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.
“And?”
“And most of my other clients are only willing to pay me so much because they want a woman to defend them in domestic violence cases.”
“I see. You tired of representing assholes.”
She raises a hand up. “I never said you weren’t an asshole.”
I nudge her playfully. “Fuck you.” And for the first time since we met, Marsha doesn’t correct me, doesn’t tell me to stop cussing. She smiles, reaches past me again to rummage around the glove compartment, pulling out another pair of glasses. She hands them to me and I place them on my head. The world goes this auburn color that makes everything hushed.
We pull up to OPD headquarters and, this time, the metal doesn’t seem so daunting. It almost welcomes us in; maybe it’s the auburn, the way it fades everything into a familiar brown. Or it could be Marsha. I’ve learned how to keep up with her strides now, so we walk side by side, her heels clicking, my sneakers squeaking, the linoleum not prepared for our kind of women.
Marsha doesn’t stop at the front desk like I expect her to, beelines straight for the personnel elevator. Nobody stops a woman who looks like she runs the place. Don’t matter that she don’t got a badge, that she’s got this black girl in ripped jeans following her. Most white women default to thinking they own every room they walk into, and Marsha is no different.
I hesitate, but follow Marsha into the elevator, which is empty except for us. The elevator lets us off at the top floor and it’s like taking a stroll down memory lane, to the first time I entered this building. They already replaced the name on the chief’s door, a piece of tape with “Talbot” written in Sharpie. The door is cracked open.
Marsha announces us by knocking on the door and we’re told to come in, take a seat. The room is covered in gray, accented by the peeling yellow cushion on the empty chair.
Talbot stands up as we enter and we complete every cross of handshaking. She’s short, racially ambiguous in that way that makes me sure people asked her what she was growing up and she probably just responded with “human” because when you blur every line it’s easier to become rigid and frank like Talbot. She sticks her hand out and I shake it, fight every notion my skin has of right and wrong. Marsha says impressions are everything and we’re expected to keep them up.
Marsha pulls a folding chair from the corner of the room to the desk, where Talbot has sat down again. I take the yellow seat and look out the window. It’s early May and spring is in full bloom, our sky bluer than ever, bridge not even clouded by fog. A flock of seagulls flies straight across the bay, skimming the water, producing a shadow mirror.
I swallow and sit like Marsha, back straight, legs crossed. There’s a rip in the knee of my jeans that I instinctually start to fiddle with. Whenever I do something I’m not supposed to, Marsha sucks in her breath, like the noise that precedes a lecture, and doesn’t say anything. Waits for me to figure it out. I move my hands under my legs and give Marsha the eye roll she hates so much.
Talbot doesn’t even take a beat before she starts making offers to pay me off, something about “making this easier on everyone involved.” Marsha interjects, says if there is a settlement, it will be done legally.