by Steph Cha
He stood up and rushed over to shake her hand. “Thank you for coming all this way,” he said. “Would you like to order something? It’s on me.”
She got green tea soft serve in a waffle cone. It was almost two and she hadn’t eaten, and she felt she deserved to have ice cream for lunch.
They sat down, and she answered Searcey’s bland little questions—how was the drive? how do you like Abbot Kinney? have you been to the boardwalk?—letting him put her at ease while she finished her soft serve. When he finally brought up Yvonne, she didn’t resist.
“She’s still weak,” she said. “But I know you don’t recover from a gunshot wound overnight. I think she’s doing about as well as can be expected.”
“And how are you managing? You mentioned you didn’t know about your mom’s role in the Ava Matthews shooting.” He peered at her through his wire-rimmed glasses, and she thought his sympathy was genuine. She realized she wanted this man to like her.
“It’s been a lot, honestly,” she said. “But we’re doing better than I would’ve imagined a week ago.”
“That’s good to hear.”
He smiled at her, and she took a steadying breath. He seemed to sense that she was gearing up to speak and waited quietly, sipping his tea.
“I want to help Ray Holloway,” she said. “I don’t think he did it.”
He blinked and let out a soft, surprised laugh. “That’s not what I was expecting to hear. So you believe Duncan Green.”
She searched her memory for the name. “Who?”
“The guy who started this whole Twitter campaign.” He pulled something up on his phone and showed her the screen.
It was a tweet from a man named Duncan Green, @duncangreen machine: I took this picture in Palmdale on 8/23 at 7:35PM. The man is my friend #RayHolloway, who’s been arrested for shooting #JungJaHan in Northridge at 7:45PM on the same night. I told @LAPDHQ, but they won’t listen. RT if you think #RayHolloway should go free.
The picture showed a middle-aged black man who looked like Ray Holloway, with a young black woman seated deep in his lap. They were both grinning, their eyes shiny with alcohol.
“I didn’t know about this,” said Grace, staring at the screen. The tweet had been shared more than forty-five thousand times.
“The story’s been trending all day. A lot of people are skeptical, of course. Green is Ray Holloway’s best friend from childhood. He has good reason to want to protect him.”
“Do you think he’s lying?”
Searcey shrugged. “He could be. I don’t know him.”
“But you know Ray Holloway. Do you think he’s guilty?”
“I don’t know Ray that well either. I haven’t actually seen him since 2007 or so. And he did confess to the shooting. I know that’s not absolute or anything, but it’s not unconvincing.”
She’d thought so, too, until she saw the video from the store. It came to her, late last night—she’d seen that boy at Sheila Holloway’s house. He was in the living room with a younger girl, probably his sister. They were watching TV when Sheila opened the door for Grace, and they both stared at her openly until Sheila told them to go do their homework. They were her grandkids, she told Grace. Which made the boy Ray’s son, or Shawn’s.
Grace was thrown by Duncan Green’s tweet. It was the kind of thing she always felt was too wild, like when that black woman committed suicide in jail, and people on Facebook swore up and down that she’d been murdered. Grace had always believed, without really thinking, that the world was fair and reasonable. There were systems and structures to keep society alive and safely regulated, and it didn’t make sense for her to mistrust them when she understood them so little in the first place.
But this time, she knew. The system had failed. The agitators, the conspiracy theorists—they were right.
The clip didn’t prove anything, but it explained a whole lot. Why Ray Holloway was in Palmdale during the shooting. Why he chose to confess anyway. The boy had taken the time to drive to Northridge, just for that one look through Woori’s window. He’d found Yvonne and come back to hurt her. Grace would bet the store on it.
“People make false confessions all the time.” She’d read about this somewhere around four in the morning, when the security footage wouldn’t let her sleep. “Shouldn’t the police know better than to just take their word for it?” She set her teeth, thinking of Detective Maxwell. She’d grown up watching men like him on TV, and even when she was wary of him, she’d assumed he was truth seeking and competent. Every day, there were rotten cops in the news, and still she had been bamboozled. “I mean they’re supposed to protect people, right? How can they be so bad at their jobs?”
“They protect people from other people. Question is who are ‘people’ and who are ‘other people’?” He blinked and took his glasses off, cleaned the lenses with the hem of his shirt.
She thought of her mother, a criminal and a victim; the bullet fired and the bullet taken, the arc that joined them a shelter, one that had protected Grace all her life. She thought of Ava Matthews and then of Alfonso Curiel, both of them teenagers, dead for nothing. How many more had died between them?
But her mother was not a trained officer of the law. She was just a person, someone who’d never even learned to fire a gun. And the police had offered her up, to draw attention from their own mistakes. They would do it again if they had the chance.
“It’s been twenty-seven years since the riots, right?” she asked.
Searcey nodded. “And the Watts Rebellion was twenty-seven years before that.”
She nodded back—though she wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about—and continued her thought. “And the same things keep happening. Like every week, there’s some new police shooting. Rodney King—I mean I know what happened to him was terrible, but . . .”
She paused, and Searcey picked up the thread. “Rodney King only blew up because George Holliday got him on video. You have to assume there was police brutality that never made it to the public, but they showed that one video on every news channel across the country for a full year. Even dead kids don’t get that kind of coverage anymore. There are too many videos. They bleed together. People get desensitized. I’d bet the Rodney King beating wouldn’t even break a few thousand views on YouTube now. He was a felon resisting arrest, and he survived.”
“Alfonso Curiel isn’t on the news anymore.”
“He would be, if Trevor Warren had been indicted. If there was a trial coming. But there isn’t. As far as most journalists are concerned? The story’s pretty much over.”
Grace thought of Alfonso Curiel’s mother, pointing at the camera. Remember his name. “Now Ray Holloway is the story,” she said.
“The good news, if you can call it that? It’s all part of the same story. Even if the news cycle has moved on, people remember Alfonso Curiel when they see Ray Holloway. Especially here, in SoCal.”
“Ray Holloway should be free,” she said. “The police got it all wrong. I know it.”
Searcey stared at her with renewed interest. “You witnessed the shooting,” he said. “You’re one of the only people who could make that happen. Did you remember something? Did you see anything that would help Ray?”
She could turn the clip over to Searcey or even Detective Maxwell. It was probably the right thing to do. But what would it accomplish? If Duncan Green’s picture wasn’t exonerating, the video wouldn’t be either. And Ray Holloway wouldn’t want it getting out. Her parents either—they just wanted to move on, and Grace had had just about enough of the spotlight.
“You said you could get in touch with his lawyer, didn’t you?”
Fred MacManus looked like he could be on TV. And he had been, from the looks of it—there was a framed photo of him with Rachel Maddow on one of his hundred bookshelves. He was a good-looking man, tall and trim in a sharp blue suit with a skinny gray necktie. He was black, which had surprised her. Not because he was a lawyer, Grace reasoned, but because his name
sounded Irish.
“Please have a seat, Miss Park,” he said, gesturing toward a plush leather chair in front of his desk. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. It’s been hectic here, what with this new social media campaign. I just got done talking to KPCC.”
She sat and noticed a framed picture of two college-age boys, one of them clearly graduating, with a colorful sash draped over his gown.
“That’s my son’s college graduation. UCLA, like me.” He settled into his massive desk chair with a slight smile. “He’s the smart one. The pretty one’s at Stanford.”
Grace’s mouth fell slightly open—she hadn’t put together that the two boys were his children. “Did you have them when you were twelve?”
His smile widened. “You know what they say. Black don’t crack.”
She laughed. She hadn’t heard that before.
“I was glad to hear from you,” he said, his expression still light and amiable.
She’d called from her car, already on her way over to his office in Century City. His assistant had fussed over her while she waited, offering her water and coffee and cookies, promising he’d be with her the second he was free.
“I want to help your client,” she said. “Ray Holloway. I don’t think he did anything.”
If MacManus was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I don’t think he did either.” He waited for her to continue.
“We aren’t interested in pressing charges,” she said. “My family, I mean.” She wondered if that mattered, if they had the power to wish this all away.
He must’ve seen the stupid hope in her face. “That’s not how it works, unfortunately. Ray is a convicted felon on parole, and he confessed to a violent felony. The state can’t drop the case on your say-so.”
“What if I had proof?”
His desk chair creaked, though she didn’t notice him shifting. “What kind of proof?” His voice was even, but there was a hungry, attentive glint in his eyes.
What would happen if she gave MacManus the video? Would he show it to his client? Or would he just hand it over to the police and the prosecutors and send them after the boy Ray Holloway had gone to jail to protect?
She took her time, wanting to feel him out without showing her whole hand. “What if, just hypothetically, I had proof that someone else was involved, but your client didn’t want you to use it?”
The “just hypothetically” didn’t do much, it turned out. His eyes lit up like she’d flashed him a map to the Holy Grail. “You have proof that someone else was involved?”
“I didn’t say that.”
The lawyer fell back in his chair. He looked frustrated. Grace wondered if he suspected his client was holding back on him. He certainly didn’t seem to know what she knew.
And she wouldn’t tell him. All at once, she felt in league with Ray Holloway, and the idea suffused her with a sense of warmth and well-being—what she was seeking, she realized, when she’d visited Shawn Matthews. Here was a man who’d only just gotten out of prison, sacrificing his freedom for the sake of his family. It was like something out of a folktale, beautiful and noble and rare. A father’s love, proven under fire. She would protect it; she would keep his secret.
“You said you wanted to help him,” said MacManus.
“I do,” she said. “I witnessed the shooting, and I don’t think he did it. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”
He thought about that and leaned forward again. “We’re talking hypothetically, right? If you or your mother were to remember something about the shooting, something you didn’t already tell the police—that could change things. I think the prosecution would have a much harder time if they knew you’d testify he wasn’t the shooter. In fact, I could see them giving up if they knew you’d get up and say that.”
Her heart beat hard as she pictured the man free, the boy free, tearfully reunited because of her intervention. She knew what MacManus was asking, in his plausibly deniable way. The price was cheap for what she’d be getting.
“My mom won’t testify. I’m positive about that. And I’ll tell them I saw the shooter and that he wasn’t Ray Holloway.”
He searched her eyes and nodded once, satisfied. “Has the DA’s office contacted you yet?”
“No,” she said. “I’ve only talked to the detective.”
“They will. In fact, I’ll tell them they need to talk to you.”
Twenty-Two
Thursday, September 5, 2019
The phone buzzed on Shawn’s pillow, where he’d been keeping it by his ear every night since Jung-Ja Han was shot. He slept so lightly these days it might have been overkill, but he didn’t want to miss the wrong phone call. Darryl’s photo popped up on the screen, and Shawn slipped out of bed into the dark hallway to answer.
Darryl’s voice, creaking and nervous: “Hey, Uncle Shawn.”
So the little punk was alive. He crouched down on the carpet and rested his head on the wall. He had to close his eyes to steady himself.
“Darryl,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you? Where you calling from?”
“If I tell you, will you come and not tell Mom?”
“Just tell me where you are.”
Darryl hesitated but gave in anyway. He needed help. “I’m at McAdam Park. In the playground.”
He remembered watching Darryl swinging on the monkey bars, butt and knees dusty from horsing around in the dirt. The broad smile when he made it across and jumped off, landing on his feet. Big teeth gleaming, bright eyes seeking out Shawn. Asking, Did you see that?
“Don’t move. I’ll be there in ten,” Shawn said.
The light went on as he put on his pants. Jazz sat up in bed, haloed in soft dusty lamplight. Her eyes were clear and wide. She’d been awake, then, probably since the phone rang.
“Are you going out now? It’s past two in the morning.”
Shawn realized he hadn’t checked the time. These past days had pried him away from his routine, demanding his readiness and attention. He’d been on constant standby, like Jazz on the exhausting nights she took call, when she went to bed in her scrubs, prepared to rush to the hospital to deal with a stranger’s crisis. But this call had lasted over forty-eight hours, and Darryl was his own flesh and blood. He was running on love and adrenaline, and he was supposed to be up for work in four hours.
“Sorry, Jazz,” he said. “Go back to sleep. I won’t be long.”
She didn’t move, just stayed propped up on her elbows, looking at him. “Was that Darryl?” she asked.
He thought about lying. He might have, if he thought there was a chance she’d believe it. “Yeah.”
“Oh, that’s great, baby.” Her whole body seemed to sigh with relief. “He’s okay, then?”
Shawn didn’t know how to answer her. He turned to put his socks on and spoke into his knees. “He’s found.”
Jazz was quiet for a minute, turning this over. “But whatever made him go off like that, it’s right there with him.”
Shawn started getting up to leave, but she stopped him with a hand on his elbow. He sat back on the bed, took her hand and kissed it. “I gotta go, Jazz.”
“I’m worried about you,” she said. “I don’t want you to get into something you can’t handle.”
He thought of Detective Maxwell. Of Quant, the big gangster glaring at him from the ground. There was his job, too. He was grateful to Manny—it looked like Shawn might take advantage of his kindness after all—but he hated that he couldn’t just show up to work. He could feel his waning commitment to the structures and requirements of this peaceful life.
Jazz continued, her voice reasonable and gentle. “You can’t be the one to solve his problems. You know it as well as I do. You call the wrong person, visit the wrong place, they’ll throw you back in prison before Monique can even say goodbye.”
He knew she was right, and yet knowing it changed nothing.
“He’s like my own ch
ild, Jazz. What choice do I have?”
Darryl hadn’t run far. McAdam Park was on Thirtieth between Q and R, a couple miles up from his house and only a mile from Shawn’s. It was nowhere for Darryl to hide, if that’s where he’d been hiding. Someone was bound to run into him. He and his friends liked to skateboard there—Shawn knew this because he’d bumped into them once when he was with Monique. It was a family hangout, dense with their memories. Warm, idle afternoons. Picnics and baseball games. Shawn saw them now like a reel of home movies, fuzzy and sweet. The sunshine, the desert wind, his arms holding wholesome, bright-skinned children.
But it was a different place at night. The lights were out, leaving it plunged in darkness, all the color hidden away. It was quiet but not silent, and the sounds that emerged were restless and furtive and human. Shawn felt eyes on him as he walked past the baseball diamond. When he looked, he saw two men draped across a bench. One of them bobbed his head at Shawn as he passed. There was a time when Shawn would’ve stopped, seen if there was anything he could sell them, if they had money to buy. It shamed him to remember and to think of Darryl running the same kind of game.
He saw Darryl right away, sitting hunched on a low swing, silhouetted against the night. He knew his shape, his adolescent posture, ever changing but somehow always Darryl, slouched and self-conscious. He got up when he saw Shawn approach, grabbing at a chain. It rattled against the swing set’s frame. A thin, scraping, metallic sound.
It was a cool night, and Shawn felt the chill through his clothes, like the bone-wan desert moonlight was seeping in and coating his skin to leach the heat away. Darryl was wearing jeans and a hoodie, zipped all the way up to his chin. It was his favorite hoodie, green fleece with white lining, and Shawn saw that it was worn from washing. Darryl had a backpack with him, laid down at his feet, but Shawn guessed he hadn’t packed anything proper. How pathetic he was, this nephew of his. Just a child run off from home.