The shit pool greets me and this is the last time I walk past it without the scream of reporters, cameras flashing, security guards Marsha hired telling me they’re here to escort me. This is the last time I look into its murk, the subtle swish, whirlpool of water right outside my door. The subpoena arrives the next morning and I almost forget what it was like to wake up to Dee laughing, to Marcus on the couch, and a whole day blurring into streetlights.
Trevor wants to be on camera. Every time we leave the house, he gets mad ’cause I take us out the back, the route none of the reporters know about. He whines and says that if I get to be famous, he should too. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but the way he clutches his ball in his hand reminds me of the way I want to grab his wrist, keep him right next to me.
We’re stuck inside today because Marsha called and told me not to leave, not to open the gate for nobody. She sounded panicked, talking quick, and I thought maybe it was finally happening: they getting the handcuffs ready for me, adding me to a family line of prison cells. Marcus has been calling every day, sounding more gloomy than ever, and I can tell losing Uncle Ty is sending him spiraling. I keep telling him I’m working on it, but Marsha won’t say nothing about him and most days I think it’d be better to stop picking up when she calls. Except then I’d have to tell Marcus the truth: that most likely he don’t got a way out of this. Then I’d have to tell myself the truth: that I’m as alone as Trevor.
Trevor’s sitting on the bed with a whole deck of cards spread out in front of him, happy he doesn’t have to go to school today. I don’t know what game he thinks he’s playing, but it looks more like the way I used to shuffle before Alé taught me how. I keep trying to call her, but she hasn’t answered in days and I’ve got too much pride to call again just to hear her voicemail on the other end.
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.”