A Kind of Justice

by Renee James

  “You’re never wrong?”

  “No. Not when the case turns. This is going to happen. Nothing can stop it now.”

  Phil shakes his head sadly. “What a waste. What a tragic goddamn waste.”

  Wilkins nods solemnly in agreement.

  “Not just her life,” says Phil. “Yours, too. Instead of hauling in one of the murderers in this town who kill for fun or profit, you take down a person who not only didn’t do it, but owns a business, employs people, does good deeds all the time. How do you justify that to yourself, Wilkins?”

  “If you do the crime, you do the time. That’s how.” He studies Phil closely. The man really has a thing for Logan, it’s obvious. Jesus.

  Phil shakes his head sadly again. “Thanks for the heads-up. I think you’re way off base, but don’t worry, I won’t share this with Bobbi.”

  “Tell her anything you want. Tell her everything. It won’t change anything. She did it, she can’t undo it, and she can’t keep me from finding the proof.”

  “You put her away and nothing is better in Chicago, it’s just a little worse because there’s one less good person out there.” Phil walks away, his mind conjuring a vision of Bobbi Logan being led away from the courtroom in handcuffs, her red curls losing luster with each step, her strong body aging, her animated face taking on the gray pallor of prison, her bright eyes fading to lifeless orbs. It is too sad to watch.

  * * *

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16

  It’s not every day Martin Bancroft walks into your salon, not even every lifetime. But he walked into mine about twenty minutes ago, no phone call, no appointment, no warning. I had to keep him waiting while I finished my client, but he was fine with that. Sam got him coffee and offered him the sanctity of my office. She didn’t know who he was, but she could tell he was important. Maybe it was the worshipful tone in my voice when I welcomed him.

  Martin, being Martin, dropped his briefcase and umbrella in the office, then began touring the salon, station by station, sipping his coffee, watching each hairdresser work, asking questions. Professional questions. Where did you learn that cut? Who did that color? Have you ever tried a Denman brush for blow-drying that style? Only one of the stylists knew who he was, but everyone could tell he was some kind of hair god. And rich. He wears Armani suits and shoes that cost just a tad less than a Caribbean island. His tie is an elegant blend of violets and lavenders and purples, colorful, artistic, classy.

  Martin Bancroft is the President, CEO, and owner of SuperGlam, and the hottest story in the beauty industry for the past decade. He was a mid-echelon manager at one of the big hair products companies before he took a walk and started his own line. He told me one night after we had all consumed too much wine that the key to his success was knowing he was only an average hairdresser but he was brilliant at seeing genius in others and still more brilliant at marketing it. He’s not a modest man, but he wasn’t boasting either.

  His product line is pure elegance. It was one of the first organic lines and features natural ingredients and the lushest aromas in the world. But what really set SuperGlam apart was Martin’s grand-scale teaching concept, calculated to win the hearts and minds of stylists and independent salon owners by making them better at what they do.

  He gets to my station last. I am finishing an asymmetrical bob. He smiles his Hollywood smile, which tells me he is going to sell me a bridge. The only question is, which one.

  “I see you don’t have a specialized staff in L’Elégance,” he says. “Why buck the trend?”

  Many upscale salons have stylists who specialize in color and others who specialize in cutting and styling. The theory is, you do better work, faster.

  I tell him we talked about it several years ago, but we all felt like we could serve the client better by not specializing. “Once you master the basics, it’s not a question of how well you do the cut or the color, it’s knowing the client well enough to know what she wants,” I say. “Plus, none of us wants to work in a factory.”

  Martin smiles. “I like your thinking, Bobbi. It’s easy to outsmart yourself in business. You get so focused on making more money you forget the only reason you ever made money was making the customer happy.”

  His face turns serious. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, but I was hoping we might chat for a few minutes. Would you have time to fit me in?”

  “Of course, Martin. For you, anything!”

  I wave Jalela over to do the blow dry.

  “Who is that guy?” she asks before I leave the station.

  “That is Mr. SuperGlam, but you and I can call him God.”

  Jalela’s lips form the word “wow” as the noise of the hair dryer drowns out the word.

  Wow indeed, I think to myself as I follow Martin to my office.

  As we settle in, Martin apologizes again for popping in without notice. He wants me to work the Chicago show next month for SuperGlam.

  I start to give him reasons I can’t do it, but he holds up a hand asking permission to continue. I nod my assent.

  “You don’t have to do a lot of rehearsal. We want you teaching at our exhibit. Talk people through a technique, talk them through a style, let them know which SuperGlam products you’re using, be your charming self.

  “You’ll like the pay and we’ll provide a hotel room if you want, or a driver to pick you up and take you home. And you just work show hours—unless you want to cover the parties.”

  He names the daily fee. I should play hard to get, but I can’t. I accept flat out. Then he tells me I’m looking very pretty, that owning a business seems to agree with me. I don’t know if the accolade is just the reflex action of a career glad-hander, or if he actually sees something attractive about me. Either way, I’ll bask in the compliment. It’s not like they come along every day. They don’t even come along every month.

  * * *

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 17

  “Have you gotten that lawyer lined up yet?”

  Cecelia has a stern look on her face. We are sitting in the café across the street from my salon. We have a nice view of the salon’s first weekday sidewalk demo. The demos have become a Saturday staple for L’Elégance and staff and it seems to be working on a Wednesday lunch hour, too. Office workers and sightseers and moms and nannies alike stop to watch for a few minutes, take our brochure, then move on. Some pause to chat, especially men, attracted by our sexily clad stylists and assistants. The scene is strangely serene, a weekday afternoon in the city, small groups of people constantly forming, then dispersing, then reforming. Like breezes rippling a field of grass.

  “Not yet,” I say. “Why?”

  “Because that nasty detective is really after you, Bobbi. He’s been talking to girls in our community.”

  “I heard he was showing photos to the street girls, but I heard they were pictures of guys.”

  “I don’t know about that,” says Cecelia, bending closer to me to lock in eye contact. “He’s talking to people who know you. And he’s asking about you and Mandy, and Mandy and Strand, and you and Strand.”

  “I don’t see the problem.” I shrug as I say it, even though my stomach is doing flip-flops. “It’s no secret that Mandy and I were friends or that I met Strand a few times when I was with you. And you told the police about Mandy and Strand during the investigation of her murder, and not one of them gave a damn about it. Why should I be worried?”

  Cecelia sips her coffee.

  “Because, honey, he doesn’t need much to indict and he doesn’t need much to get a conviction. You’re a transwoman. Most jurors are retired people who think transpeople are perverts. You could get convicted without a shred of physical evidence.”

  Her mouth forms a hard line. The bigotries that shape our lives make Cecelia’s blood boil.

  “Actually, he doesn’t need to get a conviction to ruin my life,” I say. “Just going to court would do that. The bad publicity, the court costs. My business would fail and I’d be as notorious as a se
rial murderer.”

  “So get the attorney lined up. Get smart, Bobbi. You have to get in front of this.”

  I nod. It’s true. But my cash reserves are almost gone, I still can’t pay myself for my salon billings, I’m struggling to pay my loans every month. The last thing I need is to be writing a check to an attorney.

  I admit to Cecelia I don’t have the money.

  “I’ll pay it,” she says. Sharply. She is insisting.

  “No. Friends don’t borrow money from friends, not unless they want new enemies.” It’s true. Plus I will not be dependent on anyone. If I can’t make it on my own, I’ll fail on my own.

  “This is serious. Don’t be such an asshole, Bobbi.”

  “I prefer to be called a pussy.” I’m trying to defuse the conversation with a little humor. “I have a lot more invested in that part of my anatomy.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” says Cecelia, suppressing a smile. “This is life and death stuff, Bobbi.”

  We are silent for a while. I know she’s right. I’m trying to figure out where to get the money.

  Cecelia breaks the silence. “I’ll talk to him,” she says, referring to the attorney. “I’ll ask him to let you go cheap on the retainer. He’ll do it, but you’ll still have to come up with the money if he starts racking up hours on your case. Okay?”

  I agree. It’s the best deal I’m going to get, even though, if I think about it, the whole situation stinks.

  After a brief silence I ask Cecelia a question that’s been rattling around in my mind for weeks. “Why isn’t he investigating you, too, Cecelia? You’re big and strong and you had ties to Strand and your alibi for the night of the murder is no different than mine.”

  Cecelia locks eyes with me. “My doorman saw me come home that night and didn’t see me leave again. I have a powerful attorney. He doesn’t have anywhere near enough to justify pressuring me.”

  I see her point.

  My spirits are dark as I set up for my sidewalk demo. I’m wondering if the salon will fail before Detective Wilkins arrests me, or if his revenge on me will be the final straw in my financial and social failure. The only thing that gets me through the afternoon is my demo, which is a big-hair up-do on a young woman of color, a friend of Jalela’s. She has long, thick hair that curls and braids beautifully, and she wants to look sexy tonight. Soon I am lost in doing her hair, every part of me focused on bending and teasing and piling her hair into a presentation that will light the fire of every man who sees her.

  As she glides away after the service, my worldly problems come back to me. Men on the sidewalk crane to watch her as she passes. I’m envious. She will get laid tonight, if she wants to, while I am getting screwed, whether I want to or not. You have to admire the irony.

  * * *

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 18

  In the twenty-four hours since my conversation with Cecelia I have reached a new pinnacle of success: I have an attorney on retainer. This, along with the mortgage on my brownstone and the colossal debt on my business are supposed to be signals to the world that this ugly, outsized transsexual woman has arrived.

  It feels a lot more like I’m being buried.

  The only good thing is, business isn’t getting worse. It’s not getting better either, but we’re hanging in there. Our demos and shilling at El stations and office buildings seem to be helping. We’re getting some new people each week and they seem to leave happy.

  The dark cloud over everything is the stalking reality of Detective Wilkins and my financial vulnerability to even a hint of scandal. Not to mention the sheer terror of contemplating a life in jail. This aching worry has had all the repercussions on my personal life you would expect. I sleep poorly, I struggle to concentrate on anything other than hair, I seldom smile or laugh. It’s had some unforeseen repercussions, too. In my idle moments today I thought about hocking next month’s rent for another tryst with Jose, just to get laid while I still can.

  Before I could work up the will to call him, Betsy called and asked if she and Robbie could stay with me tonight. I scuttled all thoughts of a fling and made a list of things to pick up on my way home. It occurs to me now as I carry my grocery bags into the kitchen that someday Betsy is going to stop by unannounced and find me with a man. Or a woman. It will be awkward, but we’ll get over it.

  Betsy arrives red-faced and straining. Robbie is tired and crabby. Betsy has their overnight things in a backpack. Between the pack and the child, she is carrying thirty or forty extra pounds after a hard week of work and parenting. The exhaustion shows on her face.

  I pluck Robbie from her arms at the door and sweep the child into my kitchen, inviting her to help me cook and serve dinner. This delights Robbie. I give her a glass of wine to take to her mother as her first chore, asking if she can do that without spilling. She is sure she can. She’s almost right. Aunt Bobbi chokes back the reflexive curse and we have fun wiping up the red drops together. I tell Betsy to relax and unwind while we get dinner. She collapses on the couch, gets up a moment later to feed music into the CD player, then collapses again.

  Dinner is quieter than usual, just Robbie and I carrying on. Betsy is eerily silent. Something is wrong. After dinner, Robbie and I pack the dishwasher, then engage Betsy in a game of hide-and-seek. Though I have shed many of my inhibitions about being a large transwoman, this game reawakens my self-consciousness. As I crouch behind a chair, I feel like a hippopotamus trying to hide behind a flower. Of course, we’re not trying to hide, really, so it’s okay.

  When Robbie has had her bath and three bedtime stories, Betsy staggers into the living room, flops on the couch, and curls into a ball. She looks at me, her soft brown eyes forlorn with sadness.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  She cries for several minutes. I hold her silently. Some things have to come in their own good time.

  At length she sits up and faces me. “My boss has been making passes at me all week. Not just flirty stuff. He touches.” She swallows, takes a breath. “He talks dirty. I try to ignore it, but he just keeps coming on.”

  I will myself to silence. My suspicions about her boss are coming true. He’s a nasty little brute who gets off on dominating people. Somewhere deep inside my body my Y chromosomes are demanding that this cretin’s knees be broken with a baseball bat. My gentler nature tries to ignore the chorus.

  “Tonight he felt me up and tried to run his hand up my skirt. I slapped his hand and he laughed. He told me he wanted to . . .” Her voice stops for a moment. She can’t say the word but she doesn’t have to. I nod that I understand what she’s trying to say and she continues. “I told him to stop and he just laughed more. He said I know I’d love it.”

  Her face grows taut as she relives the horror. Then her horror turns to anger. “I can’t believe it! In this day and age? He thinks he can get away with that?”

  She goes on for a while, expressing her outrage and her disgust for men. She feels dirty. She feels violated. And she feels impotent. There were no witnesses. It’s just the new employee’s word against that of a rising young star in the company.

  I have some personal experience with these feelings. The people who raped me did it to put me in my place and to express their contempt for me. I felt what Betsy is feeling. Humiliated. Dehumanized. My anger rises to a simmering boil. If her boss were in the room right now, I would do my best to dismember him.

  I try to collect my emotions so I can be there for Betsy. I put my anger in a compartment in my mind and close the door. I focus on Betsy. I listen to every word. I murmur my understanding of how she feels. I confirm that she has every right to feel that way.

  I ask if she’s thought about taking this to the human resources people. “That would just get me fired,” she snaps. She wants distance again. I shut up and listen, the good wife.

  * * *

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

  “She’s a real b-i-t-c-h if you ask me,” says Wilkins’ dining companion between mouthfuls of eggs and pan
cakes. As if spelling the word made her seem more feminine. As if anything could.

  “She’s very hoity-toity. Like she’s better than everyone else.” The falsetto voice comes from an obese, middle-aged transwoman about five-nine and well over 250 pounds. Her lipstick is smeared. She wears a bad wig and too much makeup. Her dining style is primitive truck driver.

  Wilkins keeps his revulsion hidden. He has become good at that from doing all the interviews. Some of the transwomen have been likeable, and some were okay, and some were like this slob who he wouldn’t have liked even if she were presenting as a straight man. No matter. This one has issues with Bobbi Logan. If she knows anything useful, she’ll share it. All for the price of a breakfast at Gay-HOP on Friday morning.

  “Who are her friends?” Wilkins asks. He pops two more breath mints, just to make sure. Experience has taught him that his breath can be off-putting for some in the close confines of the Gay-HOP booths.

  The woman chews and thinks. She rattles off the names of Cecelia and a couple of people at TransRising. “And anyone who pays her to do their hair,” she adds with a malicious smile.

  “Who does she date?”

  More chewing and thinking. “I don’t know,” she says, finally. “I know she’s hot for that cop who used to have this beat.”

  “Phil Pavlik?”

  “Yeah. Officer Phil. Of course a lot of the girls were hot for him.”

  “Do you think they . . .” Wilkins wiggles his fingers, implying a tryst.

  The woman snorts. “I sincerely doubt it. That man could have any woman he wants. I can’t imagine him finding that cow attractive.”

  Wilkins produces a photo from his folder. “Did you ever see her with this man?”

  As she looks at the photo, her eyes widen. “John Strand!” She looks up at Wilkins. “You think she—?”

  Wilkins cuts her off. “I can’t talk about an investigation in progress, ma’am.” Next to free food, calling transwomen by feminine nouns or pronouns was the fastest way to rapport, he had found.

  “Right now, all we’re trying to do is see if they knew each other, and who else Strand knew in the trans community.”