In Jefferson County alone there had been almost two dozen police shootings that had left someone dead. Eighty percent of those dead were black despite fewer than ten percent of the population being black. Everyone knew something was off, but event by event, every shooting sounded right and reasonable. But how could that be?
A colleague had shown her the footage of the Rodney King beating. It was before her time. She wasn’t even ten years old when that happened so she didn’t remember it, but the folklore and his famous appeal still floated around the office, and eventually Melinda was pulled into it.
A nice guy she knew—who went by Wilky—tried to explain why King deserved every smack he got. He played the beating in slow motion the way the lawyers had done. At that speed, at that magnification, it all seemed right and reasonable. But when it was over and Wilky left her alone with the video, she played it over and over at full speed and it all felt wrong.
Wilky had made it sound like each cop had been left without a choice, and had a tough decision to make, blow by blow. But at full speed, she simply watched a guy getting the crap beaten out of him by people who were winding up for the nice strike—their batons bouncing off King’s pulverized muscles and joints.
Jeffrey’s death had really upset her. Jeffrey wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t even an adult. And even people who are both aren’t supposed to be treated like that by law enforcement. Jeffrey was just a little boy playing make-believe with his friends. And then a man who was sworn to protect him showed up on his lawn and killed him. And after that, the grand jury decided not to even hold a trial to see if there’d been a mistake made, let alone negligence or manslaughter or worse.
It didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t figure out what part was out of balance. People talked about “institutionalized racism” on TV and seemed pretty passionate about it, but it didn’t make immediate sense to her; didn’t all that end after segregation? Now that the laws are the same, aren’t we all just responsible for our own actions? Melinda didn’t doubt that there were racists and bigots. But doesn’t it all come down to what they do, not what they think? The angry people on the news sure didn’t think so, and every time Melinda thought of bringing this up with one of the black cops, she’s lost her nerve. No one wants to looks stupid on purpose.
Now she had a Norwegian police chief looking at the same thing. Maybe Irv was onto something with that Bible stuff; maybe Sigrid could see the world through different eyes and understand something they couldn’t. Even if she couldn’t, though, it felt strange having a foreigner ask her about Jeffrey. It made her feel uneasy and ashamed. It also made Jeffrey’s death feel larger; like eyes from around the world were watching upstate New York through a one-way mirror and judging her and everyone she knew. Maybe it’s a good thing; maybe this is what they needed. Witnesses.
Obama has stopped talking and now there is an advertisement for dishwashing detergent. She’s had enough with this late-night shopping and bathroom-waiting and babysitting. Irv told her that Sigrid was probably going to try to give her the slip somehow, so her job was to keep an eye on her, but this was taking forever.
You had to sympathize with a woman who had the runs, though. Traveling can be tough on the belly.
Melinda glances over her shoulder to aisle seven. Without taking her eyes off the restroom hall for more than a moment or two, she grabs some Kaopectate, Pepto, and Imodium and heads toward the bathroom. She walks down the short hall and steps into the women’s room. There’s a line of four sinks on her right and four stalls to the left.
“Sigrid, I’ve got some stuff that might help.”
Nothing.
“Sigrid?”
Melinda bends down and looks under the stall doors for feet.
“Sigrid, come on. Not funny. I’m being a good sport here. I don’t want to touch the bathroom the floor or crouch down or anything.”
Melinda opens each stall: every one is empty.
There is a small horizontal window on the far wall—big enough for a message in a bottle and little else—that’s encrusted with spider webs and bugs. There is no utility closet.
“Well, that’s impressive,” Melinda says to no one.
Using the radio on her belt she calls in as she exits the restroom and heads back to the main concourse.
“Cory?” she says to the microphone on her shoulder. “It’s Melinda. Tell Irv the Norwegian pulled a Houdini at Target.”
“Gave you the slip, Mel?”
“She’s a sly one.”
“I’ll tell Irv.”
“Roger that.”
Melinda climbs onto a green plastic lawn chair and then onto the round matching table, providing her with a commanding view of the store. There are a dozen shoppers. It is late. Several turn to look at her and Melinda gives them a casual wave. She looks toward the emergency exits in the back, but they aren’t open. No fire alarm has been activated and the theft sensors haven’t been tripped. Chief Inspector Sigrid Ødegård has made her move.
The One Percent
The megastore’s parking lot is lit by a grid of lamps that turn the asphalt into a glittering game of chess—one entering its endgame, Sigrid hopes, if her gambit proves successful. Without Melinda in tow, Sigrid jogs to the end of the building and turns the corner on her right, leading to the truck bays and dumpsters where the alley lights are switched off.
The passage smells of stale cigarettes, wet cardboard, and burnt clutch. Ahead, partly hidden from view, Sigrid sees Juliet McKenna standing in the same short purple skirt she
