Ask him if he knows what’s going on with the Hendersons.”
“His name is Rossi and I saw him today. He was parked across the street from the Hendersons’ house.”
“There you go. He’s looking out for them. That’s his job, not yours. Let him do it.”
“That’s not why he was there. All he cares about is finding some other way to nail Dwayne because he killed Wilfred Donaire.”
“What? Are you saying Dwayne was guilty? When did that happen?”
Alex’s face reddened as she stammered. “I. . I. . I never said that. Rossi said it.”
Bonnie studied her, one eyebrow raised.
“Don’t give me that look!” Alex said. “Besides, Rossi’s a homophobic asshole. I told you how he arrested Dwayne on a bogus murder charge the day Dwayne was acquitted just to send him a message.”
“And got you out of bed in the middle of the night. I remember. I woke up to go to the bathroom and you were gone and I panicked. When you finally came home, you looked like the dog had died.”
“I told you what happened. It was something I ate. Dwayne had nothing to do with it.”
“Of course not. Why would I think that and why would I worry about you trying to protect the Hendersons from him? What will you do if you see Dwayne attacking Jameer or his family on one of your drive-bys? Jump out of the car and beat the crap out of him? Or shoot him with your finger gun? I don’t think so. From what you’ve told me about Dwayne, he scares the crap out of me, and even if you won’t admit it, I know he scares the crap out of you too.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I know you. I see how you tense up whenever you talk about him, how your voice gets a little shaky. And if you really think he’d do something to the Hendersons and not to you, you’re a fool, and you are nobody’s fool. So do both of us a favor and drop it. Please.”
Alex didn’t answer, picking up a dirty pan and scrubbing the bottom like she was trying to wear it out.
Bonnie asked, “Are you listening to me?”
“No, but I like the sound of your voice.”
It was how they fought, knowing how far to push each other before using humor to cover their retreat.
Bonnie kissed her on the back of the neck. “At least think about it.”
“Okay.”
**
Alex called Rossi the following morning as she was pulling out of her driveway.
“See anything interesting yesterday?” she asked.
“Can’t help you, Counselor,” he said. “You’re on the wrong side of the aisle.”
“Why were you parked across the street from Henderson’s house?”
“What were you doing driving down his street-again?”
Alex hesitated. “I just wanted to. .”
“Make sure your client hadn’t cut off Jameer’s dick and shoved it down his throat? I don’t blame you, especially after he confessed to you. That’s a lot of weight to carry around the rest of your life, helping a guilty man go free. I can’t imagine what that would be like if he added the Hendersons on top of it, but don’t worry. I’ll let you know if it happens. In the meantime, butt out.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you may know your way around a courtroom, but you don’t know shit about the street.”
“My clients are from those streets.”
“Jameer Henderson isn’t your client. You want to keep him safe, quit drawing so much attention to him with your drive-bys. Dwayne Reed already made you throw up in the street. He isn’t stupid. If he sees you sniffing around Jameer, he may decide it’s time to terminate your attorney-client relationship. Permanently.”
Chapter Ten
Alex ignored Bonnie’s plea and Rossi’s warning, though she was afraid of Dwayne, as much because of what he’d done as because of the cavalier and menacing way he’d confessed to her. He had her in a box, but the box was her shield. As long as she kept her mouth shut and as long as he believed that he might one day again need her courtroom prowess, she would be safe. She hoped to leverage her silence and his belief in her skill to persuade him to spare the Hendersons.
After six weeks, she had picked up the rhythm of the neighborhood. She knew whose kids played in the street, which women tended their gardens, and which old men whiled away the last days of summer rocking on their porches. And she recognized the young toughs, drug dealers who prowled the neighborhood, doing business on street corners, using kids as lookouts and runners.
In all that time, she never saw Mary Henderson carrying groceries into the house. Nor did she see Jameer Henderson cutting the grass, which had grown to half a foot or more, or trimming the shrubs, which were inching up to meet the windows.
On Saturday of the sixth week, she went to Henderson’s barbershop again, this time getting out of her car and going to the door, which that had been propped open to catch the afternoon breeze. Two men were waiting to get their hair cut. Another man was in the chair, a barber running a clipper across the back of his head. None of them was Jameer Henderson. They squinted at her, puzzled at what a white woman was doing in a black man’s barbershop.
“Is this Jameer Henderson’s shop?” she asked.
The barber, gray haired, with a close-cut silver beard that hugged his coal-black jaw, looked up from his customer and turned his clippers off.
“Yeah.”
“Is Jameer in?”
The barber narrowed his eyes and looked at her over glasses that were halfway down his nose.
“You see him?”
Heat rose in the back of her neck, the question making her feel as stupid as she must have sounded.
“When will he be back?”
“Don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Been awhile,” he said, turning his clippers back on, dismissing her.
The other men turned away. She stood in the doorway for a long moment before walking slowly back to her car. Sitting behind the wheel, she thought about what Bonnie had said, that she was becoming obsessed. She conceded that she was, at the very least, preoccupied with the Henderson family.
Dwayne Reed was a killer, and the code of the street demanded that he kill Jameer Henderson and Kyrie Chapman. In that moment, she knew that Bonnie had been right. Kyrie’s life had to count just as much as Jameer’s. Ashamed for having dismissed his fate so casually, she went back into the barbershop.
“Kyrie Chapman,” she said. “Where can I find him?”
The barber looked up from his customer.
“You ain’t much for hello and good-bye, are you?”
Alex conceded the point. “Sorry. Hello. Where can I find Kyrie Chapman?”
“County morgue, I ’spect. Heard he got hisself killed last night.”
Alex ran for her car and gunned the engine, kicking up dust and laying down rubber as she sped away. Three minutes later she skidded to a stop in front of Jameer Henderson’s house, bolted from the car, and raced up the walk, arm raised and fist balled, poised to pound on the front door.
But the door was open, not all the way, just enough for her to gag at the coppery smell of blood coming from inside and to expose Mary Henderson’s body lying on the floor, bra twisted around her neck, naked and bloody from the waist down.
Hand over her mouth, she eased the door open until she could see the rest of the front room where Mary’s body lay. Her children, LaRhonda and Cletus, lay on the floor not far from her, arms and legs bound, their heads
