A Certain Justice

The day had been circumscribed for him by his decision to stay away from the homicide detail. He had every excuse to do it – in their zeal to lay something on Peter McKay and Brandon Mullen, both he and Marcel had allowed their regular workloads to slide a bit, and some time working the street might yield fruit with their other homicides.

But also, Ridley had sensed that if he began any more exchanges with his lieutenant about his suspicions concerning Loretta Wager's past, Glitsky would blow. So he had left his encoded note and things would proceed or not, but either way he felt he had done all he could. He had no more evidence than he'd given Abe, but he still felt that Senator Wager had some skeletons that homicide inspectors ought not to dance with – but he didn't want to argue about it, make a stink. He just wanted to be thorough or, more precisely, he wanted Glitsky to understand what he might be dealing with. Whether he chose to do anything with that understanding would be his decision.

Ridley's girlfriend, Jacqueline, worked as a legal secretary in one of the high-rise firms, and he was waiting now in the reception area to see if she would be getting off soon and would want to get something to eat. Though it was full dusk, the workday for the secretaries in Jacqueline's firm ended when their attorney bosses went home – officially there were normal business hours, but anyone who left at five or five-thirty soon found themselves unemployed. Jacqueline's day ended not when her work was done, not when she had put in her time, but when her attorney told her she could leave and not before.

She came into view around a corner down the long muted hallway, and, watching her approach, he appreciated her matter-of-fact style. Ridley wasn't into either flash or sleaze, although – actually because - he had experimented with both when he had been younger. Jacqueline was a working woman, as he was a working man. She had a good heart, a warm smile, a civil tongue and bone structure.

There was a tension in her bearing, but she greeted him normally. She had, he thought, too much class to display all her emotions. 'Good timing,' she said. A buss on the cheek. More tension. She was wearing a long woolen skirt and lavender blouse. Ridley was aware of a vague scent of ci

In the elevator, he took her hand. 'What's the matter?'

She took a long breath, held it for a couple of floors. 'Stan's working all weekend,' she said. 'He wants me to come in.'

This wasn't at all unusual. Stan was Stansfield Butler, III, 'her' attorney – a thirty-four-year-old married white man with two young children, bucking for partner next year after six years with the firm. Hours meant nothing to him. He lived his law.

Ridley shrugged, reluctantly accepting this news. 'That's all right,' he said, squeezing her hand. 'All the troubles, I'm sure I can pull some comp time.'

They had tentatively talked about getting away, maybe up to Point Reyes for a couple of days, but this kind of last-minute demand was always a possibility. Jacqueline had been Butler's loyal and highly efficient secretary-assistant for four years. She was under no illusions, however – if she said no too many times (once? twice? she didn't know the precise number), she would be replaced. It had happened to too many of her co-workers. She was black and she was staff. If she wanted to keep this good-paying professional job she should not put any priority on her personal life. That had to come second if she were to survive.

'Well, that's not it, exactly.'

'Not what?'

The elevator door opened and they stepped into the enormous marble-tiled foyer. There was a fern bar for young professionals across the lobby and they gravitated, by habit, in that direction. Jacqueline would often take a glass of chardo

She stopped walking, turned to him. 'I'd hoped to go to the march, Ridley. I'm not sure if I'm going to come in for Stan. Not tomorrow. I… I told him that.'

Ridley chewed on that for a moment. 'And what did he say?'

'When he picked up his jaw, he said that was my decision. If I didn't come in, then I'd have made it for myself. He said that this late he'd have trouble getting another secretary, and if he lost the client because his secretary wasn't available, well…'

They both knew where that was going. Ridley put his hand gently in the small of her back and they were through the doors into the bar. The taped music was New Age. There were a couple of free tables in the front by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

After they had ordered (Ridley had a ginger ale), they linked hands on the small table. 'You were going to the march? With Philip Mohandas?'

'Not were.' She was matter-of-fact, not defiant. 'Am.'

'You think it's worth your job?'

'It may sound old-fashioned, Ridley, but I think we've got to take a stand. This has gone on too long and nothing changes.'

'And you think standing up there with Philip Mohandas and a few hundred brothers is going to change something?'

'It won't be a few hundred. I don't know anybody who isn't going.'

'Yes you do.' Ridley detached his hand from hers.

'Don't,' she said.

'You don't.'

'This isn't you, Ridley.'

'No? That's fu

'Don't be mad.' She had her hand out on the table.

'Don't be mad. Okay.'

'Maybe you're not seeing it… like us. I mean, maybe you've been inside it too long-'

'Gone Oreo, huh?' He glared across at her. 'You any idea what I been doing the last three days when I haven't had any time to see you or anybody else?'

'I-'

'I'll tell you what. I've been hunting down the people, trying to find the people who strung up Arthur Wade. No march on City Hall is go

'You mean that person?'

'Kevin Shea?'

'Yes, him.'

Banks lowered his head, pulled himself back. His hand went to the table and took hers. 'Jacqueline, honey, listen to me. There was a mob of people killed Arthur Wade, not just-'

Now it was Jacqueline's turn to react. She slammed both of their hands down on the table. The ashtray rattled. People at surrounding tables looked over. 'You don't feel it, do you? You don't feel it anymore?'

'I feel it every day, Jacqueline. I'm in it every day.'

'But it's not in your guts anymore, is it?'

'What does that mean?'

'It means they sold it and you bought it. It means-'

'I didn't buy anything, Jacqueline. I walk around with my eyes open, is all.'

'No, you walk around being one of the cops, one of them, Ridley. You think you're on some team, like some gang where you're all protected by each other…'

'Jesus, Jacqueline, where do you get this?'

'I get it from watching you. I get it from seeing what's changing and what's not. And you're fooling yourself, Ridley Banks. You think you're one of them now, you've made it. You're an inspector, high-class, can't be touched. But let me tell you something, and this week should have proved it to you all over again. We are second-class. That's what we're marching for. That's what this is all about.'

'Lord, Jacqueline,' he began, then stopped. 'And you think that's worth your job?'

She banged the table again, glared back at everyone who looked over. 'It shouldn't have anything to do with my job! It's a Saturday, for God's sake. It's the Fourth of July weekend. And no warning. What am I supposed to do, drop everything for the rest of my life every time Stansfield Butler the Third wants a goddamn cup of coffee, with skimmed milk yet. You think I weren't black, I'd have to worry over that?'