He led me to the sergeant at the desk and gave him my name and number from Progress. Another cop came and got me, and he and Mr. Wilson went with me up a flight of stairs and put me in a small room. It was about the size of the detention room at Progress. The room looked hard. There was a table with three chairs, two on one side and one on the other. The cop pointed toward the one chair.
“Sit there,” he said.
I sat down, still cuffed, and the cop and Mr. Wilson left. I didn’t hear them lock the door, but I saw there wasn’t a doorknob on the inside of it.
The room was painted dark on the bottom, a reddish brown, and green on top. There weren’t any windows or nothing. In a corner I saw a camera and there was a red indicator light next to it. I knew somebody could look at me through the camera and maybe even tape me.
For a while, I tried to look cool, like I was innocent or something and then that made me laugh. How you supposed to look when you innocent? I told myself if I ever got back to Progress, I was going to tell Play about how I was trying to look.
When you in a room with no clock and nobody there to talk to, you can’t tell how long you been in it. It seemed like a long time, and I was beginning to feel like I had to go to the bathroom. I knew they wanted to make me feel uncomfortable. Being in a chair and handcuffed was uncomfortable all by itself. I stretched my legs out and tried to relax.
This wasn’t nothing about somebody being hurt or anything. This was about something else. I wasn’t worried about it because the only thing I ever did I got caught for and was up in Progress ever since. I thought maybe Willis did something and they wanted to know what I knew about it. If I did know something I wasn’t going to snitch, but I didn’t know anything. That was the truth whether they believed it or not.
I was glad for the camera. At least they couldn’t beat me up. Or maybe they could. Just turn the camera off a little while and kick my ass, then turn it back on.
When the door opened, I jumped. Two guys, one white and one black, came in. The black guy was real big, about six feet two or six feet three, and dark skinned. He had a cigar in his mouth. He took it out and looked at it like he was real interested in it and then he took his jacket off. He had a holster on but he didn’t have a gun in it. The white guy was wearing a soft shirt and was big but a little fat. He put a folder on the desk.
“We thought you were light stuff,” the black guy said. “What you think about that?”
“I don’t know what you talking about,” I said. Up at Progress they always said to never talk to the police or answer any questions no matter what happened because they will just hang your butt. I didn’t want to talk or answer any questions.
“This is Detective Browning and I’m John Rhodes, Mr. Anderson,” the white guy said. “You don’t have to remember our names.”
“You need water or anything?” the black guy said. “You hungry?”
“I just had breakfast,” I said.
“Before we ask you any questions, we have to read you your rights,” the white guy said. “Just listen to them. ‘You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, if you wish, one will be appointed for you before any questioning. If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?’”
“I don’t want to answer any questions,” I said.
“Fine, no problem,” the white detective said. “But did you understand the rights?”
“Yeah.”
“And you know you’re facing twenty years?”
“For what? I’ve been up in Progress for almost two years, so I couldn’t have done anything.”
“You were arrested for stealing and distributing prescription pads, right?” the black detective asked.
“Yeah.”
“You hooked up with Freddy Booker?”
“Yeah.”
“Booker said that you also stole some drugs, which you cut and distributed,” the black guy went on. “Is that right?”
“No, man.”
“Well, he’s swearing to it, and some of the drugs that were involved have caused the death of an addict,” the white detective said.
“He said I did that two years ago?”
“I think he’s lying,” the black detective said. “He’s lying to save his ass.”
“He’s in jail, right?” I said.
“No, he’s on parole,” the white detective said. “He got some time off for cooperating in another case. But he got busted for distribution, and he said he got the drugs from you.”
“Two years ago?”
“He said you stashed them with your brother—”
“Willis.” The white detective opened up the folder. “Your brother is Willis Anderson?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Does he use drugs?”
“No,” I said.
“So if he’s got a stash, he must be selling the shit, right?”
“I don’t know what you talking about,” I said. “And I don’t want to answer any more questions.”
“This is what I was talking to you about,” the black detective said to the white guy. “He wants to lawyer up because he knows the deal.”
“There ain’t no deal,” I said. “And I don’t want to answer any more questions.”
“You know, Billy”—the white guy turned to the black detective—“you think Anderson here is willing to take the twenty years because he’s looking to beat a murder-one rap? I mean, it makes sense. With the twenty, he gets out in sixteen max; maybe he can manage an appeal or something and get out in ten. If they give him the full bid on murder one, he can get life without the possibility of parole. You think he’s just playing it smart?”
“I don’t know why he’s taking the twenty to cover for Booker, though,” the black guy said. Then he turned to me. “You and Booker real tight?”
“I don’t even know the sucker,” I said. “I just peeped his play around the neighborhood, that’s all.”
“Look, he doesn’t want to tell us if Booker was dealing drugs even if we can offer him a plea,” the white guy said. “We can offer him five and he’d be on the street in three. He’s got something to hide so he’s keeping mum. Isn’t that right?”
“Let’s not deal with him,” the black detective said. “He’d rather do the twenty calendars than talk to us. That’s the way these people are.”
“Okay, send him back to jail,” the white guy said. “We know where to find him, and when the trial comes up, we’ll tell them that he don’t want no deal. He wants the full twenty. How’s your daughter? Did she get to watch the game the other night?” They were headed toward the door.
“No, her mom made her do her homework, but I taped it for her,” the black guy said as he was leaving the room.
CHAPTER 24
When I watched television, it never seemed real, because on television, people solved all their problems in, like, thirty minutes. The only thing that was going on in my life was whether the garbage was bad enough that I didn’t mind people seeing me cry.
I got to Progress and was put in detention because everybody was too busy to take me to group.
“Two years? They reaching all the way back two years?” Play asked me at supper.
“I told that to Wilson on the drive up here,” I said. “At first he didn’t say nothing, but then he said it was either about a homicide or they’re just fishing.”
“Fishing for what?”
“How I know? I haven’t heard anything from the guys on the block. I haven’t heard anything from the attorney who handled my case. I haven’t heard anything from
anybody!”
“So who did you sell the pads to?” Play asked.
“I don’t even remember the dude’s name,” I said. That was a lie, but I remembered an old gangster used to sit on the stoop all the time saying you should never discuss your case with anybody in jail because they could be a snitch.
“I can’t figure it,” Play was saying.
I could figure it some. What I saw was people walking around and anytime they got some crap on their shoes, they needed to wipe it off. Somehow me and Play and Toon and even King Kong wasn’t nothing but the crap on their shoes.
After supper, Mr. Cintron pulled me aside and told me he still had faith in me. I didn’t believe him. I had messed up too many times. I knew the deal was that he wanted the work program to work. I could dig that. It would have been better if they had taken Play for the program or even Toon. I guessed that Toon was too young, and Play was at Progress for a violent crime.
I didn’t go to Evergreen for three days because of an administrative inspection that was coming up. They were long days and I could feel myself getting depressed. It was like a dark cloud was creeping over me and I couldn’t do anything about it.
When I got to Evergreen, I was feeling a little better because at least time went faster when I was busy. Mr. Hooft was sitting in a chair in the corner waiting for me.
“It wasn’t you, was it?” He was kind of half shouting at me, and his voice, which wasn’t too strong from jump street, cracked when he spoke.
“What wasn’t me?” I asked.
“Somebody messed my bed up!” he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of his bed. “You going to clean it?”
“Yeah.”
Somebody had moved their bowels in his bed, and I had an idea of who it was. I took the sheet and folded it up quick, pulled the pillow out of the pillow case and put the stinky sheet inside, and headed for the laundry room. Simi was in the hallway.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Mr. Hooft’s bed got messed up,” I said.
“Usually he blames me for it,” she said, taking the bundle from me. “Get some clean linen from the nurse at the station desk. And don’t forget to see if his pad is wet.”
“I was wondering if it was you,” I said.
She hit me lightly on the back of the head.
I got clean linen, returned to Mr. Hooft’s room, and checked the pad in the middle of the bed. It was dry, but I turned it over anyway.
“They let anybody walk into this place,” he said.
“You been outside today?” I asked. “The weather is real nice.”
“They don’t let me go outside,” he answered. “They think I’m going to get a bus and go to California.”
“You ever been to California?”
Before he could answer, a guy came into the room. I thought he was a doctor because he was wearing a suit. He didn’t say nothing but just stood in the doorway and pointed at me.
“This is Reese,” Mr. Hooft said. “He’s a criminal. He killed maybe three or four people—I don’t know—he won’t tell me how many. They let him come to keep the old people in line.”
“I’m John Hooft,” the man said. “If anything is missing from my grandfather’s room, I’ll get it back.”
“Nothing missing from here,” I said. “I just come over—”
“I don’t have any time today, Grandpa,” the man said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I have to get over to the dealership and straighten some people out. Clara called. She wants to know if you got the check she sent.”
“They told me they received a check,” Mr. Hooft said quietly.
“Okay, it was for twenty-five dollars, and I’ll ask at the office when I come back next week to make sure that every penny of it is spent on you.”
“Okay, John.” Mr. Hooft nodded as he spoke. His voice seemed to be getting weaker.
John turned and looked me up and down, like he was measuring me. I had seen the look a hundred times, guys thinking they can kick your ass and letting you know it. Then he turned back to Mr. Hooft.
“So I’ll tell Clara that everything is fine?”
“Everything is fine,” Mr. Hooft said. “Sure. How are her children?”
“I guess they’re okay,” John said. “She’s always whining about them. If she calls you, tell her I came to see you. And if you have any problems, tell her and she can tell me. You understand that?”
“Yes, sure,” Mr. Hooft said.
John went over and put his face near his grandfather and gave him a half of a kiss on the cheek. Then he turned on one heel and walked out of the room.
“Busy man,” Mr. Hooft said after he was gone. “He’s got two minutes to spare on a sunny day, one minute if there’s a cloud in the sky.”
“He acts like a tough guy,” I said.
“Tough? What does he know about being tough? What do you know about being tough?” Mr. Hooft asked. “Does swinging your fist make you tough? Does hitting a man make you tough? Do you think you would hit—what’s his name? That little Negro who looks like a bull—Mike Tyson? Would you hit him? Would you?”
“No.”
“Because he would kill you! Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, sonny, Reese—which is no name for a boy, but your people make up names—you should try being old. Because old is tough and you don’t swing at being old because old always kills you. So what do you think of that?”
“Well…”
“He’s going to go home and call everybody and say…and say that he came and he visited me even though…even though he didn’t have a lot of time….” Mr. Hooft was crying.
“Yo, man, you need some water or something?” I asked.
“In five years, maybe I’ve had three visits, maybe four visits,” he said. “They celebrate their heritage. They go back to the Netherlands and they weren’t born there. They are no more Dutch than you are. But they can’t come to see me and I was born there.”
Mr. Hooft’s eyes seemed different. They were darker when he cried, almost like a bird’s eyes. I wanted to go over and put my arm around him or something, but I didn’t. I did think about beating up his grandson. He was looking me up and down, but I wondered how he would have felt if I had landed some thunder upside his head.
“Don’t sit on my bed,” Mr. Hooft spoke softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t sit on my bed,” he said. “That’s how it gets messed up.”
I cleaned his room real good. Before I left, I let him put his arm around my shoulder so he could get up on the bed. He was wearing a hospital gown and I could see his legs. They were thin and white and wrinkly.
I got the top of the bed up a little for him and started to bring the bottom up too, but he wanted his legs straight.
“Sometimes they cramp up if I have them bent,” he said. “Then I have to straighten them out really slow.”
I sat in the corner thinking about his grandson. I thought that maybe Mr. Hooft didn’t have a lot of interesting things to say to him.
“You know, I don’t get many visits, either,” I said.
“Well, you have to remember”—Mr. Hooft was smiling—“you’re not too good-looking.”
“When you…when you were in that children’s camp,” I asked him, “did you ever think about just starting a fight with one of the guards and, you know, getting it over with?”
Mr. Hooft turned to me, looked in my face for a long moment, and then turned toward the window. “We lived nine to a hut,” he said. “There was never enough to eat, never enough hope to spread around to nine boys. Sometimes I wished it would just end. But I didn’t want to be shot or die by violence. I didn’t have that kind of courage. But then one day I saw, behind the huts, in a corner, some flowers. Jasmine. You know jasmine?”
“No.”
“Beautiful flower. It was closed tight during the day, but at night it opened up and somehow I thought that flower was like me. Afraid to speak when
I was around the guards, always scared that I would do something wrong and they would hurt me. But at night I would lie on my cot, and I would dream about other things. About our home in Java, about my mother. And when I took my mind away from how miserable I felt, things became better for me. I would be out in the fields digging a ditch or piling up rocks around the wells—the Japanese had us doing that a lot—but I would think about that flower and I would worry about it and be anxious for it to be all right when I returned to the hut. It wasn’t much, but it was better than stewing in my own juices.”
All the time he was talking to me he was looking out of the window. From where he was, I knew, he couldn’t see much. The sky was gray and there were clouds in the distance. After a while, I could see that he had fallen asleep. I stayed in the corner. Simi brought me some magazines to read and I leafed through them until it was time to go.
On the way back to Progress, I kept thinking of Mr. Hooft as a kid digging a ditch with a guard watching him. I could imagine how scared he was. I was feeling sorry for him being scared back then, even if it had happened a long time ago.
Mr. Hooft’s life was harder than I had thought it was. All the time he was talking about how much he had done in his life, it was all a front. A lot of people seemed to be making up their lives, and I guessed if you didn’t have anything else really going on, it was the thing to do. But it was sad.
CHAPTER 25
Mr. Cintron called me to the office and pointed toward a chair. He took a sip of his coffee, made a little face, and then leaned back in his chair.
“You hear there was a fight in the corridor yesterday afternoon?” he asked.
“Nobody told me,” I said. I was surprised, because usually Play clues me in on all the happenings.
“Diego punched Leon Muñoz in the back of the head,” Mr. Cintron said.
“And Leon is supposed to be his boy, too,” I said. “Diego is just foul.”