Chapter 19
Officer Joaquín Rodriguez sat at the coffee table in his Holloway bungalow staring at the photo of Dorothea Jenkins and RBG on the cover of the East Bay Weekly.
It was nearly seven AM, and he had read the article twice. He lifted his coffee mug off the paper, leaving a wet ring on the ad for LASIK surgery opposite Mrs. Jenkins’s photo in the paper. He flipped the paper back to the beginning of the article, looking for the part where someone else would take care of it. The part where the kindly woodcutter was on his way to Red Riding Hood right now.
After the third read, he realized he was as close to a kindly woodcutter as they were gonna get. Rodriguez the would-be hero could see himself, frozen on the porch, axe in his less-than-beefy hand, peering through the tiny window at the monster beyond the glass.
Chief Evans, what big teeth you have.
* * *
“I’m at a loss,” Yolanda said to Donnelly. “When that coffin came up empty, it totally changed the game.”
“I’m not as worried about that as I am about their little debriefing,” Donnelly said. “Campbell is a spin doctor because his approach can be so unscrupulous.”
The two women were walking along the Embarcadero beside the San Francisco Bay. The Bay Bridge stretched out on one side of them, and cars sped by on the other.
“What should I do?” Yolanda asked.
“Document everything,” Donnelly said. “Keep a paper journal with a log of all your actions for every day. Record every contact with the FBI that you can without attracting attention.”
“What good will that do?” Yolanda asked.
“It’ll protect you from being their scapegoat,” she said. “If it blows up in the FBI’s face, you can document that you were systematically misinformed and manipulated.”
“Do you think that’s what’s happening?” Yolanda asked.
“I have no idea,” Donnelly said. “But the FBI is a bunch of paper pushers. After the dust settles, the victory goes to the one with the best paper trail.”
“I’m on it,” Yolanda said.
“I don’t mean to sound paranoid,” Donnelly said. “But if Campbell’s giving you loyalty pep talks, you can assume they’re watching you along with the target group.”
“How am I supposed to live like this?” Yolanda asked. “No privacy. No idea what I’m mixed up in.”
“I don’t blame you,” Donnelly said. “If it’s too much, you can resign. I’d be glad to write you a letter of recommendation.”
“For what job?” Yolanda asked. “I got limited savings, no job prospects, no current bar card for any state. At least this is a temporary assignment. If I can close this case, I know I’ll get a reasonable attorney position somewhere in the bureau.”
“I don’t blame you,” Donnelly said. “My family threw me out when they found out I was gay. If I had some place to go home to, I might have quit myself. But I hung in there.”
“Was it worth it?” Yolanda asked.
“Overall, yes,” Donnelly said. “I got through the hard times, and now I’ve got a great team where I call the shots. Assholes like Campbell are the type of colleagues I see once a week at most.”
“That’s what I want,” Yolanda said.
“Then hang tough,” Donnelly said. “Here’s my home number. It’s secure. If I’m not there, leave a message with my wife.” She scrawled the number on a sticky note and handed it to Yolanda. “But if you do call, find a pay phone.”
* * *
Yolanda stopped by Sally’s Books on the way back from her walk with Donnelly. Her second visit, she avoided Johnakin and the political section. Instead, she wandered through the store at random. A familiar text caught her eye in the languages section, the book she had used in high school when she studied Japanese. Kana and Kanji Writing Workbook, Vol. 2. The workbook was large and heavy, and she recalled hours of copying the characters to fix them in her mind. However, there was also a portable version, Learning Japanese Kanji on the Go. This smallish, square book had a blue cover and several Japanese characters, or Kanji, running down below the title.
Impulsively, she grabbed the smaller book off the shelf and purchased it. On the way home on the BART train, she swung her legs up onto the seat and wrote in the book with her back to the train window.
Yolanda wrote in the lines beside the characters.
Illustration My name is Yolanda Vance. I’m twenty-six years old, and I am currently an agent for the FBI, operating clandestinely as part of Red, Black and GREEN! in Holloway, California.
Illustration As an operative, and as an attorney, I have become increasingly concerned about the ethics, integrity, and legality of this assignment.
She had never understood why people kept diaries. Probably because she always associated them with romance. Why would you bother if you didn’t put a lot of focus on your love life? But now that she had this huge secret, she understood better. She had to have some space to think, to make the words stand still for a moment to consider them. But most of all, she needed a release valve.
The night Jimmy walked her home, it had been such a delicious relief to even tell him a few partial truths. She felt an urge to pour out a complete confession to him, like a campy scene in an old black-and-white film. Darling, I’m a spy! She could imagine the fifties version of herself—matte lipstick, a vintage dress, hair in pin curls—she would tear off her hat, shouting: But I didn’t know what they would ask of me! I never meant to hurt anyone!
She needed this three-by-five notebook. A tiny confessional where she wouldn’t find absolution, but she could remind herself what was true.
* * *
The following week’s Sunday night RBG meeting was huge. The East Bay Weekly article had attracted people from San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland, and even Vallejo.
A contingent of senior citizens came out to support Mrs. Jenkins, so everyone under sixty was standing, except one guy in a wheelchair, and he had to be carried up and down the steps.
Yolanda stood against the wall in a crush of standing-room-only bodies, and Jimmy squeezed in next to her. He reached for her hand, and her pulse raced at the contact, the press of his fingers against hers.
Yolanda tried to ignore the buzz in her body from the contact with Jimmy, as she half-listened to RBG’s big new plans. They intended to organize a rally at Randell, a teach-in at the high school, an RBG crew at Cartwright, a letter-writing campaign to Chief Evans and the mayor, a PR team to send updates to the press, a web media team—led by Carlos—to post updates to the RBG website and social media, as well as a phone-calling team to contact all the folks who didn’t have internet access.
After the meeting, she and Jimmy were leaving to walk home with several teens, when a thirtyish Latino guy showed up. He pulled Marcus Winters aside and asked to speak with him. Yolanda and Jimmy didn’t notice him in the rush of the meeting breaking up. He was lost among all the teens laughing on the church steps, the bus from the senior center beeping with the loading of a wheelchair and the various elders on canes and walkers boarding slowly. Yolanda and Jimmy were turning the corner off Holloway Avenue when Marcus asked Sharon if she could drive the van, telling her he needed to talk to this guy who was waiting on the steps of the church, could she take the youth home to the Stats? Sharon said sure, but she wanted Marcus to wait for her, and walk her to her car when she got back.
Yolanda and Jimmy were dropping Jasmine’s cousin at his apartment building when the Latino guy introduced himself to Marcus on the steps of the church. He was Officer Rodriguez of the Holloway PD, one of the cops who had found the body of Anitra Jenkins, and he had something to tell Marcus, but he wouldn’t talk in the office unless he checked it out first.
Yolanda and Jimmy were approaching Sheena’s house when Rodriguez and Marcus walked quietly back into the office. Rodriguez didn’t say a word, but began looking behind pictures, under tables, and in lampshades. Rodriguez silently rolled a chair below the windows and found the first of several listening devices.
Yolanda and Jimmy were each hugging Dana goodnight as Marcus made a call from RBG’s landline to Sharon’s cell, just to see how soon she thought she’d be back, complaining that their connection was breaking up. As he spoke, Rodriguez took apart the phone receiver and pointed out the bug.
“Listen Sharon, I’m just here waiting,” Marcus lied into the phone. “The guy turned out to be some jerk from the Revolutionary Disruption Squad. I don’t have time for that shit.” Marcus continued as Rodriguez reassembled the phone receiver, “I’ll see you when you get here.”
Yolanda and Jimmy walked around a different block that night as Rodriguez and Marcus scanned the street for anyone who might be watching and climbed into Rodriguez’s personal car, realizing that Marcus’s car might be bugged. His house might be bugged. His cell might be bugged. Anyone associated with RBG might be bugged. Yolanda and Jimmy walked five times around the block, and this time arm in arm. The journal seemed to be working, and Yolanda felt no need to confess, as Rodriguez poured out his story about finding Anitra Jenkins: how everything looked wrong, but how his partner, the coroner, and the chief didn’t seem to want to look any further than the carefully choreographed surface of this death.
* * *
“Do you think maybe one of these days we could spend time together inside of a building?” Jimmy asked Yolanda with a chuckle.
“You can’t talk to anyone inside any building that isn’t a public place,” Rodriguez warned Winters.
“I don’t feel comfortable talking inside,” Yolanda said. “I’m sort of claustrophobic.”
“I shouldn’t even be talking to you now,” Rodriguez said. “I could lose my job over this.”
“Maybe I’m a little scared,” Yolanda said.
“I’m fucking scared, man,” Marcus said.
“Don’t be afraid,” Jimmy put an arm around her shoulder.
“You should be scared,” Rodriguez said. “I don’t know who the hell has your place bugged. Randell? Holloway Police? The FBI? Fuck. Don’t ever say my name out loud to anyone. Not in person not over the phone, you understand? Don’t even talk in your sleep.”
“Don’t give me the runaround,” Jimmy said. “If you don’t really like me, promise you’ll just let me know, okay?”
“It’s not that, Jimmy,” Yolanda said.
“What is it, then? Is there somebody else in the picture?”
“I get the picture,” Marcus said. “But how the hell can we be in communication?”
“I’ll contact you,” Rodriguez said. “I might send someone else with a message.”
Yolanda laughed. “No, Jimmy. There’s nobody else. I’ve been single since . . . forever.”
“Well, what is it?” Jimmy asked. “I mean, when we met at the runner’s path, there was this incredible chemistry. You said you couldn’t date me because you were so deep in your studies for the bar. But now that you’re practically working for RBG, you don’t seem to care if you pass the bar or not. You’re not even sure that you want your law job. Can’t you make room for me in this new life?”
“I don’t know,” Yolanda said. “I mean I’ve . . . dated a few guys. But I always fit them into the spaces between the work and school. I’ve never really let anyone get that close. But when I’m around you, it’s like I could drown in this feeling.”
“I’m in way over my head here,” Marcus said. “What the hell do I tell all my folks?”
“Start with the bugs,” Rodriguez advised. “Tell your folks individually. Say you’re the one who found them. Tell them to act like nothing happened. You don’t want whoever it is to know you know they’re listening. Tell the adults, not the kids. Outside the office, outside the car. Go for a walk.”
“Thank you for walking me home, Jimmy,” Yolanda said, as they stood in her doorway. He propped the door open against his shoulder, the cool night air rushing into the dim hallway around them.
He squeezed her hand. “I’m not the kind of guy who fits into the tiny spaces between other things.” He stared at the grimy, worn carpet, its diamond pattern dulled by years of dirt and wear.
“I mean, I’ve got a busy life, too,” he went on, then looked in her face again. “But I want to inconvenience you. I want to lose sleep over you. I want to stand in front of my students, bleary eyed, and wonder if they can smell your goodbye kisses when I open my mouth to lecture about some biology concept I couldn’t fucking care less about at that moment,” he pulled her closer to him. “I want days that start and end with you.”
Yolanda felt a spasm of desire in her belly and below. She wondered if she could stay standing.
He leaned in to her and kissed her softly, all lips, no tongue. He lingered for just a second, and then pulled back.
“I’ll be patient,” he assured her. “We can take our time. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
Yolanda couldn’t speak, so she just nodded.
“Goodnight, Yolanda,” he said, and ran his finger from her ear along her jawline before he turned and let the door shut behind him.
Marcus closed Rodriguez’s car door and watched the cop drive away. He stood on the curb, waiting for Sharon to get back with the van. He would tell her as he walked her to her car. Maybe he would crash on her couch tonight. Her wife would probably be cool with that. He couldn’t stand the thought of walking into his empty and cold house, wondering who the fuck might be listening.