The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  He took a long, thoughtful beat, then carefully got out of bed. He pulled on his jeans, and turned to her. “I have something to talk about with you. Let’s go downstairs.”

  Immediately anxious, she put herself together quickly and followed him to the kitchen. He poured them both a glass of wine. She sat on the stool, waiting, as adrenaline slowly pumped.

  “The date of the trial is coming up, the eighteenth, just a couple of weeks away.”

  “It’s terrifies me to think about, but I’m glad we can get it over with in time to enjoy Christmas.”

  “Or not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we have no way of knowing how the trial will go. I could end up getting convicted, that’s a real possibility, so—”

  “Wait—did something happen with the fingerprints?” Her heart immediately started pounding.

  “No. Philip still thinks it’s a ploy, but I’d sure like to hear that from them. He says no news is good news on that front.”

  She shook her head; there was something confusing about this fingerprint issue. “But how can this keep coming up? If they have nothing, how are they allowed to dangle it like a sword over our heads? Aren’t there rules about these things?”

  “He said they can lie, they can twist things, they can say anything they want to try to get a confession. Beyond that, I don’t know.” He slumped to a stool, weary as he always was at this time of night. “But here’s the thing I haven’t shared with you yet: they offered me a plea deal.”

  She sat up, alert. “Really? When did that happen?”

  “After the arraignment. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to think about it on my own before we discussed it.”

  “Okay . . . that’s fine.” It wasn’t. “What’s the deal?”

  “I plead no contest to criminal trespassing and window peeking, the resisting charge is dropped, I get two years’ probation, fifteen hundred dollars in fines, and no jail time—that’s the main thing.”

  She shot up from the stool. “That’s the deal? They want you to admit to something you didn’t do? Why would you do that? What am I missing?”

  “See, this is why I waited to tell you!” That her initial reaction mimicked his own was not lost on him. “It’s not admitting guilt—it’s not admitting anything. Philips says it just confirms the facts of the case, but no guilt. It also prevents the charges from being used against me in any possible civil lawsuits, say, if someone in the neighborhood decided to sue me for supposed damages. Anyway, we have to respond to the plea offer at the trial, so I have to decide.”

  “You cannot seriously be considering it. Tell me you’re not considering it.”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “Why? You said yourself the fingerprints are bullshit, so what else do they have? Eyewitness testimony, that’s all. Not very convincing. How could you possibly be okay with having peeking on your record? Something that makes you sound like a skeezy perv who jerks off looking in people’s windows? No! I won’t let you do that to yourself. My God, Chris, wouldn’t it be better to stand up and say, ‘I did not do this thing,’ and take your chances—your very good chances—of acquittal? They have nothing. Nothing . . . come on!”

  Bam! Chris slammed his good hand down on the counter so hard a water glass hopped in response. His eyes burned in her direction, his face taut with his own anger and confusion. Startled by his uncharacteristic vehemence, she retreated to the living room and dropped to the couch. He followed her.

  “I’m sorry, Sid, but you have no idea what I’m dealing with here! I cannot, I will not, survive jail. What you’re missing, and what Philip made very clear, is that incarceration is a real possibility. It doesn’t matter what they have or don’t have. They have white people who pointed at me, who pointed at my picture, and said, ‘That’s him!’ And that’s all they need. Do you understand? That’s all they need to throw me in jail for a year—a fucking year! And I will not survive jail. Really get that, Sidonie. I will not survive jail.” His face was so intense it hurt her to look at him.

  He moved slowly to the staircase and went up.

  Her entire body was shaking, but she sipped her wine, trying to calm herself. He needed her to be calmer; she knew that. She needed her to be calmer.

  She was suddenly struck by a deeply undesirable thought and dashed upstairs, finding exactly what she feared: his bags were on the bed and he was putting things in them.

  “What are you doing?” she asked frantically.

  “I’m going to my mom’s for a while. I’m sorry, Sid. It’s not a statement about us. It’s not a statement about anything. I just need to separate myself right now. I need to think without worrying about anyone else, especially you.”

  Regardless of how desperately she wanted to hold back tears, they resisted all efforts and came pouring down. She sat on the bed, supplicating, pleading. “Chris . . . please don’t. Please don’t go, don’t leave me here alone.” She was aware of how pathetic she sounded. It didn’t matter; if she could’ve grabbed him by the ankles to hold him there, she would have.

  “I’m not leaving you, Sidonie. I’m just stepping away. We’ll talk every day. I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening with the case. Until you find someone to replace me at the club, I’ll be around for consultations, whatever you need. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just taking some time for myself. I need that. You have to give me that.”

  She knew she did. But it left her as bereft and abandoned as she could possibly feel, and despite his assurances, she had an aching premonition he would not be back.

  SIXTY-NINE

  FRANK LISTENED AS SIDONIE UPDATED HIM ON THE STATUS of various club issues. She saved for last the news that Chris had given notice, dreading his reaction. But as she spoke, he just nodded and mumbled “uh-huh” as needed. It wasn’t until she was done that he registered his annoyance.

  “Well, that’s a big problem,” he said tersely. “Particularly with our holiday events, which are many.”

  “As I said, he’s got them all completely cued and staffed, so it’s covered.”

  “Okay, kiddo, I’ll leave it in your capable hands. I can’t say I’m surprised, given the circumstances, but I’m disappointed things turned out this way. You’ll have to get on the search ASAP. I like Andrew, but he’s young and I’m not sure he’s ready to handle the job.”

  “I agree. I’ve already put out feelers.”

  “Good girl.” He took a long breath. “Okay . . . new chapter. We’ll get it sorted out. I hope things go well for Chris, I really do. He’s a good guy. And hopefully this will help keep distractions to a minimum for you.” He stood up and walked out.

  She hated him in that moment.

  An hour later she went to the bar for a lemonade sparkler and was jarred to see Mike Demopoulos back in his usual seat. She hadn’t seen him since the night of the arrest. Al had alluded to him staying away in deference to Sidonie’s potential discomfort, something she appreciated, because, frankly, seeing him now stirred deeply uncomfortable feelings.

  Still, ignoring him would be graceless. She waved. “Hey, Mike, haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Al set down her lemonade and quietly asked, “You all right?” She nodded.

  “Yeah, hey Sidonie,” Mike responded. “Guess I’ve been busy. Not as much time for my usual barhopping.” He laughed awkwardly. “How are things going with you?”

  “Not great, actually. Chris’s trial is coming up, so that’s been really stressful.” She ambled over, Al watching like a hawk. “I don’t know if you knew, but the cops who arrested him beat the living crap out of him, broken bones, torn muscles, the whole brutality playbook.” She could see him squirm, but didn’t care. “On top of that, they charged him with all sorts of bullshit he’s now got to defend. All because he stopped to put water in his car. Gotta say, I know you guys are out there to serve and protect, but some of the gang seem a little too swift with the street justice, you know what I mean?”
r />   Al shot Sidonie a what the fuck are you doing? look, but she ignored him.

  Mike started tapping a toothpick nervously on the bar. “I’m sorry that happened. But I don’t know the details, so I’m sure you can understand if—”

  “Oh, I understand—I understand that what they’re doing to Chris is pretty heinous.”

  “Sidonie, I’m completely out of the loop on this.” He put some money on the bar. “But I heard he got ID’d by two or three different witnesses, so something’s going on there.”

  Her face flushed at his logic, but she rebutted: “Yes, but the unreliability of eyewitnesses is well-documented, particularly when it’s white witnesses pointing the finger at black men, so there’s that.”

  “Like I said, it’s not my case, so I can’t really be of much help.” His unease was palpable.

  Sidonie realized she was being overly aggressive and briefly pulled back. “But also, Mike, I did want to say how much I appreciated you stepping up for me that night, I really did. It was a very decent thing to do. And I was hoping if you knew anything more about the fingerprints you mentioned, you’d fill me in. They brought it up to Chris’s attorney, and the cops interviewing me threw it out like it was a real thing. But since nobody seems to be able to produce them, I’m wondering if you heard anything else.”

  Mike took a last slug of his beer and twisted on his stool to leave. “I haven’t. I’m sure Chris’s lawyer will get all that worked out. Sometimes you just gotta trust the system to do its job and not let paranoia drive you too crazy.”

  “Paranoia?” That hit like a dart. “What does that mean?”

  Mike sighed and stood up, keys in hand, literally trapped by Sidonie between two barstools. “Maybe that wasn’t the best way to put it. I’m just tryin’ to say that not everything comes down to race.”

  “Who said it did?” And she was off again. “But, you know, sometimes it actually does!”

  His body language was about fleeing the scene, but his face proclaimed a modicum of professional indignation. “And sometimes bad guys who commit crimes just happen to be black. So even if the people identifying them are white, it’s not always about those people being racist.”

  Al, still hovering, began frantically wiping down the bar.

  “Wow,” Sidonie said, seething. “So you see Chris as a bad guy who happens to be black?”

  “Jesus, no, I’m just—I’m not talking about Chris specifically! Look, I like you, I like Chris, but I gotta defend my department too, because I don’t think you get the full picture. I know lots of cops who come to the force completely unbiased, totally unprejudiced, ready to treat everyone on equal terms. But when you’re a cop in Chicago, you deal with black crime on a regular basis, day in and day out. It’s hard and it’s ugly and it can change you. It can make you a racist.”

  “Oh, please! Nothing can make you a racist. You either are or you aren’t!”

  “You can think that, but I’ve seen it happen. Even good guys can get worn down. I’m not sayin’ it’s right, but it happens. I can’t speak to your specific case, and, like I said, Chris is a good guy, so I’m not sayin’ he did anything, or they got it right, or even that the cops were perfect in how they handled it. I just think Chris would have a better chance if he got past the whole black thing and dealt with it straight out.”

  “The black thing?”

  By now Mike had edged his way to the lobby, Sidonie trailing like a stalker. He was not the kind of guy who enjoyed conflict and Sidonie’s rage felt assaultive. “So I guess I said another wrong thing. Look, we’re not gonna solve this, you and me, and I really gotta get going.”

  “Do you know what the cop said to me in the car on the way to the police station?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “‘What’s a nice white girl like you doing with a fucked-up nigger like that?’ That’s what he said. Not something a person forgets. So, things like ‘get past his black thing’ and ‘paranoia’? I don’t know . . . you tell me, Mike.”

  Al had come from behind the bar into the lobby, hoping to thwart further combat. Mike was halfway out the door. “I’m real sorry that happened. That’s not cool. But he doesn’t speak for the whole department any more than I can. But I gotta get going, so . . .”

  Desperate to make his escape, he lurched out. The door closed slowly in his wake, taking with it all incoming sunshine to leave them in the lobby’s gloom.

  Sidonie dropped to a nearby chair, drained.

  Al shook his head. “What the hell, Frame? You just went postal on the only cop in Chicago who likes you.”

  “You don’t think I have a point?”

  “You got lots of ’em, but why piss off the one guy who actually helped you?” He yanked her up and practically dragged her to the bar. “Sit here while I make you a gimlet. Maybe think about better ways to win friends.” As he pulled bottles from the tray, he mumbled, “Dammit, now I gotta find me a new policeman to hang with.”

  SEVENTY

  Sidonie Frame sidonieframe@thechurch.com

  Mike Demopoulos offmike204@yahoo.com

  . . . apologies

  Dear Mike:

  I promise this will not be a verbal assault. I just thought I’d take advantage of having your email address to send a much-needed apology.

  I’m really sorry for going off on you the other day. You didn’t deserve that. You’ve been nothing but nice to me, especially on a night that will go down as the worst of my life. I was, am, and will always be grateful for that. You are one of the good guys, truly.

  My only rationale for losing it, I guess, is that this experience with Chris has been brutal, especially for him. Since he and I have been together, I’ve witnessed just a hint of what it’s like being a black man in this city, and it’s been a very unhappy eye-opener.

  I understand your comments from the “blue side,” but I have a feeling that you, as a white man and a cop, don’t have much awareness of the other side. Chris’s side. That’s probably true for most white people . . . we can’t know what we don’t experience. The closest we can get is living next to it. Proximity is illuminating. It’s been illuminating for me.

  I haven’t shared with you all the other encounters Chris has endured just since I’ve known him, but suffice it to say, it’s been shocking. It’s changed my view of the world, and, unfortunately, my view of the police. I know lots of good people exist in that world, but lots of bad people do too. I don’t know the ratio, but as one of the good ones, Mike, I hope everything you do every day keeps you on the side of right.

  So that’s my defense. And my apology. I promise you can come back to the bar and I will NOT harass you . . . besides, Al tells me he’s got a taser under the counter in case I get ornery again! :(

  Sidonie

  — — —

  Mike Demopoulos offmike204@yahoo.com

  Sidonie Frame sidonieframe@thechurch.com

  Re: . . . apologies

  Dear Sidonie,

  Thanks for your email. I appreciated it. I do my best to understand things from your side and from Chris’s side, and I wish it were different. I wish everyone on the force was one of the good guys, like you said. Most of them are. I really believe that and hope you can too someday. But I know what you experienced was real, so I won’t try to downplay it. There definitely are some bad apples.

  I really do hope things work out for the best for you and Chris. You’re both good people, I honestly believe that. Again, thanks for your apology.

  Sincerely,

  Mike

  P.S. I probably will take you up on your invitation to come back to The Church. It is my favorite bar!

  SEVENTY-ONE

  DELORES’S WORKPLACE HAD CHANGED LITTLE IN THE YEARS since Chris’s first visit. He’d been five or so when his father brought him, Jefferson, and Vanessa to the Christmas party she organized that year for her coworkers in the Administration Office. Even as a young child, he could see she was beloved and in charge, a combination that ins
pired his filial admiration. They watched in quiet awe as she sashayed amongst the many guests, tossing off one-liners and refilling drinks like the “hostess with the mostest,” as his father called her, and Chris concluded that she was the most amazing woman in the world.

  Sitting now in the visitor’s chair of her colorful office, with its abundance of Christmas flair, broad windows overlooking the main quad, and every inch of wall space covered with commendations and awards, Chris felt, once again, like the little boy in awe of his mother.

  “Good morning, son.” Delores swept in and didn’t bother to sit before grabbing her coat, purse, knit scarf, and the rubber boots necessary to traverse the slush now carpeting roads and walkways. She took Chris’s arm as they quickly exited, waving their goodbyes without allowing time for inconvenient chatter (“What’s happening with you these days, Chris?” and so forth). Once outside, she pulled on her boots and guided Chris down a busy sidewalk to her favorite Mediterranean restaurant.

  With her mint tea steeping and hummus appetizer set, she didn’t waste time getting to the heart of the matter. “Have you broken up with Sidonie?”

  “No. I just can’t carry anyone right now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve got a lot to figure out. This plea deal is no small decision.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “And I need to make it without feedback from anyone, especially someone who can’t honestly understand the stakes.”

  “Because she’s white.”

  “I hate to put it that way, but yeah.”

  “She’s white, so she can’t possibly understand the risks you face, the biases you’re pushing against, the odds that might sway you to take this deal. She can’t fathom any reason why you would, and she’d think you’re an idiot if you did, is that it?”

  He couldn’t tell if she was baiting or agreeing with him. “Well . . . yes.”