he should take a seat in a metal captain’s chair bolted to the floor, and turned to Detective Summers.
“One wrist, or both?”
“Did you hear what I said?” Brownlee indignantly demanded.
The Highway Patrol sergeant put his index finger before his mouth and said, “Sssshhh!”
“He’s big, but one should hold him,” Detective Summers decided and announced.
Brownlee’s right wrist was placed in a handcuff, the other end of which passed through a hole in the seat of the steel captain’s chair.
The Highway Patrol sergeant left the interview room and closed the door after him.
“I don’t suppose you can tell me what the hell this is all about?” Detective Summers said.
“I can, if I want to go back to Traffic on the Last Out,” the Highway Patrol sergeant said. “The Black Buddha’s on his way. Maybe he’ll tell you.”
“You just going to take off?”
“We got three more to pick up,” the Highway Patrol sergeant announced, gestured to his partner—a Highway patrolman of Polish extraction even larger than Brownlee—to follow him, and walked out of the Homicide Unit.
Detective Summers went into the room adjacent to the interview room and looked through the one-way mirror at Brownlee.
Brownlee was testing the security of the handcuffs restraining him to the chair. Detective Summers wondered if he should have suggested to the Highway sergeant that both Brownlee’s wrists be manacled.
Five minutes later, Sergeant Jason Washington walked into the Homicide Unit. Despite the hour, he was the picture of sartorial elegance. He was wearing a double-breasted dark blue silk suit, a crisp white shirt with a flower-pattern silk necktie that matched the handkerchief in his breast pocket, and a gleaming pair of black Amos Archer wing-tip shoes.
“Welcome home, Jason,” Summers said.
“You would be ill-advised, Kenneth, to rub salt in my open wound at this hour of the morning.”
The open wound to which Washington referred was his involuntary transfer from Homicide to Special Operations.
“He’s in there,” Summers said, chuckling. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Washington considered that a full thirty seconds.
“Solely because a witness might be useful, you have my permission to watch me interview Brownlee. With the clear caveat that I am not furnishing you with something interesting with which to amuse, or edify, others. Do you understand?”
Washington was dead serious, Summers saw.
He nodded his acceptance.
“If anyone else comes in, you will pass on to them Chief Coughlin’s admonition that if anyone lets this cat out of the bag, they may look forward to spending a good deal of time on Last Out.”
“You got it, Jason,” Summers said.
“The question, Kenneth, is whether or not you do.”
“I’ve got it, Jason,” Summers said.
“In that case, into the breach,” Washington said, and walked into the interview room.
Summers went into the room adjacent to the interview room and took a chair.
“Who the fuck are you?” Brownlee inquired of Sergeant Washington.
“My name is Washington, Mr. Brownlee. I’m a police officer.”
“You’re not going to get away with this bullshit. I know my rights!”
“Get away with what, Mr. Brownlee?”
“Coming to my place in the middle of the fucking night and hauling me off.”
“If you are suggesting that something illegal has transpired—”
“I want to call my fucking lawyer!”
“—you err. Would you like me to explain your situation to you?”
“I got my rights, motherfucker. I got the right to see my lawyer.”
“Your attorney is free to visit you during the prescribed visiting hours at the Detention Center,” Washington said.
“What’s with this Detention Center bullshit? I made bail!”
“You were out on bail,” Washington said. “As I am sure the officers who returned you to custody informed you at the time of your rearrest, the magistrate’s decision to grant you freedom pending trial has, on appeal, been overridden.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“The Honorable Harriet M. McCandless, Judge McCandless, on reviewing your case, decided there was a real possibility that you would fail to appear for your trial. And/or, based on your criminal record, that there was a real possibility that you would engage in further criminal activity while free on bail. And/or, that you posed a real danger to society. She therefore overturned the magistrate’s decision and ordered you remanded.”
“Ordered me what?”
“Returned to custody. Which is your status now.”
“How long am I going to be in here for?”
“If you mean ‘in custody,’ I devoutly hope for a very long time.”
“I want to make bail.”
“You don’t seem to be able to grasp your situation, Mr. Brownlee. Let me go over it again for you. You were arrested, charged with the possession of a quantity of controlled substances—which was later