Until I Saw Your Smile (19 page)

The officer opened an antiseptic, windowless, gray interrogation room that contained only a single long gray table and two gray metal folding chairs.
How cheerfully gray and dark.

“XS will be here in a minute or so,” the officer said.

“He already has a following?” Matthew asked.

“He's really good,” the officer said, closing the door behind him.

A moment later, another officer brought Xavier James inside and undid his handcuffs. “No trouble now, XS. I'll be right outside.” He nodded at Matthew. “How long will you need?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe more,” Matthew said.

The guard left, shutting the door behind him.

“Please have a seat, Xavier, or should I call you XS?”

Xavier, who may have weighed one hundred and thirty pounds and looked swallowed up by his hunter green prison uniform, didn't look like a rapper.
XS has no tattoos. How can he be a rapper in today's music world without tattoos?

Xavier sat, resting his elbows on his knees. “Who are you?”

Matthew slid the consent form across the table and set the pen on top of it. “If you sign this, I will be your lawyer.”

Xavier scanned the sheet. “You don't look like one.”

“I'm hearing that a lot lately,” Matthew said. “Your mother wants me to represent you instead of Farty Marty Kowalski. She's waiting out front.”

Xavier looked up. “She's here?”

“Yes.”

“And you're a real lawyer,” Xavier said.

“Don't let my appearance fool you, Xavier,” Matthew said. “It's Saturday, and this is what I wear on Saturdays. Sign the form, and we can talk.”

Xavier picked up the pen. “But neither me nor my mama has any money to pay you.”

“You'll be working it off at Angela's, I mean, Smith's Sweet Treats,” Matthew said.

Xavier sat back. “Sweeping?”

“Performing,” Matthew said. “Hopefully tonight.”

Xavier rolled the pen in his hand. “Tonight? Did my mama tell you what they say I did?”

“Yep,” Matthew said. “They have your DNA and two witnesses, yada yada yada.”

Xavier shook his head. “I'm cooked, man.”

“Xavier, I have a good feeling you'll be out of here in time for your first set.”
Sign the form, please.

“Miss Angela's putting on shows now?” Xavier asked.

I like how he respects Angela.
“You'll be her first headliner.” He nodded at the form. “Sign it, please.”

Xavier shrugged. “All right.” He signed the form and handed back the paper and pen.

“Now we can talk.” Matthew stood and sat on the edge of the table. “I need to know
precisely
what were you rapping when the alleged spitting incident took place.”

“It was a rhyme I made up on the spot,” Xavier said.

Shoot.
“So it's not written down?”

“No. It's in my head.” Xavier tapped his temple. “Most of my stuff's in my head.”

Hmm.
“Did you dis the police in your rap?”

Xavier smiled. “No, I didn't
dis
the police, not when they're a few feet from me. I ain't crazy.”

“So there wasn't anything inflammatory, content-wise, in your freestyle that might have set these officers off,” Matthew said.

“No.”

“Well, let me hear it,” Matthew said.

Xavier squinted. “You want me to perform it right now?”

“Yes.”

“You sure you're a lawyer, man?” Xavier asked.

“What? I can't like rap?”
I need to school XS on what I know about the early days.
“I listened to Camp Lo, O. C., Twista, and Company Flow when I was your age.”

Xavier laughed. “Damn.”

“Do I pass inspection?” Matthew asked.

“All right,” Xavier said with a smile. “I'll flow for you. I think I can remember most of it . . .

Xavier continued for several minutes skewering Williamsburg hipster culture, landlords who raise already ridiculous rents, and Hasidic merchants exhorting customers to wear sleeves, spittle flying with every B- and P-word.

If I wore glasses,
Matthew thought,
I'd need windshield wipers.

“How was that?” Xavier asked.

“
P
erfect,” Matthew said.
It wasn't spit. It was spittle.
“I'm going to try to get Paddy O'Day, the man who's prosecuting your case, down here to listen to you.”

“Today?” Xavier said.

Matthew nodded.

“You know it's Saturday, right?” Xavier asked.

“All day, as a matter of fact,” Matthew said. “Saturday has a habit of lasting all day.”

“You're strange, man,” Xavier said. “Why would he come visit me on a Saturday?”

“So he can hear you reenact the alleged crime,” Matthew said. “I'll get you some water. We wouldn't want your mouth to get dry.”

Matthew called O'Day, the fierce and freckled one.
I'll bet his red hair is silver by now. He was pushing three hundred pounds the last time I saw him. I used to find and harass him at Reben's Luncheonette on Saturdays. I'll bet that's where he is right now.

“Who is this?” Paddy asked.

“Hey, Paddy. It's Matthew McConnell.”

Paddy cursed. “McConnell, you have no manners.”

“Hope I didn't catch you eating at Reben's.”

Paddy cursed again. “You did. This had better be good. What do you want?”

Paddy might be pushing three-fifty by now.
“Could you come over to the Ninetieth? I need us to sit down with my client, Xavier James.”

“He's Kowalski's client,” O'Day said.

“Not anymore,” Matthew said.
I just haven't sent the fax yet.

“Come on, McConnell,” Paddy snarled. “It's Saturday.”

“I know. But it's a slow news day. Channel Eleven and I go way back. They love breaking stories on slow news days.”
Lure the big fish in. Dangle the bait.

“What breaking story?” Paddy asked.

“About how New York's finest is committing a crime by wrongfully arresting an aspiring word artist,” Matthew said.

Xavier smiled and nodded.

“Xavier James is no word artist,” Paddy said. “He's a spitter. That kid is no saint.”

“He doesn't have a record, Paddy,” Matthew said.

Xavier shook his head.

“Which only means we haven't caught him breaking the law until now,” Paddy said. “Is he ready to take the deal I gave him?”

Matthew covered the phone. “Did anyone make you a deal?”

Xavier shook his head. “All I heard was eighteen months.”

“Same here.” Matthew uncovered the phone. “What deal? Marty didn't tell me there was a deal.”

“He pleads to menacing a police officer, six months,” O'Day said.

Is he serious? He can't be serious. Six months in prison because Xavier enunciated his P's and B's?
“No deal.”

“He spit on a cop, McConnell,” Paddy said. “He could get three and a half to fifteen years. You know that. I'm cutting him a huge break.”

“Xavier was performing,” Matthew said. “He was rapping. He enunciates. It's the way he flows. You want to hear him?”

“
Now?
” O'Day said.

“Well,” Matthew said, “as soon as you can get here. We can wait. We have nowhere else to be. You have to hear him in person, Paddy. It won't have the same effect if he performs into the phone, which he
will
do for Channel Eleven if you don't come over right away.”

“You want me to leave my brunch and listen to a kid rap?” Paddy scowled. “On my day off?”

“Yes,” Matthew said. “And I have Channel Eleven on standby.”

“Yeah?” Xavier whispered.

Matthew shook his head. “I'm bluffing,” he mouthed.

Xavier rolled his eyes.

Matthew knew it was a safe bluff. Channel 11 always seemed to have trucks crisscrossing Williamsburg and trolling for the odd gunshot and machete victim.

“I'll be there in . . . twenty minutes,” Paddy said.

Matthew closed his phone. “He's on his way.” He knocked on the door, and the guard opened it. “Could we get XS some water, please? And make sure ADA O'Day gets to us as soon as he gets here in about twenty minutes.”

The guard didn't comment, closing the door.

“You bluffed his ass,” Xavier said.

“Paddy doesn't look good on TV,” Matthew said. “They never light him right or something. Plus, you'd need a wide-screen TV to see all of him. Make sure you scoot your chair closer to him when he gets here.”

Half an hour later, Paddy O'Day, sweating and wearing an old white New York Jets jersey, the green numbers straining to flake off, stepped sideways into the interrogation room. “This had better be good, McConnell.” He eased up onto the table, and the table complained.

“Go ahead, Xavier,” Matthew said.

“All right,” Xavier said. “
P
eter
P
i
p
er
p
e
pp
er
p
oke . . .”

Paddy wiped his face four times during the performance.

When Xavier finished, he said, “Sorry about that. It's how I get my sound.”

Paddy sighed. “So you
were
only rapping when the officers walked by.”

“Yeah,” Xavier said. “I was up against a wall, better acoustics that way, kind of like a natural amplifier. Anyway, these two officers walked by, they stopped, and I kept rapping.”

Paddy shook his head. “How close did they get to you?”

“A little closer than you are now,” Xavier said. “They were laughing along with the crowd at the beginning. And then . . . they hooked me up.”

“Why didn't you tell Kowalski this?” Paddy asked.

“He never gave me the chance,” Xavier said. “He opened my file, closed my file, and told me to plead guilty before he even introduced himself to me.”

“What do you think, Paddy?” Matthew asked.

“I could fine him for spitting in public,” Paddy said.

“Are you serious?” Matthew asked. “Oh, the public will love that. Name a Yankee who doesn't spit during a game.”

“I can't just drop the charges, McConnell,” Paddy said. “I may have to work with those officers in the future.”

Paddy hasn't learned his lessons yet.
“Hello, this is Channel Eleven reporter Matt McConnell with a breaking news story from the Ninetieth Precinct. Xavier Jones, a lifeguard and high school graduate who has a squeaky clean record, was exercising his right to speak in a public place and causing no disturbance of any kind when two of New York's finest got too close to the performance and arrested XS, as he is known on the street, for assault on a police officer. What? A fine, upstanding black man exercising his freedom of speech is being arrested for assault? He was rapping? What was he rapping? It was a funny rap about his hometown? And it contained no cursing? Why on
earth
did they arrest that
wholesome
,
clean-cut
young man? Let's ask ADA Paddy O'Day. Mr. O'Day, why on earth would—”

“I gotta do
something,
McConnell,” Paddy interrupted.

“Let him go,” Matthew said. “That's what you can do.”

“I can't,” Paddy said.

“The officers moved into his field of fire, Paddy,” Matthew said. “Xavier didn't ask them to move to the front row. And won't another performance of his rapping play well on TV? Can you see the camera lens, Paddy? Can you? I can.”

Paddy ran his fat fingers through his hair. “I can see the lens, McConnell.” He slid off the table.

I think I have just heard a table give an audible sigh of relief.
“You'll start the paperwork then?”

“I'll start the paperwork. You two sit tight.” Paddy left the room.

“Xavier, you're about to be famous,” Matthew said.

Xavier stood and stretched. “No offense, Mr. McConnell, but I already am, at least around here. I was kind of hoping for community service.”

“Why?” Matthew asked.

“For my rep, man,” Xavier said. “Though I
was
arrested for assault on a police officer. That might be enough to get my name farther out there.”

What a strange world we live in.
“You will be doing a service to your community tonight,” Matthew said, “and this is what I want you to do . . .”

After Matthew explained his plan, Xavier asked, “Can I borrow some paper and a pen? I want to get started on that right now.”

Matthew dug the order book from his front pocket. “What are you going to rhyme with Angela?”

Xavier looked up. “
Bella?
”