“This is a matter of great public interest, Captain—I represent—”
“Nothing to say.”
“What have you got on him, Captain?”
“You guys deaf?”
“Listen—Captain—”
“Out of the way.”
“Hey—who the hell are you? You’ll be sorry for this!” One of them said, actually elbowed aside by the Captain.
“I’ll issue a statement in time—don’t worry—” Surcher said. And that was that.
“So it wasn’t the other kid—De Leon—after all—Right, Captain?” One shouted out, as some Troopers and Poldaski pushed the rest out of the way, amid loud protests.
The party climbed into the car, under a small barrage of camera flashes.
As they drove off, the following comment was made by one of Selmo’s best, in stentorian tones, or just a little less.
“You Sonuvabitch! Black Prick!”
There was a flurry of media men heading for their cars. They would follow the Captain, no doubt heading, they correctly assumed, for State Police Headquarters, District “A.”
Pretty Maids All in a Row 233 At about that moment, or thereabouts, in the office of Guidance/Counseling, Kathy Burns, that cutest of cutest kids, was saying to Tiger McDrew,
“Mr. McDrew—” as she still would address him, despite his clear intimations that certainly she was free to call him by his more familiar style, “Who do you think did that awful thing to Jill Fairbunn?”
“I don’t know,” Tiger murmured, thrusting his formidably erect penile shaft into that cute maid’s well-lubricated and wonderfully receptive vaginal barrel, noting the rapidly spreading sex blush on the supple young body, and the widespread filmy sheen of perspiration on that utterly delightful cutest young form, “I just don’t know—” He told her, in short, mounting her. . . .
She gasped and cried out with sheer delight—
“Mr. McDrew—I love You—Г He murmured. “You little sweetheart—”
Ponce, along with most of the students having classes at that time on that side of the school building, watched the departure of Jim Green, and entourage, in the State Police car. He watched it with a sinking, sick feeling, and a growing resolution to speak to Tiger as soon as the class was over, or as soon as he could get hold of him. This was it. He would wait, he could wait, no longer—period. Mr. Hinkle, whose History class he was in at the moment, was trying as calmly as possible to get the students back to their places. Ponce stared out that window, feeling just awful—about everything..,,
42
When Captain Surcher arrived at Headquarters with the boy, he took him back to the Interrogation Room. Formally, he merely booked him for “questioning.” Which in fact was the case. He wondered how long it would be before all the lines to Headquarters were jammed up with callers—all kinds of them. He pictured the place swarming with civil rights people and lawyers, not to mention reporters, Of course, they would all be kept under control. It didn’t really worry him. He was only interested in one thing, Jim Green: Had he or hadn’t he? All the rest of the complications and developments which no doubt would be cropping up all around him were secondary things, they would take care of themselves, or be taken care of, in due course, and order. As far as he was concerned. He hoped. For if the boy hadn’t done it, if he could really convince him he hadn’t, that would be that, the end of it, as far as Jim Green was concerned. Sawyersville could have back its star Right End, all cleared. And—he would have to start over, and keep hoping. He had been disgusted by that mob of jerks hanging around outside the high school, so much so that he had issued instructions to the Troopers to keep them well away from there, at all times, in the future. They certainly had abused the boy. They would only be too glad, he knew, to see the boy burn for the thing. And it might have been one of them, for all he knew. That too he knew, and it made him blue. It could have, alright, only he had nothing at all to connect any of them with it. And in any event, he still stuck to the theory that it was someone inside that school. Part and parcel of the school. The question was: Was it Jim Green? In a few days, if he could somehow hold onto him that long, he would know.
In the Interrogation Room, Jim found things slightly different than they had been in Proffer’s inner sanctum. For one thing, it was plainly, even austerely, furnished. There was a desk, and a few chairs, and they were all wooden. For another, Grady and Folio hung around, as well as Surcher. And there was a Trooper sitting on the sidelines, taking everything down, in shorthand. And, if Jim had known, there was also a tape recorder, the microphone cleverly concealed, of course. Jim sat there on one of those wooden chairs and wailed for Surcher to start again. He was also waiting for his lawyer to turn up, or phone up, or something. This lawyer in fact was none other than Phil Marlowe, from Kitston, Ponce’s uncle, no less, a very energetic and active civil rights worker, and well known. He had played no small part in the token integration, so to speak, that had taken place at Sawyersville High School and other schools in the area, including G.A.R., of course. Jim wished he would hear from him soon. And what about
Pretty Maids All in a Row 235 his parents? Who was going to break the crazy news to them? He wondered.
It was Grady, however, who began. The others sat there, quietly, observing the lad.
“Jim—” Grady said, right off the bat, ‘Til tell you something—Don’t think you can get away with it—if you did it.”
The boy sat there.
“Because I’ll tell you—” Grady paused—“I think you did iL”
The boy said nothing, though aware of the new track.
“All you’ve got to do,” Grady said, “Is go through the whole thing, step by step, and tell me just how you did it.” He paused. “That’s what I want to hear, right now, primarily.”
Nothing.
“When did you first get the idea?” Grady tried now. “Where’s my lawyer?”
“Don’t worry about your lawyer—Just answer that—” Nothing.
“Listen—don’t jazz me—” Grady told him, sharply, “WeTe not going to play any little games down here—got me?”
“What about my lawyer?”
“You’re going to need a platoon of lawyers—”
“You mean you will—”
“Are you threatening me? Kid?”
“Show my lawyer.”
“Just what did you mean by that?”
“I want my lawyer.”
“What’s a coon like you doing chasing a white girl? That nice white girl? Huh?” Grady shot at him.
“You’re the coon, buddy.” Jim told him.
“Yeh? Look at my face. Am 1?”
“Get my lawyer.”
“When’s the last time you tried making out with Jill? Yesterday? Just before the whole school went to the auditorium for Assembly? Is that when?” Grady fired now.
“Go to hell.”
“Want a rap in the mouth?”
“Wouldn’t that be great. Man, great”
“Think we can’t do that?”
“Sure. Great.”
“You got a real lip, Blackie—don’t you?”
“Hey—go to Mississippi—you’d be great—” The boy said.
“What a lip!” Grady said, “Hey—hear this blackball of a mother’s lip?” He was apparently addressing the others in that room. “Christ, take his clothes off and bring in the strap!”
“What about South Africa?” The boy said. “There’s a place! That’s more your place!”
Grady glared at him. For a moment or two there was silence. Surcher sat quietly, just looking at Jim.
“You’re hot stuff—” Grady finally said, “Real hot stuff —an Integrated Boy—Right? Hot Stuff? You think so?” He paused—“You think I think so? Know what? / don’t give a damn! Who the frig gives a damn! Know what those whiteys in that school think of you? These white gals wouldn’t give you a tumble, would they, Hot Stuff? They wouldn’t be seen dead with you! So you decided to take care of that, didn’t you? Right, Hotshot? Some Hotshot! What about Jill? You really had the hots for her, huh? Boy, didn’t you! And what did she think of you? Hell, she wouldn’t look at the best part of you! So you sure took care of that—Right, Bright Boy? Like they take care of them in East Caxton once in a while—that right. Hot Stuff? Come on, quit wasting our time, we got you by the balls!”