In the distance, beyond the barricades that defined the outer perimeter, Georgia could hear The Preacher's voice extolling the merits of Tawana Brawley, "a priestess of honor and truth," he was calling her, "in an age of political lies and paramilitary deceit. And we have the same thing here tonight, we have a fierce and mighty demonstration of white police power against two young African-Americans as innocent as were the Scottsboro …"
Dolly turned back to the window.
"He says the problem is getting a chopper to the airport and a jet to Jamaica, that's the problem."
"Is that what he wants? Look, can't he come to the window? He's got the gun, I'm unarmed, nobody's going to hurt him if he comes to the window. Ask him to come to the window, okay?"
Georgia was truly unarmed. She was wearing light body armor, but that was a nine-millimeter gun in there. Red cotton T-shirt. Blue jacket with the word police on it in white letters across the back. Walkie-talkie hanging on her belt.
"Dolly?"
"Mm?"
"Ask him, okay, honey? Nobody's gonna hurt him, I promise him."
Dolly turned away again. The deep rumble of the voice inside again. She turned back to the window.
"He says you're full of shit, they killed a man," Dolly said.
"That was then, this is now. Let's see if we can work out the problem we got now, okay? Just ask him to …"
He appeared at the window suddenly, huge and black in the glare of the spotlights. It was like that scene in Jaws where Roy Scheider was throwing the bait off the back of the boat and the great white suddenly came up with his jaws wide, it was as heart-stopping as that. Georgia ducked. She had spotted an AK-47 in his hand.
"Who're you?" he said.
"My name's Georgia Mobry," she said, "I'm a Police Department negotiator. Who are you?"
Negotiator was the word you used. You were here to deal, get the people out before anybody got hurt. You never used the word hostage to define the people any taker had in there with him. You never used the word surrender, either. You asked a taker to send the people out, come on out yourself, let us help you, nobody's gonna hurt you, soothing words, neutral words. Hostage was a word that gave the taker even bigger ideas, made him think he was the Ayatollah Khomeini. Surrender was an insulting kill word that only triggered further defiance.
"I'm Diz Whittaker," he said, "an' there's nothin' to negotiate here. Georgia, huh?"
She was looking up toward the window, eyes barely showing above the deck. She saw a big muscular man with a close-shaved skull, wearing a white T-shirt, that was all she could see of him in the window frame. AK-47 in his right hand. Just the sight of that gun always sent a shiver up her spine. The illegal, Chinese-made assault rifle - a replica of the gun used by the Viet Cong - was a semi-automatic, which meant that it required a separate pull of the trigger for each shot. But it could fire up to seventy-five shots without reloading, and its curved clip gave it the lethal look of a weapon of war, no matter how many claims the National Rifle Association made for its legitimate use as a hunting rifle.
"Stan' up, Georgia," he said.
She didn't like the way he was saying her name. Almost a snarl. Georgia. Like she was Georgia the whole damn state instead of Georgia the person. Made her nervous the way he was saying the name.
"I don't want to get hurt," she said.
"Lemmee see you, Georgia." Snarling it again. "You fum Georgia? That where you fum?"
"Yes," she said.
"Stan' up lemmee see you, Georgia."
"First promise me you won't hurt me."
"You strapped?"
"Nossir."
"How do I know that?"
"Because I'm telling you. And I don't lie."
"Be the firs' cop / ever met dinn lie like a thief," he said. "Stan' up an' lemmee see you ain't strapped."
"I can't do that, Mr Whittaker. Not till you promise …"
"Don't give me no Mr Whittaker shit," he said. "How much you know about me, Georgia?"
"My superior told me who you and your friend are, I know a little bit about both of you. I can't help you without knowing something about…"
"What'd your boss tell you exactly, Georgia?"
You always told them you weren't in this alone, you didn't have sole authority to do whatever it was they wanted you to do, you had to check first with your superior, or your boss, or your people, whatever you chose to call the person above you. You wanted them to believe you were their partner in working this out. You and them against this vague controller offstage, this unseen person who had the power to say yea or nay to their requests. Most people had bosses. Even criminals understood how bosses worked.
"He said you'd done some time."
"Uh-huh."
"You and your friend both."
"Uh-huh. He tell you Sonny killed that man in the bak'ry shop?"
"He said that's what they're thinking, yeah."
"An' I was with him, he tell you that, Georgia?"
"Yes."
"Makes me a 'complice, doan it?"
"It looks that way. But why don't we talk about the problem we have right now, Mr Whittaker? I'd like to help you, but unless we . . ."
He suddenly opened fire.
