Another notion, that life can be simple, if you base it on a fairly black and white attitude about behavior, appealed to Carolyn in providing answers to dumb questions. It made her sound at least curt when not profound and helped develop her courtroom image as an incisive defense counsel. Wayne County prosecuting attorneys referred to her, not altogether disparagingly, as the Iron Cunt. She might say hello on an elevator; she might not. She would never, under any condition, give her view of the weather. When facing her in court the prosecutor had better have his case documented far beyond implications or dramatic effects or Carolyn would counterpunch him to a decision with pure knowledge of law. Recorder’s Court judges were known to sit up straighter, listen more attentively, when Carolyn was working their courtrooms.
Raymond Cruz ran into her on the fifth floor, where two of the Frank Murphy courtrooms were holding pretrial examinations and witnesses and families of defendants were waiting in the corridor.
It was 11:00 A.M. Raymond was coming out of an exam, having identified the photograph of a woman, bound and gagged with a pantyhose and shot twice in the back of the head, as Liselle Taylor, and testified that upon showing the photo to Alfonso Goddard, Mr. Goddard denied knowing the deceased until, after several hours of questioning, he stated: “Oh, yeah, I know her. See, you asked me if she was my girlfriend and I said no to that, because she wasn’t my girlfriend, we was only living together, you understand?”… There were two more exams scheduled this week… five cases in the squad’s “open” file… when Carolyn Wilder stopped him, taking him by the arm in the crowded corridor.
She said, “Don’t ever do that to me again. I don’t care if you just wanted to buy him a drink, when I say you can only talk to a client in my presence it means exactly that.”
Raymond touched her hand on his arm, covering it with his own in the moment before she drew it away.
“What did he tell you?”
“He was arrested-how you used that drunk-driving charge-”
“We let him go, didn’t we? Listen, I don’t even know how he got home. But if he keeps driving without a license he’s gonna get in serious trouble.”
Carolyn didn’t smile. She seemed genuinely disturbed, her esteem damaged. Raymond stepped quickly, quietly, inside her guard. He said, “What did Clement tell you last night? In your office.”
And there was the vulnerable look again, a glimpse of the girl who could be uncertain, afraid.
“If he scared you, and I mean that as a compliment, then he said something pretty bad.”
“You’re out of line. Whatever my client says to me, if you don’t know, is privileged information-”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. He didn’t confide something, he scared you. The look on your face-you could have filed a complaint for assault. Or improper advances, lewd suggestions… Let me tell you something if you don’t already know it.” Raymond looked around. He took Carolyn by the arm then and guided her through the waiting people, held doors open and followed her into an empty courtroom.
“You want to sit down?”
She went into one of the spectator rows that were like widely spaced church pews, sat down, crossed her legs beneath a gray skirt, smoothing it, and turned on the contoured bench to face him or to keep some distance between them.
“What?”
“Clement Mansell killed the judge and Adele Simpson. We know he did.”
“All you have to do is prove it,” Carolyn said.
Raymond took time to gaze all around the courtroom before looking at Carolyn again. He said, “Just quit being the lawyer for a minute, all right? Clement Mansell has killed nine people. Four more than we know of and seven more than he’ll ever be convicted for. He isn’t a misguided boy, somebody you can defend, feel sorry for. He’s a fucking killer. He likes it. He actually likes killing people. Do you understand that?”
Carolyn Wilder said quietly, “Even a fucking killer has rights under the law. You said last night, ‘He kills people.’ And I believe I said, ‘Tell me about it.’ We both know the purpose of this room. If you feel you have a case against Mansell, let’s bring him in and find out. Until then, leave him alone… All right?”
The lady lawyer rose from the bench.
Raymond was dismissed.
He had felt this way standing before judges who had the final word and would pound a gavel and that was it. He had felt the urge to punch several judges. He had once felt the urge to punch Alvin Guy just as he felt the urge now to punch Carolyn Wilder. It seemed a natural reaction. The strange part was-he realized now, in the same moment-he did not have the urge to punch Clement Mansell.
He could see himself killing Mansell, but not hitting him with a fist, for there was no emotion involved.
It stopped him, brought him back to where he could say something and not be afraid of his tone, of an edge getting in the way. She had moved past him and was almost to the door.
“Carolyn? Let me ask you something.”
She waited, half-turned, giving him a deadpan look. No person inside. Let him try to get through if he could.
“How come in the hall before, you said, ‘Don’t ever do that to me again’? About picking Clement up and bringing him in. How come you didn’t say don’t ever do that to him again?”
Carolyn Wilder turned without a word and walked out.
Raymond felt better, but not a whole lot.
NORBERT BRYL SAID, “You didn’t question him in the room?”
“Nobody was here by then. I sat right where you’re sitting, he was over at Jerry’s desk.”
Hunter said, “Jesus, I better check the drawers.”
Bryl said, “What’ve you got that he’d want?” And swivelled back to Raymond Cruz. “So how’d you get to the nine people?”
The phone rang. Hunter said, “Take that, will you, Maureen? Act like you’re the secretary.”
Maureen, at her desk next to the file-room door, said, “Sure,” and picked up the phone. “Squad Seven, Sergeant Downey-”
Wendell Robinson entered with a young black male wearing a T-shirt and a wool watchcap, motioned him into the file room to wait and closed the door. “Another boyfriend of Liselle Taylor. Says he believes Alfonso killed her, and if we can get his traffic tickets tore up-like three hundred dollars’ worth and a suspended license-he’ll tell us things so we’ll believe it too.”
“Tell him what the food’s like across the street,” Hunter said.
“He’s been there. Probably likes the food.”
Raymond said, “Before you go in-what’d Clement say to you, something about having a black friend?”
“He said one of my best friends,” Wendell answered. “I said what’s his name? He wouldn’t tell me.”
“Yeah-” Raymond, thoughtful, looked from his desk to Hunter. “He mention a friend to you?”
Hunter said, “How could that asshole have a friend?” But then squinted, closing one eye. “Wait a minute. He did say something. He wouldn’t sign the rights sheet and he said, yeah, he said he had a friend who wouldn’t sign it either and nothing happened to him.”
“The Wrecking Crew,” Raymond said, “they ever use a black driver?”
No one answered him.
“Then before the Wrecking Crew. You see what I’m getting at? He knows a black guy who was brought in here. The black guy wouldn’t say anything about whatever it was. Which could be the reason Mansell thinks of him as a friend. Why, because the black guy wouldn’t talk? A matter of principle? No, because the black guy wouldn’t talk about Mansell. How’s that sound?”
“That’s not bad,” Bryl said. “Let me go consult the great computer, see what it says.”
Raymond said, “Check with Art Blaney in Robbery. He’s got a memory better than a computer. Ask him if he recalls a black guy that ever ran with Mansell.”