Danny, “don't kill yourself about it. Maybe you can help me with my other problem—
my case, the murders of the Bakers and Olittah Reese. All of the victims were light-skinned blacks, and I have this nasty feeling that it means something.”

Marshall was quiet as he looked back at him. Danny searched for that hurt look he'd seen with Erik and Janis, but it wasn't there. All he saw in his eyes was concern.

“Maybe it's a coincidence,” said Marshall.

“Maybe, but I think it means something, and so does the FBI agent who's on it.”

“FBI?”

“She's a profiler from Quantico. She thinks it's a serial killer, a black one. It seems only white people usually do this kind of thing.”

“Yeah, sick-ass white boys,” said Marshall, laughing. “So, if it's important, what does it mean?”

“What I don't know is why it's relevant,” said Danny. “I don't know a lot about skin color differences between the brothers.”

“Colorism,” said Marshall.

“There's a word for it?” Danny was surprised by this.

“Yeah, a writer made it up. Danny, you've stepped into some deep shit, deep
black
shit.”

“I know. I caught the reactions of my partner and the FBI agent, who's black, too, by the way. They seem to be bothered by the subject in general and hurt by memories.”

“Everybody's got a story,” said Marshall. “I'll tell you what I know about it, but you've been see
ing it all your life. I guess it never hit you the same way because you were white.”

“So I've been told,” said Danny. “What's your story?”

“Remember Ms. Rattin from Davison Elementary?” said Marshall without hesitation.

“Yeah, I remember. Third grade. Pretty lady.”

“I had a big ol' crush on her. She was my favorite teacher with that long hair and those beautiful hazel eyes. Then one day, I overheard her talking to another teacher about her class. She said that some kids in her class were ‘as dumb as they were black.' And she said it in that mean, nasty way that let me know she had a dislike for dark skin, my kind of skin.”

“Ms. Rattin was very light-skinned,” Danny said absently.

“Then about a year later I heard some teachers talking about her; they plotted to keep her from getting some kind of award. They made reference to her thinking she was too good already.” And now Marshall's face took on that pained look Danny had seen before. “There are two revelations for black people,” he continued. “The first comes when you find out what it means to be black, and the second is when you find out what it means to be dark or light.”

“Light?” Danny asked.

“Yes, it goes both ways,” said Marshall. “A lot of light-skinned blacks get shit for not being dark enough. Remember Tommy, the kid whose father drove that beat-up old convertible?”

“Tommy Sanders,” Danny said, remembering the name. “He had freckles.”

“But he was black,” said Marshall. “The kids called him snowball, spotty, yellow-nigger, sweet pink, and all kinds of nasty stuff. I'm sad to say that I called him a few names myself. And that hurt look you talked about, the one your partner had on his face. I've seen that look on your face so many times, I'd like to forget them all.”

“Really?” said Danny, and in that instant he knew Marshall was probably right. He'd endured the worst kind of colorism. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“This all started with slavery, you know,” said Marshall. “When we were brought here, voluntarily or not, the races mixed, voluntarily or not. The slave masters treated their bastard kids better than their darker cousins, and the shit has just been carried on down through the years.”

Danny thought again about the victims and their faces. “And just what is the problem?” he asked.

“The lighter the skin, the better the person,” said Marshall. “That's the stereotype. Reality is more complicated. And you know, a lot of the first really good jobs, doctor, teacher, lawyer, went to fair-skinned blacks who were more accepted by white society. Darker blacks had to take the backseat twice if you will, once to the white man and again to the light black man. Blacks of all colors married, but there was always a section of the race that intermarried and remained very light-skinned. Some even passed for white. My father told me
about the parties with the paper bag by the door, and if you were darker than the bag, your ass couldn't come in.”

“So, if my killer is all fucked up about color, what could have made him that way?” asked Danny.

“Could be a lot of things,” said Marshall. “These days, we're all pretty much in denial about the shit. We're so busy trying to make it, that we've just let it slip under the surface of everyday life, and that's not a good place for something so painful.”

“My gut tells me that the color of the victims is not a coincidence,” said Danny. He took another drink of his beer. It was ever so slightly warmer from being in his hand for so long. “I think maybe the people involved were together for this reason.”

“Then you got yourself a real problem, my brother,” said Marshall.

Danny waited a moment, thinking, then asked, “Have you heard of the Castle Society?”

“Sure,” said Marshall. “My grandmother used to work at their parties as a servant. Why do you ask?”

“I'm not sure yet,” said Danny. “But it's involved in my case somehow.”

Chemin came back in at that moment. She forced a smile, knowing that they'd been talking about something serious.

“Got them both to sleep,” she said. “That's like a mommy holiday. So, everything okay?”

“Yeah, more or less,” said Marshall. “Danny's
come for some information about color. Chemin, tell Danny about your sister, Avon,” said Marshall.

Chemin's face took on the by now familiar look of upset and hurt. “Marsh, why does he need to know that?”

“He wants to know about the color differences between black people,” said Marshall. “It's for his case.”

“You can tell him,” said Chemin.

“It's different for women,” said Marshall. “Help the man.”

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to,” said Danny. But he was interested in what Chemin had to say. He also saw that she wanted to speak on the subject.