“Those are some real good kids over there. Not too much trouble.”
I look down at her boots—the same clean leather boots as before. Manman told me not to judge people by their clothes but by their shoes. A wise person will only be left with threads, but their shoes should be made for endless walking in search of a better life. “If you already know that the school is good, then why are you asking me?”
She laughs. “Smart cookie. It’s always good to get an inside perspective, you know?”
I pick up the colorful jar, place it back on the shelf, and walk away.
“Wait. You are Donna’s cousin, right?”
I stop. I don’t turn. I wait for her to explain herself.
“I need to talk to you.”
“How do you know Donna?” I ask, only turning a little just to see her face.
She shrugs. “I also know Pri and Chantal, and their mother, Marjorie. I’m familiar with their case from several years back. Their father, your uncle, was killed near the Chrysler plant.”
I stand frozen for a moment because this is the first time I’ve heard someone actually say these words—your uncle was killed.
I turn to face her full-on. I look into her eyes and decide to trust her because she knows this important part of our story.
The restaurant the lady takes me to is within walking distance from the school, so I can always run back if anything happens. Besides, I didn’t even know there was somewhere nice to eat so close to the school. It’s a Mexican restaurant that serves rice and beans and I’m happy to finally get to eat something familiar.
She sits across from me at a booth. I keep on my coat, but she removes hers. She wears a white shirt, a blue sweater, light makeup on her brown skin, a simple wedding ring, and an endless smile. “Please, order as much as you want. I invited you here for a chat, so it’s good manners that I treat you to a meal.” Her voice is even and firm.
“Have you come here with my cousins?” I ask.
She exhales. “Actually, I have not.” She wipes her hands on a napkin and extends one out to me. “I’m Detective Shawna Stevens with the Grosse Pointe Park Police Department.”
I freeze and press my back against the seat. I start to slide out and contemplate leaving the restaurant.
“Wait a minute. You haven’t done anything wrong. This isn’t about you or your cousins. I just need your help,” she says. “And I can help you with your mother.”
I settle back into my seat. My skin, muscles, and bones feel as if they have melted away and I can simply step out of my body. “My mother? You can help?”
“Yes,” she says, nodding.
I smile at her. But my smile quickly fades as I realize that Papa Legba may open doors, but sometimes he leads you through a labyrinth. “How do you know about my mother and what do you want from me?”
She goes into her bag and pulls out a newspaper. Right there on the front page is a picture of a blond girl. I’ve seen her before, on the TV and on other newspapers lying around at school. The headline reads: PROTESTS SCHEDULED OUTSIDE DETROIT POLICE DEPARTMENT FOR THE DEATH OF GROSSE POINTE PARK TEEN.
I shrug. “She was on drugs.”
“Her name was Madison Helwig and she was seventeen years old. She died from a bad combination of designer drugs. We’re trying to find out how Madison and her friends got access to those drugs. And there’s a whole community that wants someone to go down for her death. Do you know anything about drugs and drug dealers, Fabiola?”
I shrink back in my seat again. I start to answer her but she cuts me off.
“Of course you don’t. Sure, you might’ve known some people in Haiti, but I think you know more of them now that you’re in Detroit,” she says. The waitress comes over to take our order, but Detective Stevens shoos her away.
My stomach twists into a knot. “I don’t know anybody,” I say.
She folds her hands in front of her and leans back in her seat. “Drayton Willis Carter. He goes by Dray.”
My stomach sinks.
“He’s Donna’s boyfriend, right?”
I shrug.
“Look, we need to get this guy off the streets. He’s selling drugs to these nice kids like you in and around Detroit. He’s not a good guy, Fabiola. But we need proof. We need evidence that he’s the one getting drugs into these parties. We need to catch him in the act.”
I look all around the restaurant. “But that is your job,” I say.
She inhales and looks around, too. “Yes, it is. But our work is not without the help of good American citizens like yourself. You are an American citizen, right?”
I nod slowly.
“And your mother is not,” she goes on. “That’s why they’re keeping her at that detention center.”
“But the American embassy gave her a visa. She didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.