The punks on the street corner could call him Old Oreo, or Uncle Tom, or whatever they liked, and it didn’t bother him much, because he knew he was straight with the Good Lord and that was all that mattered. The Bible said all there was to say about bearing false witness against your neighbor. And also because he knew what else the punks who called him names told the new punks: “Don’t cross that mean old nigger, he’ll catch you alone when there’s nobody around and slap you up aside of the head with his club or his gun and knock you into the middle of next week.”
He liked to walk his beat. You could see much more of what was going on just ambling down the street than you could from inside an RPC. A lot of police officers hated to get out of their cars, but Woodrow was just the opposite. He liked to walk, say hello to people, be seen, see things he wouldn’t have been able to see driving a car.
Officer Bailey was not surprised to get the call telling him to meet the Sergeant, but when he got there, he was surprised to see Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., standing by the car, talking to the Sergeant.
He and Lewis went back together a long time. He was a good man, in Bailey’s opinion. God-fearing, honest, hardworking. But Bailey was a little worried when he saw him. Lewis was assigned to the Ninth District.
What’s he doing here?
Maybe he’s been sent to talk me into taking one of those special jobs in Community Relations the Lieutenant had talked to me about and I turned down.
When the Sergeant saw Bailey coming, he shook Lieutenant Lewis’s hand, got back in his car, and drove off. Lieutenant Lewis stood in the middle of the street and waited for Bailey to drive up.
“How are you, Woodrow?” Lieutenant Lewis said, offering his hand.
“Pretty good, Lieutenant. How’s yourself?”
“We were riding around-” Lieutenant Lewis said, interrupting himself to point at the new car parked at the curb. Woodrow saw that it was an unmarked car, the kind inspectors and the like got, and that a black man was behind the wheel.
“-and we had some time, and I thought maybe we could have a cup of coffee or something.”
“I can always find time to take a cup of coffee with you,” Woodrow said. “Right over there’s as good a place as any. At least it’s clean.”
“The Sergeant said it would be all right if you put yourself out of service for half an hour.”
“I’ll park this,” Woodrow said.
When he came back from parking the car, he recognized the man driving the car.
“This your boy, isn’t it, Foster? He wasn’t nearly so big the last time I saw him.”
“How do you do, sir?” Tiny said politely.
“Well, I’ll be. I recognized him from his picture in the paper. When they arrested those dirty cops.”
They went in the small neighborhood restaurant. An obese woman brought coffee to the table for all of them.
“Miss Kathy, this is Lieutenant Foster, and his boy,” Woodrow said. “We go back a long way.”
“Way back,” Lieutenant Lewis agreed. “When I graduated from the Academy Officer Bailey sort of took me under his wing.”
“Is that so?” the woman said, and walked away.
“When Foster here finished the Academy, they sent him right to Special Operations, put him in plain clothes, and gave him a car,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “Things have changed, eh, Woodrow?”
“You like what you’re doing, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was thinking the other day that if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t,” Bailey said.
Lieutenant Lewis laughed.
“You don’t mean that, Woodrow,” he said.
“Yes, I do mean it. Don’t take this the wrong way, boy, but I’m glad I’m not starting out. I don’t think I could take another twenty-some years walking this beat.”
“I was telling Foster that walking a beat is what the police are all about,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“Well, then, the country’s in trouble,” Bailey said. “Because we’re losing, Foster, and you know it. Things get a little worse every day, and there doesn’t seem to be anything that anybody can do about it.”
“What I was trying to get across to Foster was that there’s no substitute for the experience an officer like yourself gets,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“Well, maybe you’re right, but the only thing my experience does is make me tired. Time was, I used to think I could clean up a place. Now I know better. All I’m doing is slowing down how fast it’s getting worse. And I only get to slow it down a little on good days.”
Lieutenant Lewis laughed politely.
“I was thinking, Woodrow,” he said, “that since Foster hasn’t had any experience on the streets, that maybe you’d be good enough to let him ride around with you once in a while. You know, show him the tricks of the trade.”
“Good Lord,” Officer Bailey laughed, “why would he want to do that?”
Lieutenant Lewis glanced at his son. He saw that it was only with a great effort that Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., was able to keep his face straight, not let it show what he was thinking.
“My father is right, Mr. Bailey,” Tiny said. “I could probably learn a lot from you.”
That response surprised and then delighted Lieutenant Lewis, but the delight was short-lived:
“The only thing you could learn by riding around with me,” Officer Bailey said, “is that Satan’s having his way, and if you have half the brains you were born with, you already know that.”
Officer Lewis looked at his watch.
“Is there a phone around here, Mr. Bailey? I’ve got to check in.”
“There’s a pay phone outside,” Bailey said. “But most likely somebody ripped the handset off for the fun of it. You go see Miss Kathy, and tell her I said to let you use hers.”
“Thank you,” Tiny said.
When he was out of earshot, Officer Bailey nodded approvingly.
“Nice boy, Foster,” he said. “You should be proud of him.”
“I am,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
Men in light blue uniforms, suggesting State Police uniforms, with shoulder patches reading “Nesfoods International Security,” stood at the gates of the Detweiler estate. They were armed, Matt noticed, with chrome-plated Smith amp; Wesson. 357 caliber revolvers, and their Sam Browne belts held rows of shining cartridges.
“Anyone trying to shoot their way in here’s going to have his hands full,” Matt said softly as he slowed and lowered the window of Amy’s station wagon.
“You really have a strange sense of humor,” Amy said, and leaned over him to speak to the security man.
“I’m Dr. Payne,” Amy said, “and this is my brother.”
One of the two men consulted a clipboard.
“Yes, Ma’am, you’re on the list,” the security man said, and the left of the tall wrought-iron gates began to open inward.
Matt raised the window.
“And you’re back on Peter’s list, too, I see,” Matt said.
“Matt, I understand that you’re under a terrible strain,” Amy said tolerantly, either the understanding psychiatrist or the sympathetic older sister, or both, “but please try to control your mouth. Things are going to be difficult enough in here.”
“I wonder how long it’s going to be before Mother Detweiler decides that if I had only been reasonable, reasonable defined as resigning from the Police Department and taking my rightful position in society, Penny wouldn’t have stuck that needle in her arm, and that this whole thing is my fault.”
“That’s to be expected,” Amy said. “The important thing is that you don’t accept that line of reasoning.”
“In other words, she’s already started down that road?”
“What did you expect?” Amy said. “She, and Uncle Dick, have to find someone to blame.”
“Give me a straight answer, Doc. I don’t feel I’m responsible. What does that make me?”
“Is that your emotional reaction, as opposed to a logical conclusion you’ve come to?”
“How about both?”
“Straight answer: You’re probably still in emotional shock. Have you wept?”