A CO came to get me later. He said I had a visitor.
Katrina waited for me in the interview room. “Damn, you look terrible, Lalo. Don’t worry. We’re going to get you out of here.”
“No, leave me,” I said dully. “This is all my fault. Just do me a favor and check on Izzy, will you?”
“What the hell are talking about? You’re not making any sense.”
“I don’t need counsel, Katrina.” I turned to the corrections officer. “I’m ready to go now. Please take me back to my cell.”
19
It felt like I was hungover for three whole days. I will never, ever, EVER drink tequila again.
Thankfully I was sober by the time of my status hearing. I hadn’t even had a chance to meet with my public defender. So, when they brought me into the courtroom I was shocked as all shit to see Katrina sitting in the counsel’s chair.
I lifted my eyebrow in la mirada. What the hell is going on?
She gave me the look back. Don’t worry, cousin. I got you.
Katrina Amrani de Robles may be vain and sometimes shallow, but when she was on her game the girl had it going on. Not only did she have the look down pat, she had the lingo and know-how to go with it.
“My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor. We have incontrovertible evidence that Eduardo E. Rodriguez could not have committed this crime. At 1:47 p.m., the time of the victim’s death, he was with counsel and his employer at a southside location forty-five minutes away. I enter into evidence Exhibit A, the security footage from the Hyde Park Bank and Office Building. The recording is time-stamped with the day and time in question.”
The judge interrupted when the prosecutor raised his hand. “Do you have an objection?”
“We request that the case against the defendant be dismissed. Another suspect has confessed to the crime and has evidence to prove it.” The prosecutor consulted his notes. “One Isabella Esposito.”
“No!” I shouted at him. “I don’t want Izzy in jail.”
“Counsel,” the judge warned Katrina. “Kindly inform your client that these outbursts will not be tolerated. While he may be regaining his freedom, I have no problem charging him with contempt and locking him up again. Is that understood?”
Katrina shot me a look that said, shut your damned mouth.
“Has this new suspect been arrested and charged?” the judge asked.
“Early in the day she was admitted to Cermack Hospital here at the Cook County Department of Corrections. So far as we know at this time, she’s in the process of giving birth.”
20
“I’m not the one who dropped a dime on Izzy.” Katrina tore through rush hour traffic like a bat out of hell. “I didn’t even know she was involved. The evidence came from Monica Weissman, the decedent’s roommate…”
“Her novia,” I corrected.
“Her partner, then. She gave the police security footage of Isabella letting herself in through an unlocked door then twelve minutes later, running out and leaving the door wide open. It all matches up with Cindy’s time of death. I just don’t understand what her motive could be.”
“Izzy was crazy jealous,” I sighed. “The pregnancy got her all paranoid and she hasn’t been the same since. She was tracking my cell phone and found out I’d been by Cindy’s place twice that day.”
With the woman brutally murdered it didn’t seem right to keep calling her La Cindy. The fact that her real name was Cinderelle seemed even more bizarre.
Katrina shook her head. “So, Izzy went over, confronted Cindy and smothered her with a pillow because she thought the two of you had something going? Damn, Lalo. That’s….”
The twins exchanged looks.
“That’s tragic,” Terri finished.
“The bruises and cuts I saw on Izzy’s wrists must have been defensive,” I told them. “Izzy was eight and a-half months pregnant and Cindy was sloppy drunk. She still tried fighting back.”
Terri quickly blessed herself. Katrina whispered, “Madre de Dios.”
“I know you can get better speed out of this thing,” Terri told her sister.
‘Don’t be calling my car a thing. Her name is Betty Mae Wilson, AKA BMW.”
“Well, can’t Miss Betty move any faster? We’ve only got twenty minutes to get there.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To Juvenile Court,” Katrina explained, “to defend your parental rights. Isabella Esposito’s family are trying to get custody of your child as soon as she’s discharged.”
Marilda Rodriguez was born yesterday, the day of my status hearing. It had taken overnight to get me processed. When I was released, I found Terri and Katrina waiting outside for me.
“The baby was transferred to NICU at Rush,” Katrina explained, “but she’s holding her own. The Espositos claim you’re an unfit parent based on your criminal record, your lack of viable employment and your drinking problem. We all know that’s bullshit.”
“Well, not exactly,” I admitted. “My priors ain’t no secret and I don’t really have a job. I’ve struggled with an addiction before, but it wasn’t alcohol. Maybe I should just let Izzy’s family have her. How can I care for a newborn when I can barely take care of myself?”
Terri reached back and shoved me. “Don’t even talk like that. You grew up without a father, don’t do that to your child. That little girl is your flesh and blood. She needs you and you need her.”
“As far as a job goes,” Katrina added, pulling into the parking lot. “You are a full-time contractor with T. Robles & Associates. We had to get creative coming up with a job title. Until we get that felony expunged, we can’t call you an investigator. So, for now, you are…”
“…Research Coordinator,” Terri finished. “Professional-sounding but vague enough to cover a lot of bases.”
I couldn’t have loved those girls any more than I did at that moment. “I can’t let you do this. You shouldn’t be taking up for your older cousin. I’m a man, I should be taking care of you. I’ve never held you down. That’s how I wound up incarcerated. I’m sorry I hurt you, Terri.”
Terri frowned in my face. “What do you mean by that? That was my parent’s garage you broke into. I didn’t live there anymore.”
“I never really knew the whole story,” Katrina interjected. “I was away at law school. What exactly happened?”
“It was greed and my addiction. This negrón named Freddy Flinster talked me into helping him cut up a car that turned out to be stolen. I should have known better.”
Terri nodded. “Yeah, I remember. Fred Flintstone, he called himself. I didn’t like busting you, but I had a job to do.”
“When you saw him crawling around the back of the garage, Freddy was reaching into the trunk for a weapon. If that matón had shot you, I would have had to take him out.”
“Well, good thing he didn’t try it,” Terri reassured me, “because if he had, I would have got him first, believe that. You’ve already paid your debt and you don’t owe me nada.”
“Yes, I do. You’ve had my back for years. Remember that time you ran off those dudes that were coming for me in high school?”
21
When I started messing up at Washington High, Tío Papi gave me a lecture about hanging with losers. Then he got me transferred to St. Francis de Sales, where Katrina and Terri were starting high school that year.
One day these two kids decided to jump me. I don’t think they were on no gangbanging tip. These boys were straight up nerds. News around school was that some ladrón had robbed a Black kid at the bus stop. I knew why the homeys were mad but I wasn’t the one that did it. Even with two nerds against one fun-sized chavo, the odds weren’t in my favor.
“We’re fixing to play Whack-a-Mexican,” one of them said. “Dantrell, you hold him down.”
“Man, y’all tripping. I’m a straight up nigga.” I pointed to Dantrell, who was trying to grab my arms from behind. �
��I’m twice as black as him.”
“Did you say nigga?” The boy dropped my arms. “Jelani, you hear what he said?”
Jelani paused in mid-bitch slap. “Well, he is a whole lot darker than your yella ass.”
“My ass ain’t yella and that nigga ain’t no nigga. I never seen no brother with hair that straight.”
While they were debating my ethnicity, Teresita Robles came charging down the hall like a cheetah. She was wearing a jersey and shorts, so she must have bailed on basketball practice.
“You better not be messing with my cousin,” she hollered. “I’ll kick both you lames in the nuts.”
The light-skinned boy let me go. The other one stepped back to gawk at Terri’s long legs.
“That was on Dantrell,” he told her. “I knew from jump street he was a brother. Hey, girl can I get your number?”
“Matter of fact,” she grinned. “You both can have it.”
They looked at each other in shock. Dime-pieces like Terri didn’t talk to lames like that.
“So, what’s up with those digits?” Jelani asked.
“Come find me on September 31st. I’ll give it to you then.”
Terri grabbed my arm and pulled me away. The two boys stared after her. They knew they’d been tricked but couldn’t figure out how.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whispered. “I had it under control.”
“What, I was supposed to just stand there and let somebody kick your butt? Katrina came into basketball practice and said some guys were about to jump you.”
I would rather get a beat-down than look like a punk with my girl cousin saving my ass. True, she was almost six feet, nearly a foot taller than me. But she was a freshman to my senior, and she was a girl!
My twin sister Ash had already graduated from Washington and was in her first year at Chicago State. If I hadn’t messed up I’d be finished, too. There I was, a whole year behind being rescued by my 14-year-old cousin. I learned the words for me in French class: homme pitoyable.
I’d gone through life having my family protect me, instead of me taking care of them.
Terri reached over the back of the seat and hugged me. “I don’t even remember that. You’ll be taking care of us soon enough, working with T. Robles. We need somebody who won’t actually break the law, but knows how to…”
“Skirt it?” I winked. We got out and walked toward the Juvenile Court building. “Primas, let’s do this thing.”
22
I sat staring at the angel in my arms. There was no face more beautiful en todo el mundo.
I’d given her a bottle and she quickly fell asleep. Mari lay there in dreamland, her tiny red lips still sucking air. My daughter stretched, made a little grunt and grinned at me in her sleep. Katrina had already told me three-week-olds don’t smile. She was probably having gas.
When the doorbell buzzed I hurried to answer it. I didn’t want the noise waking up Mari. I opened the door to see my twin sister, Ashley, standing there. She was holding a big bag of disposable diapers and an oversized stuffed beagle.
“Lalo!” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Look at you. You’re a daddy now. Ooh, can I see the baby?”
“Sit down and I’ll let you hold her. Be careful, I don’t want to wake her up.”
“Que preciosa.” Ash gazed at her sleeping niece, the hunger plain on her face. “What’s the little’s one’s name?”
“Marilda Lorashlee Rodriguez,” I laughed. “Yeah, it’s a mouthful. She’s named for both her abuelas, Mami Imelda and Izzy’s mother, Marina. Her middle name comes from…”
“Me and our Aunt Lori. I’m honored.” My sister reached out to tenderly stroke Mari’s cheek. “You’re so lucky, Lalo.”
I smiled back. “Yes, I know.”
“It’s going to be hard on a single man raising a child alone.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have help. There’s Katrina, Terri, Aunt Lori and Tio Papi. Izzy’s parents will be in the baby’s life, too. They were trying to get custody, but I’m putting that all behind me. I’m not trying to keep Mari away from anybody who loves her.”
Ash settled back with the baby against her chest. “Joe and I will help, too, as much as we possibly can.”
“I appreciate that, Ash. There’s no such thing as too much family.”
“I know things are still tight with you. Joe had a change of heart. You and Mari are more than welcome to stay with us in Bolingbrook. It’s a great place to raise a kid.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, but my new job is here in the city. I just don’t have it in me to make that kind of commute.”
Ashley took a deep breath and blurted out: “Joe and I would like to adopt the baby.”
“Ashley, that’s not going to happen.”
She held onto Mari in pleading desperation, so tight the baby stretched and mewled in her sleep. “I know it’s a big decision, Lalo. Please, just think it over. We’d give her a stable two-parent home and love her with all our hearts. And I saved up a few thousand for a new course of IVF treatment. I could let you have that toward the money I owe.”
My sister had always been the respectable one in the family. My brothers were thugs, gangsters, and ¿quién sabe? I hadn’t done much better. Yet I was certain that none of us had stolen from each other or tried to buy a child.
Ashley and I had never been as close as the Robles girls. We’d grown even further apart the older we got. Maybe because she was a girl, and me being born a boy. Or maybe it was Ash choosing the straight and narrow path, with me taking the crooked highway.
I got up and gathered my daughter back into my arms. Then I walked to the front door, opened it up and showed my sister out.
GROTESQUE CABARET
Isaac Kirkman
Winter, 2018
We’ve been in the city of the winter king for seven days, watching the widow’s house. Snow whirls like geraniums past our car windows, as we sit silently smoking. My new partner smells like leather, kush, and roses. He is young and short of patience. He sighs, and repeats to me how to operate the surveillance program on the new tablet. He is tattooed and pretty, the way Hollywood stars who overdose are tattooed and pretty. And his gun is gold-plated and engraved with roses and skulls, and expresses clearly on which side of the gangsters’ axiom he falls: glory over encryption.
But we’ve been selected, because we wouldn’t be seen, or noticed, just two white men— perhaps father and son—in a station wagon parked in the snow, on a road outside a white neighborhood.
In the distance, beyond the ice-wilted forest, is Canada.
As I slide my glasses on to see how to switch the camera POV in the house, he looks up at me the way I once looked at old men like me. As if he’s contemplating how much trouble he would be in if he pulled the trigger and dragged my body into the snow and took my cut.
My finger swipes left, and the widow reappears next to my fingernail, and we watch her move, solemn and solitary, from room to room, before she settles by the fireplace and opens a book. Cameras small as the hope that this violence will end, concealed everywhere along her property and inside her house. Her phones and computers are tapped. Everyone she Skypes, everything she searches online, every key tapped, we witness. Every message back to her family in Hermosilla, we track. But she does nothing wrong. She has not betrayed our covenant. Her silence is as steady as the wipers clearing the snow. It takes a few minutes to get the hang of the replacement tablet, but when I do, my partner goes back to scrolling through his phone. The minutiae of surveillance bores him.
My new partner was an altar boy at a church my ex-wife and I once went to but he does not remember me, he still wears the cross. He says God is with him, all around, like the snow, concealing us.
We weren’t supposed to kill her, but there is a new boss, and everything is being renegotiated. Wounds cauterized, loose ends burned. Which is why I’m here, in this Chrysler instead of my Ford. Why I’ve been
on the road, seven months now, in this endless scream of sunrises. Why, after seventeen years, I started taking these pills again.
I sink into the seat when we get the message that she is to be erased. The widow’s husband owned a series of car dealerships—cars we used to traffic guns—’til his thievery grew a shadow too long to not see, but she was one of those sullen things, kept segregated from his affairs. It’s not that I’m opposed to violence, it’s just this feels unnecessary. As if we were a construction crew told to tear down the entire house because of a single warped beam.
We’ve monitored her for months, and perched tightly this past week to every transmission, and there has been nothing but a woman rebuilding a life, from the rubble of an old life she seems grateful to be free of. Even the Feds have left to follow other dying things.
But there is a new boss, and I am an old man. And the snow is falling faster, through this world of crumbling factories, and cars rusting beneath the winter sun. I look at my new partner; young, and emotionally distant enough, to be my son, and think about my old partner, the synergy we had, and how much I miss him, especially on cold surveillance trips like this, but that too has crumbled, like everything my shadow crosses.
We get word, and return to our motel, shower, and shave, and change into our cable uniforms. I smoke a pill solitary in the bathroom. Its lunar white surface burns eclipse black on the foil as I fall to my knees as if in prayer. Outside, the snow erases the horizon, save for a single blue chapel cross pulsing in the distance. Everything softens. I return to find my partner cleaning his gun, silhouettes from the blunt smoke weaving across the gold muzzle. If I didn’t watch him grow up, I witnessed his beginning. Blizzard warnings loop on the television taper. My partner turns to me and says the widow’s cable box has been disabled and the company has called her to say we would be there this afternoon to fix it. He returns to cleaning the gun. Cocaine residue glitters across the glass. I notice his facial tattoos are gone, they’ve been concealed with makeup. Everything feels like a dream.
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