The police were meant to be a cornerstone of civilization. In dark past times the powerful had routinely preyed upon the weak, but now laws, not brute force, prevailed. Didn’t every child learn, as Julia had, that one could turn to the police for help in times of fear or trouble? They were pledged to serve and protect, not terrorize. Julia trembled to comprehend what she’d just witnessed. Those hooded Klansmen and their ilk were bad enough, but clearly Eva had good reason to fear the police too. Where would she be safe, much less find justice?
“Take your sister home, Kydd. Now.” Kessler’s eyes had gone cold and small.
To Julia he said, “You’re to say nothing about this to anyone, Miss Kydd. Not one word.”
“Or what, Mr. Kessler?” Julia shook off Philip’s restraining hand. In a weaker voice than she’d have liked, she added, “You’re afraid I’ll squawk?”
CHAPTER 14
Julia insisted she be let out of the taxi at Brentano’s. She hoped an hour of wandering among its congested shelves might calm her mind, but the shop’s dusty hush only amplified her unrest. She bought two books in gratitude for the refuge and retreated to a nearby tea shop, where fragrant steam and clattery commotion slowly eased her agitation. Only when she felt sure Philip would be gone for the evening, out to dine at one of his clubs and then off to the theater or concert hall with Jack, did she return home.
She was removing her hat in the vestibule when Christophine called out from the kitchen. Julia knocked twice and waited—well trained—for the quick yes, yes before pushing open the door. Christophine stood covered to her elbows in flour, two soft balls of pie dough plopped on the table in front of her. A stew of vegetables, chicken, and spices simmered on the range. Mr. Otto, her new Trini beau, was coming over for dinner later. Julia had promised to go out or spend the evening in her room, leaving the apartment free. “Smells wonderful,” she said.
“How be she?”
Christophine was asking about Eva. That morning over breakfast Julia had told her all that had happened since Saturday evening. She’d told her about the terrifying scene in Timson’s apartment, his theft of Eva’s manuscript, and the shocking news of his murder. She had explained the day’s errand, her anxiety about seeing Eva in police custody, and her determination to make sure Eva got a chance to defend herself. Christophine had listened with a deep frown, one cheek sucked into her mouth.
When Julia didn’t answer, Christophine whisked a palm across her apron and tapped her above the wrist, an old trick to catch Julia’s attention. “What happen?”
“Oh, Fee, it was—” Julia stopped. “You’re busy. You have your beau coming soon. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
“Here,” Fee said, handing Julia a spoon.
Julia took up the long-handled spoon and began to stir the stew. She’d been relegated to stirring early on, after episodes of dropped bowls, sliced fingers, and—twice—burned eyelashes. Each circuit of the deep pot made a soothing rhythm as she struggled to lasso her thoughts about the disturbing interview.
“The policeman struck her,” Julia blurted. “As if she were a dog. She was just sitting there, not moving or speaking at all. That made him angry, and he lashed out and hit her. Right there in the assistant commissioner’s office!”
Fee pinched both lips under her teeth. “It happen, miss. It happen all the time.”
“But she did nothing to provoke him. She has a perfect right to say nothing.”
Fee shook her head. Her rolling pin thumped and spun, thumped and spun. “Them police not so nice nice as you think. You see white-lady police. It be different for your friend.”
The spoon slowed. Julia winced at her own naivete. She stared at the flecks of flour on Christophine’s cheek, the glaze of perspiration along her hairline. She was wearing the opal earrings Julia had given her last Christmas. Once her mother’s, they glowed more richly against Fee’s skin than they ever had against her own. Christophine was angry but not shocked to hear of Eva’s treatment. The police she knew were not white-lady police.
It was a horrid term, crawling with implications. It suggested there was no such thing as what Julia had always referred to as simply “the police.” (Didn’t everyone? Or, rather, didn’t every white person of her acquaintance?) The definition she considered standard and universal—a helpful force for public safety and well-being—was apparently only one version of a widely varying reality. Even more unsettling to consider: Eva’s experience might be the more common, and Julia’s the more rare. The notion upended something foundational.
Christophine set aside the rolling pin. She lifted the limp circle of dough and laid it in the pie plate. Watching her, Julia felt something tighten inside at the thought of anyone laying a threatening hand on Christophine. “I swear, if anyone ever struck you or treated you badly in any way, I’d send up a howl so blue they’d hear it in China.”
Fee smiled and smacked her rolling pin across the center of the second mound of dough. “I got some good howl in me too, miss.”
Julia had heard that howl, and it was fearsome. Her stirring slowed again. “I can’t stop wondering what might have happened if Philip and I were not there.” She paused. “Or what probably happens all the time that I never knew about. It was as if the police could say or do anything and Eva had
