Vulnerable

by Bonita Thompson

  “What the hell!”

  Sanders started the car and cautiously backed out of the space, attempting to avoid hitting any one of those in the media. He said, “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Lawyer? Why would I have—need—a lawyer?”

  “They won’t say it, but you’ve become…let’s say, a person of interest. This thing is about to be national. Henceforward, life as you know is all but over.”

  • • •

  The loft was quiet now that Kenya went back to Toronto. Her cellular rang constantly; she blow-dried her hair every morning and left heaps of towels on the bathroom floor; she snored and Imani could hear her clear across the loft; and she and her husband argued over the smallest of things every time they spoke by phone, which was at least four times each day. Imani felt alone but not lonely. She made a fire, grabbed a bottle from Dante’s wine cellar and decided to watch television, a luxury she never had in Seattle. Blaine teased her when she told him she did not have cable. She reached for the remote control, and from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of falling snow. Melancholy swept over her, but it was a short-lived feeling. She was not where Kenya was—“I’m over it”—but then Imani’s emotional investment in her father was more intense than Kenya’s. Their connection was preserved because she lived with Dante when he was not on the road. But Imani dared not utter those words to her big sister. In reality, though, her Jamaican blood was no thicker than Kenya’s.

  Since they learned the day before that there was a break in the case, Kenya felt she did not need to keep trekking back and forth to Manhattan. Besides, she needed to get back to her work. But Imani needed to see the young man’s face. She channel-surfed until she reached a cable news network. She poured herself a glass of wine and for a while stared at the warm fire burning in the fireplace. Occasionally, even though she tried really hard not to, she glanced over at Dante’s beautiful piano. The sound of a female voice saying, “Crescent Island,” made Imani look away from the piano and to the television screen. Even in Seattle, she never heard much about Crescent Island. Imani’s torso became military erect. Her face went from casually interested to nonplus. “That’s. That’s Rawn! What’s?”…Imani placed her wineglass on the table and reached for the remote control to elevate the volume. Unaware, she stood. The reporter on the screen was speaking, “Rawn Poussaint, a local schoolteacher, was questioned for several hours in connection to the death of supermodel D’Becca Ross…” Imani gasped. “D’Becca? She’s dead? How?” She hurried to the television and stood directly in front of it, like that would relay enough information and fill in any details she was not privy to. She covered her mouth, “She was murdered? Oh, D’Becca!” Sadness rested in Imani’s throat; her eyes turned watery.

  She looked at her wrist but was not wearing her watch. In the corner of the television screen was the cable network’s logo along with the time. “It’s…Okay, it’s not that late on the West Coast.” Imani rushed to the receiver supported in the carriage and when Jean-Pierre answered, she said, “It’s me, Imani.”

  For fifteen minutes she and Jean-Pierre talked, and when they said their goodbye Imani sat stunned at how long she had been away from home. It was not until Jean-Pierre asked when she would be returning did she realize how long it had been. She did miss Trouble. She longed for her personal belongings that were at her fingertips in her cozy houseboat, and she even missed the drab Seattle weather. She missed teaching Pilates; she missed her life.

  Imani had moved to Seattle when she broke things off with Blaine. She had gone to visit Carmen, Jean-Pierre’s wife, whom she danced with when Imani was in a dance company and traveled all over Western and Eastern Europe. Imani was enticed by Seattle on the spot. Shortly after Imani relocated, Carmen discovered that she had ovarian cancer. Less than a year later, she died. That’s when Imani and Jean-Pierre grew closer. While she supported him through Carmen’s cancer and subsequent death, Jean-Pierre listened kindly, closely, while Imani tried to move through the hurt inflicted on her by Blaine’s deception. Because Jean-Pierre’s English was comme ci, comme ça, he wanted a worker who could speak French and English, like his wife, Carmen. It was she who decorated the café and created its unique ambience. Jean-Pierre was trained as a pastry chef at École de Cuisine in Paris, but it was his wife, Carmen, who had the ingenuity to create Café Neuf and made it a five-star attraction on the island. Working for Jean-Pierre was meant to be temporary, but Imani actually looked forward to working at the bakery-café for a few hours each morning. Jean-Pierre’s café was reminiscent of the life she had when she lived and danced in France for a year; when she was so, so happy.

  The following morning, when she finished talking to her business manager and ran errands, Imani returned to Dante’s loft and was greeted with a ringing telephone no sooner than she opened the door. Catching her breath, she answered, “Hello!” When she removed her hoodie, her hair was disheveled.

  “Ms. Godreau?”

  “This is she.”

  “Detective Rodriguez.”

  “Oh, hello, Detective.”

  “We caught him. You won’t believe it, but he’s been hiding out in the Bronx, living among the rodents in an abandoned building. Eventually, he started talking too much, telling squatters living in the building why he was hiding. Word got around. Someone ratted him out. He was skin and bones. When we put the cuffs on his wrists, they slipped right off!”

  Imani gasped.

  • • •

  “What the hell, man.” Khalil was tired. His flight was long and he could not sleep through all twelve hours. He was never able to sleep on flights. Once, his girlfriend Moon gave him sleeping pills, but they were ineffective.

  Rawn walked around his best friend. He was a few inches taller than Khalil. They had similar body types, but Rawn was leaner. It was drizzling; city lights grew farther and farther into the dark horizon. The ferry was practically empty with the exception of a handful of late commuters working on laptops, reading newspapers and catching a few Zs. Rawn and Khalil stood out on the deck, sharing a joint.

  “Rawn! Man, what! the! hell?”

  “D’Becca’s…dead.” The way Rawn sounded was not necessarily the way he felt.

  “That much I know. But wha—damn!”

  Khalil passed Rawn the joint, and he inhaled one long hit.

  “I mean, murder? That’s…deep.”

  “The coroner ruled it a murder.”

  “Not an accident?” Khalil stood in disbelief.

  Fatigued, Rawn was not in a good mood.

  Gazing at the homes dangling from slopes off hills across Lake Washington, Khalil whistled. “I don’t know what you’re gonna do. A black man accused of killing a white woman. And, man, it’s national, too. This is too close to the O.J. thing.”

  “Khalil, come on. You’re comparing me to O.J.?”

  “Not comparing you to O.J. Just saying it’s O.J.-like. Keep in mind, cross-burning ain’t passé. Damn, homeboy. Two realities have collided: you are black and she’s—was white. That’s always a bad recipe when dealing with the Man. Trust me, they are gonna tie you to this thing. They won’t find a bloody glove, right? But they will find something.”

  Rawn extended the tiny butt of the joint and Khalil waved it away. Rawn flicked the roach out into Lake Washington.

  “Man, don’t let this D’Becca thing break you down to nothing. You’re my boy. We need to play Starsky and Hutch and find out what really went down. What about…this old dude who found her?”

  “He’s someone she was seeing.”

  “She was doing you and some other dude?” It was quiet for a while. Khalil said, “Did you know?”

  Khalil went on the right side of his best friend. They stood profile-to-profile. Speechless, Rawn leaned against the railing. It was not like he was asleep to the truth. Yes, I had to know. He knew, but he was unaware that he really, really knew. He suspected. He entertained the idea. Because Rawn never trusted coincidences. He saw that Beamer one too many ti
mes in close proximity to D’Becca.

  Khalil leaned against the railing next to Rawn. Khalil’s back faced the fading city across Lake Washington while Rawn faced the residential homes of Seattle with imposing waterfront views.

  “This whole episode, it’s like out of a flick. It’s deep. But the dots don’t connect. It’s like there are scenes missing from the plotline. So, tell me, man. What’s the plan?”

  The night was like a blotch of ink. The ebony sky reflected against the deep, dark Puget Sound. With the exception of the chilled body of water beating against the ferry, it was an eerie kind of quiet.

  Khalil brushed his brow with the tip of his forefinger. “I gotta head back tomorrow. So, I guess Vail’s out, huh?”

  They laughed and it shifted the somber mood.

  “Thank you for stopping by before you went back to L.A.”

  “I always gotcha back, bro. Look, for real. I think you should call this attorney. Remember when Henderson Payne was on trial? His attorney, he’s who you should talk to.”

  “Do you think they’ll arrest me? They don’t have anything, man. I didn’t kill D’Becca. Besides, Sebastian Michaels is the one who found D’Becca and when he was arriving, I was leaving. He even told the P.D. that.”

  “Well, from what that USA Today article said, he left and he was gone some twenty minutes and came back, so that means you had time to backtrack…”

  “Are you deliberately trying to make me feel worse?”

  “Look, I’m—I’m speaking some truth here, man. You got to look at the facts.”

  “Your idea of truth is some help.”

  With a chuckle, Khalil said, “Look, all I’m saying…This Sebastian Michaels dude ain’t no alibi. I see his ducks are all lined up. He’s no suspect. What, is he like connected?”

  “Truth will prevail.”

  “There you go, man. Truth will prevail. You always do that. There are a lot of people, man, in jail, in prisons waiting for truth to prevail. And this thing, it’s huge, bro!”

  “It’s all bogus. I had nothing to do with D’Becca’s death.”

  “I know that. You know that. D’Becca, God let her soul rest in peace, knows that. But some woman—a neighbor, right? She told the Man you and D’Becca had some really heated arguments, up to the night she was killed.”

  “We didn’t have arguments. That article blew it out of proportion or the neighbor lied. We argued once. One time, and…The night she died, it was—we were good that night.”

  “This neighbor—she must be nosy and all up in other people’s business… She’s claiming y’all were physical. So, did she lie about the slap and yelling at you to leave her crib?”

  Rawn felt awkward and tired and totally insecure.

  “Whew! Y’all were…Was it worth it?”

  Rawn lowered his head and swallowed hard.

  Rawn was good at holding it together, but Khalil could see the strain D’Becca’s death—and the attention he was receiving—placed on him. It was in his eyes. Not once could he recall his best friend ever needing a life preserver. Rawn had a power that he himself lacked. It was that invisible, nameless quality, along with the Poussaint armor, that could sustain him. While Rawn always believed Khalil had it good, Khalil failed to ever admit it: Rawn had it better. He did not care that he had a quiet personal power that could affect people. And even now, when his life had the potential to explode, he still held it together. Rawn was naturally urbane. Khalil reached for his friend’s right hand and took it in both of his own large hands. In one solid motion, he grabbed his friend’s frame and embraced him. Rawn returned the embrace while a lump rose to the back of his throat.

  When the shuttle ferry approached Crescent Island pier, Khalil said in his best friend’s ear, “Aphoristically speaking, of all the people I know…This whole thing, it ain’t right, know that. And I wish I could pull a David Copperfield and make it all disappear.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Two days ago, Sicily, struck by sadness and perpetual struggle, called Tamara and got her voicemail. She left a message. When she did not get an immediate response from her, she made one last-ditch effort, despite every muscle in her body, every feeling in her toes and fingers, and everything her recently celebrated thirty-six year-old life taught her—this woman has left my life. No matter what her still small voice urged her to hear, or the forces pressing against her soul, she said into the telephone wire, eyes blinking back tears, “I know you had to hear about D’Becca. It must be a slow news cycle because it’s all the media seems to be covering. I don’t recall even Columbine getting this much coverage earlier in the year. Did you hear about Rawn? How he’s this…what do they call it…‘person of interest’ in her death?” Sicily brushed away the tear that slipped down her cheek. “Lady, I could use a friend. Please call me.”

  Yet Tamara never responded to her appeal.

  Sicily was crossing the floating bridge heading to Crescent Island, holding her coffee tumbler in her trembling hand when she heard her cellular ringing. She attempted to change lanes. Because her Everything Dayna-endorsed bag was on the passenger’s floor, she could not grab it. She reached for the dial and lowered the volume of Maxwell playing on her CD player. His voice—his lyrics—kept her from thinking about what she most wanted to think about. What might have been.

  Once she exited the freeway leading to Crescent Island, she placed her coffee tumbler in the beverage holder and pulled over to the side of the isolated, two-lane road. She parked feet away from a sign in large letters, “Welcome to Crescent Island,” that greeted each visitor or local upon entering the islet. When she reached for her cellular, she spoke, “Three messages?” Her heart began to pulsate, but Sicily was not even aware of her racing heartbeat. Tamara? Anxious, she listened to the first message, but was instantly crestfallen. While the second message played, she began to sit upright. “Oh, Lord!” Sicily listened to the third message. “What?” Hurriedly, she dialed her office and her EA answered on the first ring. “It’s Sicily.”

  With a sigh of relief, the assistant said, “You are coming in today?”

  “Why would I not?”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. It’s pandemonium!”

  “I’ve received three calls, all about the media—the satellite vans, everything. Homeowners adjacent to the campus, they are com-plaining. All I need to hear next is that there are helicopters flying overhead. Please tell me it’s not so!”

  “Not helicopters. But the press…what do I tell them? They are so pushy.”

  “No comment! That’s what you say. No matter what they say to you, you tell them flat-out, no comment!”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Did Rawn Poussaint come in today?”

  “He’s here, yes.”

  Sicily was hardly surprised. “Look, I’m fifteen minutes away. The board president has called an executive meeting. Start sending e-mails. Find out each trustees’ availability and make it work.”

  “Will do.”

  Sitting in her car, the sound of quiet consuming her, her heart and mind rushed much faster than her emotional state could handle. Sicily was confused, not about how to handle Rawn, but about Tamara. This was the one. In every conceivable way, Tamara was the one—talkative and charming and educated, and she was complex, which for Sicily meant that there would always be some level of passion. And she knew how and where to touch. Tamara had almost all of what Sicily wanted and needed. They coalesced beautifully; they clicked—and from the start. In a blink of an eye, she went from attached to alone. Disappointment, most often, was a profoundly deep thing.

  I forget to Om.

  • • •

  Two nights ago, Dr. Poussaint was about to leave for the airport and taking the last flight out of DIA into Seattle when Khalil called him.

  “Dr. P., I think you should hire Ezra Hirsch.”

  “Hire him, why? Who is he?”

  “He’s an attorney, and Rawn needs one. I can’t talk sense into his
head, but you can reach him.”

  “He didn’t kill the woman. What does he need with an attorney?”

  “We both know that. But, Dr. P., we live in voyeuristic times. The media is controlling this. That puts pressure on authorities…I think you should at least contact Hirsch.”

  Impatient, Dr. Poussaint reached for a pen and pad nearby and asked, “What’s his number?”

  Now, days later, he sat with his son in Café Neuf. They attempted to discuss anything and everything except the obvious—D’Becca. Ezra Hirsch was late, and Dr. Poussaint loathed how some people did not place more value on time, especially his.

  Rawn felt his father’s exasperation. “Daddy, it’s probably traffic. Plus, it’s raining.”

  Dr. Poussaint did not want to take out his frustration on his son. He sensed that he was not himself. He wanted to diminish any lingering tension, so he said, “The ferry might have saved him some time.”

  With weary eyes, Rawn looked over to his father seated across the table, and quietly, he smiled because he knew it was what his father needed to see.

  Jean-Pierre greeted their table. “Anything more, Dr. P?”

  “C’est tout, Jean-Pierre. Merci.”

  “Rawn?”

  With his eyes pressed shut, he nodded, sliding an Orangina to the side.

  “Anything, d’accord?”

  “Definitely.”

  Ezra Hirsch entered Café Neuf. Rawn looked up to the tall man standing at the entrance, raindrops dripping from his gray overcoat, his dirty-blond hair flat against his skull, and not holding an umbrella it made Rawn reminisce the day he first set eyes on D’Becca. She had rushed into Café Neuf out of the cool summer rain, her outfit soaked, her expensive shoes ruined, her hair she spent hours waiting to have done at Gene Juarez was—and the phrase Sicily jokingly used on Thanksgiving—a hot mess. Soaking wet, Ezra Hirsch was a mildly good-looking man in his early-forties. A polished and highly visible Seattle attorney, he won a high-profile case last year for the famous running back, Lou Baker Washington, on rape charges. Rawn, and everyone he discussed the case with, believed Washington raped the young woman, but the pundits who went on television talk shows to discuss the case said Hirsch chose the right jury and the chances of Washington being acquitted were pretty damn good. Hirsch appreciated something the prosecutor did not: both men and women would give Washington the benefit of the doubt, in particular, because he had a solid reputation and he was, at least publicly anyway, happily married; whereas the young groupie, who had pursued the ballplayer for months, was less credible. When he had invited her to his room following a game in Seattle, Hirsch had persuasively argued to the jury that things did not turn out as the accuser had hoped. Because she had felt dissed after their sexual encounter, the following afternoon she had walked into a Seattle police station and said to an officer seated at the desk, “Lou Baker Washington raped me last night.”