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.
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.