Time's Witness by Michael Malone Page B

one (a close pal of the guy George Hall shot) left before my promotion. His name was Winston Russell. I kicked him in the nuts once after a prostitute told me in the hospital what he’d done to her with his nightstick. He called me a “Fucking sick idealist,” but he misunderstood me. By the time I finished coaching that woman for his trial, he was lucky they didn’t put him away for life. But he was out on parole after eighteen months, and came ringing my doorbell with that Carolina pancake. If I’d been an idealist, I would have been more surprised when I’d opened my door. This time Russell got five years and served two. He was supposed to have gotten out again a few months back. I kind of doubt he’ll drop by and ask for his old job. Winston Russell was a sadist; I didn’t know his pal Bobby Pym all that well, but I bet the two had a lot in common. They made the Black Panthers’ views on their profession sound understated. A clue to Purley Newsome's character was that when he first came on the force, he’d admired those two goons and was always sucking up to them, offering guffawing anecdotes of his own puny tyrannies for their approval.
    At 2:30, I met the shift in the squad room where Zeke had sat Newsome down in a front seat. I went over some routine business, then said I wanted everybody to listen hard for any rumors about Klan rumblings, any talk connected to the Hall reprieve. “We don’t want another Trinity Church incident, okay? It makes Hillston look bad, it makes you and me look bad. Now, one last thing before I turn you loose to fight off crime and Christmas shoppers.”
    Then thirty police officers, eight of them women, sat soberfaced at their plastic desks while I wrote “A, B, C” on the blackboard. “This, girls and boys, is a pop quiz. Question: Harassing folksbecause they’re different colored and better educated than you is something (A) the police do? (B) assholes do? (C) nobody in this room had better ever do again? I’d like Officer Newsome to step up here and check off the right answer. Purley, I’m gonna give you a hint: don’t pick ‘A.’”
    Purley Newsome—good-looking if you like big, dumb blonds— slumped surly and thick-faced down in his chair.
    I said, “Purley, we have just talked a Haver student, whose car registration you apparently mistook for your chewing tobacco, and whose papa happens to be a judge , out of filing a million-dollar suit against you for false arrest. We finally beat him down to one condition that seems downright mild-mannered considering early on he was asking for one of your ears. One condition. You’re going to eat that speeding ticket for dessert. Zeke, give him the ticket.”
    Newsome laughed, but stopped when nobody joined in. “You’re crazy out of your skull, you think that,” he spluttered and pushed back hard in his chair.
    “Well, your other option is to resign. I’ll certainly understand, and be willing to accept your resignation.”
    He just stared at me, shaking his head like a truculent bull. I gave him a silent count of ten before I yelled, “ Then get the fuck up here, you prickhead! ”
    That brought him to his feet; bullies are suckers for bullying. But he stalled and took a high tone. “I’m not sinking down to your level.”
    “You want to clarify that, Purley?”
    “Regarding your verbalization.”
    I smiled. “How ’bout this: I’d appreciate your coming up here, Officer Prickhead—before I rip that badge off your fat shirt, and shove your fat ass through the goddamn window!”
    “You’re gonna be sorry” was the best he could do, when he slouched past me over to Zeke.
    “That's harsh,” I said. “I’m glad you warned me.”
    Not a soul cracked a grin while Purley balled up the speeding ticket, crammed it into his mouth, and stomped back to his seat, his cheek bulged out like a blowfish. I saw him spit it out in a trashcan when he left, but I didn’t push the point; at least he used the can.
    After I