tiny police station, and when we arrive, the Subaru is already parked out front.
Short, solid, and determined, Lenny Levitt stands beside it, one Nikon hanging around his neck, another
being screwed into a tripod.
I hop out of Clarence’s car and read Levitt the brief statement I composed during the drive from New
York City. “Dante Halleyville and Michael Walker,” I say slowly enough for him to take it down in his
notebook, “had absolutely nothing to do with the murders of Eric Feifer, Patrick Roche, and Robert Walco.
Dante Halleyville is an exceptional young man with no criminal record or reason to commit these crimes.”
“So where’s Walker?” asks Levitt.
“Walker will turn himself in tomorrow. There will be no further comment at this point.”
“Why did they run?”
“What did I just say, Len? Now start taking pictures. This is your chance to get out of the Sports section.”
I called Lenny for PR reasons. The tabloids and cops love that shot of the black suspect in shackles
paraded through a gauntlet of blue and shoved into a squad car. But that’s not what they’re getting this
morning.
The image Lenny captures is much more peaceful, almost poetic: a frightened teenager and his diminutive
grandmother walking arm in arm toward the door of a small-town police station. The American flag
flutters in the moonlight. Not a cop is in sight.
As soon as he has the shots, Levitt races off with his film as agreed, and Clarence and I catch up to Dante
and Marie as they hesitantly enter the East Hampton station. Marty Diallo is the sergeant behind the desk.
His eyes are shut and his mouth wide open, and when the door closes behind us, he almost falls out of his
chair.
“Marty,” I say, and I’ve been rehearsing this, “Dante Halleyville is here to turn himself in.”
“There’s no one here,” says Diallo, rubbing the cobwebs out of his eyes, and also taking out his gun. “What
the hell am I supposed to do?”
“This is a
good
thing, Marty. We’re going to sit down here while you make some calls. Dante just turned himself in.
Put down the gun.”
“It’s four thirty in the morning, Dunleavy. You couldn’t have waited a couple hours?”
“Of course we couldn’t. Just pick up the phone.”
Marty looks at me with some strange mixture of confusion and contempt, and gives us our first inkling of
why Dante was so insistent that I accompany him.
“I don’t even know why you’re here with this piece of shit,” Diallo finally says.
Then he cuffs Dante.
Beach Road
Chapter 29
Dante
SOON AS THE desk sergeant wakes all the way up, something pretty scared and angry clicks in his doughy
face, and he pulls his gun and jumps out of his chair like he thinks the four of us are going to rough him up
or maybe steal his wallet. The gun points straight at me, but everyone puts their hands up in the air, even
my grandmoms.
Just like on the court at Smitty Wilson’s, Tom’s the only one steady enough to say anything.
“This is bullshit, Marty,” he says. “Dante just turned himself in. Put down the gun.”
But the cop doesn’t say a word or take his eyes off me. Folks being scared of me is something I’m used to.
With white strangers, it’s so common, I’ve almost stopped taking it personally. But with Diallo-I can read
his name tag-I can almost smell the fear, and the hand with the gun, with the finger on the trigger, is
dancing in the air, and the other one, fumbling for the handcuffs on his belt, doesn’t work too well either.
For everyone’s sake, I put out my hands to be cuffed, and even though the cuffs are way too small and
hurt, I don’t say a word.
Even when the cuffs are on me, Diallo still seems nervous and unsure of himself. He tells me I’m
under arrest for suspicion of murder and reads me my rights. It’s like he’s cursing me out, only with
different words, and every time he pauses, I hear
nigger.
“You have the right
Short, solid, and determined, Lenny Levitt stands beside it, one Nikon hanging around his neck, another
being screwed into a tripod.
I hop out of Clarence’s car and read Levitt the brief statement I composed during the drive from New
York City. “Dante Halleyville and Michael Walker,” I say slowly enough for him to take it down in his
notebook, “had absolutely nothing to do with the murders of Eric Feifer, Patrick Roche, and Robert Walco.
Dante Halleyville is an exceptional young man with no criminal record or reason to commit these crimes.”
“So where’s Walker?” asks Levitt.
“Walker will turn himself in tomorrow. There will be no further comment at this point.”
“Why did they run?”
“What did I just say, Len? Now start taking pictures. This is your chance to get out of the Sports section.”
I called Lenny for PR reasons. The tabloids and cops love that shot of the black suspect in shackles
paraded through a gauntlet of blue and shoved into a squad car. But that’s not what they’re getting this
morning.
The image Lenny captures is much more peaceful, almost poetic: a frightened teenager and his diminutive
grandmother walking arm in arm toward the door of a small-town police station. The American flag
flutters in the moonlight. Not a cop is in sight.
As soon as he has the shots, Levitt races off with his film as agreed, and Clarence and I catch up to Dante
and Marie as they hesitantly enter the East Hampton station. Marty Diallo is the sergeant behind the desk.
His eyes are shut and his mouth wide open, and when the door closes behind us, he almost falls out of his
chair.
“Marty,” I say, and I’ve been rehearsing this, “Dante Halleyville is here to turn himself in.”
“There’s no one here,” says Diallo, rubbing the cobwebs out of his eyes, and also taking out his gun. “What
the hell am I supposed to do?”
“This is a
good
thing, Marty. We’re going to sit down here while you make some calls. Dante just turned himself in.
Put down the gun.”
“It’s four thirty in the morning, Dunleavy. You couldn’t have waited a couple hours?”
“Of course we couldn’t. Just pick up the phone.”
Marty looks at me with some strange mixture of confusion and contempt, and gives us our first inkling of
why Dante was so insistent that I accompany him.
“I don’t even know why you’re here with this piece of shit,” Diallo finally says.
Then he cuffs Dante.
Beach Road
Chapter 29
Dante
SOON AS THE desk sergeant wakes all the way up, something pretty scared and angry clicks in his doughy
face, and he pulls his gun and jumps out of his chair like he thinks the four of us are going to rough him up
or maybe steal his wallet. The gun points straight at me, but everyone puts their hands up in the air, even
my grandmoms.
Just like on the court at Smitty Wilson’s, Tom’s the only one steady enough to say anything.
“This is bullshit, Marty,” he says. “Dante just turned himself in. Put down the gun.”
But the cop doesn’t say a word or take his eyes off me. Folks being scared of me is something I’m used to.
With white strangers, it’s so common, I’ve almost stopped taking it personally. But with Diallo-I can read
his name tag-I can almost smell the fear, and the hand with the gun, with the finger on the trigger, is
dancing in the air, and the other one, fumbling for the handcuffs on his belt, doesn’t work too well either.
For everyone’s sake, I put out my hands to be cuffed, and even though the cuffs are way too small and
hurt, I don’t say a word.
Even when the cuffs are on me, Diallo still seems nervous and unsure of himself. He tells me I’m
under arrest for suspicion of murder and reads me my rights. It’s like he’s cursing me out, only with
different words, and every time he pauses, I hear
nigger.
“You have the right
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