“How’d you get this number?”
“That’s not the issue, Mr. Claggart.”
“It is to me. My cell number is private.”
“Would you like to conduct this interview in handcuffs?”
“I’m sorry. We’re under a lot of pressure here. I should have gone with Otis Baylor. He can be a pain in the ass, but at least he’s honest.”
“Say again?”
“I should have bought my insurance p
olicy from Otis. My carrier is sticking it to me. I hear Otis has been approving his clients’ water-damage claims on the spot. I bet his company is shitting their pants.”
I tried to get the conversation back on track. “There’s a discrepancy between your statement to me and the account you gave a private investigator regarding the shooting of the looters. You told me you were asleep and you heard and saw nothing. Do you stand by that statement?”
“I had a few drinks that night. Things got kind of mixed up.”
“Did you tell the private investigator one of the looters was in the Baylor driveway, that maybe he left stolen goods there?”
“I don’t remember saying that. I mean, I don’t remember saying that last part.”
“The investigator’s name is Ronald Bledsoe. Do you remember that name?”
“I think so.”
“Can you come into my office?”
“No, I can’t do that. I’m all tied up here. I don’t know what all this is about.”
Why had he lied? Was it because he had done nothing to stop the looters? Was he simply trying to hide the fact he was a blowhard? People lie over less.
“You told Bledsoe the truth?”
“Maybe I saw one of those black guys in the shadows. But I didn’t see the shooting. Look, I just want out of this.”
“Out of what?”
“Everything. I didn’t hurt anyone. Leave me alone.”
I could almost smell his fear on the other side of the connection. “Mr. Claggart?”
He clicked off his cell.
In my mind’s eye I saw a man whose eyes were tightly shut, his hand clenched around his cell phone as he tried to rethink every misstep he had just made. I saw a man who despised himself for his own weakness and who now carried the extra burden of knowing that through his own volition he had revealed himself to others as a liar and a fraud if not a coward. Also he had blurted out that he had not “hurt anyone,” when in fact no one had accused him of doing so. There was a very good chance Tom Claggart was speaking of another incident, perhaps another crime, of which I had no knowledge. For whatever reason, he had done all these things to himself, without external provocation. I believe that Tom Claggart had just discovered that stacking time on the hard road is a matter of definition and not geography.
AFTER I HUNG UP, I assembled three photo lineups. A photo lineup is composed of six mug shots inserted in a cardboard holder. Among the six photos only one is of the suspect. Ideally the other photos should be of people in the same age range and of the same race as the suspect. The photo lineup has several advantages. The viewer, who is often a victim of a violent crime, is spared public embarrassment and is less fearful of retaliation from the suspect’s friends and relatives and hence less apt to be influenced by the presence of either prosecutors or defense attorneys in a police station environment. Secondly, jailhouse photography indicates by its nature that the suspect has been put away previously and hence can be put away again.
I inserted mug shots of Andre Rochon, Eddy Melancon, and Bertrand Melancon among their peers, dropped all three lineups in a brown envelope, and drove up Old Jeanerette Road to Otis Baylor’s house while a sun shower chained the bayou with rain rings.
I cannot say what I thought I would accomplish. I was tired of people lying to me, that was obvious, but I wanted to confront Otis Baylor for another reason. As Americans we are a peculiar breed. We believe in law and order, but we also believe that real crimes are committed by a separate class of people, one that has nothing to do with our own lives or the world of reasonable behavior and mutual respect to which we belong. As a consequence, many people, particularly in higher income brackets, think of police officers as suburban maintenance personnel who should be treated politely but whose social importance is one cut above that of their gardeners.
Ever watch reality cop shows? Check out the guys who are always streaking through wash lines and across darkened yards, their tennis shoes flopping on their feet, their crime of the day possession of a dime bag. What conclusion does the viewer arrive at? Crimes are committed by shirtless pukes. Slumlords and politicians on a pad get no play.
It was time that someone put a human face on the men who ate a high-velocity round directly opposite Otis’s front door.
I had assumed Otis Baylor would still be home. But he wasn’t. “Can you tell me where he is?” I asked his daughter on the gallery.