Nightcrawling(70)

On the freeway now, I plead with Marsha to let me drive, like I always do when we’re in the car together. It’s a ritual.

“Do you have a license?” she asks.

“Not yet, but I’m telling you, I’m a real good driver. Please, Marsh. Come on.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not letting you drive my car without a license.”

Whenever she tells me no, I start rifling through her glove compartment. She lets me do it for a couple seconds before she starts twitching, then asks me to “please leave that alone,” which of course I don’t. She’s got sticky notes scattered around in there with strange messages on them like “potatoes” and “call him back.”

Huffing, Marsha says, “I can’t believe I voluntarily subject myself to this.” She ties her blond hair up into a ponytail while attempting to drive straight.

“Why do you?” I’ve never actually asked Marsha why she devotes half her time to me and my case, even though she’s got a whole lineup of people who’d happily spill their pockets for her.

“Justice, right?” She laughs it off, but I can tell from her pitch that’s not it. Plus, I don’t think Marsha really gives a shit about justice. It’s not that she don’t care about it, I guess, she just lives for the short term. And woman loves her money, her things.

“Bullshit.”

Marsha glances over at me, sees something in the glove compartment, and grabs it. They’re sunglasses, the designer kind. She uses the hand not on the steering wheel to place them on her eyes, then speaks. “I told you when we first met. This is high-profile, meaning my name will be out there and I’ll get more clients.” She’s unconvincing.

“And?”

“And most of my other clients are only willing to pay me so much because they want a woman to defend them in domestic violence cases.”

“I see. You tired of representing assholes.”

She raises a hand up. “I never said you weren’t an asshole.”

I nudge her playfully. “Fuck you.” And for the first time since we met, Marsha doesn’t correct me, doesn’t tell me to stop cussing. She smiles, reaches past me again to rummage around the glove compartment, pulling out another pair of glasses. She hands them to me and I place them on my head. The world goes this auburn color that makes everything hushed.

We pull up to OPD headquarters and, this time, the metal doesn’t seem so daunting. It almost welcomes us in; maybe it’s the auburn, the way it fades everything into a familiar brown. Or it could be Marsha. I’ve learned how to keep up with her strides now, so we walk side by side, her heels clicking, my sneakers squeaking, the linoleum not prepared for our kind of women.

Marsha doesn’t stop at the front desk like I expect her to, beelines straight for the personnel elevator. Nobody stops a woman who looks like she runs the place. Don’t matter that she don’t got a badge, that she’s got this black girl in ripped jeans following her. Most white women default to thinking they own every room they walk into, and Marsha is no different.

I hesitate, but follow Marsha into the elevator, which is empty except for us. The elevator lets us off at the top floor and it’s like taking a stroll down memory lane, to the first time I entered this building. They already replaced the name on the chief’s door, a piece of tape with “Talbot” written in Sharpie. The door is cracked open.

Marsha announces us by knocking on the door and we’re told to come in, take a seat. The room is covered in gray, accented by the peeling yellow cushion on the empty chair.

Talbot stands up as we enter and we complete every cross of handshaking. She’s short, racially ambiguous in that way that makes me sure people asked her what she was growing up and she probably just responded with “human” because when you blur every line it’s easier to become rigid and frank like Talbot. She sticks her hand out and I shake it, fight every notion my skin has of right and wrong. Marsha says impressions are everything and we’re expected to keep them up.

Marsha pulls a folding chair from the corner of the room to the desk, where Talbot has sat down again. I take the yellow seat and look out the window. It’s early May and spring is in full bloom, our sky bluer than ever, bridge not even clouded by fog. A flock of seagulls flies straight across the bay, skimming the water, producing a shadow mirror.

I swallow and sit like Marsha, back straight, legs crossed. There’s a rip in the knee of my jeans that I instinctually start to fiddle with. Whenever I do something I’m not supposed to, Marsha sucks in her breath, like the noise that precedes a lecture, and doesn’t say anything. Waits for me to figure it out. I move my hands under my legs and give Marsha the eye roll she hates so much.

Talbot doesn’t even take a beat before she starts making offers to pay me off, something about “making this easier on everyone involved.” Marsha interjects, says if there is a settlement, it will be done legally.

Talbot begins to talk about Marcus. I ain’t never heard such nasty words come out somebody’s mouth without one ounce of feeling. She’s monotone, like she is simply talking about her dinner plans while bashing my family, saying she knows some judges who love a good long sentence for the druggies. Says she knows some parole officers too, if my mother is looking to make a trip back to her cell. The way Talbot speaks makes me twitch like Marsha in the car, her teeth clicking between words, bony chin sticking out, smile that never seems to fade.