Key Witness (30 page)

She looked at the list. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m looking for alibis,” he explained. “From you or anyone who knows Marvin. Look over this list and see if there was any time when he couldn’t have been where they happened, when they happened. Maybe you were away visiting relatives, or he was playing in a sports tournament, anything.”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head dubiously. “I don’t know if I can remember back any particular day very far.”

“I understand. Most people can’t. But there might be one time when he just couldn’t have been where one of these murders happened. That’s what I’m looking for—one time. If I can show he wasn’t at one of these, that’s all I’ll need.”

“All right. I’ll look at it. But don’t get your hopes up.”

“And show it to everyone Marvin knew during that time. Maybe a friend or a teacher, anyone who might remember something.”

“That’s a bunch of people. But I’ll do my best,” she reassured him.

The word had gotten out that Marvin White’s lawyer, the one who had been on the television shows, had come to see Marvin’s mother. There were a hundred people, all residents of the project, waiting outside when he emerged from the building. They stood in the street and on the sidewalk, watching him. There was no threat in the air.

His mouth went dry anyway. He stopped as he saw them, frozen in place. Then he began walking to his car. No one had touched it.

“Hey, man!” A male voice called out. He jerked around toward the sound. “You gonna get Marvin off?”

“Hey, man, you do good by Marvin now, you hear?”

“I seen you on TV! You looking
good
!”

He grinned nervously, impulsively almost waving like a politician or sports celebrity might. But he caught himself; this was not his place—he was an interloper here. Darryl’s lines resonated in his head:
The great white father. The benevolent white liberal.

He was here doing a job, that was all.

As he was about to open his car and get in, a young man stepped out of the crowd and approached him. He recognized him at once—three-piece Ralph Lauren suit, all the expensive accessories. Marvin’s friend, the one who had brought Jonnie Rae and the kids to the arraignment.

Wyatt stopped, waiting expectantly.

The man walked to within a few feet of Wyatt. “Can I talk to you?” he asked. His voice was low, soft, without any street inflection or threat. He could have been a yuppie stockbroker, the way he talked and was dressed.

“All right.” Wyatt leaned back against his car.

Quickly: “Not here.” The young man looked around—the crowd was beginning to disperse. “Get in your car and drive on down to where you came in. Park it on King. I’ll meet you there.” He paused. “If that’s okay with you,” he added.

Wyatt drove through the project. The guy trailed him in his Jeep Grand Cherokee. This is Marvin’s role model, he thought. A $1,500 suit and an expensive car. And you know he doesn’t pay a dime in taxes.

He parked on the corner, using the alarm this time. The Cherokee pulled up alongside. The passenger door swung open. “We can talk while we ride around.”

He got in. As they were pulling away he noticed two young men saunter over and stand nearby. “Keep an eye on it for you,” the driver explained. “Like when you go to the ballpark, ’cept you don’t have to pay no vig.”

They cruised along King Boulevard. A police scanner under the dashboard droned out dispatcher calls. This guy’s wired, Wyatt thought.

The driver stuck out his hand. “Dexter. I’m Marvin’s best friend. We’re like this,” he said, pressing his forefinger and thumb together. “Totally.”

They shook. Dexter Gordon had been one of Wyatt’s favorite jazz musicians. He had five or six Dexter Gordon albums at home. He wondered if this Dexter had ever heard of his namesake.

“I’ve heard about you,” Dexter said. “You’re important.” Without taking his eyes off the street he reached across Wyatt, opened the glove compartment, took out a copy of
Business Week,
and thumbed through the magazine, finding an article about Wyatt. There was a picture, taken at an extreme up-angle, standing on the steps of the Supreme Court building in Washington, D.C. The headline of the article read: “Matthews Humbles Uncle Sam. Again.”

“You kicked the government’s ass big-time,” Dexter said admiringly.

This Dexter is a real entrepreneur, Wyatt thought. “Do you read
Business Week
frequently?” he asked.

“Got a subscription,” Dexter replied. “
Forbes,
too. And the
Wall Street Journal.
You got to know what the markets are doing so you can figure out how to invest your money.”

“Where do you invest your money?” Wyatt asked. This conversation was starting out rather surrealistically.

“Computers, communications, shit like that. And product.” He abruptly pulled over to the side of the street, double-parked in the middle of the block. A young boy, no more than fourteen, came out of a doorway and walked around to the driver’s side. Dexter hit the down button on his window. “How’s biz tonight?” Dexter asked the kid.

The boy cast a wary eye in Wyatt’s direction.

“Don’t worry about him,” Dexter told the kid. “He’s cool.”

“Business is all right,” the kid said. “It’s happening.” He kept an eye on Wyatt.

“So what do you got for me?”

The kid reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a roll of bills, which he handed to Dexter. Dexter quickly riffed through them. “Good enough,” he said approvingly. “You got enough product?”

“I could do with some more.”

Dexter cocked his head to the rear of his Cherokee, releasing the latch under his seat. The kid walked back as the rear door swung open. He reached in and took a heavy paper bag out from under a blanket, slammed the door shut.

He walked back to Dexter’s window, tucking the bag under his shirt. “This’ll hold me.”

“Fine. Now get your ass back to work.”

They high-fived and soul-shook. With a last quick look in Wyatt’s direction the kid scampered back on the sidewalk and took off down the street. Dexter rolled his window up and pulled back into traffic.

“Did I just see what I think I saw?” Wyatt asked.

“What did you see?”

“Is that kid one of your … what do you call them, mules?”

Dexter laughed. “A mule is something you ride, man. I don’t need no mule, I got this.” He patted the dashboard. “This’ll take me anywhere a mule can go.”

“If you’re dealing drugs out of this car, I can’t be here. I won’t be here.”

“You’re cool, Mr. Matthews. I ain’t gonna do nothing to get you in trouble. Anyways, the cops round here, me and them got an understanding.”

Like the understanding the police had with the owner of the convenience store, Wyatt thought. All it takes is money.

A nagging idea came to him one that had been floating in his subconscious. How corrupt were the police, anyway? He had dismissed the idea that the authorities had fed Dwayne Thompson information, if for no other reason than pure logistics, but from what he was seeing, first on that videotape and now here on the street, he’d better take a close look at that. If an eighteen-year-old kid could buy off the cops on his beat—and Wyatt knew Dexter was telling the truth; there had been no braggadocio to his statement, just statement of fact—then the police were capable of much more nefarious conduct.

“Is there a reason we’re riding around together?” he questioned Dexter. “Other than you’re showing me how brazenly you conduct your business?” He was uncomfortable with this; and driving these streets with a drug dealer who was plying his trade was getting him angry. If the kid wanted to show off, let him do it with one of his sycophants who would feel thrilled to be included. He wasn’t.

“Yeah, there’s a reason,” Dexter answered, stung. “I got business I got to take care of that can’t wait, but I wanted you to come ride with me because I want to talk about Marvin, and I don’t want none of them dummies back there in Sullivan Houses trying to listen in, you dig?”

Wyatt nodded curtly. They stopped for a red light. Dexter surveyed the pedestrian traffic. He gave the high-sign to a couple of teenage prostitutes who were crossing in front of his car. One of them winked at him and blew him a kiss. “You want a blow job?” Dexter asked. “A freebie. On me.”

“No, thanks.” That’s all he needed.

The light turned green. They cruised along. “Let’s get with the program, Dexter,” Wyatt said sharply. “If you’ve got something to tell me that can help out, do it. Otherwise drive me back to my car. I’ve had a long day and it isn’t over yet.”

Dexter pulled over to the curb. He turned to face Wyatt, his dark face in shadow, only one eye glistening. “What you got to know is this: Marvin didn’t do it. He didn’t kill none of them bitches.”

“How do you know that? Do you have some information about this that we can use?”

“Like who did it for real, or something?” Dexter shook his head. “No. But Marvin wouldn’t do that kind of shit. He wouldn’t need to.”

“Wouldn’t need to?”

“Marvin don’t need to rape no damn scabby hooker. Who the hell would fuck a hooker nowadays anyway, with all that AIDS shit going around? Marvin got more pussy than he could handle, man. He been beating the ladies off with a stick ever since he got hair on his pecker.”

“He’s a ladies’ man?”

Dexter laughed. “He’s got a Johnson on him like a fucking stallion. He’s a legend in the locker room, for serious. Every goddamn woman on that delivery route of his was hitting on his ass, wanting to give that snake a try.” He laughed again. “Maybe one of them big ol’ women’s husbands got jealous and framed Marvin. I know more than one married woman would do about anything to get in his drawers.”

“You have firsthand knowledge?”

“Marvin did this group thing one time,” Dexter said. “He went over to this house where this lady lived, middle-aged old bag, must’ve been in her forties. Real nice house, big lawn. Her and another bitch her age were waiting there. It was morning, their husbands were off at work. They was all dolled up, waiting for Marvin, and as soon as he hit the door them ladies liked to tear Marvin’s clothes off. They wanted a piece of him so bad they fought over who got him first—they had to flip a coin for it. You know all that shit you hear about, how white women want black men? It’s true, at least in Marvin’s case. And let me tell you, he delivered the goods. He was wham-bam-thank-you-ma’aming both of them, all-morning long. I guarantee you them ladies were walking bowlegged the rest of that day.”

“This is something he told you?”

“He was laughing about it that afternoon.”

“Maybe he was bragging. Maybe it didn’t happen at all.”

Dexter shook his head. “Marvin didn’t have to brag about getting pussy. I seen it with my own eyes. Me and him would be cruising, some whore would jump right into my car, suck him off in the backseat while I’m driving. Trust me—when it comes to women and Marvin, there ain’t no bullshit. No call for it.”

“Maybe. But because he can get laid whenever he wants doesn’t mean he wouldn’t go out and rape. That’s not how it works, Dexter. Rape isn’t about sex. It’s about control, and hurting someone.”

“Shit, man, I know that. But the thing about Marvin is, he wouldn’t ever hurt a bitch, ’less she fucked him over, and then he wouldn’t rape her to hurt her, he’d just kick the shit out of her. Trust me, Mr. Matthews. Marvin White has done some stupid shit, but raping ’ho’s ain’t one of them.”

In court he’d be laughed at if he ever advanced a theory like that. He needed to talk to a shrink about all this.

He took a flier: “Did these women pay him, that you know?”

Dexter nodded vigorously. “He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Not some middle-aged cunts.” He glanced out the window, a nervous habit born out of the necessity of someone in his line of work always having to watch his ass. “What I’m thinking is, Marvin might have been with some of them customer ladies when some of these killings went down. He said something to me one time about how he was getting dressed after being with one of these bitches and some news bulletin came on about how they’d found a body. It was like the killing had happened when he was in bed with one of his customers.”

“That won’t hold water. He could have murdered one of those women hours before he did his studly duty.”

“Normally that would be true,” Dexter agreed. “But this time, the woman’s old man had been out of town, so Marvin had been in her house with her all night long. Even a magician good as David Copperfield can’t be in two places at the same time.”

They started back toward Wyatt’s car. Dexter stopped a few times to do business. Wyatt looked away—there was no fascination in what Dexter was doing. Some kids out there were buying the drugs that had bought Dexter’s car and his fancy clothes. It could be Marvin’s sisters and brother.

Dexter pulled up behind Wyatt’s Jaguar. The two boys who had been watching it when he left with Dexter were still there. When they saw the Cherokee, they vanished into the shadows.

Dexter swiveled around to face Wyatt. “Marvin’s my blood,” he said. “We’re brothers, even if he is a fuckup. What can I do to help him?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills that would have choked an elephant, let alone a horse. “I don’t know who’s paying for this shit, but do you need money?” He started peeling off bills, fifties and hundreds.

Wyatt put up a hand. “I don’t need your money. Even if I did, I wouldn’t take it, not where it comes from.”

Dexter shrugged. “No big thing.” He stuffed the roll back in his pocket.

“But you can help me.”

“Name it.”

“I’m going to talk to Marvin about what you told me regarding this woman who could be an alibi for him. But that’s a long shot—he might not remember her name, or where she lived, and even if he does, she’s a married woman. I doubt she’s going to be eager to stand up in court and say she was having a sexual affair with a seventeen-year-old delivery boy.”

“Seventeen-year-old delivery boy who’s a nigger.”

Wyatt winced—he hated that word, and that someone black had said it didn’t make it all right to him. “I need someone who will testify under oath that Marvin was with them during the time when one or more of these murders took place,” he said. “An ironclad alibi. Even if what was going down was bad or illegal, like with a married woman—or with you, for instance, when you were doing a drug deal. Anything that would have made it impossible for him to be where the crime was committed when it was done.”