The Car Bomb (The detroit im dying Trilogy, Book 1) (5 page)

“
An unusual outburst today in the courtroom of Recorder’s Court Judge William O’Bryan...”

While Mary Scott fiddled with one of her bracelets, Frank read from the page in front of him, occasionally glancing at a small monitor built into the anchor desk. On the monitor was that surprising scene captured earlier by the TV camera in the courtroom.

“
Melvin Street, convicted last month of armed robbery in the hold-up of a bank on the city’s eastside, listened as the judge sentenced him to prison for 12-to-20 years. And then, as you’ll see, Mr. Street went berserk.”

Frank watched the monitor now and listened to the judge say: “This court feels strongly that…”

Then Street made his move. “You (--bleep--), I’ll rip your (--bleep--) head off!”

Frank continued his narration: “Mr. Street was quickly subdued and ushered out of the courtroom.” Looking up now, he smoothly transitioned to the teleprompter: “He was returned later in shackles to hear the rest of what Judge O’Bryan had to say, with no further incident.”

Frank paused for a second, then began again. “Police today are still looking for the man whose wife and two children were killed in a car bombing last Friday in front of the family’s home on the city’s westside. Thirty-two-year-old Anthony Peoples may have been the bomb’s intended victim...”

In a cramped, shabby room without windows, a thin black man was lying very still on a bare mattress and watching a small fuzzy TV picture of Frank speaking to the camera.

“
But police are saying little about the case—only that they think Mr. Peoples was not in the home at the time of the blast and that they want to talk with him.”

As the screen showed a still-frame of a car engulfed in flames, the man on the bed closed his eyes but opened them again as Frank continued.

“
This reporter, however, has learned that the bombing, which took the lives of 31-year-old Juanita Peoples and her two children, five-year-old Damon and three-year-old Sara, may have been drug-related.”

On the TV now was a picture of a woman and two children in a formal pose, and the man glanced at a plastic three-legged stool next to the bed, holding a small, shade-less lamp, a wallet-sized photo that matched the TV picture and a rip-edged newspaper clipping folded so that it showed half the face of columnist Wil Barnes.

In the large, brightly lit studio at WTEM with huge cityscape photographs made to look like windows, Frank gazed straight at a camera and read.

“
According to our information, Mr. Peoples is the cousin of this man, Richard ‘Pretty Rick’ Mahone, who was reputed to be one of this area’s major narcotics dealers. Mahone, also known as ‘Maserati Rick,’ was murdered two months ago. And, while police refuse to confirm or deny any of this, the bombing may be part of an on-going turf war between rival drug gangs.”

Frank turned to Mary, who was about to start reading, and began ad-libbing. “You know, Mary, maybe we at Channel 5 can be of some help in resolving this situation...”

In the darkened control room, flanked by Dennis Clark and the switcher, the director stared at the glowing bank of monitors and threw up his hands. “What the hell’s he doing?”

Dennis: “It’s okay. Just stay with him!”

“
...Mr. Peoples, if you or anyone who can reach you are watching this newscast, I will meet with you anywhere, anytime, so that you can be certain your story is fully and accurately told and your personal safety insured.”

The director: “Is he nuts!?”

Dennis: “Maybe, but he’s also a genius.”

“
This guy Peoples could be a maniac. Maybe
he
did his wife and kids.”

“
Don’t worry, the guy’ll never call. But our ratings’ll jump two points for the next month.”

In the studio Frank’s heavily made up face appeared genuinely concerned and earnest. “If at some point you want me to arrange a meeting with any law enforcement agency in this city, I will do that in a way that will offer you maximum protection. In any case, Mr. Peoples, give me a call here at the station, name your time and place, and I’ll be there.”

He turned to his smoldering co-anchor. “Mary?”

Staring wide-eyed at Frank, she glanced down at her script, then up at a camera. “Frank, in a surprise move today Wayne County prosecutor Prentis Gant resigned his post effective immediately.”

Watching his desk monitor, Frank checked out the good-looking black man speaking at a podium.

Mary continued: “At a news conference this morning, the 38-year-old Gant said he was leaving only a year and a half after being elected to the job for what he called personal and family reasons.”

Gant’s voice filled the studio: “I’ll be entering private practice, but I hope to remain active in this community and to serve its needs, perhaps in some other capacity.”

On Frank’s monitor the screen showed a short, rotund man in his late 40s appearing at the podium, as Mary read, “Gant will be replaced by long-time assistant prosecutor Peter Canzoneri, who’s been with the county prosecutor’s office for the past twenty-three years. Canzoneri will serve in the post until the elections this November.”

“
And the press in this town, especially the columnists at our papers, where, of course, they do news way more legit than TV, went nuts with this story.”

Under a banner that proclaimed “The Economic Club of Detroit” and flanked by the mayor and other pols on one side and the suits who ran the club on the other, Frank was speaking to a large luncheon audience. He paused at the podium, his eyes closed for a moment, a gesture of vulnerability that some in the huge room thought calculated but that others were sure was pure instinct with Frank.

“
Had Tommy been drinking at the time? Was he an alcoholic? Did he have a substance abuse problem? Was he toking a joint out there in the boat? All of it without the slightest foundation in fact. And there was nothing we could do to preserve my son’s memory and set the record straight. So, yes, of course I’m acutely aware of the abuses in this business.”

At a table near the podium, he glimpsed an attractive redhead pulling a ballpoint pen and a pad of yellow sticky notes from her purse. She scribbled something as he continued:

“
And certainly not all of us exercise the responsibility that goes with the privilege of having such a powerful voice.”

At the same table, a fellow he occasionally employed as an attorney leaned to the ear of the guy next to him with what could be either a frown or a smile. Frank imagined the whispered message: “Look who’s talking.”

Frank’s voice was ringing now: “Maybe, you say there should be some way to curb or disallow this kind of excess? Some way to insure that we’ll all be a little more civil and considerate to each other. And I say…”

A slight pause, again for dramatic effect. “…absolutely not. The vital importance of the First Amendment is inviolable. The right to speak and publish freely is clearly indispensable to a democratic society. Let me just leave you with one brief quote.”

The attorney leaned to his seatmate again, and this time Frank could almost read his lips: “Here comes ‘good old Jimmy Madison.’”

Frank said, “James Madison, fourth president of the United States, also known as the ‘Father of the Constitution.’ Here’s what old Jimmy Madison said about freedom of the press, and I’m quoting: ‘Knowledge will forever govern ignorance. And a people who mean to be their own governors, must arm themselves with the power knowledge gives. A popular government without popular information or the means of acquiring it, is but a prologue to a farce or a tragedy, or perhaps both.’”

Pausing one last time, he let the thought sink deeper before waving goodbye. “Thanks so much for inviting me. I enjoyed it.”

Applause rose as the redhead and many others around her stood. Frank nodded and waved again, then moved from the podium, pausing briefly to shake hands with the mayor. As a suit took the microphone, the redhead embarked for the steps Frank would use to come down from the dais.

“
That’s it folks,” said the suit. “We’re running late, so thanks to Frank for his inspiration, and we’ll see you all next week.”

As Frank descended the steps, the woman put her hand on his arm. “Hi, Frank, I’m Letty Pell.”

“
Well, hello, Letty Pell. I love your name.” His smile said he also liked the rest of Letty.

“
Well, I loved your speech, and I’d love to see you sometime to further discuss all the important things you talked about today.” She pressed the yellow sticky note into the palm of his hand. “Here’s my number. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Then, after offering a mischievous smile, Letty leaned close to say softly, “And I give incredible head.”

He glanced at his hand and then at her perfect smiling mouth. “Well, thanks, Letty. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Letty with a wink: “Call me.”

As Frank moved with the rest of the crowd toward the exits, the attorney put an arm around his shoulder.

“
What’d she say, Frank?”

“
She says she gives great head.”

“
You bullshitter.”

“
I swear to god, Jimmy. I love these liberated women.”

Jim Goodman nodded with a smile. “Hey, enough with James Madison.”

“
So you’re my attorney, and you’ve heard it too many times. Most people haven’t. By the way, Jimmy, what do you hear about this city’s august Recorder’s Court? We got any judges whose palms might be greased?”

“
Oh, I’ve heard stories...”

“
About whom?”

“
Frank, it’s just rumor and hearsay.”

“
Judge Billy?”

“
O’Bryan?” Jim Goodman smiled and shrugged in a way that could mean yes or no.

The newsroom was quiet, almost empty after the newscast. Francine Rickey sat in front of a TV set watching Dan Rather while eating a sandwich. When Frank strolled through with a light step reflecting a good mood, he spoke in a dead-on imitation of Rather. “Francine...Good work today.”

The startled young woman seemed uncertain whether Frank was serious. “Oh, hi, Frank. You were great.”

He swapped the Rather bit for mock conceit. “Frankie, truthfully I’m always great. But seriously your writing today was excellent. Sharp, crisp, evocative yet always to the point. And that kicker about the two-headed dog had some real wit to it.”

Francine was nearly speechless. “Ah, I really, ah, appreciate that, Frank.”

“
Hey, keep up the great work. But why are you sitting here all alone eating out of a bag? Why aren’t you out with your boyfriend having a real dinner?”

She put the sandwich down, half-embarrassed. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“
Oh, I can’t believe that. Great lookin’ gal like you.”

Francine picked up her sandwich again. “It’s sad but true, Frank.”

Grinning, Frank moved on. “Well, I’ll tell you what, Frankie. My wife ever keeps her promise and divorces me? I’ll marry you. How’s that sound?”

Francine smiled wryly. “Sounds great, Frank.”

There was still good daylight left on this balmy evening when he spotted Letty Pell waiting on Washington Boulevard in front of an office building. In the red Viper with the top down Frank stopped in front of her.

“
Hey, how about a lift, gorgeous?”

With a lusty smile, Letty slipped into the seat next to Frank. “I’m so pleased you called.” As if they were old lovers, she moved close and gave him a long, warm kiss on the mouth.

When she finished, he was already stirred. “Gees, you are one friendly girl.”

Letty dropped her eyes and then a hand to his warm lap. “Oh, my, we’ll have to do something about this very soon.”

“
We will?”

“
Oh, you bet. I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon.”

An angry horn came from a car behind. They looked around to find the driver with his hands up off the wheel, mouthing something unpleasant. Frank laughed and drove off.

Letty asked, “Where we going?”

“
Little place I know. Nothing special, but it’s quiet and kinda charming.”

With her hand in his lap again: “Sounds romantic.”

As Frank moved the convertible through medium traffic on Michigan Avenue, other motorists could see Letty’s pretty red head disappear into Frank’s lap, and then bob up again with a smile and a laugh. The best view was from the cab of a furniture delivery truck moving up in the lane next to the Viper. From the truck’s raised cab both the driver and his partner were watching with considerable interest.

The driver finally gave them a blast on the horn, and the other guy rolled down his window and yelled, “Hey, ain’t that you, Frank?”

Letty bobbed up, and Frank glanced back and shook his head.

“
Hell, yes, it’s you. Hey, man, how’s she doin’?”

His head back with a laugh, Frank gunned the Viper ahead.

Letty giggled. “You always attract so much attention?”

Frank shrugged. “Comes with the job. At least with a gorgeous red head in the car.”

Though the hour was earlier this time, at Marvin’s Bar there was only a sparse crowd. Jackson was again behind the bar, and Myra, an overweight waitress with a limp, took her good, sweet time serving two booths and a table. When Frank and Letty entered looking wind-blown, they headed for an empty booth half-way back.

Letty was obviously trying to spot the place’s charm as Frank called out, “Jackson, how you doin’?”

“
Okay, Frank. We seen you tonight, and I was tellin’ everybody you was in here. Nobody believe it.”

“
You want an autographed photo to put over the bar? That way they’ll have to believe.”

“
That would be good, Frank. Thanks.”