Untitled (12 page)

  "Slowly, unfortunately," said Marshall. "These kinds of cases are always tough. So, how's your family?"

  "Oh, everyone's fine. Claire says hello, and the kids are okay too. Although Yvonne had the flu for a while. Jonathan just got a promotion at GM."

  "That's good. And you look well. I swear, you're getting younger instead of older."

  "Thanks, you liar," said Bradbury.

  "I hear the Supreme Court docket is on hold until another justice can be named."

  "Yes," said Bradbury. "And the backstabbing has already started. I hear I'm on the short list."

  "That's great," said Marshall. "Congratu—"

  "Not yet. It's only a rumor. I'll let you know if it happens. Look, I just wanted to say congrats, and if you need me, I'll be around. This is a big moment in your life, son. The great future I always knew you'd have is probably tied to this. As a friend, I want you to come to me if anything goes wrong." Bradbury stood up. He and Marshall shook hands.

  "I appreciate that," said Marshall. "You know, I do need something right now."

  "What's that?" Bradbury turned around.

  "I'd like to know your opinion on the case. I know you and Douglas were enemies."

  "Not enemies, adversaries. There's a difference." Bradbury sat back down. "Farrel and I were not friends, but we liked each other. I have to say that I was not surprised at what happened. He was asking for it."

  "You think so?" asked Marshall, who was suddenly aware that his former mentor was upset.

  "The man was dishonest, in the worst way. He was intellectually dishonest. He used his color to get the job, then turned his back on everyone who fought to get him there. There was no love lost between us, that's for sure."

  "But you are upset about it?"

  "Yes, I'm upset." Bradbury shifted in his chair. "I didn't agree with the man's philosophy, but he was black, and he had an obligation to be smarter than to start all the trouble he did, then go out in this crazy world. His family—" Bradbury stopped for a second. "Didn't deserve this. Our people suffer quietly these days, Marshall, but we continue to fight. His political choices hurt us, and now in death, he hurts those of us he left behind."

  Marshall was surprised at his old boss. He had never heard him say a kind word about Douglas, but now it seemed that he was saddened by his departure. Marshall guessed that no one liked it when one of their peers died. It was too close to home and raised terrible thoughts of mortality.

  "So, you think his views killed him," asked Marshall.

  "That happened a long time ago," said Bradbury. "He was shot because he was hurting people, his people. You just can't do that. A Supreme Court justice speaks and moves mountains. He was killed because he was killing hope, and that is the only thing that keeps many of us going." Bradbury grew quiet. "Listen to me, I've started making a speech. I should be leaving. You take care, son."

  "Good-bye, sir."

  Bradbury walked out of the door. If his old friend was right, then Douglas could have been killed by just about anyone. Marshall was hard-pressed to think of any black person who liked him except Nate Williams. But his experience told him this killer didn't engage his occupation on a whim. Whoever killed Douglas had a reason beyond mere hatred.

  Marshall checked his watch, then left his office and went into the conference room down the hall. They were all going to watch the tape of the commencement and try to ID the mystery men they'd found.

  Marshall joined his newly assembled team and watched the videotape over and over. The FBI had assembled a collection of all the tapes showing the men. So far there seemed to be only two of them. The black man who was shot appeared with a case and walked through the crowd, then he handed it off to a taller man, and that man disappeared.

  "How in God's name did he get in with that?" asked Roberta.

  "No one knows," said Marshall. "The place where the assassin shot from was covered from the floor, but not above. No one can seem to explain why. The FBI is investigating, but already everyone is running and covering their asses."

  Walter Anderson chuckled softly. He was happy to be on the team. Marshall had made the call, but he was still unsure about it. Walter's past substance abuse problems made him a risk, but he'd been on the wagon for a long time. Still, he'd told Walter to be on his game or else.

  Nate Williams was in Philadelphia, Douglas's home, attending the funeral. Marshall was clearly in control of the case. It was a little scary, but he was filled with positive energy. This was his opportunity to run with the ball.

  "The FBI is coordinating a list of men from the records of the school and the auditorium," said Marshall. "All men who fit the description of the two men on tape will be on it."

  "That cuts it down to about a half million suspects," said Roberta Shebbel with a laugh. She was already in her evidence analysis mode.

  "Yes, but we'll cut it further when the FBI matches that description to all known subversives and black militants in the area," said Marshall. "Everyone read the updates and report on your assignments to me later today. Nate will be in Philly for the next two days. Bob, anything from Toby?"

  Bob Ryder looked as if someone had awakened him. "No, but I'll be hearing from her today. She's in Philadelphia, too."

  "Okay, people, let's do it—"

  Marshall was cut short by a man in the back of the room. As the team dispersed, John Deacons, head of the Capital Crimes Division, walked in the door. Deacons was Marshall's boss and probably felt that he should have gotten the case. Nate had bypassed him, and Deacons had disappeared. The rumor was that he was quitting the department. Deacons was a medium-size man, slightly balding with stark blue eyes. He was a good lawyer, known for his trademark bow tie. Deacons walked over to Marshall, smiling a little.

  "John," said Marshall. "How are you?"

  "I'm resigning, effective today," said Deacons.

  Marshall stiffened, knowing that this was just the beginning of Deacons's anger. "I'm sorry to hear that," said Marshall.

  "I don't think so," said Deacons. "You're the new golden boy."

  Marshall tried not to flinch at the use of the word
boy
, but he knew he betrayed himself.

  "Look, John, I'm sorry for how this all went down, but I have to do my job."

  "I trained you, Marshall," said Deacons. His voice was filled with anger. "This should be my case."

  "Nate made the call," said Marshall, knowing what was coming next.

  "I know," said Deacons. "Nate, the benevolent father. You two are so tight. And I suffer because I'm not black, and I can't get as close to him as you."

  "You know Nate is not like that. He made a professional call, and that's all there is to it."

  "Is it professional to have your buddy Walter on the team? The man almost drank himself out of this job."

  "Walter's better now, and you know he's a good lawyer. Hell, you've said so yourself many times. Look, I'm sorry you're leaving, and I wish you the best."

  Marshall was getting mad and he knew he should leave. He took a step and was surprised when Deacons's arm shot out and stopped him.

  "This is bullshit and you know it. If you had any decency, you would have demanded that I be given this case with you as my second. You know this is unfair, but you'd rather step on my corpse than do the right thing."

  Marshall moved Deacons's hand from him. "The right thing?" he said incredulously. "How many times have black lawyers been forced into second-string roles when they've deserved the first chair? How many times have you and your friends knowingly favored one another out of friendship and loyalty? This is the way it is, John. The ones with power make the rules, and everyone else gets with the program, but as soon as that power is in the hands of a black man, you want to change the rules."

  "If you weren't black, you wouldn't have this case," said Deacons.

  "If you weren't white, you wouldn't care," said Marshall.

  "Toby wanted him," said Bob Ryder.

  Marshall and Deacons turned to see Ryder standing not far from them. Marshall was so angry at Deacons for his assertions, that he'd forgotten that Bob was still in the room.

  "Toby called and talked to Nate as soon as Douglas was killed. She gave him a description of the man she wanted. Williams and Toby agreed that it was Marshall."

  "So, Toby wanted a black man?" asked Deacons. He seemed shocked at Ryder's statement.

  "No, she wanted a
good
man," said Ryder. "Marshall, I'll get on that FBI coordination right away." Ryder left the room.

  Deacons turned back to Marshall. He seemed upset and embarrassed. "I—I don't know what to say," said Deacons. "I guess I'm just disappointed for not getting the case. I'm sorry."

  "You're a living example of what's wrong with this country," said Marshall.

  "I said I was sorry," said Deacons.

  "We've worked together for years, yet my conviction means nothing to you. But one word from Bob Ryder, and you're sorry."

  "It's not like that," said Deacons. "It had nothing to do with him being white."

  "Like hell it didn't." Marshall was pissed. "You've walked around this office, pretending to respect Nate Williams and me, but all this time you've never believed that we earned our positions. People like you, harboring secret prejudice, keep all the decent people in this country apart, suspicious, and distrustful of one another. Well, fuck you and your bullshit attitude, John. The world is moving too fast to care about you and your kind. We've got a job to do."

  Deacons looked like a child for a moment. His shoulders slumped, and he looked away from the taller man. Marshall stepped around him and walked out of the room and into the hallway.

  He was going back to his office when he heard a commotion behind him and voices yelling his name. He turned to see Agent Sommers, Bob Ryder and several other men running down the hall.

  "Marshall!" yelled Bob Ryder. "A man says he's the killer and—"

  Ryder was cut off. Several people all started to shout at him all at once. Marshall quieted them down and looked at Bob Ryder.

"Bob, what is it?" asked Marshall.

  "A man is outside on the steps of this building with the press, confessing on TV."

Marshall rushed into the crowded conference room. On a TV monitor, Daishaya Mbutu commanded a throng of reporters as he spoke on the steps of the federal building. He stood with two men who held a large flag with two black fists on it. Emblazoned in red underneath were the words: THE BROTHERHOOD. There were about six black men with Mbutu in all. They wore military fatigues and hats wrapped in African kente cloth, a colorful fabric accenting blues, reds, and yellows. There were at least fifteen reporters crowding the area. Security guards could be seen, but they took no action. Several FBI men were already on the scene as well.

  Mbutu was an imposing man who commanded attention. His long dreadlocks hung down on his African shirt. His features were sharp and were probably once considered handsome. Now they looked mean, punished by years of anger. His eyes were a deep shade of brown, fired with his emotion.

  ". . . again I say, I took care of Farrel Douglas!" said Mbutu. "He was a traitor to his people and an enemy of the state. I am a revolutionary in the cause of justice, and I have taken the first step toward freedom for my people."

  The reporters yelled questions at Mbutu. He ignored them. Mbutu's men raised the banner high.

  "Mr. Mobutu—" said a reporter.

  "The name is Em-boo-too," said Mbutu slowly. "Em-bootoo. A name that people will remember for a long time to come."

  The men with Mbutu clapped at this statement and admonished the reporter for his ignorance.

  "Sorry, sir. Mr. Mbutu, did you kill Farrel Douglas?" asked the same reporter.

  "I am here to challenge the FBI, CIA, Justice Department, and all of the powers that be. I am here, and I defy them."

  "Who was the man who was shot fleeing the assassination?" asked another reporter.

  "He was obviously a man willing to die for what was right," said Mbutu.

  "Did you know the man?"

  "I know what was in his heart," said Mbutu. "He was filled with anger and passion for his people. I am sure that whatever he did, it did not justify him being killed. That man was executed by a white cop. Another casualty of the war being fought between the races in the godforsaken country we call America."

  The men behind Mbutu clapped loudly and encouraged him to go on.

  "There's a black prosecutor on this case," said a small male reporter. "What do you think about that?"

  "He should be shot too," said Mbutu. The other men with him laughed loudly.