Hardball

“I’m not a common criminal, Mr. Dornick,” Petra said. “And neither is Vic. And Elton sure isn’t. So please be quiet.”

Elton was having the toughest time of all of us, being crammed in with so many people. He was sweating, and his teeth chattered. And each time we hit a pothole, he seemed to think it was a grenade, and he’d try to hit the floor but was held to the seat by his handcuffs. “That one was close. Charlie’s closing in. Move your big feet,” he muttered.

“Elton. We’re in Chicago. It’s Vic. You saved my life.” I leaned as close to him as I could in my handcuffs. “Mine and Petra’s. We’ll get your house repaired. Hold on for another hour. We’re going to make it.”

“That’s right, Elton. You’re the best. It’s Petra-your girl Petra-remember?” my cousin chimed in.

Elton stopped mumbling to himself long enough to say, “You’re a good girl, Petra. We’ll get out of here alive, you trust me for that one.”

Dornick said, “Trust you, you drunken rat? Shut up! I’ll deal with you later.”

“George, you’re the rat in this van, and you are finally going to go into that big old rattrap where you belong. You know how much fun they’re going to have with you in Stateville when they learn you’re the man who tortured Joh

Dornick lunged across the seat at me, but the cops riding with us held him back.

Petra huddled next to me on the narrow seat. Under her police blanket, she was still wet from the river. I clasped her hands with my own cuffed ones.

“So how did you get all these boys in blue to show up in time to save my life?” I asked.

She’d swum the river, she said, but she hadn’t been able to climb up the slick logs that lined the far bank. “There was some kind of iron ring. I got hold of that and screamed my head off. There’re these town houses up above, and someone heard me and came outside. She’d heard the shots and was feeling pretty nervous.”

The woman who responded to her screams called the police. When a squad car arrived, Petra cried out that muggers were shooting at me across the river. The cops in the squad car summoned the boat.

“Oh, Petra, little cousin, you’ve been scared, but you showed real courage and real resourcefulness. When all this is over, you keep remembering that. Put all those bad faces away in a drawer and put your own courage out in the living room.”

Petra gave a little sigh and curled against me. The cops didn’t try to pull her away.

The night wore on interminably from there. The paddy wagon unloaded us at headquarters. When we’d all been placed in a big interrogation room at Thirty-fifth and Michigan and left to glower at one another for an hour or so, Bobby made an entrance in his shirtsleeves. Terry Finchley followed, in a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase bulging with manila folders.

“Bobby! Good to see you.” Dornick switched on his hail-fellow voice, a hearty baritone. “Congratulations on the promotion. Well deserved.”

Bobby ignored him. And he didn’t look at me, either. When he spoke, it was to the air above our heads. “I’m trying to get Harvey Krumas down here. Peter Warshawski is on his way over from the Drake. We’ll wait to get started.”

Finchley unloaded his briefcase. We could all read the label on the top folder: HARMONY NEWSOME. At that point, Dornick demanded that he be allowed to call his lawyer.

Bobby, still not looking at him, nodded at Terry, who handed Dornick a cellphone.

When Dornick demanded privacy, Finchley gave his thi

Dornick’s eyes glittered with fury. If he managed to walk away from any charges tonight, none of us would be safe in our beds. He called his lawyer. He was short and to the point. Then I took the phone to call Freeman Carter’s cellphone.

Freeman was at di

I was astonished, looking at the clock, to see it was only a little before nine. I thought I’d been on the river fighting George Dornick my whole life. Another twenty minutes had dragged by before Peter came in, flanked by two cops.

“Petra! Oh my God, you’re safe, Petey… Petey…” He was at her side, clinging to her, but she pushed him away.

“Daddy, don’t touch me, don’t come near me… not until you explain what you did.”

“Don’t talk, Warshawski,” Dornick growled.

“No, you don’t need to talk, Mr. Warshawski,” Bobby agreed. “I’m going to do that. You just take one of those empty seats.”

He laid a slim file on the table: the photo book I’d sent him this afternoon. “We’re going to start at the begi

Bobby looked directly at me for the first time when he said that. I bit my lips together.

“Alito’s badge number was 8963. You can see it here, on the chest of the man picking up a baseball. That ball was a murder weapon used to kill a black girl in the park that day. Harmony Newsome, pride of her family, marching next to a nun. A black kid named Steve Sawyer confessed to the murder, we all know that.”

“Good police work,” Dornick said. “Case closed.”

“Bad police work,” Bobby snapped. “Case reopened. No proper forensic evidence was presented at the trial. We didn’t have the murder weapon then, but it should have been possible to tell from the bruising and contusions and so on that she’d been struck by a projectile, not by someone stabbing her in the eye at close range.”

He tossed the photo book across the table at my uncle. “You and someone else are in these pictures. He throw that ball or you?”

Peter licked his lips, but he looked at the pictures. “Harvey. He told me Dornick said that someone at the march had taken pictures. Damn it, did Tony have them all along?”

Petra was looking at her father, her face strained, very white underneath its layer of grime. When he saw her expression, he winced and looked away.

“Harvey Krumas?” Bobby said.

Dornick interrupted Peter to warn him again not to talk. “They’re recording all this, Warshawski, so shut the fuck up.”

“Lamont Gadsden had the negatives all along,” I said quietly. “He took the pictures with his Instamatic. He’s been missing since the night of the big snow of ’sixty-seven. Three months ago, his auntie hired me to find him. She filed a missing persons report all those years ago, but George and Larry or their friends treated her like scum and didn’t try to find Mr. Gadsden. Now his aunt is dying, and she wants to see him, or know where he’s lying, before she can rest.”

Dornick was fidgeting in his seat, trying to interrupt, but Terry Finchley shut him up. “Did you find him, Vic?”

I shook my head. “No, but I found these pictures. Mr. Gadsden had put the negatives inside his Bible, and he left it with his aunt the last night he was seen alive. She gave it to me last night, not knowing it held dynamite, just wanting me to return it to her nephew when I found him. It was a pure fluke that I found them… thanks, really, to you, George. If you hadn’t tried one fancy touch too many-fingering me for Alito’s death-I wouldn’t have been on the run. I wouldn’t have dropped the Bible. But that cracked the spine open, and the negatives fell out.”

Bobby flicked a glance in my direction. “Some time you’re going to tell me how you got out of that Lionsgate Manor without my people finding you.”

I smiled bleakly. “Magic, Bobby. It’s the only way a solo op like me can function against high-tech crap like George here has.”

“Those negatives,” Dornick said, contemptuous, “they don’t exist. You manufactured these prints… and not by magic. Anyone could create these out of stock shots of the riot.”