Clement leaned his right forearm on the desk and stared across the ten feet at Raymond Cruz.
“You got a nice, polite way about you. But underneath all that shit, you really want my ass, don’t you?”
“I don’t have a choice,” Raymond said.
“You feel this as something personal? I mean this particular case?”
Raymond thought a moment; he shrugged.
“Shit no,” Clement said. “What’s bothering you, three years ago you guys blew it. You had me convicted on a triple, air-tight with witnesses, and I walked. That’s been bothering the shit out of you. So now you’re gonna try and get me on this one to make up for it. See, now it does get personal. Right? You don’t care who hit the judge, you just want me. Am I right or wrong?”
Raymond took his time. He said, “See, we’re finding out where we stand.”
“Am I right or wrong?”
“Well, I have to admit there’s some truth in what you say.”
“I knew it,” Clement said. “You got no higher motive’n I do, you talk about laying things on the table, see where we stand. You don’t set out to uphold the law any more’n I set out to break it. What happens, we get in a situation like this and then me and you start playing a game. You try and catch me and I try and keep from getting caught and still make a living. You follow me? We’re over here in this life playing and we don’t even give a shit if anybody’s watching us or not or if anybody gets hurt. We got our own rules and words we use and everything else. You got numbers, all these chicken-fat dicks that’d rather play the game than work; but I got the law to protect me and all I got to do is keep my mouth shut, don’t associate with stupid people and there’s no way in hell you’re gonna lay this one on me… or any of the others.”
Raymond nodded, thoughtful but at ease, alert but not showing it. He said, “You know what, Clement? I think you’re right.” There was a silence. “What others?”
And again, a silence.
Clement leaned on his arm that rested along the edge of the desk, as if to draw a little closer to Raymond Cruz.
“You know how many people I’ve killed?”
“Five,” Raymond said.
“Nine,” Clement said.
“In Detroit?”
“Not all in De-troit. One in Oklahoma, one in Kansas.”
“Seven in Detroit?”
“That’s right. But five-no, six of ’em was niggers.”
“Counting Judge Guy.”
“Count who you want. I ain’t giving you a scorecard lineup.”
“When you were with the Wrecking Crew, huh?”
“Most by myself. Well, kind of by myself. Other fella didn’t do shit.”
“Going into dope houses, huh?”
Clement didn’t answer.
“Like the one on St. Marys, the triple?”
Clement didn’t say anything.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Raymond said. “You arouse my curiosity.” He sat back in Norb Bryl’s stiff swivel chair and placed his legs on the corner of the desk. “It’s interesting what you said, like it’s a game. Cops and robbers. A different life that’s got nothing to do with anybody else.”
“Less we need ’em,” Clement said. “Then you get into victims and witnesses. Use who you can.”
“But what it comes down to,” Raymond said, “what it’s all about, I mean, is just you and me, huh?”
“That’s it, partner.”
“Some other time-I mean a long time ago, we might have settled this between us. I mean if we each took the situation personally.”
“Or if we thought it’d be fun,” Clement said. “You married?”
It took Raymond by surprise. “I was.”
“You got a family? Kids?”
“No.”
“So you get bored, don’t have nothing to do and you put more time in on the job.”
Raymond didn’t say anything. He waited, looking at the wall clock. It was 11:15.
Clement said, “You ever shoot anybody?”
“Well… not lately.”
“Come on, how many?”
“Two,” Raymond said.
“Niggers?”
He felt self-conscious. “When I was in Robbery.”
“Use that little dick gun?… I been meaning to ask why you put the rubber bands around the grip.”
“Keep it from slipping down.”
“Cheap fuck, get a holster. Shit, get a regular size weapon first, ‘stead of that little parlor gun.”
“It does the job,” Raymond said. It sounded familiar: a table of cops at the Athens Bar drinking beer.
Clement said, “Yeah?” and let his gaze move around the squad room before returning to Raymond Cruz, sitting with his feet on the desk. “Say you’re pretty good with it, huh?”
Raymond shrugged. “I qualify every year.”
“Yeah?” Clement paused, staring at Raymond now. “Be something we had us a shooting match, wouldn’t it?”
“I know a range out in Royal Oak,” Raymond said. “It’s in the basement of a hardware store.”
“I’m not talking about any range,” Clement said, staring at Raymond. “I was thinking out on the street.” He paused for effect. “Like when you least expect.”
“I’ll ask my inspector,” Raymond said, “see if it’s okay.”
“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” Clement said, “cause you know I’m not kidding.”
They stared at each other in silence and Raymond wondered if this was part of the game: who would look away first. A little kids’ game except it was real, it was happening.
He said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Like what?”
“Why’d you shoot Guy?”
“Jesus Christ,” Clement said, “we been talking all this time, I think we’re getting some place-what difference does it make why? Me and you, we’re sitting here looking at each other, sizing each other up-aren’t we? What’s it got to do with Guy, or anything else?”
SOME MONTHS BEFORE, a story in The Detroit News Magazine, part of the Sunday edition, had featured eight “Women At Work” in which they described, beneath on-the-job photos in color, exactly what they did for a living. The women were a crane operator, automotive engineer, realty executive, homemaker, attorney, waitress, interior decorator and city assessor.
The attorney was Carolyn Wilder, photographed in an ultra-suede jacket leaning against her dining-table desk. Framed on the wall behind her and almost out of focus was an enlarged printed quotation that read:
“Whatever women do, they
must do twice as well as men
to be thought half as good.
Luckily, this is not difficult.”
CHARLOTTE WILTON
Mayor of Ottawa, 1963
Set in two columns beneath the photo, the text read:
CAROLYN WILDER, Attorney, Senior Partner of Wilder, Sultan and Fine, Birmingham.
“At one time I thought I was an artist. In fact I attended The Center for Creative Studies three years, believed I could draw, paint adequately, set out with my portfolio and found work in the art department of a well-known automotive ad agency where the word ‘creative’ was heard constantly but appeared exiguously, if at all, in their advertising; married a ‘creative’ director and was both fired and divorced within fifteen months on two counts of insubordination. (No children, a few samples.) The switch to law is an involved tale; though I did have clear visions, goals, that saw me through the University of Detroit Law School and two years with the Legal Aid and Defender Association. The latter prepared me for criminal law as it is served in the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice on a daily basis. My clients, for the most part, are charged with serious felonies: varying degrees of murder, rape, armed robbery and assault. Seventy-nine percent of them are acquitted, placed on probation, or, their charges are dismissed. Implicit in the question I’m most frequently asked-why am I in criminal law?-is the notion that women by nature abhor violence and would never, under any circumstances, help violent criminals remain at large. The truth is: criminals are a police problem; individuals accused of crime are mine.”