by Steph Cha
Shawn didn’t say anything. He wasn’t meant to anyway.
“So. Shawn. What made you decide to take off this Saturday of all Saturdays, with no notice?”
“You think maybe I tried to kill this woman after over twenty years, but you don’t see why the news might’ve shook me up?”
Maxwell let Shawn’s question slide off with a smile. “If I were you, I would’ve been out celebrating. Is that what you were doing?”
“I was remembering.” He left it at that.
“Is that what you were doing at the crime scene?” the cop asked. “Remembering?”
Shawn clenched his hands under the table, thinking about the Korean woman who wouldn’t look at him. She’d really gone and called the police. And if not her, someone else had. “I was remembering my sister. I went to her grave after, too. Did no one call that in?”
The detective shook his head, all solemnity, his expression regretful, even a little chastised. It occurred to Shawn that a man like this needed all kinds of faces, and he was pulling up a soft one now, the manner reserved for mourners.
After an appropriate pause, he took up where he’d left off. “Listen,” he said, his tone confiding. “Word on the street is the Baring Cross Crips are taking credit for the shooting.”
Shawn’s eyes widened; he couldn’t help it. “Word on what street?” he asked. “Not this one.”
“You know how these things work. People talk; word gets around. If you’ve heard it, you have to think maybe I have, too.”
“I haven’t heard anything about Baring Cross.”
The detective looked at him without speaking for a while, riffling the pages of his notepad with his thumb. Somewhere in there, Shawn knew, Maxwell had come up with a story about him, the one based on public records, the connect-the-dots version of his forty-one years of life.
“I gotta tell you, this couldn’t have come at a worse time. With the Curiel case ending the way it did, last thing we need is for people to be thinking about the early nineties. I think we would both be glad to find that this shooting had nothing to do with what happened to your sister. But that would be one hell of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?” When Shawn didn’t react, he continued. “You in touch with any of your old friends? Jaleel Prentiss, Kevin Price, Isaac—whaddya call him—‘Newt’ Johnson?” He smiled, rattling off the names.
They were names Shawn hadn’t heard in years, names that belonged to nerved-up, hard-eyed boys, not men his own age, dealing with families and consequences. Kids, that’s what they were—he knew that now—riding around in Newt’s dad’s car, talking about girls, sports, music, giving each other shit, laughing. But they were serious kids, kids with short childhoods, the privilege of innocence behind them. They spoke the language of life and death because they knew death, and they acted like that made them unafraid.
Once upon a time, he’d known all their phone numbers by heart; now he wasn’t sure where they all lived. Newt, he knew, was in prison for drug trafficking and attempted murder. He’d been his best friend when they were teenagers, and Shawn sometimes wondered if Newt might’ve gone a different way if only Shawn had been different. There was no use thinking about this shit—what if, what if—but there was also no avoiding it. So many mistakes, so many bad cards. He was a man who believed in his responsibility, his duty to do his best with what he had—but that didn’t mean he didn’t wonder about the caved-in channels, the cut-off roads. His mother had died, and then his sister; both had been taken from him, and he’d been left to survive. That was the life he was given. Had there been a better life waiting for all of them, on the other side of misfortune? What had that looked like, and when had it disappeared?
The detective was staring at him. Shawn shook his head. “It’s been a long while,” he said.
“How about Ray Holloway?”
Shawn suppressed a shudder. “Yeah, course I see Ray. He’s not an ‘old friend,’ he’s family.”
“I thought all you bangers were supposed to be ‘family.’” He paused long enough to let Shawn take the bait if he wanted to. “Must be why someone took it on himself to get Jung-Ja Han. When she killed your sister, she hurt the family, and the family never got its revenge. Sure, you all ran her out of South Central, and maybe you thought that was enough. But someone must’ve found out what she was up to. Her nice, quiet, free American life. You know that little Korean lady never wanted to be in the hood. You think she was devastated that her store burned down? My guess? She took that insurance check and used it to buy a clean start. I’ve seen bangers mow each other down over silly rumors and funny looks. The only thing that surprises me is that it took so long for the family to strike back.”
“Ava wasn’t a Crip,” said Shawn.
“But Jung-Ja Han thought she was. She died wearing Crip colors.”
“A Dodgers cap.”
Maxwell shrugged. “A blue cap. But sure, let’s say she wasn’t involved; you and your cousin were. I know you’re playing house now”—he waved vaguely at their surroundings, as if they were nothing more than a magic trick, something he could vanish by snapping his fingers—“but I’ve seen your rap sheet, Matthews. Slinging, fighting, shooting. And I know how this works. I know this is the tip of the iceberg.”
Shawn looked him dead in the eye. The man wasn’t wrong. Shawn had gotten away with plenty. But he’d never killed anyone, and he’d paid a lot more for his crimes than Jung-Ja Han.
“You’re OG, the real deal, and you’re angry.”
Shawn took a long, audible breath that became an openmouthed sigh. “My sister was murdered, Detective. I was angry about it twenty-eight years ago, I was angry about it last Friday, and I’m angry about it today. You wasted your time coming out here. Any fool could’ve told you I was angry. If you’d just called ahead I would’ve told you myself. I know that’s all you got ’cause that’s all there is to get.” He stood up. “And I think I’ve had enough.”
Eleven
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
It took Grace several seconds to remember where she was—in the guest bedroom of her sister’s house, hiding like a fugitive from the judging gaze of the world. She had woken up, and she was back in the nightmare. She closed her eyes again tightly and burrowed deeper into the bed.
“Come on,” said Miriam, shaking Grace. “I brought food. Have you even moved since I left the house? It’s almost nine. You have to eat.”
So the whole day had passed—she’d slept longer than she’d thought, four hours at least. She felt an odd sense of achievement, but her head still hurt, and she was no more prepared to get out of bed.
“We went to the new vegan place in the Junction,” Miriam said, a slight eye roll in her voice, somehow Blake’s veganism being the only quirk she held against him. “I got you a rice bowl with like teriyaki tofu. Come on! Just sit up! I made you a tray. This is full Umma-style service.”
Grace opened her eyes again and saw the tray in her sister’s lap. The take-out food had been transferred lovingly to a ceramic bowl, flanked by a Sriracha bottle, a side plate of kimchi, and a can of Diet Coke. She pulled herself up on her elbows. “Thanks, Unni,” she mumbled.
Miriam watched her eat. “How is it?”
She shrugged. “The tofu’s whatever. The kimchi’s good, though. You got it there?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t pay white people for kimchi. That’s mine.”
Grace looked up, incredulous. Where could Miriam have learned to make kimchi? Had their mother taught her? Grace had never learned to cook; what if the food she loved died with Yvonne?
“I mean it’s mine, not the restaurant’s. I got it at HK Market,” Miriam said. She took Grace’s chopsticks, stole a bite of her food, and shook her head. “This rice is trash. I thought the seitan was bad. Fucking vegans can’t even get rice and tofu right.” She squirted squiggly lines of Sriracha over the top of the bowl and mixed it in. “Here, this should help.”
Grace ate; it was her first meal of the day, and she re
alized she’d been hungry. When she was finished, Miriam took the tray to the kitchen and Grace lay back down, wondering if she could fall asleep again.
Her sister came right back; she sat by her side stroking Grace’s greasy hair. The gesture, Miriam’s tender fingertips, made Grace choke up with new tears.
“Do you hate me, too, now?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
“But you think I’m a racist.”
“Grace, I think everyone’s a racist.”
For the first time in her twenty-seven years, Grace felt herself hated. Her whole body burned, her skin crawling with a hot itch she couldn’t scratch away. Hers was a modest existence—her social circle had always been comfortably small, her opinions vague, her presentation inoffensive. She knew of only two people who’d ever disliked her, one girl in middle school, one boy in college, and she’d spent more time than was healthy obsessing over their opinions, probably long after they’d stopped thinking about her. It wasn’t that people liked her—she knew she never got anywhere on her charisma—but it drove her crazy to think that anyone would take issue with her, when she never hurt anybody.
That was before, when she was just the second-generation daughter of two quiet, hardworking Korean immigrants who went to church, ran a store, and raised a family, their lives as contained as a tended garden. Now she knew—they’d built their house on sand, and the rain had come down and the waters risen, the cold swallow of the real world.
Yesterday morning, she’d opened her inbox to find more than a hundred new emails, about ten times the usual volume. At first she thought the reporters had gotten hungrier. Then she noticed one of the subject lines: fuck u you gook bitch.
She clicked on it—how could she not? The body of the email was filled with vile abuse, calling her a racist as well as a chink with a sideways cunt who deserved to be raped and shot.
No one had ever said anything like that to her before. It made her want to throw her cell phone out the window. Instead, she read the next email and the one after that. There were dozens of them, varying in coherency and vitriol, but they were all angry, even the more measured, formal messages. They were all from people she didn’t know who despised her enough to track down her email address.
One of these helpful strangers included a link, and Grace opened it, her head hot and tight, as if her heart were in there, trying to pound its way out.
It was a Facebook post, titled in bold letters: DAUGHTER OF AVA MATTHEWS SHOOTER GOES ON RACIST RANT watch until the END!
She clapped her hands over her mouth as she watched herself shouting at that dreadful boy. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. It had to stop. There had to be a way to erase it.
When Miriam found her, she was nearly catatonic, her eyes dry from crying and staring at her phone, reading every abusive email, every angry comment. Miriam had taken the phone away from her, quietly deactivated Grace’s Facebook account, and given her hot tea and Xanax. She felt no less miserable now, but she was grateful for her sister’s attentions, her uncharacteristic withholding of judgment.
“How’s my video doing? Am I fully viral now?” she asked.
“Grace, don’t.”
“Tell me, Unni. I need to know where I stand.”
Miriam sighed. “It’s not good.”
“How many views?”
“It’s hard to say. It’s on too many places.”
“But millions?”
“I don’t know about millions . . .”
“So maybe millions.”
Miriam was silent, and Grace shuddered; she’d expected her sister to deny it. Millions? She couldn’t figure out what that meant, whether it might be standard cute animal video or footage seen around the world, like the grainy security tape of Jung-Ja Han. How many people were even in Los Angeles? One million? Ten million? Were they all watching her?
“Are people coming after you, too?” She didn’t think to hide the note of hope in her voice.
Miriam smiled sympathetically, not holding it against her. “No. I mean people know I’m your sister, but they’re not coming after me. I think you’re probably keeping them busy.”
“I’m getting eaten by the bear while you escape.”
Miriam chuckled. “You made a joke.”
“It’s not funny,” she said bitterly. “That Evan kid only got to me because he’s supposedly your ‘friend.’ You should be getting eaten by the bear.”
“I told you, I’ve met him like one time. He must’ve found your photo by stalking my Facebook. And honestly, Gracious, you should’ve known better than to talk to a site like Action Now, especially at a time like this.”
“You know what sucks? I’ll bet everyone I’ve ever known has seen this video by now. Like every friend I’ve ever had, from church, from school. This is grade A gossip—no way it hasn’t gotten around.”
A sob built up in her throat, and Miriam stroked her hair.
“And if they’ve seen this video, that means they must know about Mom, and that means they know all this stuff came out because she was shot. My mom was shot right in front of me. So where are they, Unni? Where are my friends?”
“You said Jeannie and Samaya called you.”
“Yeah, I know. So did Melanie, and a few of my UCI friends have been texting me. But no one’s defending me. People are saying whatever they want about me and not one of my friends is stepping in to say, ‘I know Grace Park. She’s not a racist. She was having a really bad day—in case you haven’t heard, her mother is in a coma.’”
“This is why I told you to stay off social media. Just let that play out—the villagers are voracious, but they move on fast. It’s better if you don’t engage. Your friends, too. They should just stay out of it.”
Grace sat halfway up, propping herself against the hard bed frame. “You could defend me,” she said.
The look on Miriam’s face—like Grace had asked her to give up her dog as a blood sacrifice.
“I can’t defend what you said.”
“Not what I said. Me.”
“You don’t understand, Grace. I’m a writer who lives on the internet, and on the internet, you are what you say. It would be career suicide for me.”
“To defend your sister? I don’t believe it.”
Miriam said nothing. She was no longer looking at her.
“Is that why you stopped talking to Mom? So if this ever broke wide open, you could point and say, ‘Look, I behaved perfectly’?”
Grace lay down again and turned away from her sister, sniffling and wiping snot from her nose. Her hand was wet and glistening, and she rubbed it dry on the duvet. Miriam said nothing, and Grace wondered if she would leave.
Instead, she lay down next to her. She sighed, and Grace felt her forehead tap against her shoulder.
“I have this theory. It’s something I’ve thought a lot about over the last couple years,” said Miriam. “I think if you love someone well enough, their evil makes you evil.”
Grace closed her eyes and saw a black girl dying. Five foot five, 135 pounds, and shot in the back of the head.
“I found out about Mom not long after the shit hit the fan for Bill Cosby. I know you live in your bubble, but you remember that, right?”
Grace nodded. She’d never watched The Cosby Show, but it had still been shocking, the warm goofy dad turning out to be a serial rapist.
“Did you ever read about Camille Cosby?”
“No,” Grace mumbled. “His daughter?”
“His wife. They were married for over fifty years. Still are, I think, though I have to believe she hates him by now. Anyway, she made a statement, maybe a couple statements, where she said Bill was a good man and all those women had to be lying.”
“Weren’t there like a hundred of them?”
“Maybe not quite, but definitely dozens. Enough that you’d have to be pretty fucking motivated to believe they were all lying. Camille got a lot of shit for defending Bill, and rightly so. She was feeding
into this very damaging myth that women go around crying rape just to make life difficult for men. Yet another score for rape culture.”
Grace tried to picture Mrs. Cosby. A black grandma, probably, small and old, pissed off and pointing fingers.
“The thing is, I couldn’t quite find it in me to blame her. She’d been married to him most of her life—I know marriage is complicated, and it’s hard to believe she knew nothing, but she must’ve loved him. Certainly, after a while, you think you know someone better than a bunch of strangers do—strange women, strange people on the internet. If some rando accused Blake of rape, I’d spit in her face before I heard another word.”
It was easy to picture Miriam going to the mat for her man. But then again, she’d cut her own mother out of her life; she wouldn’t post a Facebook comment in defense of her sister.
“Did you spit in any faces when you heard about Mom?”
“No one told me about Mom or maybe I would’ve. I found out on my own, just reading about the ninety-two uprising. There was nothing to dispute, or I might’ve found a way to dispute it.”
“There’s plenty to dispute. I’m holed up here because of all my disputing.”
“That’s the thing. Look, Grace, I get why you went on that rant, but come on, you know it was racist as hell. It doesn’t matter that Ava Matthews was taller than Mom. She was a kid. Mom shot a kid in the back of the head. You don’t want to think Mom’s a bad person, but to think otherwise, you have to contort yourself to justify a murder—and if you bend too much that way, you’ll become a different person. A worse person.”
Grace snapped. “And what, you’re so great? Because you turned on the woman who raised you? Who sacrificed everything to come to a foreign country so her kids could have a better life? Why do you think you’re so goddamned enlightened in the first place? It’s because Mom and Dad busted their asses so you could go to a fancy Ivy League college. Have you ever worked in a convenience store in South Central? Have you ever even been inside a convenience store in South Central?”