pusher and a murderer? Just because you ain’t never been convicted for it doesn’t mean we don’t know all about the people you’ve killed. You’ve got one of the worst reputations on the street.”
“You know what I think?” Detective Lennon spoke up as he sat down on the bed next to Mike Simmons. “I think maybe you were trying to sneak Mrs. Smith out of the house and Ms Zenawi stabbed you to try to protect her employer.”
“Or did it go down differently?” Swinson said. “Were you and Ms. Zenawi hooked up? You two have some kind of thing going on? Maybe you were torturing Mrs. Smith together to add a little spice to your sex life? Is that how you get it up? By taking a cattleprod to a sixty-seven year old woman? I think you both murdered Rachael Williams and then you attacked Tonya when she got suspicious. The only thing I can’t understand is why Natsinet would stab you.”
“You guys are a bunch of idiots. What the hell you been smokin’? That nurse did this shit all by herself. I’d never do anything to hurt Mrs. Smith. The only reason I was even up in there was because I thought something about that half-White African bitch wasn’t right. Bitch acted creepy as hell from the first time I met her. Tonya asked me to check on her moms and when I went up in there the bitch stabbed me.”
Detective Swinson smiled wide. He’d been trying to find a murder he could pin on the big ex-con for half a decade. Now, he was pretty sure he had him.
“You go ahead and tell that story to a jury. With your record, they’ll have you on death row before you finish your last sentence.”
“Man, fuck you! I don’t give a damn what you think. Just ask Mrs. Smith. I ain’t have shit to do with this. I tried to save her from that crazy bitch! Mrs. Smith is one of the only people in that neighborhood that gives a damn about me.”
“We’re listening.”
“True shit, man. When I was a kid she came over to my house once, when she heard that my Pops had beaten the hell out of my mom. See, he used to get real mean when he drank. He’d hit me and my moms with just about anything he could get his hands on. He’d put my mom in the hospital with a broken rib earlier that week and word had gotten back to Mrs. Smith about it. She walked right into my house and sat down at my kitchen table. She was pissed off. You could see it in her face. She pointed at my Dad and told him that it was his responsibility to raise me into a man, the kind of man that would help elevate our race, that would help eradicate the negative stereotypes the world has of Black men, that would ensure that our people continued to prosper and succeed. Then she asked him if he thought that his drinking, and runnin’ the streets with all kinds of different women, and beating up on his wife was going to set the kind of example I needed to become that type of man. My Pops looked like he was at school being chastised by the teacher. He broke down in tears and started apologizing and shit. He hugged me and my moms and told us both that he loved us. He never hit either one of us again. That’s the kind of woman Mrs. Smith is. Ain’t no way I would have hurt her. I’d give my life for that old woman.” He ran a hand over his bandaged stomach. “Shit, I damn near did.”
“He’s right.”
Detectives Swinson and Lennon turned as Carl Hendrix walked into the room.
“I just got finished talking to Mrs. Smith. He tried to save her. It was the nurse. She’d been torturing Mrs. Smith since the day she took the job. She used cattleprods and lighters and stunguns on her. Some real sick shit. And I think she may have done some worse stuff to her that she won’t talk about. I didn’t press her for details.”
“Awww shit. She did
“Damn. So he’s innocent?” Detective Lennon asked, that confident self-satisfied smirk slipping from his face, shoulders sagging, clearly disappointed not to be the one to put Big Mike Simmons on death row.
“Hell, he’s a hero and so is she. She shot the right woman apparently. Saved all of their lives.”
“What made her do it? What, is she just crazy or somethin’?”
“Let’s go ask her. See if we can get a confession.”
Natsinet knew the minute the three detectives walked into her room that they’d figured it out. They stared at her as they entered, without speaking, their minds working overtime, trying to reconcile what they now knew about her with the fragile-looking woman before them. They circled her bed, keeping their distance as if they were afraid she would strike.
“So, what did that old bitch tell you about me?”
“She told us quite a bit, but we’re more interested in hearing what you have to say,” Detective Hendrix said.
“Are you White?”
“No.” Detective Hendrix replied, “I’m Black.”
“But you’re half White aren’t you?”
“My mother is Italian. I grew up in South Philly.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Fluently.”
“You should just tell people that you’re Sicilian. They tend to be a bit darker than Italians and your skin is pretty light, almost White. You could pass.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you know. You see it everyday. You know what it means to be one of them. You see the welfare mothers and the crack whores and the gangbangers and the illegitimate kids and the deadbeat fathers. You see how people look at you when they realize that you’re not really White. How the position that was open just an hour ago when you called for directions on the phone is suddenly filled when they see your Black ass walk through the door. How they suddenly don’t have anymore apartments for rent in that building, or houses for sale in that neighborhood. How all the tables at that nice restaurant you’ve always wanted to try are now reserved except maybe for the one in the back by the kitchen, or next to the bathroom that nobody else wants. How they want to make sure you know how much that outfit or that jewelry or that purse or those sunglasses cost before you try it on, or how security makes it a point to be right behind you no matter where you go in the store or how many other customers there are. How that patrol car follows you for blocks wondering what the hell you’re doing in such a nice car or in such a nice neighborhood, just waiting for an excuse to stop you and search your car. You know all about that don’t you? You know what it’s like to be a nigger. So why the fuck would you want to be one?”
Detective Hendrix could feel his temper rising. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The hatred in the woman’s voice was staggering, even more so because she was talking about her own people. The detective felt embarrassed in front of his two White colleagues though he tried his best not to show it, wishing he was darker so that they wouldn’t be able to see him blush. He knew he must have been bright red from both anger and embarrassment. He stepped closer to the bed until he was standing directly above Natsinet. He leaned down to look her directly in her eyes. His jaws muscles clenched and veins stood out prominently in his neck as he struggled to speak in a calm measured voice.
“Yeah, I know what all of that feels like. But I also know what it feels like to be part of the proud heritage that helped to build this country. To be part of the culture that gave the world Blues and Jazz and Rock & Roll and R&B and Soul and Funk and even Hip Hop. I know what it’s like to be part of a people that came to this country in chains and now sits in all levels of government and business, lecturing about freedom and democracy all over the globe, dominating sports, and even carving out a place in the entertainment world. We have become one of the most emulated cultures on earth. I know what it’s like to be part of a people that came from nothing, with the entire world against us and fought our way up against all manner of adversity to become heroes to some of the same people that owned our ancestors. I know that pride. Let me ask you something Ms Zenawi, do you know how you tell which members of a species have the strongest genes?”
Natsinet glared at the Detective without speaking.
“You find the ones who have the greatest handicaps but are functioning at the same level as the ones who are not handicapped. The wolf with one leg that still runs and hunts with the pack. The blind bird that can still fly. The monkey with one arm that can still climb. Well, that’s us. That’s our people. We’ve been handicapped for generations, denied adequate education, adequate housing, equal opportunity for employment and advancement, yet we’re still here and we’re prospering. I know that pride. Adelle Smith knows that pride. But you don’t, do
