I phoned the station house from the hospital and spoke to a detective named Blackie. He and I knew each other from way back, when I was covering the crime beat. I explained what was up and he said he himself would come by to take Mabel’s statement.
Then I phoned Sam. He knew about Mabel and Echo and the beating—I’d told him earlier. Now, I gave him an update.
“You know what you’re doing, Lanie?”
“Yup. Using a mouse to whip an elephant.”
Next I phoned Whitfield. “You went too far,” I said. “The mouse has learned to roar.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mabel Dean. She’ll be pressing charges. A detective’s on his way to talk to her right now.”
“About what?”
“About you and your lieutenant, and how you had him beat her to keep her quiet. My paper will be running the story: the charges, his arrest and who he works for.”
An angry silence, then a stubborn denial: “I certainly had no knowledge of his alleged activities.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“You’re a perfect example of why the Negro race is where it is today: jealousy, envy, the need to destroy our own. I have fought people like you all my life. All you want to do is find a good man and take him down.”
“Save it.”
He was furious, but stuck and he knew it. He couldn’t afford any more bad publicity.
“All right,” he sighed. “What do you want?”
“A meeting, in one hour.”