Chapter 18
The regular Sunday meeting of RBG was packed. The photos of the empty coffin had gone viral on social media, and liberal outlets were covering the story. It seemed like every activist in the community wanted to express their outrage, every person who knew Anitra Jenkins wanted to share their grief and give their testimony that she had turned her life around, and every kid in the neighborhood wanted to get their picture in the paper. In the crowd, Yolanda was on alert for signs of Kenya.
Before the meeting even started, while it was still light, the photographer arranged all of them on the steps of the church. He was a scruffy white guy in torn jeans and a raggedy black jacket. He looked out of place as he arranged Mrs. Jenkins, decked out in another mourning suit, Marcus, Dana, and Sharon in their bright African fabrics, and the rest of the youth leaders of RBG, all wearing their trendiest “fits” in the front row.
Another forty or so people squeezed in behind them. Yolanda recognized a scattering of the faces from Sunday meetings, and a number of others from the community forum. There were representatives from Black Lives Matter, the Anti-Police Terror Project, Youth vs. Apocalypse and The Sunrise Movement. One group had a sign that said “#SayHerName: Anitra Jenkins.” Yolanda pressed in right behind them, letting the sign partially obscure her face.
Before they dispersed, people kept running up to the cameraman with their phones to take more photos. He took about five before Carlos yelled that he was uploading several shots to the RBG social media accounts right away, and they could get it from there.
After the photo shoot, the group filed into the building. Nakeesha and Sheena stood at the door, handing out copies of their YOUTH: KNOW YOUR RIGHTS flyer to all the teens that came in. The church had a program in the sanctuary, so nearly seventy-five people crammed into the basement main room for the RBG meeting. A lot of the teens ended up sitting on the floor.
In spite of the crowd, Yolanda knew the exact moment when Jimmy entered the room. The door opened, and she glanced up to see him walking quietly down the stairs.
“Tonight our meeting is gonna be a little different,” Dana began. “We have several members of the press here.” Dana outlined the details of the case for anyone who didn’t know, right up to the empty casket.
Yolanda also knew the moment that Kenya entered the room. In preparation, Yolanda was wearing a baseball cap and had it pulled down a bit over her face. Getting rave fashion reviews from the teens was her lowest priority today. She was pleased to see Kenya find a spot on the other side of the room, facing away from her.
“So here’s how we’re gonna roll tonight,” Dana continued. “We’re gonna ask anyone who has anything to say, specific to the case of Anitra Jenkins, to speak up. Everybody gets a two-minute time limit, so please, think carefully about what you want to say, and be brief.”
“Everyone gets two minutes, except Mrs. Jenkins,” Marcus said. “We’re gonna ask her to start it off.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Dana added. “KPFA is recording tonight, so if you don’t want to be recorded, please let us know.”
Mrs. Jenkins sat on one of the faded couches between Sharon and Sheena. “I praise God for the Red, Black and GREEN!” she said. “Cause now the whole world is gonna listen to me. Ain’t nothing nobody can do now to bring my baby back, but I want justice. I wanna know why my baby ain’t laid to rest in the ground where she sposed to be. It ain’t bad enough that they kilt her, but they won’t even let her rest? Shame on you Randell! Shame on you Holloway police! Shame!” She leaned on her cane and sat down.
The room exploded with applause. As it finally died down, Marcus yelled out, “RBG is behind you one hundred percent, Mrs. Jenkins! We want justice for Anitra and we want the city of Holloway and Randell to show some respect! Black lives matter! Defund the police.”
The cheering continued so loudly that Dana had to wait a minute before she continued.
Most of the speakers offered the same complaints from the community forum.
At one point, Dana stood up again. “There’s a lot that needs to be done in Holloway, but if we can please focus on Anitra for tonight. I know Darnell has something specific to the case.”
Darnell stood up. His long afro was braided back, and he had on a custom made RBG baseball cap.
“Don’t nobody record this,” Darnell called out, pointing to the reporter.
The short and sturdily built black woman had been listening quietly on headphones. When Darnell pointed to her, she leaped to life and fidgeted with her recorder.
“So me and some folks talked to all the drug dealers in Holloway to see if anybody sold heron to Anitra Jenkins during the week that she passed away. And we couldn’t find nobody who woulda sold it to her. I’m not saying she couldn’t of gone to Richmond or Oakland to get it, but why? Plenty of folks selling it in Holloway, but not to her.”
Dana called on an older man next. “My name is Dante V., and I’m a drug addict and alcoholic.”
“Hi Dante,” about half the room chorused back.
He had a knife scar that that stretched from the side of his nose to his left ear. “I was in treatment with Anitra,” Dante said. “We been in the rooms together—NA and AA—and let me tell you, Anitra was clean and sober from crack cocaine and proud of it. I saw Anitra at the meeting on Wednesday. She didn’t have no abscess. She wasn’t using no heron. Not even when she used to be out in these streets. It was never her drug of choice.”
He stood up and pointed north toward where they had discovered her body. “I know that shooting gallery. I got my damn face cut in that shooting gallery. Ain’t nobody been up in there for twenty years. They think they can put a needle in her arm and then won’t nobody care about her. Just another junkie dead in the back alley. We care!”
“That’s right!” somebody yelled back.
“Even if you clean and sober like Anitra J. was? Shit. Even if you dirty and drunk—excuse my language, Mrs. Jenkins—I meant shoot.”
Mrs. Jenkins waved her cane at him to continue.
“I’m just trying to say we can’t fall for that trap where they find some dirt on us—like some arrest record, or using drugs—and act like our lives ain’t worth nothing!”
A young woman spoke next. She had brightly colored braids and several piercings. “We gotta care about every single person in our community. Whether they use drugs, whether they sell drugs, whether they been in prison, whether they still in prison. Whether they selling sex. Everybody. All black lives matter!”
The room pounded with applause again. This time the loudest was from Dante’s crew, who had a “Justice for Anitra J.” sign.
The next speaker was an androgynous young person with a large red afro.
“I don’t know what happened to Anitra Jenkins,” they said. “But I know Randell is behind it. These corporations are desperate. Time is running out for the greenwashing corporations like Randell that are trying to convince people that we can save the planet while they still make mega profits. They’re trying to squeeze every dollar out of a dying economy. It’s just not sustainable. And they don’t care who gets in their way. People disappear. People die in mysterious ‘accidents. ’” They made quote marks in the air. “These corporations are willing to bring the entire human race to extinction to keep making money. How can we expect them to care about any one individual human life? Let alone the lives of black females and femmes. They don’t. Time is running out. Which is why we need to keep organizing to deal with this climate crisis in ways that prioritize our people and our solutions.”
When the meeting finally broke up, Marcus stood on a chair and yelled, “If you need a ride to the Stats, the van is leaving.”
A bunch of teens scrambled to follow Marcus.
Kenya was headed toward Yolanda, so she turned quickly to Marcus. “I need a ride.”
“You live near the Stats?” Marcus asked.
“Close enough,” Yolanda said, tracking Kenya in her peripheral vision.
A line of teens climbed into the car.
As Yolanda waited to get in the van, she heard a woman calling her name, “Yolanda Vance!”
She looked up to see Kenya. Yolanda’s heart was pounding in her chest, but she pasted on a smile. It had been foolish to think she could avoid her indefinitely.
“Girl, I had no idea you were here in Holloway,” Kenya said.
The two women embraced. Yolanda felt certain that Kenya would be able to feel her panic.
“I’ve been here for a couple of months now,” Yolanda said, trying to stay cool. What did Kenya remember? Who did she know? Who would she be talking to?
“I tried to look you up after we ran into each other in New York,” Kenya said. “But you must be the only person I know who’s not on social media.”
“Yeah,” Yolanda said. “I’m old school. You have to call me or send an email.”
“We should stay in touch,” Kenya said. “What are you doing out here?”
“I got a new job,” Yolanda said. “I’m here studying for the California bar,”
“That’s right,” Kenya said. “You had been working for that big New York firm that got indicted right? Or were they in New Jersey?”
“New York,” Yolanda said.
Kenya’s brow furrowed. For a long moment, Yolanda was certain she was busted.
Then Kenya shook her head. “No idea where I got Jersey from,” she said. “I musta had more to drink that night than I thought. New York is such a drinking town.”
“Yep,” Yolanda said, feeling a rush of relief. “I miss the music, though.”
“The Bay Area has great blues,” Kenya said. “You gotta let me show you all the spots.”
The two of them exchanged numbers, and Kenya joined a pair of teachers and a crew of students from the middle school.
Yolanda recalled the club in New York. Not only had Kenya been drinking, but the music had been loud that night. It was a trumpet player. How much information could be retained between two women shouting to each other over blues horn lines?
Marcus walked over Yolanda. “Van’s full,” he said.
Now that Kenya had recognized her, it didn’t matter anymore. She opened her mouth to tell him that she could just walk, but Marcus had already turned to the group’s Wellness Coordinator. “Sharon, can you take Yolanda?”
“It’s really not—” Yolanda began, but Sharon was too busy herding a group of girls into her car.
“I’m full up,” Sharon said. “Jimmy!” she called through the crowd. “We need you on ride duty.”
He walked over to where they all were. “I didn’t bring my car,” he said.
“You don’t have to—” Yolanda began again, but Sharon didn’t register her protest.
“Okay, well can you walk some young women home?” She barely waited for his nod. “Dana, Sheena, Yolanda, and Jasmine live in your general direction.”
Jimmy walked over to Yolanda with a smile. “Can I carry your books?”
“I better go round up the other folks,” Yolanda turned to catch Dana, who was handing the middle school teachers a stack of the KNOW YOUR RIGHTS flyers.
“Hey,” Jimmy held her arm. “I don’t care where you live, I’m dropping you last, okay?”
“Okay.” She felt warm where his hand touched her arm.
“I can’t wait to have a minute alone with you Yolanda,” he murmured in her ear.
Yolanda felt her torso turn to liquid. Blinking, she looked around and had lost Dana in the crush of people. It took them another fifteen minutes to finally leave.
“I’ve never been in the paper before,” Sheena said excitedly as they walked down Holloway Avenue.
“Me neither,” Dana said.
The evening was cool and clear, with a bright crescent moon.
“Are you cold?” Jimmy asked Yolanda. He playfully pulled her hat off.
Yolanda smoothed back her pressed hair and tried not to feel too awkward.
“I been in the paper for basketball,” Jasmine said. “But that’s different. You don’t get to smile. They always catch you when you’re all—” she froze, with her hand above her head as if dunking and her mouth wide open in a lopsided yell.
Everyone laughed.
“I remember that,” Yolanda said, recalling her own newspaper photos when she was a student athlete.
“You used to play ball?” Jasmine asked. “But you’re so short.”
“Skills before height,” Yolanda laughed, and snatched her cap back from Jimmy.
“Ooooh, nice steal,” Jasmine said.
“Candy from a baby,” Yolanda grinned at Jimmy. “I played everything,” she said, turning to Jasmine. “Basketball, volleyball, track, lacrosse . . .”
“Lacrosse?” Jasmine asked. “That’s for white girls.”
“Explain that to all the white girls whose asses I beat,” Yolanda said.
“What about all the black men whose asses you beat at the track?” Jimmy said.
“You beat men in track?” Jasmine asked.
“Just me,” Jimmy said, laughing. “That’s how I met Yolanda. A month ago, she was beating my ass in sprinting. This brown blur that flashed by me.”
“You guys met outside RBG?” Dana asked.
“Up at Cartwright,” Jimmy said.
“Oh riiiiighht,” Sheena said. “Cause you teach there and Yolanda used to go there.”
“You went to Cartwright?” Jasmine asked. “You must be rich.”
“No, I got scholarships,” Yolanda said. “Basically, they paid me to go to college and play sports.”
“Because title nine says girls have to be equal in schools,” Sheena said.
“Maybe I wanna go to Cartwright,” Jasmine said.
“You need to get your grades up,” Sheena said.
“If somebody’s gonna pay me to go to college, maybe I will,” Jasmine said.
“You’re an amazing role model for these girls,” Jimmy said later, after they had dropped off all the teens.
Yolanda shook her head. “It’s no big deal.”
“No really,” Jimmy leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his. “I don’t think you really have any idea how . . . how amazing you are. You’re beautiful. You’re smart as hell. And you really make a difference to these girls. To RBG in general.”
“And I can kick your ass in track.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jimmy said.
“But you just admitted it in front of witnesses.”
“No, that was a pro-girl-power move,” he said. “I just falsely admitted defeat to encourage them in their athletics.”
“Well I’m an attorney,” Yolanda said. “And an admission in front of witnesses is an admission. You can’t recant your testimony now, Mr. Thompson.”
“Permission to approach the bench,” he said, and took a step closer.
Yolanda could feel her pulse pick up as he moved toward her. “Oh no,” she said. “You haven’t passed the bar. You need to stay in the witness box.”
“What if I don’t? Will you find me in contempt?”
He was close enough that she could smell the soap on his skin.
“Order!” Yolanda said. “Order in the court!”
“Okay, I’ll behave,” Jimmy said, taking a step to the side and putting a little more distance between them.
They passed a pink bungalow with magenta trim and a big palm tree in the yard, right next to a boarded-up old Victorian.
“So . . . how’s the studying going?” Jimmy asked.
“This week is pretty much shot,” Yolanda said. “But . . . I don’t know . . . since joining RBG, my previous career path, career decisions don’t seem as . . . important as they used to.” She was trying to find the words. “I don’t know if this job I took, this job that brought me out here is right for me.”
“Really?” he asked.
“I’m just . . . I’m just questioning a lot of stuff. A lot of my values. When we met you sort of suggested that I wasn’t suited for corporate law. I thought I was . . . a good fit for the job I’d gotten. But now I don’t know.”
“You’ll figure it out, Yolanda,” he said, encouragingly. “And whatever you decide, I really . . . I really like you. I want to keep getting to know you.”
As they passed under the streetlight, she could see the earnestness in his face. He reached for her hand, twined his fingers with hers.
“It takes a while to really get to know me,” she said.
“I’ve got a lot of patience.”
“That was my building by the way,” she said, pointing back to the towering apartment. “The one we just passed.”
“Does that mean you’re coming home with me?”
Yolanda laughed. “That really would be getting to know you.”
“Hey, a guy can hope.”
“Consider your hopes dashed,” Yolanda said. “Can we just stay like this for a while?”
“Sure,” he said gently.
They walked around the block four more times, fingers intertwined. When they finally walked up to her door, Jimmy put a hand on her shoulder.
“May I kiss you?”
Yolanda shook her head. “Not yet.”
He pulled her into an embrace instead. She could feel the heat of his skin, the muscles under his sweatshirt.
After they let go, she walked into the house alone, the front of her body still tingling.