Soul Circus(73)

“He thinks I am now,” said Strange. “When he’s older and he understands what I was trying to do, he’ll think of me different.”

“The kid’s trying, Derek.”

“I know he is,” said Strange. “Lamar’s good.”



ON the way downtown they stopped at the offices of One Kid, One Congregation, below Massachusetts Avenue, where Strange had made a short introductory appointment with Father John Winston, the nonprofit’s director. Winston was a former police officer, now a minister, out of a large metropolitan area in the Midwest, who had brought his program to D.C. Strange talked with Winston briefly in the office and knew right away that he liked the man and what he was trying to do. Both were ex-cops, so there was that connection as well.

Back in the Caprice, Strange drove down toward 3rd and Constitution.

“What was that about?” said Quinn.

“Robert Gray,” said Strange.

“That boy you inherited from Granville Oliver.”

“He’s in a bad place right now. I’m gonna try and get him into this program, where a church kind of adopts a kid. It’s a citywide thing, and I’ve heard it works. Might be just what Robert needs. This guy Winston, he’s started a similar program for addicts here, too.”

“Sounds good.”

“If I can swing it, we’ll get him into a family up near us, so we can have him on the football team, too.”

Quinn looked at his friend across the bench. “Derek Strange, always looking to save the world.”

“A kid or two, maybe,” said Strange. “That would be enough for me.”





chapter 24


STRANGE and Quinn entered courtroom 19, where the Oliver trial was in progress, after a thorough security check. The heads of a few spectators and several law enforcement types turned as they walked in and took their seats. Strange and Quinn did not return their stares.

Judge Potterfield, rotund and jowly, had asked attorneys from both sides to approach the bench for a consultation. Phillip Wood, sharply dressed and freshly shaved, was on the stand. Granville Oliver sat placidly, his stun belt beneath his blue suit, staring at Wood through nonprescription glasses.

The prosecution’s questions for Wood resumed. His testimony had been rehearsed and came off that way. It could have been recorded as a primer for the life, D.C.-style, complete with name checks of familiar clubs, go-go bands, motels, skating rinks, favorite models of automobile, brands of champagne, Calico autos and AK-47s. Wood was asked about Bennett Oliver, and if Granville had ever discussed killing his uncle or having him killed.

“Granville told me he suspected his uncle Bennett was gettin’ ready to flip to the Feds,” said Wood. “They had his uncle talkin’ about a buy on a wiretap and they were gonna send him up. Granville thought his uncle was gonna cut a deal.”

“What were Granville’s thoughts about that?” said the prosecutor.

“Objection,” said Ives. “Mr. Wood’s interpretation of the defendant’s thoughts calls for speculation.”

“I’ll rephrase, your honor. Did Granville Oliver ever say that he would in any way try to stop his uncle from talking to federal agents?”

“He said it was time for Bennett to be got.”

“To be got?” said the prosecutor.

“To be killed. Next thing I heard, Bennett Oliver was dead.”

“I see.” The prosecutor paused for effect and softened his tone. “Do you love Granville Oliver, Mr. Wood?”

“Yes,” said Phillip Wood, looking straight at Oliver. “That’s my main boy right there. I love Granville like my own blood.”

Oliver’s expression remained flat and unreadable.

Judge Potterfield called a short break in the proceedings. Strange caught the eye of Raymond Ives, Oliver’s primary defense attorney, and head-motioned him to follow.

Strange and Quinn met Ives, immaculate and trim in a William Fox pinstripe, outside the courthouse. They stood on the sidewalk of Constitution where the bus and car sounds would serve to mute their conversation. A man who looked like a federal cop watched them, standing near the building’s front steps among the cigarette smokers, not smoking himself.

“Maybe we should discuss this alone,” said Ives.

“I don’t have a problem with him being here,” said Strange, speaking of Quinn.

“Okay,” said Ives. “I went over the message left at your house. You say the voice was the voice of a white man.”

“Same one, probably, who called my office on Ninth and spoke to my wife. This is no gang member leaving me death threats. Those boys in Southeast want to fuck with me, they’d do it direct. This here’s not their style.”