“The George Washington Bridge? Why there?”

“This was his idea, not mine.”

“The police will never believe this story,” the Imam said. “Why didn’t you tell me this? Now tell the truth.”

Quaco put his hand to his chest. “It is the truth, so help me.”

“You killed him, Quaco. You killed him for the Kente cloth.”

“No, I did not. You must believe me.”

“No more lies, Quaco! You know how the police treat African vendors, don’t you? Amado Dialo was shot forty-one times. Do you remember?”

“No! No!” Quaco rose from his seat, ready to flee.

“Sit down. You must trust me.”

Quaco sat. His body shook.

“Now tell the truth, Quaco. No more lies.”

Quaco started to sob. “It was an accident.”

“An accident?” The Imam shook his head. “What happened?”

“I wanted to hurt him just as he had hurt me by taking away my business. After some talk, I convinced Jean-Paul to meet me near some trees underneath the George Washington Bridge, and I would introduce him to two gentlemen who wanted to buy a large quantity of Kente cloth. The three of us ambushed him. We only wanted to beat him up, but he fought like a tiger and one of my friends struck him on the head and killed him. It was an accident, please believe me.”

“How did you get Isia’s phone number?”

“From Jean-Paul’s phone.”

“What happened to the cell phone?”