“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’ll try to explain it to you. In my judgment, from what the Homicide Bureau Commanding Officer has shown and told me, what Homicide has here is a pretty strong case of circumstantial evidence against you. What I mean by that is that no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog. There were no witnesses. That means, when your case comes to trial, the District Attorney-I think I should explain that to you, too.”

“Explain what?”

“The District Attorney, Mr. Thomas Callis, rarely goes into court himself. Assistant district attorneys actually do the prosecuting. The exception to that rule is when a police officer has been killed. Mr. Callis himself prosecutes such cases. He was a police officer himself when he was a young man. So I think you can expect, when your case comes to trial, that you will be prosecuted by him personally. Do you understand that?”

“I guess so.”

“Fine. Well, what Mr. Callis will have to do in your trial will be to convince the jury that although no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog-”

“I didn’t shoot anybody! I don’t know what the fuck this is all about!”

“In that case, you-through your attorney, and I suppose you know that if you can’t afford to hire an attorney, one will be assigned to you from the Office of the Public Defender. And I must admit that some of those young men and women are really quite competent. They’re young and dedicated, fresh from law school, and really try hard.”

“I don’t have any fucking money,” Leslie said.

“Yes, we know,” Washington said. “As I was saying, if you say you are innocent, your defense counsel will enter a plea of not guilty on your behalf. Then it will be up to Mr. Callis to convince the jury that, although no one actually saw you shoot Officer Kellog, the circumstances surrounding the incident prove that you and only you could have done it.

“Mr. Callis will try to convince the jury that the only way you could have come into possession of the silver frame the Homicide detectives found in your home, and tapes they found in your home, and the photograph of Officer Kellog Officer Bailey found in the fire you set-”

“I don’t know anything about no fucking photograph!”

“You will be given the chance to explain how tapes made by Officer Kellog, tapes of his voice and telephone calls, came into your possession.”

“I don’t know nothing about no fucking tapes, either!”

“Your public defender will try to prove that,” Washington said. “Mr. Callis will be given the opportunity to try to convince the jury that you stole the framed photograph and the tapes and the other things from Officer Kellog’s home, and that in the conduct of that robbery, Officer Kellog came home and you shot him.”

“I didn’t do nothing like that.”

“And then it will be your attorney’s turn to convince the jury that it wasn’t you. If you can find someone, someone the jury would believe, who will go into court and swear that you were with them during the time of the robbery, that might help. Or if you could explain how the photograph of Officer Kellog and the silver frame and tapes and the other things came into your possession, that would help your case.”

“People are always throwing shit over the fence,” Leslie said.

“That might explain the photograph,” Washington said, reasonably, “but not the frame, which was found inside your house.”

Leslie looked uncomfortable.

“Your defense counsel could also have as witnesses people who know you, and would testify to your character, to try to make the point that you’re not the sort of fellow who would do something like this,” Washington said. “But if he did that, under the law Mr. Callis could introduce evidence to the contrary. You’ve been arrested, I understand, for bur glary on several occasions.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean I did the cop.”

“There is an alternative,” Washington said.

“What?”

The door opened and another detective, this one a huge white man wearing cowboy boots, stepped inside.

“Excuse me, Mr. Washington, District Attorney Callis is on the telephone for you.”

“I was afraid of that,” Washington said. “I don’t know how long this will take, Mr. Leslie, but I’ll try to come back.”

He left the interview room.

“Who the fuck uncuffed you?” the large detective asked rhetorically, walked quickly to Leslie, grabbed his right arm, clamped the handcuff on his wrist, muttered, “Fucking Special Operations hotshot!” under his breath, and stormed out of the interview room, slamming the door closed and leaving Mr. Leslie alone again.

Outside the room, he walked directly to Sergeant Washington, who was sitting on a desk holding a mug of coffee in his hands.

“That’s my mug, Jason.”

“I won’t say I’m sorry, because I am not.”

The large detective laughed.

“I didn’t think you would be. You think this is going to work?”

“I think we have established in his mind that (a) you don’t like him; (b) that shooting a policeman is not socially acceptable conduct; and (c) that he can’t beat this unless the nice black man comes up with some solution. The test of these assumptions will come when I go back in.”

“You want me to go back in there and accidentally bump him around a little?”

“I think that would be counterproductive. As frightening as you are, Arthur, I think his imagination should be allowed to run free.”

“Your call. Changing the subject: There’s a story going around that your pal Payne climbed out on a thirteenth-floor ledge of the Bellvue-Stratford to fix a wire?”

“All too true, I’m afraid. I have remonstrated with him.”

“What’s with him, Jason?”

“He’s young. Aside from that, he’s a damned good cop.”

“I meant, if he’s got all the dough everybody thinks he has, why is he a cop?”

“He has all the dough everybody thinks he has,” Washington said. “Did you ever think, Arthur, that some people are, so to speak, born to be policemen?”

“You, for example?”

“It’s possible. You and me. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Shit, neither can I. What would I do? Sell used cars?”

Some of it is the challenge, I think. That explains people like you and me. And probably Payne. But what about people like Officer Bailey? I talked to him before I came here. The reason Leslie is in there is because Bailey, after years on the job, still takes personal pride and satisfaction in protecting people from critters like Leslie. He knows he can’t personally clean up the Thirty-ninth District, but ‘You don’t burn your garbage on my beat.’”

Arthur grunted.

“How long are you going to let the critter’s imagination run free?”

“I think fifteen minutes should suffice,” Washington said. He looked at his watch. “Another five and a half minutes, to be specific.”

“That big guy cuffed me again,” Leslie said in some indignation, raising his shackled wrist to demonstrate.

Washington made no move to unlock the handcuff.

“I just came in to tell you I have to leave. I have to go to see Mr. Callis. The decision is yours, Mr. Leslie, and now is when you’re going to have to make it.”

“What decision?”

“Whether you wish to insist on your innocence, or-”

“Or what?”

“Be cooperative.”

“Like what?”

“How serious is your narcotics addiction, Mr. Leslie?”

“I ain’t no addict, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I can’t possibly help you, Mr. Leslie, if you don’t tell me the truth. Your records show that you have undergone a drug-rehabilitation program. Why lie about it?”

“I got it under control.”

“Then you were not under the influence of narcotics when you burglarized Officer Kellog’s home? Your defense counsel might be able to introduce that at your trial. ‘Diminished capacity’ is the term used.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that if you weren’t aware of what you were doing, because of ‘diminished capacity’ because you were on drugs, you really didn’t know what you were doing, and should be judged accordingly.”