Black Midnight Page 10

  His eyes didn’t divert from hers. “My mother is an Evangelist, did you know that? Left the church and got baptized as a born again Christian. Yeah, I heard of it. Armageddon is a battle. The ultimate and final battlefield, to be fought on the Plain of Megiddo. Good versus Evil. Armies of the Lord and all that.”

  “Did anyone connected with you ever use it for a code name?”

  “No. We weren’t that theatrical.”

  “What about as a name for an operation you may have planned?”

  “Sorry, it doesn’t mean a thing.” His head tilted slightly, and for a moment his eyes flickered as if with a sudden memory.

  “What, Ruben?” She waited impatiently. “Please, I can’t explain, but it could be important to me. Vital.”

  “You ever heard of Back Alley?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Hey lady, in prison you got plenty of time on your hands. You read, watch TV, listen to the radio. Music, lady. Back Alley. A group, a band. Real popular a year or two back. English, I think. But they had a good following here.”

  “So?”

  “One of their songs. ‘Armageddon.’ Big hit. Made the top ten.”

  “What’s the connection with our bomber?”

  “Nothing. Only there’s this guy in my cell block. Fanatic on new wave music. Happens to have all of Back Alley’s albums.”

  Yvonne was puzzled.

  “Five bucks’ll get you ten if you can name another song on the same record. It’s a blues. Soft, but nice. ’Bout a guy sayin’ good-bye to his girl for the last time before he goes off to war and gets blown away.”

  “You win. Tell me, Ruben.”

  “‘One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Street Station’.”

  It was all she could do not to wince. Suddenly she was feeling hackles rising on her neck. She rested her elbows on the table and kept a stone face. “Tell me some other titles.”

  She listened and wrote them down. The point of her pencil broke when he named one as “Black Halloween.”

  XI

  “Link, we really don’t have time for this now.” She looked at her watch. It was getting late, and she was hoping just tonight to be able to crawl into bed early and get some decent sleep. Tomorrow was going to be an extremely busy day.

  “Okay, DiPalma. You don’t gotta come. I’ll take care of it myself.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Link. I know this is important to you. Only that nothing’s supposed to interfere.”

  “This is a part of my life. And my life doesn’t stop with TTF.”

  Link hurried down the headquarters steps, Yvonne right on his heels. He stood and glanced around into the night. The yellow light of a taxi appeared in the distance. Two fingers in his mouth, Link whistled loudly. The taxi headed toward him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  His grin returned. “Can’t stay mad at you, DiPalma. Accepted. You go home. I’ll be up bright and early, so don’t worry. This is something I should do alone anyway.”

  “Okay, I’m with you,” she said with a sigh.

  “I mean it, DiPalma. Get yourself home. First we’ll drop me off, then you go on.”

  She shook her head, got into the cab first. “Manhattan Criminal Court,” she told the driver. “Hurry.”

  The car sped through damp streets. Link leaned back and drew a deep breath. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself, “Roy, my man, this is gonna be the very last time I try and save your ass.”

  Sure it was, Yvonne thought. Give her ten dollars for every time her partner had spent the night in court trying to bail out or reduce the sentence of one of his street kids, and she’d find herself with enough money for a first class vacation around the world.

  He was no less tired than she was, Yvonne knew. No less weary from the grueling long day they had all put in. But when one of his street kids was in trouble — and no matter what kind, Lincoln Jefferson Washington was going to be there at the arraignment, ready to plead with the judge, ready to post bond, do anything he could.

  The taxi pulled up in front of a forbidding massive structure of grimy downtown granite. Link paid the cabbie, raced up the stairs. Yvonne tagged along. Likely they would be there most of the night, she knew. Before his friend Roy came into the docket there probably would be dozens of others ahead in line. Arraignments waiting on every possible type of street crime; everything from dope peddling to assault, brawls and vandalism, to prostitution, attempted murder and homicide. The daily calendar for criminal court judges was growing by leaps and bounds in the city of New York. So much so that the courts — like N.Y.P.D. — never slept. Round the clock, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. An endless merry-go-round. Bring ’em in, book ’em, haul ’em out. Some would spend time on Riker’s Island waiting for trial, others would make bail, still others would cop a plea, pay a fine, and get back out onto the streets. The courts were under relentless pressure to dispose of the many cases as quickly as possible; only so they could make room for still others. It was a never-ending cycle, and a depressing one.

  The courtroom was located on the first floor. Large, worn, drafty and dirty. Paint peeling. Along with the court officers on duty were a handful of uniformed police waiting to be called to give evidence, a few public defenders, and prosecutors from the Manhattan District Attorney’s office. Among the pews sat scattered friends and relatives of the defendants. Some seemed defiant, others humiliated.

  They took seats among the back rows of benches. Link excused himself to speak with one of the court officers, and the arresting officer involved. He came back looking more sad than angry.

  “What’s the charge?” asked Yvonne.

  “Asshole kid. Assault with a deadly weapon. Street fight with a broken bottle. But the arresting cop said he threatened him, too. Great, huh? Jerk. Got word he was only arrested three hours ago.” He counted his cash to see if there was enough to post a small bail if necessary. Link was always prepared.

  The entire procedure was bureaucratic frustration. After arrest you’re held in a precinct lockup until they transport you to Central Booking. Then the case is logged, prisoner fingerprinted, photographed, a records check taken for outstanding warrants. Meanwhile, an assistant district attorney interviews the arresting officer, and charges are filed along with the defendant’s rap sheet and profile. Next the case is docketed, the prisoner waiting in the court’s basement until his case is called. With luck it took only hours. Without it, long into the following day. Roy was likely already in a feeder pen, a cell behind the courtroom. An appointed legal aid lawyer would be on hand to interview him. Finally, when his turn came, he’d been arraigned.

  Yvonne offered Link a throat lozenge. Link took it and sucked on it loudly. “DA wants to nail him this time. Damn.”

  “How many prior convictions?”

  “Two. Burglary was one. The other a fight over a girl. Roy slashed his victim with a knife. Other kid spent almost three weeks in a hospital.”

  “Tough break. Sounds bad for Roy.”

  “Would have been worse, only it was proven that the knife belonged to the other kid. Roy claimed he was acting in self-defense. The girl was a witness.”

  “What happened?”

  “Suspended sentence. We plea-bargained it down at a hearing. One year probation. Only now the little shit has broken it but good. Who’s the judge up there anyway?”

  Yvonne stared through her tinted glasses. “Looks like Birnbaum.”

  Link groaned. “Birnbaum, huh?” He grimaced. A judge with a very tough reputation. Didn’t take any shit. A man not known for taking kindly to multiple offenses. “He’ll burn Roy’s ass on this one, just see.”

  “Maybe not. Could be mitigating circumstances.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He folded his arms. “Looks like we’re going to have a long wait, DiPalma. Sure you want to stick around? I mean I won’t be offended or anything if you split.”

  “Me split?” She feigned hur
t. “Why, it’s not even midnight. I’d only wind up watching the tube at home. Much rather be here with you.” She batted her eyes outrageously. They both laughed.

  “DiPalma, someday we gotta find you a man ’o your own. Gotta stop hanging out in bad places with a lotta cops. Gives a bad reputation.”

  “What — and leave show biz?” Again they laughed. “By the way, how old is this Roy?”

  “Just sixteen, a month ago. No father, mother bustin’ her butt to make ends meet. But the kid makes one hell of a forward on my basketball team. Wasn’t for that, I’d burn his ass myself. Stupid prick.”

  Sure you would, Yvonne mused.

  Time passed slowly. Case after case coming before the bench. Some nights as many as five hundred cases were disposed of. Any typical night might have three hundred complaints before the bench. It was staggering. Link sat passive, inwardly burning, Yvonne could tell. But he loved Roy, just as he loved all his kids. And no matter what, he was going to be there for them. Of course later Link may tan his hide for it. But not until the episode was over and done.

  As more and more cases came before Judge Birnbaum, Yvonne excused herself and went into the hall. She mulled the coming day’s work while she smoked a cigarette. Then she went to the telephone. She was nervous as she phoned the hospital. “I’m inquiring on the condition of a Mrs. Rosemary DiPalma, Room nine-oh-seven. Can you give me any news?”

  “Resting comfortably,” said the floor nurse on duty. “No change in her condition. Is this a relative?”

  “Yes. Her daughter. Can you leave her a message from me in the morning?”

  “Certainly, ma’am. Go ahead.”

  “Tell her Yvonne called. And, er, tell her I love her.”

  “I’m sure she’ll appreciate that, ma’am. Good night.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  Yvonne paced for a while, smoking another cigarette. She should be there at the hospital, she knew. Help Fran in any way she could. Maybe after tomorrow. Let some of the dust settle first.

  She went back inside. Link was standing in the back restlessly. Chewing gum. He offered her a stick, and she declined.

  “Anything new?”

  “They tell me that Roy will be out in a few minutes.”

  As he spoke, a group of men, a mixture mostly of black and Hispanic toughs, were brought into the courtroom. A pitiful lot, Yvonne thought as she watched them march inside, heads bowed, shuffled to the row of seats pointed to by the court officer. Almost all were young, some little more than children. Slum kids. The city’s losers. Born without a break into a society they grew up to loathe. Among them was a gangly black youth, about a head taller than the others. Basketball player material, she thought. Roy was a strapping teenager, maybe six foot four, slender, with large expressive eyes.

  “That’s him,” said Link.

  “Thought so.”

  The first case of this group was called. A pale and haggard boy charged with mugging an elderly man on a street corner. He stood with slumped shoulders, as if he already knew the outcome before the judge even heard the charges. Birnbaum flipped through the pages of the arrest papers. Then he looked over his thick glasses straight at the accused. “How does the accused plead?” he asked with boredom.

  “Guilty, Your Honor. It’s his first offense, though,” offered the public defender. “He lives at home. Attends school.”

  Judge Birnbaum listened attentively, nodding. He called both counsels to the bench. Yvonne could not hear what was being said, but after the meeting was over and the public defender returned to his client, the defendant seemed relieved. A suspended sentence with probation was tersely announced and entered into the court records.

  “Next.”

  Roy Ingram came before the judge. Link tensed. The hearing wouldn’t take long, he knew. Five minutes, maybe less. But in that five minutes Roy Ingram’s young life might be altered forever. Link approached the bench, standing beside the public defender. Ready to do what he always did: Take personal responsibility for the kid, assure that Roy show up for his meetings with his probation officer, and hope the judge would take all this into consideration.

  It took longer than any of them would have thought. Birnbaum wanted to go over the aspects of this case slowly and carefully. Third offense. Not a good start for Roy. There was a great deal of quiet talk between the attorneys, the judge, and Link. At times Birnbaum seemed to get very angry. Then he calmed. A minute or two later it was all over.

  “I have your word on all this, Officer Washington?” demanded Birnbaum.

  “My word, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  “Very well then.” Birnbaum seemed very weary. It was a very long night, already past three in the morning, and hours yet to go. “Case postponed for a hearing on December seventh. Defendant released to Detective Lincoln Washington. Bail deferred.”

  Link shook hands with the assistant DA and the public defender. He smiled and waved to Yvonne. Roy Ingram seemed pleased, at least until Link took him hard by the arm and half dragged him from the court room into the hallway.

  “Detective DiPalma, meet Roy Ingram. She’s my partner and the best friend I got in this whole world.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Roy.”

  “Same here. Hey — ”

  Link threw him against the wall and grabbed him by the collar. “I thought you was smart.”

  “I told you, Link, I didn’t start no trouble. This guy came down on me. What was I supposed to do, huh?”

  “Keep your ass outta trouble. Shit. I ought to break both your arms. Get outside. Now. Move it, asshole.”

  Yvonne watched with some amazement. It was obvious that Roy was far more afraid of his friend and coach Link Washington than he ever would have been of Judge Birnbaum.

  “Hey, go easy man,” pleaded Roy as Link continued to shove him all over the courthouse steps. Onlookers watched.

  “You do this again and I’ll make sure they send you up, got me?”

  Roy remained sullen. Despite his size and tough demeanor he looked as though he was about to cry. And not out of fear or pain, Yvonne was sure. But because Link, despite his gruff treatment of his charge, showed something to Roy that perhaps very little of had been showed all his life. Caring. Real caring about what happened to him.

  Link half threw Roy into the taxi. He got in next. Yvonne last. “I’ll drop you off first, DiPalma. Me an’ Roy are gonna have a talk with his mother.”

  Yvonne nodded. “Sure, Link.” She felt tears in her own eyes. Link really did love his kids.

  “If you’re right on this thing, we’re dealing with a real crazy. A psychopath of the first order.”

  Link turned to Warren in dead earnest. “I buy it,” he said. “Perverted, but logical in its way.”

  Yvonne said, “Draw me a tentative profile based on what we’ve discussed and turned over to the shrinks. Make the assumption we have a reasonably accurate portrait of our bomber.”

  “You know how this is going to sound?” said Spinrad.

  “Don’t care,” replied Yvonne as she bit hungrily into her egg salad sandwich.

  Spinrad compiled his scattered notes and documents, frowned. He read in a dry monotone.

  “We have a woman, not necessarily Latino, involved in Latin Radicalism. She’s likely a lesbian, perhaps bisexual. Has an unidentified fixation with a popular rock band, calls herself after their biggest hit record, and sends warnings to a single newspaper: The News. She identifies her targets by using titles of other songs by the same band. Probably has few or no accomplices, but a good working knowledge of rudimentary explosives. Plastique, timing devices, and the like. Harbors a grudge. Is quite skilled and determined. Extremely dangerous. Dangerously psychotic according to the psychologist’s official profile.”

  “Sweet Jesus, shark,” said Link. “Nobody gonna believe this.”

  “Sick world out there,” said Yvonne.

  “Show this to Winnegar and he may have the four of us locked away — for good.”
<
br />   Warren stared at the glossy photographs in front of him. Ruben Pulido, Vanessa Santiago, Jaime DeVicente, Gloria Popolos, Sally Cooperman. There had been several other names tied to Los Campions, but most of them had been disregarded. Vanessa was dead; one in prison; the rest deemed clean.

  “What were you able to find on Gloria Popolos?” Yvonne wanted to know.

  Spinrad did some more paper shuffling. He cleared his throat, rolled up his shirtsleeves. “She quit her job in the nursery after a dispute with her supervisor. Albany police checked this morning at her home address. Her landlord says she moved out abruptly about two months back. Paid her rent, disappeared. No one’s seen her since. Neighbors, acquaintances. A loner. Whereabouts unknown.”

  “Traveling companions?”

  “None known. She’d been living by herself, quietly. Dropped completely out of the radical movement. Had no close friends we know of. The Albany police are canvassing some local lesbian spots, hoping to find a lead to where she’s gone. They’ve been very cooperative. So has the chancellor’s office at the Albany branch of the state university. She’d been attending some night classes.”

  “Oh? Which ones?” Yvonne asked inquisitively.

  “Umm, one called, ‘Humanity Through the Ages.’ Another on zoology, another called, ‘Japan in The Nineteenth Century.’ She’d completed the first two, dropped out of the Japan one when she left Albany.”

  “Not much help there.”

  “Do a run on classmates, teachers?” asked Yvonne.

  Spinrad took the question almost as if she’d insulted him. “We do know how to be thorough at Citywide,” he said. “Nothing showed. Teachers were clean, not political, not lesbians. Students almost entirely made up of Albany locals. Mixed bag. Professionals, working people, bored housewives. Nothing to raise an eyebrow over.”

  “So much for that. What do we have on Sally Cooperman?”

  “Last known address in Greenwich Village. Lived in a small studio. Painted. Oils, mostly. Had a lover until a year ago. We’re checking her out now. Your man Sabbatini will be sending someone to interview her. Other than that, not very much. A few small things. Likes cats. Feeds strays. Always turns out to demonstrate on Gay Rights Day … ”