Marsha sighs, slips her bottom lip under her top one. “You will be under oath and I will never advise you to break that. However, if you do decide to lie, then most likely your brother would go to prison for a considerable period of time and the grand jury wouldn’t indict, meaning all the officers who were involved can continue to do whatever they would like without consequence.”
“And if I tell the truth?” The sun’s finally found its way into the peak of the sky and Trevor’s probably starting to stir from his Sunday sleep.
Marsha’s whole body relaxes, letting her shoulders drop for the first time. “If you tell the truth, then we have a chance at an indictment and changing the way this kind of thing works. After that, we can sue the police department and get you enough money you won’t have to do this anymore.” She sighs. “For now, we prepare. They’re going to throw everything at you. As soon as the district attorney’s office alerts us of a subpoena, we’ll need to be ready for every question, every little thing they might ask. Only the district attorney, the jurors, and a court reporter will be present for your testimony, since the grand jury is closed. That means we need to get you ready, so you won’t even need me in the courtroom. For now, you stay under the radar. I don’t want you on the streets and I don’t want you near any officer under any circumstances. Understand?”
I nod and I know that by trusting Marsha, I’m giving up these streets, giving up so much of what has become my world, at least for now. I thought it would feel like a celebration, and it does, but it also feels like a grieving, still trying to make sense of the months and the men and what I have given up in the name of feeling like I am in control, like I belong to myself even for a moment before it fractures and I remember. When I am tired and cold and just want to curl into a bed that isn’t a couch or eat something that isn’t microwaved. Marsha is telling me I’m free, but I’m still living with the repercussions of the streets, of the job that was supposed to just be a job until it became much more.
Marsha looks satisfied enough, says she’ll take me home. There’s still half the pizza left over and Marsha says I can take it with me. Trevor’s gonna devour the rest of it, stuff his belly until I can’t see his ribs no more. The thought of it has me really smiling for the first time all week.
Before she lets me out of the car, Marsha reaches over and squeezes my hand. Hers is so small I bet two of her fists would equal the size of my one. “If you act like you know what the fuck you’re doing, people will trust that you do. That’s it, that’s how you win.” Hearing Marsha cuss is like hearing a dog talk and I know she meant it like that, no way for me to ignore it. I nod, step out the car, and walk up to my gate.
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.”
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.