The Laws of our Fathers (39 page)

    'Mr Trent.' I point him to the witness stand. His hands are cuffed, and one of the deputies approaches to release him. Then Hardcore, somewhat stout, hugely muscled across the chest, slopes toward me, with sufficient assurance to make it a mildly uncomfortable moment.

    'Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?'

    'Sure do.' He drops his hand and settles in the witness chair.

    Tommy is at the podium. His brief preparatory cough resounds through the courtroom, over which a deliberative stillness has fallen. Even Nile, in a blue blazer today, appears sufficiently focused to be taken as tense.

    Hardcore states his name and present residence in the KCJ, Kindle County Jail.

    'Are you known by any other name?'

    'Gangster tag.' He rolls out the word: 'Hardcore.'

    'Why don't you spell it for the reporter?' Tommy suggests.

    'Oh, now,' says Hardcore. 'Get spelled any number of ways. H, a, r, d, k, o, r, p, s. Thass one I seen.' On the walls. He probably never has cause to write it himself. An odd thought: this name, this word, does not have a parallel existence in the world of letters - it's like some subatomic particle that exists only in physicists' calculations. Gang life is out there somewhere, an intense physical reality with no tie to a more refined realm of symbols.

    On the stand, Hardcore looks determinedly relaxed, slumping a bit. In the gallery, amid the faces, I'm sure there are many T-4 Rollers, come to see Core. As a result, he will not allow himself to appear awed. The truth of gang life is that many are primarily hangers-on, gawkers, lookouts, the adoring masses through whom the true thugs promote their name. In other words, as it often is with kids: one bad actor and ten who think he's cool.

    Hardcore is well rehearsed and far more co-operative than Bug. Tommy leads him along carefully. The prosecutors' strategy is apparent. As with Lovinia, they have made, quite literally, no effort to dress up Hardcore. He sits here in the sheriff’s-department' s blue coveralls, an ever-present reminder of his guilty plea and his acknowledged complicity in the crime. Like Bug, Core's clearly been told to be himself. He talks the same language he speaks outside. Tommy wants me to remember at all moments that this is the murdering hoodlum whom Nile Eddgar took up with as a friend.

    Consistent with this plan, the first thing Tommy brings out is Core's lengthy juvenile record and his two earlier felony convictions as an adult, both for distribution of narcotics. His initial penitentiary sentence, at the age of nineteen, was for three years. His second - for possession of fourteen ounces of cocaine recovered from a car he was driving - was ten years, no parole. He got out four years ago. Like Lovinia, Hardcore has made an impressive deal in exchange for his testimony: twenty years for conspiracy to murder, which will amount to ten years inside. The criminal justice system recognizes the same rule as accountants: First in, first out. The flipper has to be rewarded.

    'Now prior to your present incarceration, Mr Trent, what was your profession?'

    'Gangster,' he answers.

    'Were you a member of any criminal organization?'

    'BSD,' he says, 'be for me.' A familiar slogan. Hardcore amuses himself. The sandy scratchings of a goatee frame his mouth and his large teeth have a yellowish cast when he smiles.

    'What was your position in BSD?'

    'Top Rank.'

    'Were you one of the leaders of the gang, one of the shot-callers?' 'S'pose so.' 'Who is above you?' 'J. T-Roc. Kan-el.' Tommy identifies them by name.

    ' And how, sir, did you make a living prior to your incarceration?'

    'Slanging.'

    'Slanging?'

    'Slanging dope.' 'Hanging, banging, and slanging' is the motto of gang life. In that street doggerel, slang, which originally meant to talk the talk, now is the term for selling drugs - a telling change.

    'What kind of dope did you slang?'

    'Mostly crack. Some wire.' Wire is another name for speed.

    'Anything else?'

    'Oh yeah,' says Hardcore mildly. Core, who is yet to be sentenced and not eager to make himself look any worse, is sluggish with his responses, but Tommy persists and forces him to admit he also sold PCP, methadone, rock cocaine, heroin, and some stolen prescription drugs. He had an organization, he says, of at least ten people working for him, which included Lovinia. 'And do you know Nile Eddgar?'

    His face broadened with surly amusement, Core's thick eyes find the defendant. Hobie nudges his client and Nile, with one hand on the chair arm, as if he needs a boost, rises for the formal courtroom identification. Core continues smiling after pointing him out. Nile takes his seat, face averted, cowed and shaken, while Hardcore continues to smile.

    'How did you come to know the defendant?'

    'He my PO.'

    'Your probation officer?'

    'He keepin his eye on me for the court.' Parole has been abolished in this state in most instances. Instead, narcotics offenses and certain other crimes carry a period of supervised release.

    'How long has he been your PO?'

    'Seem like a year nearly. Had me couple others.'

    'And how often did you see Nile?'

    'Oh, you know, up the top, once a month.'

    'And where did you see him?'

    'T-4.'

    'And what was the reason for his visit?'

    'You know, man. Kinda check me out.'

    'Eventually, did you begin to see him more often?'

    'Yeah, how it come down, man got to be PO for a whole damn bunch of T-4's.'

    'He was assigned to be PO to other members of the T-4 Roller set of the Black Saints Disciples?'

    'Right,' says Core.

    'Do you know how that came about?' 'Seem like he think he be kinda slammin, kickin it with us.' I sustain Hobie's objection to the witness testifying about the defendant's state of mind. Tommy tries it again.

    'Did he tell you he'd asked for the assignment?' Hardcore actually appears to ponder. 'Yeah, man, cause how it were, I 'member him comin out one day -' 'When?' asks Tommy.

    'Say like December, and you know, I'm like, "Dang, bo, you gettin in my shit, seein you mo than bad weather."

    'And he sayin like lot them POs don't wanna get with it at the IV Tower, get they asses shot and shit, and he like, he don't mind none. You know, so he goin, "Gimme they-all, they down by me."'

    'That's what he said? That he told other officers he'd accept the files because he didn't mind coming to the IV Tower?'

    'Uh-huh. You know he got Winky, Crouch, Warbone, Handman, Turkey Swoop.' Together, Tommy and Hardcore try, with only limited success, to bring out the names of the remaining members whom Nile supervised. 'Dang,' says Core, 'what that cuz be named?' Tommy lets it go.

    Closer to me than he has been before, Hardcore, I note, is no child. He looks to be in his mid-thirties, but all youth is gone from him. His face is closed-down and tough, the black, wide, rheumy eyes slow-moving, his look always insolent. What the guards privately - and out of no small measure of fear - call jailhouse trash. When he lifts a hand to scratch his cheek, I see that his nails have grown long and that each is capped by an amber section perhaps three-quarters of an inch, adding the insinuation of a strange, random element in his character.

    'And once he assumed this role, how often was Nile at the Tower?'

    'Most days, seem like.'

    'And what was the nature of your relationship?' 'We ain gettin tight or nothin, but I be knowin the dude. He cool and all. Like to be hangin most the time.' 'What do you mean by hanging?'

    'You know, man, down by them doorways, hangin with the homies, hearin the hoot. Laughin, you know. Just hangin and all'

    'Did he require you to fill out monthly probation reports?' Hardcore smiles and lets a hand blow by. Not so he remembers. 'And over time, did you ever meet any members of his family?' 'Uh-huh,' says Core. 'Who was that?' 'Met his daddy.' 'Senator Loyell Eddgar?'

    'Loyell, huh? That his name?' Hardcore draws in his cheeks. White folks.

    'And how did that meeting take place?'

    'Well, see now, thass a tale.' In the witness chair, Core laughs and rearranges himself, crossing a leg to tell his story. 'Seem like one day, you know, man, we by them benches by the Tower, and I'm rappin to Nile, cause, you know, got to be cool with the PO, right? And we get with it, I go like, "Yo, that DOC, man" ' -Department of Corrections - ' "they damn ornery with our cuz Kan-el, man, they stepped on his release twice, man, and he done his time, man, that's just bitch-ass cold, they just steppin on him cause they know he tip-top BSD, cause he down for his, ain counta no tickets or nothin he done in there, can't be, cause ain nobody gone say shit bout him, even if he done it. You hear what I'm sayin?'

    'And so Nile, he like, "You-all oughta best be talkin with my daddy, you and you homes."

    'And I like, "Who-all you daddy?"

    'Oh, man, nigger, my daddy he be it, he got power, Jack, he a senator and shit, he done got me my job.'

    Tommy interrupts. 'Nile told you that? That the Senator had gotten him his job?' With this nugget, Tommy slides his eyes at the reporters in the jury box.

    'Yeah, he gone on
all
bout his daddy. Say, "Man, he on some committee or shit, them DOC they gotta listen up on him, he get on them, it be all over. Y'all oughta meet him. No lie. Maybe dude can help you out some." He be goin like that.'

    'And did you agree to meet the Senator?'

    'You know, not up the top, but Nile, man, he be, you know, you say persistent. Got to be a thang, you know. "You-all wanna get with my daddy? My daddy and all wanna get with you."

    'So one time, man, I kickin with I-Roc and we fall to this thang, how my PO sky-up bout we oughta get with his daddy, help out cuz Kan-el. And ‘I-Roc, he like, "Might be fat, could be fat, we kickin some serious shit here."

    'So I say to Nile, "Yo, okay, we get it on with you daddy." '

    'And did you finally meet Senator Eddgar?'

    'Sure enough.'

    'When?'

    'May. Seem like about then 'cause it gettin to be warm, you know?'

    'And where did this meeting take place?'

    Gazing downward, Hardcore laughs, again his mind full of the scene. 'See now, man, we done a lot fussin bout that, cause ‘I-Roc, you know, he ain tight with too many white folks, and you know, Nile was buzzin me how his daddy so busy and shit. So we got it finally, we gone meet in T-Roc's SEL?'

    'You met in Jeff T-Roc's Mercedes, is that correct?' Tommy again briefly faces the press gallery. Like the customs dogs who smell drugs through steel casings, the reporters are on alert now. Here it comes. Scandal. A politician in the back seat of a limousine with street-gang leaders. One of those memorable courthouse stories - people in odd places, doing things no one could imagine. Through his fussy courtroom manner, Molto is unable to contain a discordant element: distaste for Eddgar. The Senator may be the state's witness, but the prosecutor holds him and his antics in low regard.

    'And where was the car located when you met?'

    'North End, man, can't remember quite 'xactly, some corner.'

    'And how long did the meeting last?'

    'Say, bout half hour or so.'

    'And who was present?'

    'Nile, me, T-Roc, and the daddy.' 'Senator Eddgar?'

    'Yeah, him,' answers Core, with a brief scowl. He does not like Eddgar either.

    'And can you tell us what was said?'

    Core hoots, scoffing somewhat at the memory. 'Man, we was thinkin, we gone get Kan-el
out.
And this dude, the daddy, he all like whacked or somethin. He like, you know, got his own program, man. We goin, "Yo, we-all, we got do this thang here, get Kan-el flyin."

    'And he like, "Oh me, no no, we best be organizin this shit and all." I mean it was powerful, way he went on.'

    'Was it Senator Eddgar's idea that BSD would be the basis for a political organization?'

    'That's what I'm sayin here.'

    'And how did you and T-Roc react?'

    'T-Roc? After some ticks, this motherfucker, the daddy, he just
up
on himself, man, and ‘I shoot me kind of a look, he like to posse out. He
all
ready to book, then he come and get it, he in his own car. Kinda funny,' Core adds and once more displays that ample smile. 'Anyways, they get theyself out pretty soon there, and T-Roc, he be like,' 'Can you believe this limp mother?" Man, he was burned. He was deep.'

    'And did you speak with Nile?'

    'Oh yeah. Yeah, yeah.'

    'When and where?'

    'Next time he come round T-4. In that next week there. I like to wail on Nile. "That all's just a psych, man, that motherfucker just playin us, man."

    'And Nile, he kind of, you know, shrug and all. "That how he be. He play you."

    ‘I say, "I ain down for that, no motherfucker play me, daddy or no. Got to stall out on that shit, man. I go head up any motherfucker, man, do me like that. I'd cap that motherfucker soon as look at him." I, you know, be goin like that.'

    'And what, if anything, did Nile say?'

    'Well, you know, he kind of like
lookin,
like he just ain gone believe nobody be ravin on his daddy like that. And I'm like, "Fuck you, motherfucker, fuck you up, too, you want." I'm trippin and all'

    At intervals, I've had some instinct to curb Hardcore's language. This is still a courtroom, to which the public is invited. But he is too natural, too forceful a storyteller in his own mode to bear much interruption. Even Hobie, who until this moment has had the star turn here, seems to have no urge to slow him down. Core, quite evidently, is enjoying himself. Over the months I've been sitting in Criminal, I've been struck by how often a simple, childish desire for attention accounts for the presence of many of these young people. Most of these kids grow up feeling utterly disregarded - by fathers who departed, by mothers who are overwhelmed, by teachers with unmanageable classrooms, by a world in which they learn, from the TV set and the rap of the street, they do not count for much. Crime gathers for them, if only momentarily, an impressive audience: the judge who sentences, the lawyer who visits, the cops who hunt them - even the victim who, for an endless terrified moment on the street, could not discount them.