CHAPTER 38.

On March 29, 1973 the United States troops withdrew from Vietnam. Three days later, a young chaplain who had voluntarily served four tours, arrived from Southeast Asia in Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn. He would be stationed there for a month, his final days before returning to civilian life.

The fort, located at the southernmost tip of Brooklyn, stood at the foot of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge. The bridge, which traversed Jamaica Bay connecting Brooklyn to Staten Island, was the world's longest suspension bridge. Standing outside his quarters in full uniform, Captain Jerome Williams stared out at the ma.s.sive structure, lost in a reverie of memories and thoughts about the war he had left halfway around the world just a few days earlier, and the war he had left, in this very place, so many years before.

It was late in the day, a few minutes before sunset. Just west of the bridge, Jerome watched the burning ball slowly descend into the horizon, radiating hues of violet and crimson. A pretty sight, though not nearly as magnificent as the sunsets of the Pacific, he thought. No, nothing here was equivalent to anything there, not in beauty, nor in ugliness.

He thought about the war, how many had died, how many of his brothers had died. The disproportionate number of black soldiers serving on the fronts had disturbed him deeply, but it was nothing new. Growing up on the streets of Brooklyn had taught him that blood was cheap, especially black blood.

He had missed the first draft lottery, and that had given him time to finish high school and enter the seminary. He had then taken advantage of the 4-D deferment for two years until he decided to volunteer as a chaplain. He had needed a break from school, and from New York. Above all, he had needed a good fight, a tangible enemy on whom he could unleash his rage.

But the rage never waned. With all he'd learned in the seminary, all the killing he'd seen, even the killing he'd done-yes, the chaplain had taken up arms against the enemy-nothing had changed.

And soon he would be returning to the streets of Crown Heights. He wondered what awaited him. He wondered about his mother, and about his sister. He had a suitcase filled with hundreds of letters from his mother, and not a word in any about Celeste. So many years since Celeste had disappeared, so many confusing and conflicting feelings about her; he still didn't know why he'd never gone searching for her, nor if he would start now. What he did know was that he had a plan. The first thing he was going to do was return to his mother's house, finish the seminary, and open a new church in the neighborhood. That had been his dream since the time he'd studied with Reverend Sharp.

The reverend had always been a great inspiration, until that tragic day when the telegram had arrived reporting his son Roy's death in the war. From that moment, the reverend stopped preaching. He resigned his position in the church, and refused to see anyone. Eventually, the church had closed, and the empty storefront became yet another lair for drug dealers and whatnot.

Roy had been Jerome's closest friend, and had been drafted right out of high school. The news of Roy's death had shaken Jerome, had made him feel guilty about not having been there to save his friend, the same guilt he had always felt about his sister. Two weeks after Roy's death, Jerome had decided to join the army.

And now, Captain Jerome Williams' service to his country was over. But there were still battles to be fought, both in his soul and in the streets. He had learned many lessons of survival, some from Vietnam, some from the army, but most from an old childhood "friend."

Jerome Williams felt a surge of vengeance whenever he thought of Joshua Eubanks. Yes, there were more battles ahead.

In another part of Brooklyn, on the deserted roadways adjacent to the piers and the Navy Yard overlooking Manhattan's seaport, Celeste Williams turned her tricks and filled her veins with kaleidoscopic juices that helped erase her past. It was a wretched existence, walking the streets day and night, catering to empty faces in cars. Doctors, lawyers, plumbers, each with a different story, all with the same desire. They needed her and she needed them; they paid and she delivered. No pretense, no surprises-at least most of the time.

By all odds, she should have been dead by now. Lowlife pimps, perverts in cars, and all that poison in her veins. Lots of the girls disappeared into the night, and the cops usually never even bothered investigating. But not Celeste, she had the instinct. She always seemed to end up on her feet.

Like the time Big Bob had tried to p.a.w.n her off on another pimp, because she'd gotten too strung out and the johns had started complaining. No one was going to sell her. So she'd upped and run. Away from Big Bob, away from Bed-Stuy and East New York. Around the piers she would be safe; they would never find her. She had gotten away. But the sad truth was, Big Bob hadn't even bothered to look for her.

The years had pa.s.sed quickly. It was all about survival, moment to moment. Get the money, get your stuff, catch some sleep, steal some food, and back on the street. No time to think about what might have been, or who was left behind. No time to think about anything; thinking was a bad idea.

Boyfriends were also a bad idea. Some of the girls had boyfriends, usually their pimps. But those girls were always exploited, used, and trashed. Not Celeste, anyone who wanted a piece of her had to pay. Anyone. No pretense, no surprises.

CHAPTER 39.

On August 9, 1974, Richard M. Nixon resigned the Presidency of the United States, an event which ordinarily would have meant little to Joshua. He didn't much care for Nixon, and hadn't voted for him. But it was a date Joshua would never forget, for that was the same day on which he first met Willie Johnson.

Willie Johnson was a nineteen year old black kid, accused of stabbing and raping a thirty-six year old Hasidic woman in Crown Heights. The incident had occurred in the woman's apartment, where she resided alone. The police report accused Mr. Johnson of following her home, late at night, to her building on the corner of Troy Avenue and Montgomery Street, forcing her at gun-point through the front door, up the deserted stairs, and into her second floor dwelling, where he allegedly robbed, raped, and left her for dead. The only witness was a Hasidic male, who claimed to have seen a man fitting Mr. Johnson's height, weight, and dress leaving the building around the reported time of the rape. The police picked up Mr. Johnson about two hours later, hanging out on a street corner in the vicinity. The victim, Emma Lukins, provided an accurate and detailed report of the occurrence from her hospital bed, but was unable to identify her a.s.sailant with any certainty, as he had worn a black ski mask during the attack. The police, however, believed that they had their man, since he fit the general description, was in possession of a gun, and had a record of two previous burglaries.

Joshua had been out of law school, working at the public defender's office for two months, and was already well entrenched in the system. His job, basically, was to help "move cases," which was shop talk for making deals and avoiding trials. The Johnson case was supposed to be just another "hand-job," as they called them: white victim, black perp, nothing to it.

In the life of a PD, concepts like "justice" and "equality" were ephemeral, remnants of an idealism that ceased the moment law school ended. For Joshua, the adjustment was easy, for his idealism had died long ago. He was thankful for what he had, the opportunity to have attended Brooklyn Law School, and the job. Now he had to play the game.

In his case, sealed juvenile court records, an impeccable college transcript, solid scores on the L-SAT's, and a nest egg that Loretta had put away over the years had made it all possible. He'd had some doubts about the extent of the nest egg, and had suspected Alfred Sims' involvement once again. But that was fine with him. Sims owed him.

He'd landed the job immediately after graduating in May. He took the July Bar, and was still awaiting the results. Since he wasn't actually an attorney yet, he was delegated to menial tasks: intakes, a.s.signment of cases to trial attorneys, scheduling court dates, etcetera. He didn't mind, for he didn't plan to stay long, maybe a year at the most. Pa.s.s the Bar, behave himself for a while, then onward and upward to private practice. Perry Mason Eubanks at your service.

But then he met Willie Johnson and everything changed. There was something about the kid that made this case different, something that told him that this kid was capable of neither rape nor attempted murder. He just didn't have the eyes. Joshua had learned to read people's eyes, growing up on the street.

Joshua knew that Willie was going down for this crime anyway, regardless of the truth. A white woman was raped and the police needed a perp. It didn't matter that Willie had no history of s.e.x crimes. He was black, poor, had a rap sheet, and wore the right clothes in the wrong place at the wrong time. They weren't going to look for anyone else.

Joshua's boss, Tom Fielding, didn't care much either. He was a tall, jet-black haired fellow with a beer belly who always wore shirts that were too tight around the collar. Middle aged, bad marriage, placid demeanor. A career PD. Make no waves, pick up your check at the end of the week, and spend it at the bar with your pals.

Fielding had asked Joshua to sit in on his interview with Willie, because Willie wasn't talking. He was the type who figured that blacks stick together; he figured lots of things like that. "Just get him to open up and tell you his story. Make him think you're his best friend. We can't go to the DA looking like a.s.sholes," he said.

Their initial meeting took place in an interview room at Riker's Island. It was the first time Joshua had met a client in prison, the first time he'd been involved in a case at this level. The room looked like a cage. A barred metal door, puke-green walls, a rectangular wooden table, four wooden chairs, and plenty of stench. The only window, of course, was sealed and barred.

Joshua sat with Fielding, reviewing their notes. Willie was escorted in by two guards, his hands and feet shackled. Fielding didn't ask the guards to remove the shackles, and Joshua sat there, keeping his mouth shut.

Willie was about the same height and weight as Joshua. His cheeks and eyes were bruised, as if he'd been in a brawl, his affect was flat, he made no eye contact, and he said nothing. The three of them sat at the table in silence.

Fielding gave Joshua a look that said, see what I mean.

Joshua wondered if Willie was a punk who didn't give a s.h.i.t, or if he was just scared. Scared in a way that Fielding could never understand.

"Willie, my name is Joshua Eubanks and I work with Mr. Fielding at the public defender's office."

Willie lifted his head and looked at Joshua. He was silent for a few seconds. "So they sent me some lackey just because he's black."

"Willie, I'm a lawyer," Joshua said, realizing that he'd never actually said that to anyone before. It felt good.

Willie eyed him with disbelief.

"Willie," Fielding said, "this here is Mr. Eubanks, and he is a lawyer for the public defender's office. He's going to a.s.sist in your case."

"Black boy suckin' up to 'the man,' seems right to me."

Fielding: "Why don't you just tell us your side of things."

Willie: "What difference is anything I say gonna make?"

Joshua: "Hard to tell, until we hear exactly what it is that you got to say."

Silence.

Willie: "I didn't do it."

Fielding: "That's it, you didn't do it?"

Willie: "What else you want, man. I didn't do it. Didn't rob or rape no lady. Never raped no one."

Fielding: "But you have robbed a few folks."

Willie: "Not like that, I ain't."

Fielding: "Like what?"

Willie: "Never beat no one, never even hit no one. Just broke into a couple a stores late at night, n.o.body's around, that's it!"

Fielding: "Seems your record here says otherwise." He pulled a sheet out of a pile in front of him. "Says here you robbed a grocery store one afternoon, held a gun to the owner."

Willie: "Yeah, well I didn't hurt him none, just scared him."

It struck Joshua that Fielding was sounding more like a prosecutor than a defense attorney, so he jumped in. "Look Willie, we're here to help you."

"Help me. How you gonna help me if you believe I'm guilty?"

"I don't believe you're guilty," Joshua said.

Fielding threw Joshua a look. He was hoping for a confession, quick deal with the DA, and on to the next case. This was complicating matters.

"Yeah, well he don't," Willie said, pointing to Fielding.

"Yes he does," Joshua responded, knowing that Fielding was going to fry his a.s.s. What the h.e.l.l, the kid had his rights.

Fielding sat back. Willie looked down at the table again. Joshua continued to speak. "Willie, why don't you tell us your side of it?"

Willie picked up his head, looking only at Joshua. "Ain't much to tell. I was hangin' with some brothers outside this store all night. Along come these cop cars, three of them. Cops jump out and come at me, I don't know why."

Joshua: "Did you try to run?"

Willie: "No, I just stood there. Didn't know they wanted me till they came at me."

Joshua: "Did you resist arrest?"

Willie: "I know better than to do that, especially with six cops on my a.s.s."

Joshua: "Did you say anything?"

Willie: "I said all kinds of things. So did the brothers. Like, 'what you doin' man? What the h.e.l.l you rousting me for?' That kinda stuff."

Joshua: "Were the police rough?" He looked at the bruises on his face.

Willie: "Oh no, sir, they were po-lite! They always polite with us, don't you know that?"

Joshua: "Did they tell you why they were arresting you?"

Willie: "Not till we got to the station."

Joshua: "And your friends, what did they do?"

Willie: "They got the h.e.l.l outta there, that's what they did."

Joshua: "You mean the cops were only interested in you?"

Willie: "Guess so."

Joshua: "Why do you think that is?"

Willie: "Cause they think I raped and beat that white lady, that's why!" He looked at Fielding and asked, "Hey, is your partner here stupid or what?"

"Willie, why you?" Joshua asked, preempting Fielding's reply.

"I don't know, man. They say someone saw me coming from the building, some white guy. Maybe we all just look alike to them." His eyes were fixed on Fielding.

Joshua: "Willie, where are your friends, the guys you were hanging out with?"

Willie: "They around."

Joshua: "Willie, I need more than that. I need them as witnesses to testify that you were with them 'all night' as you said."

Fielding stirred in his chair.

Willie: "I said they around. I don't know where. Why I gotta keep repeating myself?"

Joshua decided not to push, and asked instead, "Your mother, where is she?" He had read in the arrest record that Willie lived alone with his mother in a tenement apartment on the north side of Eastern Parkway. For a moment, Joshua was struck by the familiarity of this, and wondered if that was why the kid had gotten to him in the first place.

"I don't know where she at, sometimes she don't come home for days. Probably out of town with some white dude cheating on his wife or something."

An image of Loretta and Alfred Sims flashed into Joshua's mind, but he quickly regained focus. He wanted to know why Willie wouldn't reveal where his friends were, why they weren't by his side, supporting his alibi. Something was fishy.

"Let's get back to your friends, Willie," Joshua said. "Why won't you tell us where they are so we can talk to them and clear things up?"

"Look man, I told you twice, I don't know."

Joshua: "How about their names?"

Willie: "I don't know any names."

Joshua: "You mean to tell me that these guys are your friends, but you don't know who they are?"

Willie: "They not my friends, just some guys I was hanging with, and I ain't gonna talk no more."

Joshua: "Okay, fine then. We'll play it your way." He stood up, looked at Fielding, walked to the door, and called for the guard.

"That's it?" Willie asked.