by M. S. Parker
“What the hell?” I demanded.
“You watch your language, young lady,” he warned, pointing a thick finger at me.
“The hell I will!”
Famous last words…
Her name was Sharon.
As we sat in the back of the police car on the way to the station, she kept whispering under her breath, “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
I looked over at her and shook my head. “You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Then I shifted my gaze back to the front.
If looks could kill, the man driving would’ve suffered death from some sort of weird head implosion, because I’d been glaring at him for the past thirty minutes, ever since he’d grabbed me and Sharon, shoving us both toward the car.
We were now sitting in the back, handcuffed together, sweating and miserable.
“You two, be quiet back there,” Officer Friendly snapped.
Not that his name was Officer Friendly. I hadn’t been able to read his badge, and he’d refused to give me his name.
That had to be some sort of violation of civil rights.
But did the rights as I knew them even exist in this time?
When did the Miranda come into being?
I had no idea.
I should write a book—How to Prepare for Time-Travel, then research all the fucking rules and laws that people might need to know. For every time period, for every continent.
If I hadn’t been so pissed, I might have laughed at the insanity of it all.
The cop’s eyes bored into mine through the rear-vision mirror. I stared right back. I wasn’t going to be intimidated by some racist jerk. “We’re just talking.” I kept my voice level, none of the outrage I felt showing in my voice.
“Unless you’re begging me and the Almighty for forgiveness, you don’t need to be talking or anything else.”
“I’m almost positive I’ve got the right to speak if I choose, providing I’m not causing a disruption!” Now it was harder to hold my outrage in check. Outrage, humiliation, fear. The way he was looking at me, it was like I wasn’t even a person.
“You have whatever rights I decide you have when you’re in my squad car.”
“That’s bull—”
Sharon nudged my foot with hers and I lapsed into silence just as the cop slammed on the brakes and turned to glare at me. “What were you going to say, girl? I’ve had enough of that filthy mouth of yours.”
“Baloney,” I said, smiling sweetly. “But…very well. I’ll be quiet.”
Through narrowed eyes, he continued to watch me.
Seconds ticked by.
The hot air in the back was barely circulating and I was so miserable, I thought I might be sick.
Finally, he turned back around, swearing and talking under his breath.
He hit the gas, taking the next right with tires squealing, driving so fast Sharon was thrown against me as I smacked my head on the window. I bit my tongue to keep from making a noise.
Sharon didn’t make one either, and as she straightened, she gave me a long, sad look.
I’m sorry, she mouthed again.
I wished she’d stop.
It wasn’t her fault.
With my uncuffed hand, I reached over and patted hers, then twined our fingers together.
She was terrified, and as the drive stretched on, winding through what felt like half the city, my outrage began to give way to fear as well.
Calm down, I told myself. My hands were sweaty, but it had nothing to do with the fact that the officer refused to put the back windows down. A cold chill raced down my spine, while perspiration broke out over my forehead.
Calm down. When we got to the police station I was going to get a hold of a lawyer—
It hit me.
Just how was I going to get a hold of a lawyer? And how was I going to be able to afford one? And assuming I could manage to get an attorney, what about the poor woman next to me? I’d tried to help, but I’d probably made things even worse.
There was only one option really.
I’d have to call Florence.
Tears stung my eyes and it was more than just my pride being stung because I’d have to rely on a friend—again.
It was because that friend was the only one I could rely on.
I couldn’t sit in jail, not when I was pregnant.
Jails were hard enough on women in my time—pregnant women had lost their babies because of neglect and who knows what. I’d read more than one news story about it. And that was fifty years from now.
I wasn’t going to risk my baby’s health when there were other options.
I’d call Florence.
Because I couldn’t exactly call the baby’s father, now could I?
A half desperate laugh rose inside me, but I choked it back. I couldn’t give into that fear now, even if things suddenly felt a lot more real to me.
My confidence from just a few minutes ago had already started to die a slow, miserable death. Now it was in its final throes as the police officer pulled his car in front of a squat building with a sign in the window that read Police Department.
Next to me, Sharon continued to shiver. I’d swallow my pride even more, and ask Florence if she could help this poor girl, too.
I’d help bring this on, after all.
As the cop got out, I turned to her. “What’s your name, Sharon? Your last name.”
“Cook,” she said softly. “I’m so so—”
“Stop apologizing.” The door next to me was jerked open and hard fingers dug into my upper arm, jerking me out. Sharon’s slim form was all but dragged along and the cuffs that bound us together bit into my wrist. I hissed in pain.
“Is there a problem, girl?” The officer leered at me.
He knew damn well what the problem was.
I lifted my chin and stared him down.
Arrogant prick.
“High and mighty bitch, aren’t you?” He rubbed at his chin. “Sometimes, I wonder where you people get it from.”
He tightened his grip on my arm and started to walk, pulling both of us along with him.
Over my shoulder, I looked back at Sharon, trying to convey a message. It’s going to be fine.
She smiled at me—a brave smile, I thought.
But she didn’t believe me.
I didn’t really believe myself, either.
I’d only read about the Civil Rights Movement, and learned about it through the lens of time.
Now, caught up in it, I knew I was in over my head.
But I didn’t regret trying to help her.
I wasn’t sorry.
Six
Glenn
It had been just over twenty-four hours since I’d left the studio.
I was worn out, hot and furious, and now that I had finally gotten somebody to talk to me, I thought my legs might give out underneath me.
Almost a day.
It had taken me almost a day to find Maya, and I only found her because somebody had finally allowed her a phone call.
Allowed her a phone call.
She was inside a fucking jail cell, and if one of these bastards didn’t get her out, I was going to hurt somebody.
Then you’ll end up inside a jail cell, too.
I’d already called everybody I could think of, the first call going to Florence to let her know where I was, and that I was doing everything in my power to get Maya out of jail.Then I’d started making other calls.
I knew a city councilman, so I’d called him.
I’d once been at a party with the mayor and his wife, so I called them—or rather, I tried to call him and I’d ended up on the phone with his wife, but she’d told me the mayor was out trying to deal with this unpleasant business in Watts—could she please help me?
Every fifteen minutes or so, I was back inside to pace and find somebody else to yell at.
The yelling probably wasn’t doing me much good, but I’d sort of
lost my temper somewhere between being told she’d been involved in an altercation and they were considering pressing charges.
I’d already had words with the cop who’d brought her in, and I wanted to wrap my fingers around his thick neck.
“I tried to give her a chance to just walk away, but she insisted on sticking her pretty nose where it didn’t belong…no, no, see, what happened was these two boys caught a girl who was breaking into a house, and this other girl shows up and insists they don’t know what they’re talking about—”
He hadn’t much cared for my assumption that maybe they hadn’t known what they were talking about.
I’d pushed to know why he’d arrested Maya, and I hadn’t gotten much of an answer.
“Look, I don’t see why you’re so mad that I arrested your sidepiece. You don’t like it, then maybe tell her to show more respect to her betters.”
I’d almost reached across the counter and dragged him to the ground so I could beat him bloody then and there. It had been interrupted by the captain approaching me—apparently, he’d seen the murder in my eyes.
“I’ve got word to have her brought out to speak with you,” he said, giving me a genial smile. “I’m sure we can get this misunderstanding cleared up, Mr. Jackson.”
The phones were ringing non-stop and as we stood there, four uniformed officers—including the one who’d called Maya my sidepiece—went running out the door.
The captain had a pained look on his face and abruptly, he gestured to me, beckoning for me to follow.
I ended up a dim, dingy room lit by a bulb that might do the trick when sunlight was there to aid it, but come nightfall, it wouldn’t do shit to penetrate the gloom.
“Have a seat. I’m going to go see what the hold-up is.”
I didn’t sit. I paced. I leaned against the window, covered by bars, and stared outside. There was smoke off in the far distance, and the people who gathered on the street cast worried looks in that direction. Nobody lingered for long.
I didn’t blame them.
I didn’t want to be this close to where things seemed to be going to hell either.
The door swung open and I turned, about ready to explode—
And there stood Maya.
Her dress was rumpled, her hair was limp.
I took a step forward, only to stop.
She had bruises ringing her arms—the kind caused by big, hard hands handling somebody with soft skin far too roughly.
“Who put bruises on you?” I demanded.
She blinked, looking half-asleep. Then, she looked down at her arms and shook her head. “What are you doing here?”
“I…” Shaking my head, I brushed the question aside. I’d worry about the bruises later. Focusing on the captain, I asked, “What do we need to do to fix this?”
The captain studied me for a moment, then he just waved a hand. “Go on. Just…girl, stay out of trouble.”
Maya opened her mouth, the closed it.
“I’m not leaving.” She crossed her arms mutinously over her chest.
“The hell you’re not.” I stalked over to her.
“There’s another woman here—Sharon Cook. I was just trying to help her because these two jerks were hassling her. She didn’t do anything wrong, and she shouldn’t be in here. I can’t leave her here alone.” Maya’s lower lip trembled but she lifted her chin in proud arrogance.
There was something in her eyes, though.
“You go on back to your life, Glenn. I called Florence. I’ll ask her to help me and Sharon when she gets here.”
My heart cracked open and I wondered if all of this had happened a week...or months ago…years ago…
She would’ve asked you.
That was the look in her eyes, the plea she wouldn’t give voice to.
She was scared, but she wasn’t about to tell me.
Sighing, I looked at the captain. “You look like you’ve got your hands full, and it sounds to me like maybe there was a misunderstanding. All around. If there’s a fine for this Miss Cook, maybe I can pay it and just…settle everything.”
Maya had insisted she’d just walk back to her apartment.
Her apartment was in Willowbrook. Sharon planned to go back to her own place in Watts.
Instead of exploding like I wanted to do, I managed to keep my calm and explain the situation around the riots and how bad things were getting.
Sharon looked frightened.
Maya, though, as I’d spoken, something lit her eyes—it was like I’d given her a piece to a puzzle, and she’d turned away, covering her face with her hands.As Sharon insisted she’d be fine, it was Maya who ended up convincing the other woman she needed to get out of the city.
That had been two hours ago.
Now Maya stood by my car, hugging the slender young woman tightly. Sharon Cook looked hardly old enough to bear the burdens she was already carrying, and she had insisted if I’d just let her be, she’d be just fine.
But I’d heard too much talk while I waited in the station for news of Maya.
The riots in Watts were probably going to get worse, and they’d already spread past that one area.
Maya and Sharon hadn’t even been in the precinct where they’d been arrested—that jail had already been full, although it sounded like it was turning into a battleground now.
Finally, I’d convinced Sharon to let me take her someplace outside the city.
She had family north of Los Angeles, a farm where she’d grown up, so that was where we went.
Those two hours, I sucked down the worry, the fear and the frustration. It had been pure hell—but even once Maya climbed back into the car, I kept my mouth shut and my focus on the road.
I didn’t want to explode and lose focus of just why I was fucking pissed.
I just hadn’t liked how she was treated, that was all. Her, or that kid, Sharon. And Sharon was a kid, barely eighteen. That’s why I was pissed. It had nothing to do with it being Maya, or her being pregnant.
Yeah, right, a sardonic voice in the back of my head whispered.
“If you squeeze that steering wheel any harder, you’re going to break it.”
It was the first time she’d spoken directly to me in well over an hour.
There was another crack in the tenuous hold I had over my control.
Next to me, she squirmed a little. “Is…” then she stopped talking.
“What?” I demanded.
When she didn’t reply, I shot her a quick look.
She was fussing with one of the pearl buttons on her blouse. And that was when I noticed something.
Her breasts were bigger.
It was a faint difference, but it was there, nonetheless. My mouth went dry, even as my vision started to go red.
The baby.
The baby she’d lied about.
Whipping my head around, I forced myself to focus on the road. “Maybe in the future, they can read minds, but here, we still have to ask in order to know what somebody wants. What in the hell do you want, Maya?”
“A bathroom,” she said. The flat tone of her voice all but gutted me.
“Oh.” Hell. “Yeah. Yeah. Whatever.” We’d passed a service station on the way to the farm where we’d taken Sharon. “There should be one in another mile or so.”
There had been a diner, too.
I was starving.
“We’ll stop and get gas, some food,” I said.
She nodded.
From the corner of my eye, I could see that she was staring out her window.
And she kept playing with the pearl button on a blouse that had probably once been white. It was dingy now, and wrinkled, clinging to her soft curves in the summer heat.
Guilt hit me hard.
No matter how much it hurt that she’d lied to me, she was still with child, and the past day had been even harder on her than it had me. Yet she hadn’t complained, had hardly said anything except try to make Sharon feel better.
I spoke a
gain, softening my voice. “We can take a bit of break. You’re probably tired.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice stiff and formal. “You can just take me to Florence’s house and I’m sure they can help me get back to my apartment.”
Like hell, I thought. But that was a fight for later.
“We at least need to get some gas and food. It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah.” She sighed softly and shifted in the seat, resting her head on the padded headrest.
I didn’t want to think about how fragile she looked.
I didn’t want to think about how easily she could’ve been hurt…or worse.
It was that thinking that had me opening my mouth again, when I really should’ve just stayed quiet.
“You know, one might think that somebody from the future would’ve had some idea of what was going on in the Watts area, and they’d know to stay the hell away from there—and getting involved like you did earlier? Are you just looking for trouble?”
Although it was hot and the wind blowing through the open windows of my car wasn’t helping, it felt like a cold front settled in my car in that moment.
“Excuse me?” Maya asked, her voice edged with ice.
I shot her a look, still pissed. “You have any idea what could’ve happened to you? People have gotten killed in some of these riots, Maya. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that if more people could see what the black people of this world had to live with, if more of them got up off their asses and actually showed some empathy, then maybe there wouldn’t have been a need for any riots at all—that maybe nobody would’ve died to begin with!” she said, her voice so tight and low, it was like she was fighting not to scream.
“You think I don’t see some of the shit that’s happening? That I don’t think it’s unfair?” I’d reached the gas station and pulled into the parking lot, but instead of going to a pump, I turned and glared at her.
“Unfair?!” She laughed and it was a broken, jagged sound. “Unfair is when you might lose your part to a younger, less-talented actor. What black people have to live with is more than unfair. Sharon was just trying to do her job! She cleans houses, for crying out loud. She had a key, and two jack-asses thought they could hassle her. And because I stopped to help her, and because I don’t look completely white myself, they figured I was fair game!” she shouted.