The Underground Man

23

Jeremy Dawson looked like a sulky kid.

“You left a few things out, Jeremy.”

Jeremy said nothing, kept his head down.

“You didn’t tell me you dealt crack. You didn’t tell me you had a gun.”

Jeremy shifted slightly, continued to look at the floor.

“You don’t seem surprised I know all this. Did the cops talk to you?”

No response.

“I asked you a question. The cops talk to you?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you tell ‘em?”

Jeremy raised his eyes then, defiantly. “Just what you told me. I got nothin’ to say, talk to my lawyer.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah, that’s all.”

“But they didn’t let up. They kept after you. They kept asking you questions. They show you vials of crack?”

“Yeah.”

“They show you a gun?”

“Yeah.”

“They ask you where you got them?”

No response.

“Hey, kid, wake up. This is not high-school time. I’m not a teacher askin’ you why you were late for class. This is a murder here. If they nail you for it, it’s gonna be a little worse than bein’ kept after school. So quit sulking, grow up and answer some questions. Did they ask you where you got them?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell them?”

“See my lawyer.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t answer any questions, you didn’t try to explain anything?”

“Hell, no.”

Steve Winslow was sure he hadn’t. Some kids’ reaction would be to try to lie their way out of it. Jeremy’s would be to pull himself into his shell and sulk.

“O.K., fine,” Steve said. “You did good. I didn’t want you to talk, and you didn’t talk. The problem is, now you got in the habit. And I need you to talk to me. So let’s shift gears here, get yourself into your talking mode, ’cause you got things to say.”

Jeremy looked at him, hostile, defiant. Steve Winslow wanted very much to walk out. He fought the urge.

“O.K. Now, where did you get the gun?”

“Shit.”

“Hey, I’m your lawyer. You can tell me anything. If I’m going to help you, you have to tell me things. The prosecutor’s gonna throw the evidence at you, and I gotta fight it. I can’t do that unless I know what’s up. Now where did you get the gun?”

Jeremy snuffled. “Connection.”

“What?”

“My connection. For crack.”

“Who’s that?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Black guy from Harlem.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Sold it to me.”

“What’s his name?”

“Dunno.”

“You’re dealing with the guy, you don’t know his name?”

“Calls himself the Main Man. It’s not his name though.”

“No shit. So he sold you the gun?”

“Yeah.”

“For how much?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Seventy-five bucks?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you need a gun?”

No answer.

“Damn it, these are the questions that count. Why’d you need a gun?”

“He said I might need it.”

“Your connection?”

“Yeah.”

“It was his idea?”

“Partly.”

“What do you mean, partly?”

“Well, I mentioned I might want to have one.”

“Oh, did you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.”

“And he thought you might need one?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would he think that?”

“I dunno.”

Steve looked at him a moment. “I do. You want to be a big man, you’re trying to impress the guy, act tough. You tell him you need a gun.”

Jeremy said nothing.

“Anyway, he got you one.”

“Yeah.”

“This drug dealer-the Main Man-how old is he?”

“I dunno. Fifteen, sixteen.”

Steve shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” He took a breath. “So tell me about the gun.”

“What about it?”

“You ever fire it?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“You ever fire the fucking gun?”

“Hey man, easy. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, you’re up for murder. You may not understand these questions, but you don’t have to. You’re a stupid kid who don’t know shit. I’m the lawyer who’s gotta get you out of here. You want me to do that job, then do me a favor. Stop thinking. Don’t think at all. You know why? You’re not good at it. It just gets in the way. So stop trying to figure out why I’m asking the questions, and just answer the fucking things.”

Jeremy’s face reddened. “Hey, fuck you.”

Steve smiled. “Son of a bitch, I got a rise out of you. Good. Now, while I have your full attention-did you ever fire the gun?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“When I got it.”

“When was that?”

“I dunno. A month ago.”

“Why’d you fire the gun?”

“I wanted to.”

Steve raised his hand. “Hey, kid, I don’t care how much crack you do, you can’t be that dumb. Why’d you fire the gun is a question asking for an explanation. What’d you fire it at, did you fire it at a person? If so, did you hit him, kill him? Where and when did this happen? Shit, Jeremy, just for fun, try to answer my questions like a human being. Now tell me about firing the gun.”

“I was just practicing.”

“Where?”

“Junkyard.”

“Where?”

“Queens.”

“When?”

“Right after I got it.”

“Why’d you do it?”

Jeremy shrugged. “Just to test it out.”

“How many times you fire it?”

“Once.”

“Why only once?”

“It was cold. It stung my hand.”

“Were you wearing gloves?”

“Yeah. And it was awkward with the gloves.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“What?”

“That you were wearing gloves. If you didn’t fire it again, there won’t be powder marks on your hands.”

“Oh.”

“So did you fire it again?”

“No.”

“That was the only time?”

“Yeah. What’s this about powder marks on my hands?”

“When you fire a gun, it leaves powder traces on your hand. A paraffin test can show that you fired one.”

Jeremy looked interested. “So if there’s no powder traces on my hands, it’ll prove I didn’t do it?”

“No, they’ll say you were wearing gloves.”

“Oh.”

“But it’s better than if there was, you got it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s still bad. If it turns out it was your gun killed your uncle — and I’ll bet it was-you’re in deep shit. It was your gun, you kept it in your locker, your uncle winds up dead, you were seen with your uncle, the gun is found in your locker. Add that up and tell me how it looks to you.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“So you say. No one’s gonna take your word for that. We have to deal with the facts. Now if it was your gun did it, who could have done it but you?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Well, who has the combination to your locker?”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“Yeah.”

“Now that can’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause if it is, they got you dead to rights on a murder rap, and nothing I can do is gonna save you. So let’s think about that. Who has the combination to your locker?”

Jeremy frowned. “Shit, I don’t know.”

“Maybe you gave it to a friend or a relative.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Great. Well, maybe someone had to pick something up for you from school.”

“Not that I know.”

“O.K., we’ll do it another way. You got the combination written down somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“Where.”

“Piece of paper.”

“I figured that. Where’s the piece of paper?”

“In my wallet.”

“You carry the combination to your locker around in your wallet?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s it say on the paper?”

“The combination.”

“I know that. What else. Does it say, ‘Jeremy Dawson’s locker combination?’”

“No, just the string of numbers.”

“Three numbers?”

“Yeah.”

“With dashes between ‘em?”

“Yeah.”

“And this was on a piece of paper folded up in your wallet?”

“Yeah.”

“So anybody looked in your wallet, they would find it.”

“Who’s gonna look in my wallet?”

“You tell me.”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You ever lose your wallet, you leave it lying around?”

“No.”

“You’re not bein’ much help.”

“What can I tell you? If I don’t know, I don’t know. There’s no way you can prove someone saw my wallet.”

“I know that. I can’t prove it. I have to raise the inference someone did.”

“What does that mean?”

“That it was possible. That it could have happened. You see?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, could it have happened?”

Jeremy thought a moment. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Good. You have some time to think, you try to figure out who, why, when, where. Now let’s talk about your uncle.”

“What about him?”

“You came to my office, asked me to get your uncle out of Bellevue.”

“Yeah. So?”

“That seemed a nice gesture for a high school kid. I remember what you said at the time. He wasn’t crazy, he didn’t belong there, you liked him, you wanted him out.”

“That’s right.”

“Is it? I could buy that before I knew who you are. Coming from a crack dealer, it sounds like a crock of shit.”

“Hey, man-”

“Do me a favor. Don’t ‘hey man’ me. I’m gettin’ really sick of it. Your uncle-he used to give you money?”

“Why?”

“Just answer the question. He used to give you money?”

“Yeah. I told you. He was a nice guy. He liked me.”

“But after he moved out, he didn’t see you, he didn’t give you money no more.”

“Yeah.”

“So, that must have been tough on a kid who likes crack. A kid who deals crack just to have some around. A kid who likes to be a big shot.

“And then your uncle gets locked up in Bellevue, and your relatives try to grab the cash, but they never treated you well and you know you’re not going to get any. And it occurs to you, hey, if you got your uncle out, he’d be very very grateful.”

Jeremy said nothing.

“Didn’t it?”

“What if it did?”

“Grateful enough to write a will?”

“Hey, man, that was a shock to me. I never even thought of it.”

“No, I’ll bet you didn’t. A spot of cash would have been a lot more handy.”

Jeremy looked at him. “Hey man, why are you doing this? You’re not my father, you’re my lawyer. We’re supposed to be discussing a murder rap.”

“That we are,” Steve said. “I’m just trying to get a message across to you, and I gotta hammer it, because frankly you aren’t that swift.

“Let me tell you something about murder trials. It’s not just the facts of the case. The prosecution’s gonna try to paint a picture of you for the jury. And they’re gonna have a lot to work with. The way I’m makin’ you sound-that’s nothing compared with what the prosecutor’s gonna do. Everything you ever did, they’re gonna paint it with a greedy, selfish motive. You don’t like how it sounds coming from me, think how it’s gonna sound coming from them. Think how’s it’s gonna sound to a jury.”

Jeremy looked at Steve defiantly for a few moments, then dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Now,” Steve said. “I gotta get the facts. I can raise an inference about the gun, but that’s all. If it’s your gun, it’s bad. Then we gotta concentrate on the alibi. Now, your alibi is a picture show and a soda shop where no one saw you.

“Let’s start with the picture show. You keep the stub?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Who cares why? The fact is, if you had it would help. I take it you didn’t?”

“No.”

“The ticket girl remember you?”

“No, why should she?”

“I don’t know. How many green haired customers you think she gets?”

“More than you’d think.”

Steve sighed. “You’re probably right there. Jesus Christ, I feel a hundred years old.

“All right, look. I’m gonna check your alibi out. Till I do, be damn sure you don’t mention it to the cops.”

Jeremy’s eyes shifted.

Steve winced. “Oh shit.”

Jeremy shifted in his chair.

“Damn it, you told me you didn’t tell the cops anything.”

“I didn’t tell them nothing important. But they were saying I was on the subway that night. All I said was I wasn’t.”

“I told you not to say anything.”

“I didn’t say anything. They just said I was on the subway, and I said no, I wasn’t.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“And then they wanted to know where you were?”

“Yeah.”

“And you told ‘em you were at the movies?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“If you really were at the movies, nothing. If you weren’t, you just slit your throat.”

“I was at the movies.”

“What was the name again?”

“What?”

“The name of the movie.”

“Heathers.”

“What’s it about?”

“What do you care?”

“What do you think?”

“I told you. It’s a teen comedy.”

“About what?”

“It’s about this crazy chick and this guy who talks like Jack Nicholson go around killing people and making it look like suicide.”

Steve looked at him. “That’s a comedy?”

“Yeah. It was funny.”

“O.K., I’ll check it out. Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. First of all, I’m going to waive extradition and get you transferred to New York.”

“Why would you do that?”

“In the first place, the cops got enough on you to extradite you anyway.”

“Oh.”

“In the second place, it’s a pain in the ass to have to come all the way to Jersey every time I want to talk to you. I’m just telling you so when they move you, don’t be upset.

“Here’s another thing. They let you shave in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Next time they do, shave off the fucking hair.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I gotta sell you to a jury. It’s gonna be hard enough without dealing with that.”

Jeremy thrust out his jaw. “Hey man, this is America. I got a right to a fair trial. They got no right to judge me on how I look.”

“Right,” Steve said. “And if you believe that, I have this land in Florida.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and it’s also true someone sometimes wins the lottery. But I wouldn’t wanna bet on that person being you.”

“That’s bullshit, man. I didn’t do it. No one’s gonna find me guilty ’cause of how I look. I ain’t cuttin’ my hair for that.”

Steve took a breath. “All right, how’s this? The prosecution’s gonna put someone on the witness stand and say, ‘And did you recognize the man you saw walking in the subway station with Jack Walsh?’ and the witness will say, Yes sir, it’s that kid right there with the green hair.’”

Jeremy thought that over. He frowned. “You may have a point.”