We Are Not Like Them(51)
“Excuse me?” I glare at him, forcing him to admit his mistake.
“Sorry. I thought you were working here. I didn’t mean… Shit. I’m really sorry. It’s the outfit.”
Yes, I’d slipped off my coat and I’m wearing black pants and a black sweater. But no, it isn’t the outfit.
“It’s fine,” I say to him. “I’m a reporter.” Why am I telling him that it’s fine? Why am I justifying why I’m in this room? Because I want him to go away. I want this awkward moment to be over so I can do what I came here to do. He apologizes again and rushes into the well-heeled crowd convened in a living room that’s four times bigger than my entire apartment, and infinitely more opulent. I grab a glass of sparkling water from one of the servers. Champagne would be better—to stop myself from turning around and walking right back out the door, back to my house, and crawling into bed—but I don’t drink on the job. It would sure take the edge off though, and lately I’m on edge about everything, so close to the abyss, the dark thoughts like hands reaching out to pull me down into the quicksand. This is always the scariest part of depression, the panicked edge where you think, If I can hold it at bay, stay out of its grip, I’ll be okay. The fear of the fall is so much worse than the bottom, because once you’ve let go, once you’re in the darkness, there’s comfort in the dull surrender. It’s easier than the fight. But I still feel like I can push myself back from the brink. It’s the reason I’ve been forcing myself to run every morning, why I went to church this weekend again—last week too, much to Momma’s surprise and delight.
I look around the room. This is not my idea of a good time—a stuffy fundraising event with a bunch of wealthy people doing their good deed for the quarter. But Sabrina Cowell’s assistant insisted it was the only time on her calendar this week and if I wanted to get five minutes of face time with the district attorney I’d need to stop by. And I desperately needed to get in front of the woman if I was going to land a live interview. Coming off the high of my interview with Tamara, I had mentioned, somewhat impulsively, in our daily news meeting that I had my sights on sitting down with the city’s new upstart DA. When Scotty turned to me and said, “Get it done,” it went from tentative idea to mandate before I even closed my mouth.
“Riley?” I hear my name punctuated by two taps on my shoulder.
“I’m Amina, the district attorney’s chief of staff. You didn’t have any problems at the door?” The young woman has the tiny frame and energy of a hummingbird, head flitting right and left to survey the scene as her fingers fly over the screen of her iPhone, sending a message, all while also talking to me.
“None at all,” I lie, swallowing down the microaggression, as I’ve done a thousand times.
“Thanks for making the time. Sabrina’s work schedule is jam-packed right now.”
Not so full that she can’t take time to slowly work a room, as I watch her do now across the way, rubbing elbows and eating canapés with Philadelphia’s moneyed elite, who will be critical to financing her rumored mayoral campaign.
Amina continues to type words in her phone as fast as they come out of her mouth. “I’m going to introduce Sabrina—share her story. And then she’ll talk for about ten minutes. She’ll shake hands, take selfies, collect some checks, and then you can have ten minutes with her.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
For the first time since speaking to me, Amina finally looks up at me. “DA Cowell knows everything.”
I snag another glass of sparkling water as Amina heads to the front of the room and grabs a microphone. After two loud taps to test the sound, she starts speaking.
“When I graduated from Georgetown five years ago, I thought I wanted to stay in DC and be an aide on the Hill. And then I read about Sabrina Cowell and I knew I wanted to work for her, so I wrote her a fangirl letter out of the blue telling her how much I admired her career, and she said, ‘Well, then, come work for me.’ It was the best thing to ever happen to me, so thank you, Sabrina, for taking a chance on a complete stranger who slid into your DMs.” She stops for laughter. “Many of you here tonight have heard my boss’s story, but it’s a good one, so I’ll tell it again. Sabrina Cowell was raised right here in Philly, over in the Tasker Projects. She went to Masterman High School, received a full scholarship to Tulane and then Penn for law school, and became one of the youngest women ever and the first Black woman to make partner at Johnston Caruthers. But corporate life didn’t suit her. Too much money, too little time. You all can appreciate that, right?”
Appreciative titters from the crowd.
“She found a home at Gardner and Jones, where she worked on pro bono civil rights cases against the police force with unmatched tenacity. But still… it wasn’t enough. Change only happens in this city if you’re on the inside. And so she challenged the old guard, ran a tough race, and tossed them out on their behinds. Please welcome Philadelphia’s district attorney, Sabrina Cowell.”
Sabrina jogs the few feet over and takes the mic from Amina after a long and what appears to be genuine hug. A hush falls over the crowd as we shuffle closer to her. It’s instantly clear—before she even speaks—that she’s one of those people who seem to have a field of energy around them, drawing you toward her like a magnet, all the makings of a great politician… or a cult leader.