“Oh, right. Lucky me.”
“As you said, Mr. Everett was laundering money for Libertad. Apparently, Mr. Everett set up the scheme nearly a year ago. Houghton trucks were used to smuggle dirty money across the United States border, where it was deposited into several American banks. Houghton would wire the money back to Ortiz and the Libertad folks as part of their joint venture. When the Mexican government started poking around in Libertad’s financial affairs, the deposits slowed until they could get some documentation in place to prove the legitimacy of their so-called deal. Apparently, Mr. Sayles, advised by Mr. Gallagher, refused to go along. Mr. King was instructed to murder them in exchange for an executive promotion to the twentieth floor.” In some twisted way they all thought they were saving Mr. Ashe’s family legacy.
“Why were they sending guns to the border?”
“When your CFO discovered the arrangement that Mr. Lumpkin and Mr. Hardy had established for the Brethren to ship guns on the trucks, he wanted in on the action. He had Hardy ship guns to San Diego, where his contact transported them across the border into Mexico as part of his arrangements with Libertad. After killing Mr. Sayles, you were their next best hope for continuing their scheme.”
“What about Willow Sommerville, the HR VP? Was she part of this, too?”
“From what we can tell, no.”
I was glad. Willow was another woman trying to survive in a toxic culture. She had chosen her method for survival, different from mine, but she was surviving, nonetheless. Bravo to her for her fortitude to keep going in a place like Houghton.
“So they tried to blackmail me into going along with them.” I released a deep breath and girded myself for my next question. “Did you look at the files on that thumb drive?”
“I did.”
“Everything?”
Bradford shrugged. “You mean some old newspaper clippings and a poorly written report by the Tolliver County Sheriff’s office about an investigation decades ago? An investigation that was inconclusive with no dead body? And as for Violet Richards, I have no clue who she is, nor do I care.”
My eyes widened at the detective’s comment. “But . . .”
“Ms. Littlejohn, can I be candid? The first day I walked into this building, I counted six Black people. Four of them worked downstairs in Security. The other two were you and me. Maybe you’ve got a few more around here, but my instincts tell me there can’t be many more. Maybe the protesters had it right all along. Perhaps you should spend some time focusing on your future. I’m not sure what’s going to happen to this company. The FBI is down the hall right now carting out evidence from several offices up here. Mr. Everett, Mr. Lumpkin, and Mr. Ashe are in custody. You saved a lot of innocent people. Take that as your parting gift from the Houghton Transportation Company.” She stood from the chair. “Thanks again for your help.”
The detective strolled out of my office. I turned to the window for one last look at the park.
When I was younger, I used to pretend that I was born in New York City or Chicago, like Chillicothe, Georgia, never existed. When Vera and Birdie packed me up and shipped me off to boarding school, I stepped into my new life. I stepped out of one little box in my life and into another. But my cardboard life of elite schools and professional success never really eased the haunting ache of growing up poor, Black, and female in rural Georgia. And all the rage and anger that I was fully entitled to was tamped down by a chorus of voices telling me to forgive, to turn the other cheek, to look the other way. So that rage and anger sat bottled up, simmering on the inside. All the while, I spent an entire lifetime calmly trying to explain to people why I needed to be in a certain classroom or worthy of a certain job. Even after my rise, I was still explaining why I needed to be in the room, with a seat at the table, and a voice in the decisions.
I removed my resignation letter from the desk drawer and placed it in the center of my desk. Now I could shut down this little compartment of my life.
Juice was right. I hadn’t been happy, truly happy, in a very long time. It was because I was so tired, too weary from juggling all the cardboard pieces of my life, fighting all the -isms of being Black and female in America. Now, all I wanted to do was take off my boxing gloves and rest.
Chapter 43
On a cold, snow-damp day, I drove along the winding gravel path of a cemetery. Gray and black headstones stood at attention across the landscape as I cruised up alongside a large magnolia tree that would offer eternal shade and cover for Sam’s final resting place. Two men stood off in the distance near a backhoe. One of them gazed into his cell phone, while the other stared in my direction cleaning his teeth with a toothpick. Both of them waited their turn to toss dirt over my little brother. A small blue tent with the words Chillicothe Memorial Gardens emblazoned in white letters stood over Sam’s casket and provided a thin shelter from the light dusting of snow just beginning to fall. His casket, gunmetal gray and covered by a huge spray of white roses, sat like a lonely soldier in repose under the tent. And standing beside Sam’s coffin were Rudy, Grace, and Juice.