Twenty-Nine
THE BOX WAS stuffy, as it always was. Dominique Lyons sat on a stool bolted to the floor. Its seat was deliberately small and would be uncomfortable to sit on for a man of size. Lyons had not been leg-ironed to the stool’s base. At this point in the interview Detective Bo Green, seated across the table, was still Lyons’s friend. They had been talking for just a short while.
Lyons wore an Authentic Redskins jersey with Sean Taylor’s name and number, 21, stitched on the back. The Authentics went for one thirty-five, one hundred forty on the street. The brand-new Jordans on Lyons’s feet retailed for a hundred and a half. Lyons’s jewelry, a real Rolex, rings, diamond earrings, and a platinum chain, were of five-figure value. When Green asked him what he did for a living, Lyons said that he had a car-detailing business on the street where he lived.
“I see you’re a Taylor fan,” said Green.
“Boy’s a beast,” said Lyons, tall of trunk and long limbed. He had broad shoulders and an angular, handsome face. His braids were long and framed his cheekbones. His eyes were deep brown and flat, a taxidermist’s ideal.
“He attended Miami, so that ain’t no surprise. You know those Hurricanes always come to play.”
Lyons nodded. He looked blandly into Bo Green’s eyes.
“You played Interhigh ball, didn’t you?” said Green. He was taking a shot due to Lyons’s height, weight, and athletic build. Green knew that some coach had gotten a look at Lyons at one time in his life and tried.
“Eastern,” said Lyons. “I was at D-back.”
“Corner or safety?”
“Free safety.”
“That would have been when, the late nineties?”
“I ain’t play but one year. Ninety-nine.”
“The Ramblers had a team that year, I remember right. Shoot, I think I saw you play. Y’all did go up against Ballou that year, didn’t you?”
It was a lie and Lyons read it. But his ego could not let it die.
“I started varsity my sophomore year.”
“You look like you can hit.”
“I was pancakin younguns,” said Lyons.
“Why you only play one season?”
“I graduated my sophomore year, too.”
“Took the early out, huh?”
“I guess I’m one of them young prodigies you hear about. I was on the accelerated plan.”
“Football’s a good game. Useful for some as well. You might’ve parlayed it into something else if you had hung with it.”
“Guess I shoulda talked to my guidance counselor. If I could find one.”
“I coach a football team in Southeast,” said Green, his tone patient and unwavering. “Me and some other fellas I came up with down around that area. We got three weight divisions. If the boys come to practice regular and show me their report cards every quarter, and if they get passing grades, I guarantee they’ll see time on the field. I don’t even care if they got skills.”
“So?” said Dominique Lyons.
Bo Green smiled ferally at the man on the small stool. “You funny, man. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Sayin, that’s a good story. But we ain’t here to socialize. Unless you gonna charge me with something, you need to let me out this piece, ’cause I got things I got to do.”
“You’ve been charged with marijuana possession,” said Green.
“I’ll cop to that,” said Lyons. “That’s like, what, a parking ticket in this town. So give me my discharge papers and my court date, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Like to ask you some questions while I got you here.”
“Regardin what?”
“A homicide. Victim was a young man name of Jamal White. You know him?”
“Lawyer,” said Lyons.
“All’s I’m askin is, are you familiar with that name?”
Lyons stared at Green.
“You’re correct, Dominique. You got a right to bring in an attorney. But you know, that lawyer advises you not to talk to us, it’s gonna ruin the opportunity you got for leniency later on. I mean, if you were to cooperate, give us some information that would be helpful to this homicide investigation, for example, that marijuana charge you caught today, most likely it’s gonna go away.”
“I seen that TV show,” said Lyons.
“What’s that?”
“You know the one. Where that white dude gets the suspects in the interview room and talks them out of their right to an attorney, like, every week for ten years straight? And then pushes that yellow pad across the table and tells the suspect to write out his confession? And then the suspect does it? Yeah, I seen it. Trouble is, ain’t no motherfucker I know ever been stupid enough to do that. Maybe in New York they ignorant like that. But not in D.C.”
“You are smart, Dominique.”
“Said I was.”
“Like Doogie Howser.”
“If you say so.”
“We’re talkin to your girlfriend Darcia.”
“That right?”
“She as smart as you?”
Bo Green got out of his seat. He looked down at Lyons, who was examining the table in front of him. His hands, steady throughout the interview, were rhythmically tapping the table’s scarred surface.
“I’m gonna grab a soda,” said Green. “You want anything?”
“Let me get a Slice.”
“We don’t have that. How about Mountain Dew?”
Lyons nodded shortly. Green glanced at his watch, then looked directly into the camera mounted in a corner of the ceiling.
“Eleven twenty a.m.,” said Green before he left the box.
Bo Green waited for the door to shut behind him with its audible lock. He walked into the adjacent video monitor room, where Detectives Ramone and Antonelli sat, Antonelli with the Sports section open in his lap. On one screen was Dominique Lyons, still staring at the table, shifting his bottom, trying to find a comfortable spot on the seat. On the other were Rhonda Willis and Darcia Johnson, seated in box number 2. Ramone was focused on that screen. Rhonda’s soft, steady voice came from the speakers.
“Anything?” said Green.
“Rhonda’s taking it slow,” said Ramone.
“Trick-ass bitch ain’t said nary a word yet,” said Antonelli.
“I love it when you talk like that, Tony,” said Green. “It’s so street authentic.”
“That is some nice booty, though,” said Antonelli.
“There’s an expression you don’t hear much these days,” said Green. “Been a few decades, come to think of it.”
“Your boy Dominique,” said Ramone. “He’s real cooperative.”
“That’s my buddy,” said Green. “After this is over we gonna go, like, on a camping trip, somethin. Sit around a fire and sing ‘Kum Bah Ya’.”
“I don’t mean to be negative,” said Ramone, “but I have the feeling Dominique’s not going to confess.”
“He’s seen that TV show,” said Green. “Anyway, let me get on out of here and find him a Mountain Dew.”
Green exited the room as Ramone continued to watch the screen. Rhonda Willis was leaning across the table, a lit match in her hand, bringing fire to Darcia Johnson’s cigarette.
“Says here Lee-Var Arrington’s not one hundred percent,” said Antonelli, his eyes on the newspaper. “He’s doubtful for this Sunday’s game. Ten million a year, or whatever it is, and he doesn’t have to go to work ’cause his fuckin knee hurts. Me, I got hemorrhoids like grapes, hanging between my ass crack, and I show up every day. Am I missing something or what?”
“It’s possible,” said Ramone.
In box number 2, Rhonda Willis blew out the match.
Darcia dragged on her cigarette and tapped ash into a foil tray. She was freckled, with hazel eyes. Her body was full and ripe. Having a baby had not ruined her figure. In fact, it had made her more voluptuous, an asset in her job.
“Tell me about Jamal White,” said Rhonda.
Darcia Johnson looked away.
“It’s okay to talk about Jamal,” said Rhonda, repeating the boy’s name deliberately. “I know about your relationship. Jamal’s friend Leon Mayo? He told us you two had a thing.”