Nightcrawling(69)

Marsha told me to meet her at the back gate at eleven. It’s 11:03 and I tell Trevor I’ll be right back, circling down the stairs, and to the back gate. I can hear the mumble of reporters from High Street, the other side of the pool. When I open the back gate, Marsha stands with her hand on her hip, head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised like she does when she’s irritated by me.

“You’re late,” she says.

I don’t bother responding because it won’t change anything and Marsha should know better than to expect me on time. I lead her back up the stairs to the apartment door. I told Trevor this morning that a white lady was gonna come by and talk to me, so he’s sitting there with his head resting on one of his palms, not looking at his cards, and waiting for her. His eyes light up just from the look of her, like she’s a new toy, and I can’t blame him.

I watch her enter. Marsha steps ball of foot first in her heels while we step heavy and barefoot and, in our apartment, she looks misplaced, afraid the floor will crack beneath her.

“You wanna sit?” I ask her, pointing to the rocking chair.

I lift myself up onto the counter, so I can see both Marsha as she sits in the chair and Trevor, staring at her from the mattress. Marsha releases her body weight into the chair and flinches when the rocker starts to move. Back and forth. Back and forth. She settles into the sway, crossing one leg over the other.

“There’s been movement over the weeks,” Marsha says, and I feel like she’s a news anchor about to give me a tragic report. “The police department has turned over three chiefs in the past week and we’ve been asked to come and speak with the acting chief, Sherry Talbot.”

“Okay.” I don’t know exactly why Marsha seems so antsy, her shoulders tensed halfway up to her ears. She starts to tell the whole story, from start to finish, building it up like she always does. I glance toward Trevor and he is fixated on her, not blinking.

Apparently there are photos of one of the chiefs at the same party I worked at, the one where Purple Suit—Sandra—first found me, and so he’d been linked to the cover-up. That’s what they’re calling it: the cover-up. Not sure if that refers to me or them, whether they covering up the fact that it happened or the fact that they all known about it. Marsha says it’s unclear, all tabloid talk.

“The point is, the newest chief has invited us in to speak with her today and I advise that we take the meeting.”

“Why?” I swing my legs back and forth on the counter. “If you don’t like her and we ain’t obligated to or nothing, why go?”

“She knows people. Whatever she’s going to say could impact the investigation or your testimony.” Marsha tells me she’s not too sure they’ll indict at all, even though she says most grand juries end in indictment. Most grand juries aren’t looking to nail the very people who are constructing them in the first place. The worry is peeling at her. She speaks again. “Or it could help Marcus.”

My head snaps up at that and I jump down from the counter. “I’ll go. When?”

“Meeting starts at noon. My car’s parked outside.”

I nod, already sliding my shoes on.

I walk over to Trevor. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. There’s food in the fridge, okay? Don’t be going out or nothing.” I kiss the top of his head and he squirms.

Marsha is struggling to pull herself out of the rocking chair. She regains her footing, smooths out her skirt, opens the door, and light floods the apartment. I follow her out, all the way down those stairs, which takes forever because Marsha has to pause on every step to make sure her heel is fully secure.

We exit the back gate, heads down, but right before we reach the car, the flock of reporters catches us, asking me what I thought about Chief Clemen’s resignation mere days after Chief Walden resigned, if I had spoken with both of them, was the mayor involved in the cover-up, had I met the new chief.

Marsha ushers me into the passenger seat and runs as fast as she can in her pencil skirt around to the driver’s side, climbing in and starting the car.

The past two weeks have been a whirlwind of me thanking every god that might exist that I got Marsha and wishing she’d shove her heel down her throat. Marsha arranged to get some nonprofit to pay me emergency fund money so I can pay the bills and buy us groceries. I stopped trying to pay Dee’s rent and a few days ago I heard the pounding on her door, the newest eviction notice taped to the paint. Vernon’s serious this time, won’t hold off kicking them out any longer. All their things will be out in a week. Nobody’s come for Trevor yet, but some nights when I watch him curled up on the mattress, I worry they will.

When Marsha showed up with the emergency fund check, this whole-body guilt stirred me up and I had the urge to scream at her even though all she was doing was keeping us alive. Side effects of relying on nothing but my own feet and the swish of my hips for so long: can’t release none of it, let the bay flow.

Marsha has a list of charges she said we’re gonna need to file against the police department and city the moment the grand jury is over. I tried again to tell her I didn’t wanna do none of this, wanted to just return to life before sirens. Marsha said it’s where I get the money, and I’ve never seen a petite white lady sound so much like my brother.

She brought Sandra in after that to convince me that it’s about justice, about telling them they can’t do none of this shit without consequences. Even though I know a woman can be just as dangerous as the men, like Detective Jones, you find the ones who have scars painted into their skin like constellations, and you’ve got something better than the moon, better than anything. Someone who knows what it’s like to hold on to what has happened to them, whether they want to or not. I doubt she knows the streets like I do, but there is something about Sandra that makes me feel known.