“And he said he seen the ones who did it,” Donnie says.
“He’s got names?” Jay asks.
“Naw, but he say they was at the meeting that night.”
“As far as we’re concerned, the Houston Police Department failed in its duties to protect one of its citizens, to see the law carried out,” Kwame says. Then, writing the press release in his head, he adds, “He’s a good-looking kid, hardworking . . . just the kind of message we want to send.”
“You talk to the mayor yet?” his father-in-law asks.
“I’m working on it.” A lie to a man of God, and family to boot.
“Well, tell her a lawsuit is coming. That’ll get her attention,” Kwame says.
“Look,” Jay says, trying to think of a way to slow them down, a way he can get out of this. “I don’t even know what kind of case you’d have, and second, I’m not sure I’m the right guy. I can’t really take on something of this magnitude right now. I do have other cases, other . . . obligations.”
The Rev nods to some of the men across the room, one of whom pulls a brown paper sack out of a metal lunch pail sit ting on the kitchen counter. The man, in faded Levi’s and mudcrusted work boots, walks toward Jay in the center of the room, handing him the paper sack. Inside there are bills: $20s and $10s mostly, some singles and loose change. “The Brotherhood ain’t a real group no more, not legally,” the man says. “We don’t have our own funds. But we got this together since just last week. We’ll try to get you some more soon.”
Jay looks at the men in the room, men who work just as hard as he does for what little they have. He hands back the paper bag. “I can’t take this.”
The men in the room look at each other, not sure what this means.
“I’ll get in to see the mayor this week,” Jay says. “She’ll take my call.”
He knows it’s true as soon as he says it. He’s always known she would see him if he pushed. And maybe that’s why he’s never tried. “I’ll talk to her.”
Chapter 9
The morning of, Bernie lingers a bit longer than usual in the bathroom, watching him shave, the way he combs his hair, the extra time he’s taking to groom himself. She’s taking note of everything, filing it away. In the bedroom, Jay makes a show of
“I got some stuff I have to get to at the office.” He slides on his shoes.
“I promised Daddy I’d finish up the programs for Sunday this morning. I thought you could meet me at the church later.”
Jay looks up at his wife, not immediately following.
“The doctor’s appointment, Jay?” she says. Then, seeing the blank look on his face, she sighs. “If you can’t take me, I’ll get someone at the church to drive me.” She’s pouting a little, cup ping her belly like a schoolyard ball, turning away from Jay, as if to let him know, this is mine, not yours. She’s aiming to hurt him, it seems, and he resents her for it. He didn’t ask to go talk to the mayor. This was her father’s idea. “Just tell me what time, B,” he says.
The phone rings in the kitchen. Bernie shuffles out of the room first.
When Jay comes into the kitchen, his suit jacket folded over his arm, Bernie is holding the phone receiver, pointing it in his direction. “It’s for you.”
He takes the phone from her hand. “This is Jay Porter.”
The voice on the line is gruff and slow. “Marshall’s dead.”
“Who?”
“My cousin.” It’s Jimmy calling.
Jay lays his jacket across the kitchen countertop. He glances at his wife, who is buttering a slice of bread at the table. Apparently, Jimmy didn’t share this news with her. His wife probably had no idea who she was just talking to.
Jay lowers his voice anyway, turning away from her. “What happened?”
“They found him in a ditch on Elysian,” Jimmy says, his tongue thick and uncoordinated this early in the morning. Jay can’t tell if it’s grief in his voice or Jack Daniel’s. “He must have run off the road is what they’re saying, fell asleep or had a heart attack, a stroke or something, just run right off the road. They saying he mighta been out there two or three days.” Then a sigh. “My God.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Jay says, because he can’t think of any thing else.
“You saw him Saturday night,” Jimmy says. “He look all right to you?”
Jay glances at his wife again. “Uh, yeah.”
“Well.” Jimmy sighs again. “That’s what it is, what I wanted to tell you.”
He asks Jay for the name of a good funeral home, one that might work out some kind of payment plan. Jay claims igno rance, mainly because he wants to get off the phone as quickly as possible. He feels mildly sick to his stomach. He’s nervous about going to the mayor’s office, for sure. But the phone call, the news from Jimmy, has also left him feeling unsettled. It’s not exactly sadness he feels for Jimmy’s cousin, but a vague sense of dread. When he hangs up the phone, Bernadine is looking at him, the buttered toast half-gone in her hand.
“The doctor’s appointment is at three, Jay.”
He nods. “I’ll be there after lunch.”
The mayor’s office is on the third floor of city hall, a squat lime stone building dwarfed by steel and glass on all sides, high-rises that have come to dominate downtown Houston. In 1939, when city hall was built, the city’s dream for its future didn’t reach past eight stories. The state flag sits on top of the government build ing; it is several feet wider and longer than the Stars and Stripes flying alongside it. There’s a reflecting pool in front of the
