Chapter 11
He’d called Neil before leaving his house, and per his brother’s instructions Alex took a circuitous route to the police station, even circling a couple times before being let into their private lot. Very few people in Detroit knew him, and Alex planned for even fewer to know about this visit. Wearing a black sweatshirt and windbreaker along with blue jeans, a black knit cap, and wraparound sunglasses, he was met at the back door to the station by the detective and let inside.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” the detective said as they walked down a short hallway.
Alex blew into his hands to warm them. “The timing was perfect; I just returned from a trip to LA.”
The detective’s look was skeptical as he remarked, “You left this place for California . . . and came back?”
Alex laughed. “I know, right?”
They entered a small room where the officer whom Alex’s brother, Neil, knew personally sat. Beyond him was a rectangular window that looked out into another small, gray-colored room. After exchanging brief greetings and taking a seat in an aluminum folding chair, Alex turned to the detective. “What was the suspect brought in for?”
“Parole violation; illegal possession of a firearm. The gun was sent to ballistics. They’re matching it against the shell casings that were found at the club.”
Six similar-looking African-American men filed into the room beyond them. Alex tensed and took a deep breath.
“They can’t see you,” the detective assured him. “We’ve made every effort to keep your identity secret because . . .” A look passed between the officer and the detective. “Well, just because.”
Alex nodded, not needing the detective to finish his sentence. Ten to one, the men lined up were into gang activity, drug activity, or both. Being revealed as a snitch could definitely prove hazardous to his health. He sat back in his seat as they stood against the wall. One scan and the face of the man whom he’d observed at Marlon’s private party, the same one who’d aimed his gun precariously close to where Carol had been seated, came into view.
“The second dude,” Alex said with assurance.
The officer looked surprised at Alex’s quick assessment. “From the left or right?”
“Second from the right.”
“Are you sure?” the detective asked.
“Positive.”
The detective gave a curt nod. “All right then.” He stood.
Alex followed suit. “Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“What happens now?”
“We hold him until word comes back from ballistics on the bullet match. We’re pretty sure we’ve got the right man but want our case to be airtight. The last two times he’s gone to trial, it’s gone his way.”
“Last two times? How many times has he been to court?”
“Too many. He’s been in the system since he was fifteen years old.”
“How old is he now?”
“Twenty-three.”
Alex’s shoulders slumped. On one hand, if this was the man who shot him, he deserved to do time. But on the other hand, this was yet another young African-American male who’d probably grown up without a father, without the proper guidance to make right choices. He’d expected to feel anger in the face of this would-be killer. He felt sympathy instead.
“Thanks, man,” he said to the detective, shaking his hand as they headed to the door.
“I know that was difficult,” the detective responded. “I wish things were different. But believe me, if our hunches turn out to be correct, prison is the best place for that young man to be.”
Alex left the police station parking lot feeling way worse than when he arrived. Less than twenty-four hours ago he was enjoying champagne kisses and caviar dreams, living life like it was golden among people who did the same. There were people who lived like his friend and the R&B and pop star, Gabriella, and then there were men like the twenty-three-year-old for whom life was an expendable commodity that for the promise of a couple dollars could be thrown away. He reached for his phone and placed the call on speaker. “Neil, it’s me.”
“I was just getting ready to call. I hear they caught the boy who shot you.”
“Boy is right, even though he’s technically a man at twenty-three years old.” Alex stopped for a red light. “News travels fast. I just left the station.”
“I’d asked my contact to keep me apprised of the situation. A bad seed, that brother they apprehended. He’s facing his third strike.”
“Damn!”
“Yep, damn shame.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“What do you want to know?”
Carol took a load of whites out of the washer and placed them in the dryer. She placed a load of colorful towels into the wash and closed the door to her laundry room. Next to her totally updated and modern kitchen, and her en suite bathroom, the laundry room was her favorite place. Before joining Gabriella as her personal assistant, Carol lived in an apartment with no washer or dryer. During those Saturdays when she’d load dirty clothes into her preowned two-door Infiniti G and head to the Laundromat, she dreamed of a laundry room with a deep sink for soaking, shelves for storing, and a mesh net to lay her prized sweaters to dry. They’d knocked out a wall and added space to make the laundry room well worth the few thousand extra dollars it had cost her. Especially on days like today, with snow falling and temperatures continuing to drop, she was thankful not to have to trudge outside to have clean undies.
She’d entered the kitchen and was looking into the refrigerator for something to eat when her phone rang. “Hello, Mama.” She put the call on speaker.
“Hey, girl. Where are you?”
“Back home.”
“Already?”
“Yes, we just went up there for the New Year’s Eve party.”
“We? You and Alex went together?”
“I thought I told you that.” Hoping for enough ingredients to make a salad, she bent down to look in the vegetable bin.
“You may have, but if so I forgot. You said he got shot, right?”
“Yes.” Carol stood straight. She could tell by her mother’s question and tone that something else was coming; probably something that she wouldn’t like. “Why?”
“What is he, a police officer or something?”
“A bodyguard, Mom.”
Carol’s mother grunted. “I wouldn’t be messing with no man who had anything to do with the law. You can’t trust a brother who’d go against another brother.”
Carol relaxed. Sometimes she swore her mother came of age in the sixties, complete with dashiki and fisted Afro pick. That and the fact her uncle, Jean’s brother, had done prison time for what her mother felt wasn’t “really a crime”—though federal drug laws said differently—sealed her dislike for the men in blue.
“His job isn’t like that, Mom. He guards brothers, protects their lives. Besides, I thought you liked Alex; you two seemed to get along the night we came over there.”
“He seemed nice enough, but I’m just saying . . .”
“What exactly are you saying?” Carol’s phone beeped. She checked the caller ID. “Mama, let me call you back.” She clicked over. “Hey, babe.”
Alex sighed in reply.
“What’s wrong?” Carol walked from the kitchen to the living room and plopped down on the couch.
“I just came from the police station.” He filled her in on what happened. “No doubt he has to pay for what he did, but I feel bad for possibly sending a young man to jail for the rest of his life.”
“You won’t be sending him; his actions and the court system will. But I feel you. That’s a burden to carry.” Her mother’s recent comments floated into her mind. “How old is he?” Alex told her. “My God. If he lives to be, say, seventy-five, he’d be behind bars over fifty years; more than two thirds of his life!”
“Exactly.”
“What would happen if you dropped the charges?”
“They’ve been gunning for this man for a while now. The state has taken the case and will prosecute no matter what.”
“What about recanting your statement; going back and saying you aren’t sure it was him.”
“I can’t do that!”
“I guess not. But would that be any more wrong than sending a young man to prison?”
“Didn’t I just tell you how bad I felt about it?!”
“Don’t yell at me. I’m not the one who shot you!”
You could have listened to a concerto in the silence that followed.
“Alex, listen, I—”
“No, it’s all right. What’s a minor gunshot, a little blood spilled, huh? What does it matter that Blacks kill Blacks seventy percent of the time, that the jails are crowded with brothers who’ve wounded their own? They didn’t have a father. I get it. Their education was stunted and their job chances are slim. Nobody bounced a ball with them or taught them how to knot a tie. What happened to me is just a by-product of what happened to him. Well, let me let you go so I can go find some love for the muthafucka who shot me.”
Dead air.
“Alex?”
Carol slowly set down the phone, tears immediately and unexpectedly coming to her eyes. How had the best time she’d ever had in life turned sour so suddenly? How had she gone from sunshine to sadness in the space of one call? In other words, she asked herself, what the hell just happened?