A Kind of Justice

by Renee James

  Stephen nods.

  “Good. Now, your mom thinks I betrayed her and you and your sister. She has every right to feel that way. I was a piss-poor husband and father. But not because I was unfaithful or anything like that. It was because I put the job first and I wasn’t there enough for her or my kids. I want you to know it wasn’t because I didn’t love you, or her, or your sister. I just didn’t know how to be a husband or a father. I did what my father did. I just worked. Don’t do what I did. Take classes or read books or do whatever you have to do, but don’t do what I did. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Stephen nods, his face frozen in sadness and shock. A waitress stops and takes their beverage orders. When she is gone, Wilkins shifts his gaze from his son’s face to the table and nods a few times, as if agreeing with himself.

  “Okay. I want you to know that if I don’t make it, you guys will still be okay financially. Your mom has money in the bank, and she’ll get my pension benefits. I have some savings, too. Everything will go to your mother, and she’ll make sure you both get through college, get a good start. It’s all in my will. If I don’t make it, my attorney will contact your mom and get things going. The main thing is, you and your sister and your mother will be just fine. Okay?”

  Two tears trickle down Stephen’s face. “It sounds like you’re going to die, Dad.”

  “The odds aren’t good, Stephen.”

  Stephen covers his face with his hands for a moment, then wipes the tears from his cheeks. “What can I do? Can I do something?”

  Wilkins smiles and nods. “Yes, Stephen. There are two more things you can do for me.”

  “Okay. What are they?”

  “First, tell your sister I didn’t have this conversation with her, too, because she’s away at school, not because I love her less.”

  Stephen nods.

  “Second, in your envelope there is a card with my address on it and a key taped below. If you get word that I died, I want you to go to the apartment and take care of clearing it out. Take your mom with you. You can have anything you want in the place and throw out the rest.

  “I’m going to mail you a package. I want you to open it some place private. You can share it with anyone you want after you’ve been through it.”

  “What is it? Mom won’t let me have your gun.”

  “I wouldn’t give you a gun. I’m selling mine to another cop. I never used it anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  His son is surprised. Even his family thought of him as a mean cop. Another mistake. “I became a cop to protect people from violence, not to be violent,” says Wilkins.

  The boy nods his head up and down for a moment, absorbing this new knowledge. “What’s in the package, Dad?”

  “My legacy.”

  “What do I do with it?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Wilkins fends off Stephen’s attempts to learn more about the mystery package and eventually steers the conversation to how Stephen is doing in school, how his sister is doing in college, what they want for Christmas. Forty minutes later they stand, shake hands and hug, Wilkins thinking his son must really love him to do that, to have physical contact with his emaciated father. Wouldn’t it be sweet to have that every day for another twenty years? See his kids grown up, be successful. Maybe get their mom to talk to him again, invite him for Christmas dinner?

  He watches his son walk tall and strong out into the storm, and a reality as bleak as the winter sky descends on Wilkins. There will be no magic moments with his kids, no reconciliation with his wife. He will never get better than this. He will only get worse.

  He sits down at the table again and dials Logan’s number. One more thing to do today.

  * * *

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6

  Officer Phil walks in just as I’m just finishing my last client. He comes to the reception desk, nods at me, looks to Samantha. She escorts him to my office. We exchange glances and I smile at him. He smiles back. For the first time in years I receive his attention without any emotional fluttering. Whatever feelings I had for him are diluted in a sea of tension about this meeting with Wilkins. My sleep has been even more tormented than usual these last two nights as I play through various ways tonight’s scenario might play out.

  All of the scripts in my dreams end badly, with me losing everything, Betsy hating me, the salon boarded up, me never seeing Robbie again.

  There have been a half dozen times at least where I was on the verge of calling Wilkins and cancelling. I can see no possible benefit for me and all kinds of risks. On the other hand, I keep thinking that what makes MBAs so stupid is they only believe in things they can measure. Their knowledge becomes a fence around their intellect. They can’t grow beyond it because they think that’s the edge of the earth, there is no more. So we will meet. Wilkins will talk. I might learn something I didn’t know before. It might help me deal with his unrelenting pressure.

  Wilkins enters minutes after Phil. Samantha escorts him to my office. I finish my client and Barbara is just finishing the only other client in the place. In a few minutes, everyone will be gone. Wilkins and I will have our meeting right here, the one place I know he couldn’t bug beforehand. I know that’s ridiculous, but we can laugh about my cloak and dagger foolishness later.

  When I enter the office, both men stand up. We exchange terse hellos. Wilkins looks awful. Shockingly awful. Like a cadaver. His skin seems gray in color, his face is drawn, his clothes hang like bags from his withered frame. If he were gay, I’d figure him for full-blown AIDS. I start to ask him if he’s well, then choke it back. This is business and he is not someone whose health I should care about. Indeed, my life would be much better if his life were over.

  I ask Phil to check Detective Wilkins for a listening device. He has Wilkins assume the spread position against the wall and frisks him.

  “He’s clean,” says Phil.

  “Detective, will you please open your shirt?” I ask. “No offense,” I say to Phil. But really, why should I trust him? Do I really know whose side he’s on?

  Phil nods. Wilkins opens his shirt. He’s clean. I thank him.

  “Phil, did Detective Wilkins plant a listening device in this room?” I ask. Phil says no. “Would you tell me if he had?”

  “Yes, Bobbi, I would,” he says. “That was what he asked of me, that I represent your interests. He’s clean. The room is clean.”

  I thank Phil and tell him he can go now. He nods, gives me a faux hug, and leaves.

  “Can I get you coffee or tea or a cold drink?” I ask Wilkins.

  “No. Thank you,” he says. Wow. Manners. What’s the world coming to?

  Samantha calls out a good night as she and the last hairdressers leave. I wish them well, then ask Wilkins to follow me into the salon. I’ve set up a conversation area at my workstation. I gesture for Wilkins to sit in the service chair. It looks like he could use the comfort. I sit in a folding chair directly in front of him.

  He opens his briefcase and removes several file folders. “I won’t take much of your time. I want to review where the case against you stands right now and, like I said on the phone, I want to put a deal on the table for you to consider.”

  I listen but do not comment. He says it started with the murder of my friend and client Mandy Marvin, six years ago. I got disgusted with the police investigation and started poking around on my own. That led me to Strand, who was rumored to be Mandy’s sugar daddy and a man with a history of hurting and maybe killing transwomen. One thing led to another and Strand had two goons beat and rape me, then I set up one of the goons for a mugging in the same place I was raped. Then I finally kidnapped Strand and executed him in his love nest. Wilkins recites evidence he has to back up most of his points.

  “Ms. Logan, I have motive—he had you raped, he was going to kill you. I have means—you’re strong and you have self-defense training. And I have opportunity—you can’t account for your ti
me after eleven o’clock that night. You say you were home alone, but you could have been anywhere.”

  He establishes eye contact with me. “I’m going to meet with the DA to initiate an indictment. We can save everyone a lot of time and money by reaching a deal beforehand, something that lets you plead to a lesser charge in view of Strand’s aggression toward you.”

  He waits for my response. It’s slow in coming. His theory of the crime is so close to the truth I’m dizzy with dread. I struggle to regain my poise.

  “My, my, Detective Wilkins. Why would you do such a nice thing for me?” I ask. “This is the very first time we’ve exchanged words when you haven’t called me a queen or butt-fucking twink or, oh, let’s see, there was fag, queer, girly boy. Shall I go on?”

  Wilkins nods his head in little movements, like he’s agreeing with me and thinking about it at the same time. “I apologize for those indiscretions,” he says. “I was wrong to say those things. I was expressing what I felt, but that wasn’t professional. Neither what I said nor what I felt. I’ve learned some things from this investigation.”

  “Like what, Detective?”

  “I learned that Strand was a bad man. I can’t prove it, but he probably murdered your friend and he may have murdered others. I’ve learned that people don’t choose to be transsexual, that’s just how it happens. And I’ve seen how hard that can be for someone. I—” He halts for a moment. “I respect you. What you’ve done with your life.”

  I have to focus to keep from falling off my chair in wonder. Never in a million years could I imagine him saying those things. But I block it all from my mind and tend to business.

  “Did you learn that Strand wouldn’t have been murdered if the police had conducted a proper investigation of Mandy Marvin’s murder?” I should tone down the insolence in my voice, but I can’t.

  “We failed to do our job.” His concession is disarming. I didn’t see it coming. Still, he’s the enemy. I pull myself together.

  “So now you want to cap it all off by sending me to jail?”

  Wilkins shrugs. “I don’t make the laws and I don’t get to pick which ones to enforce. What I can do is work with the DA to make it as easy as possible on you. I’m sure they’d take murder-one off the table, I’m not sure how much further they can go. There’s a self-defense element to this. Strand had already shown his bad intentions and the testimony of the rapist suggests Strand was getting ready to do something again.”

  “How nice. The goon confesses to raping me and you let him off in return for testifying against me for some other crime? Can you imagine what my attorney would do with that?”

  “Ms. Logan, I have no idea what kind of cross your attorney would muster with that or any other witness. More to the point, none of us, your attorney included, has any idea what a jury or a judge will take away from any witness’ testimony. Trials are a crapshoot.”

  “Trials can’t be any worse than police investigations. I got raped by two men and no one gave a damn. The so-called rape specialist at Chicago PD told me I deserved it. And now you’re going to let the rapist off so you can put me in jail because you think I did what you wouldn’t do—bring the murderer of a transsexual woman to justice. Fuck you, Detective. Fuck you and your whole rotten department. Fuck the DA, too.”

  Wilkins’ eyes flash for a moment. I expect him to come out of his chair and get in my face with that awful breath of his. But he catches himself. He takes a deep breath, gets his composure back.

  “I understand your anger, Ms. Logan. The rapist isn’t going to get ‘off’, but he will get some kind of deal. I think he wants to go to prison. He can’t function anymore.

  “But more to the point, I’m offering you a chance to come clean. The memory of that murder must surely haunt you. You don’t have to live with that. You can tell your story and get a reduced sentence. I hope a very reduced sentence, maybe a year or two with the rest suspended. Something like that. But a clear conscience.”

  I grimace. “I have a lot of problems with your proposition. The main one is, I didn’t do it. And I won’t confess to it. Period.”

  Wilkins looks at me with a sad expression on his haggard face. He shakes his head slowly, side to side, like he’s saying no to something. “That’s the first lie you’ve told me, Ms. Logan. I’m surprised. I really am surprised. That was the last thing I expected from you. I’ve learned a lot about you. Most people who know you, like you. They respect you. You’re straight and fair with them, and honest. They all say that about you.”

  “Well, Detective, you surprised me, too. I never expected you to be civil. But I think we’ve said all there is to say.”

  We rise from our chairs. At the door he turns to me. “Goodnight, Ms. Logan. Do yourself a favor and talk to your attorney about what we discussed.”

  Very artful of him, especially for a career “bad cop.” He says it like he’s got my best interests in mind.

  “I will think about that, Detective. And here’s something for you to think about. What if that gorilla had raped your daughter or your wife instead of me? Think about what kind of deal you’d give him or the man who hired him.”

  * * *

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7

  Since I began working at Salon L’Elégance all those years ago, the first week in December has become one of the most joyful periods of my year. That’s when we officially begin the holiday season in the salon. Because I never had much family life, the salon’s celebration of Christmas and Hanukkah and Kwanza was the first time in my life I felt the joy and light of the holidays, the music, the colors, the hustle and bustle, the smiles, the sense of something special taking place. It has been like that for me ever since.

  We decorate the salon ourselves, part of it according to a coordinated plan, and part just the inspiration of any given individual at any given moment. Given our collective penchant for colors and shapes and pushing the boundaries of convention, the process is wildly creative and fun.

  Most retail businesses do this after Halloween and they hire outside specialists to do it, but the people of L’Elégance share an aversion to such blatant commercialism, some for religious reasons, others because it seems dehumanizing somehow, the way pornography dehumanizes sex. The funny thing is, I think we get some commercial benefits from not commercializing the holidays, starting with the fact that decorating the place together just puts us all in the holiday spirit. And it lasts all the way to Christmas. We smile and sing and hum and greet our clients with real enthusiasm.

  This year we’re adding to the mood by giving gift bags to customers. Regular customers get a beautiful bag containing four sample-size SuperGlam products. First-time customers get a beautiful bag with two products. The bags are festooned in bows and ribbons and they include a holiday greeting card from the salon staff. It’s costing some money, but this has been a hard year, and it’s important to say thanks to the people who have helped us survive.

  For all that, I’m straining emotionally to get into the mood of this day. It’s hard to shake off the unnerving message from Detective Wilkins yesterday. It’s one thing to hear about his investigation in bits and pieces, where each brick in the wall is a crumbling lump of clay formed from biased interpretations of circumstantial evidence. It’s quite another to hear the whole thing strung together. All of a sudden Wilkins’ flights of flimsy start hanging together with a structural strength that seems impregnable. I start hearing the jury foreman pronouncing my guilt.

  I am stalked by images of the gray void of prison, the pallid skin, the lifeless gazes, the monotony. A life without color or form. A space of straight lines and rules, where circles are erased and free form is illegal. In my images it is a slow-motion walk to death, an endless, monotonous trudge through nothingness. It is silent and barren. There are no faces, no music. Dark turns to light without consequence; there is still nothing to see. The sound is a blend of industrial noises that bang and hum and grind into a single, dark rumble, gloomy and perpetual.

&nbs
p; I can barely stand to look at Betsy and Robbie because the aura of doom that stalks me stalks them, too. I cannot fathom how I will live with the knowledge that their lives will be shredded even more than mine when I am charged. When my fragile world comes apart. I will meet with Cecelia soon to see what I can do to leave something for them to have when they start over again, but it’s hard to imagine what I might be able to provide. My beautiful salon is doomed. It will fail within a few months after I’m charged unless Roger drops everything and comes back to save it. My money for attorney’s fees will disappear in a trice. My apartment building will last longer, maybe a year or two, because repossessions take a while. But I can’t sell it, not for what I owe on it. In a year, my defense against charges brought by a prosecution apparatus that includes an army of attorneys and paralegals will be a single public defender, chosen at random from a pool of public defenders, some of whom have never won a case.

  Because of the dark tunnel I am entering, I strain to compartmentalize my bleak prospects and focus at times like this on the poetry of life as it exits right now. I breathe in the holiday colors and rhapsodize with the music. I look upon the work of my colleagues with the appreciation of an art lover; the perfect tones and textures and contours of what they do make my heart beat faster. This is magic, this blending of form and light and passion that celebrates humanity in a way no other art form does.

  Tonight, when I go home, I will do the same thing with Betsy and Robbie. I will ignore the cliff looming a few steps ahead in my life and focus on what a beautiful person Betsy is, what a miracle it is that she loved me and loves me still, how lucky my half-life has been. I will immerse my being in Robbie. I will hear her voice and memorize her perfect innocence. I will record the sound of her laugh in my mind, along with pictures of her movements and mannerisms that express the freedom and joy of early childhood. I will relish these moments now and preserve them so that I may play them in the theater of my mind in the future when my reality is no longer tolerable, when all that’s left is an old movie of my brief second life.