“What you really mean, but you’re too polite to say, is that there aren’t black families in East End.”
“I guess. Maybe.”
I follow him into our room and unzip my skirt, peel off my panty hose. When I’m wearing the T-shirt and boxers I usually sleep in, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth beside Micah. I spit, wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. “Did you know that inThe Lion King,the hyenas—the bad guys—all speak in either black or Latino slang? And that the little cubs are told not to go where the hyenas live?”
He looks at me, amused.
“Do you realize that Scar, the villain, is darker than Mufasa?”
“Kennedy.” Micah puts his hands on my shoulders, leans down, and kisses me. “There is aslightchance you’re overthinking this.”
That’s the moment I know I’m going to move heaven and earth to be Ruth’s public defender.
I’M GUESSING THIS LAWYER’S PRETTYdecent, given how swanky his office is. The walls aren’t painted, they’re paneled. The glass of water his secretary gets me is a heavy crystal tumbler. Even the air smells rich, like the perfume of a lady who would normally shy away from me on a public street.
I’m wearing again today the jacket Francis and I share, and I’ve ironed my pants. I have a wool cap pulled low on my head, and I keep twirling my wedding ring around and around on my finger. I could pass for any ordinary Joe who wants to sue someone, instead of a guy who would normally skirt the legal system and take justice into his own hands.
Suddenly Roarke Matthews is standing in front of me. His suit is ironed with knife-edge pleats, his shoes are buffed to a high gloss. He looks like a soap opera star, except that his nose is a little off-kilter, like he broke it playing football in high school. He holds out a hand to greet me. “Mr. Bauer,” he says, “why don’t you come with me?”
He leads me into an even more imposing office, this one full of black leather and chrome, and gestures to a spot on the love seat. “Let me say again how sorry I am for your loss,” Matthews says, like everyone else does these days. The words have gotten so ordinary in fact that they feel like rain; I hardly even notice them anymore. “On the phone, we talked about the possibility of filing a civil suit—”
“Whatever it’s called,” I interrupt. “I just want someone to pay for this.”
“Ah,” Matthews says. “And that is why I asked you to come in here. You see, it’s quite complicated.”
“What’s so complicated? You sue the nurse. She’s the one who did this.”
Matthews hesitates. “You could sue Ruth Jefferson,” he agrees. “But let’s be realistic—she doesn’t have a pot to piss in. As you know, there’s a criminal prosecution under way that the State has undertaken. That means that if you file a civil suit simultaneously, Ms. Jefferson would ask for a stay of all discovery, so she couldn’t incriminate herself during the pending criminal prosecution. And the fact that you’ve filed a civil suit against her can be used against you in cross-examination during the criminal lawsuit.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The defense will make you out to be a gold digger with a grudge,” Matthews says bluntly.
I sit back, my hands on my knees. “So that’s it? I don’t have a case?”
“I never said that,” the lawyer replies. “I just think you’ve chosen the wrong target. Unlike Ms. Jefferson, the hospitaldoeshave deep pockets. Moreover, they have an obligation to supervise their staff, and they are responsible for the nurse’s actions or inactions. That’s who I would recommend filing the lawsuit against. Now, we’d still name Ruth Jefferson—you never know, right now she has nothing, but tomorrow she could win the lottery or receive an inheritance.” He raises a brow. “And then, Mr. Bauer, you might not just get justice—you might get a very handsome payout.”
I nod, imagining this. I think about being able to tell Brit how I’m going to do right by Davis. “So what do we do to get started?”
“Now?” Matthews says. “Nothing. Not until the criminal lawsuit is over. The civil suit will still be viable when it’s done, and that way, it can’t be used to incriminate your character.” He leans back, spreading his hands. “Come back to me when the trial’s over,” Matthews says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
—
AT FIRSTIdidn’t believe Francis when he said that the new wave of Anglo supremacy would be a war fought not with fists but with ideas, spread subversively and anonymously through the Internet. But all the same, I was smart enough not to tell him he was a crazy old coot. For one thing, he was still one of the legends of the Movement. And more importantly, he was the father of the girl I couldn’t get my mind off.
Brit Mitchum was beautiful, but in a way that knocked me off my feet. She had the softest skin I’d ever touched, and pale blue eyes that she ringed with dark eyeliner. Unlike other skinchicks, she didn’t buzz her hair at the crown and let wispy bangs frame her face and the back of her neck. Instead, Brit had thick hair that spilled down to the middle of her back. Sometimes she braided it, and the braid was as thick as my wrist. I thought a lot about what it would feel like to have those curls hanging over my face like a curtain as she kissed me.
But the last thing I was going to do was make a move on a girl whose father could have my spine snapped by making a single phone call. So instead, I went to visit, often. I pretended to have a question for Francis, who liked seeing me because it gave him a chance to talk up his idea for an Anglo website. I helped him change the oil in his truck and fixed a leaky garbage disposal for him. I made myself useful, but when it came to Brit, I worshiped from afar.
So I was pretty blown away when one day she came out to a chopping block where I was splitting wood for Francis. “So,” she says, “are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?” I asked.
“They say you took down a whole motorcycle gang and that you killed your own father.”
“In that case, no,” I said.
“Then you’re just a little pussy like the other guys who like to pretend they’re big bad Anglos so they can bask in my daddy’s glow?”
