by Noel Obiora
“Kenny, I have these nightmares where my cell has a death row chair in it, and the public defender always coming around saying ‘I’m sorry, man,’ ‘I’m sorry buddy,’ ‘I didn’t see this coming.’ I can’t do it, Kenny. I’mma raise the money to pay you to keep your office afloat.”
“You sure your pa hasn’t signed Mr. Jones yet?”
“He can’t do it unless I say so, can he?”
Kenneth shrugged, preferring not to be drawn into a disagreement between Paul and Mallam Jackson.
“Pa brought Omar Jones, and I gotta tell you I am happy with the stuff he’s done, if it gets me out of here, but this thing goes to trial, I want you not Omar. He’s a businessman, Kenny. He can sell a good yarn. But you the brains. That’s why you worried about taking my case. You are giving it some deep thoughts, and he ain’t. It’s business as usual for him. But you’re afraid the system might let me down and you’d be to blame. But you won’t. I didn’t do this. And I can prove it—with you.”
Kenneth leaned back in his chair and considered Paul anew.
“It’s okay if you don’t believe me, Kenny. But give me the chance to prove it to you.”
“When it comes to knowing what happened, in a criminal case, there are some attorneys who want to know if their client did it and there are some who don’t. I’m one of those who don’t want to know.”
“Why not?”
“Because whether you did or not, you’re still entitled to the best legal representation you can get if this system is to work for the rest of us. That’s what I signed up for when I became a criminal lawyer.”
Paul’s eyes smiled when Kenneth said this to him.
“Kenny, can you level with me about something?”
“Sure, what?”
“You’re not usually about money, Kenney. So, is Big the reason you’re hesitating taking this case?”
“Nah, Big has nothing to do with it.”
“When you and Big were doing those accident cases, Big hit you, didn’t he?”
Kenneth turned away from Paul. Then, he shook his head slowly.
“Nah, he didn’t.”
“You said you were gonna level with me.”
“I am leveling with you.”
“So, what’d he do to you? Miguel said he saw you in the parking lot, and you were crying in your car. Just tell me what he did—and I’ll drop it. I am not gonna ask him about it.”
“Big didn’t hit me, Paul. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I put all that behind me, and I’m not gonna talk to you about Big behind his back.”
“I’m sorry, he did whatever he did to you, Kenny.”
“I have to go,” Kenneth said.
“I understand,” Paul said.
Kenneth started to get up, bending over Paul, and as he did, he lowered his voice and spoke before he straightened his back, “You know you have to level with Omar Jones about what’s in that letter they said you sent after she died?”
“Kenny, I don’t know shit about that letter. I didn’t send her nothing like that.”
Kenneth stood erect, looking at Paul in disbelief.
Paul gestured to the guard watching them from a distance to indicate that he was ready to go back to his cell, and Kenneth took his leave before the guard got to their table.
10
A Past…
The weekend brought respite from People v. Jackson, and, for the time being at least, Amy’s new job felt normal. Thomas had returned to New York but would be headed to Japan a week later through Los Angeles. Thus, Amy had the weekend to herself. She spent it on the phone with Edward, then with Neda, and briefly with Thomas. She spent it watching television and reviewing work files, only leaving the house twice all weekend to go to the gym and to church. A planned outing with Neda during the week and a stopover by Thomas on his way to Japan might leave her less time at the office to do the work she brings home next week.
On Thursday, as she was preparing to meet Neda, Alana called. Amy did not even pick up the phone to know it was her mother calling. Alana always timed her calls to coincide with the most auspicious outings in Amy’s life, then offer her opinion on what Amy should wear, do, and say, or how Amy should conduct herself to be consistent with her Wilson upbringing. In the past, Amy did everything her mother said, while protesting that she would not. What could she possibly know about being a lady without Alana? Invariably, though, the nights lost something, like the feeling that the table between you and the person across from you is a well that either falls into an abyss of uncertain excitement or a life-changing mistake and the joy of knowing he is willing to take the leap across just to get to you. On those nights when she checked in with Alana, or Alana checked in with her, Amy felt some of that unknown was lost…sometimes all of it was lost. She never felt the spark her friends often talked about, that when left to their dates’ devices their nights could explode. Both the contemplation of that explosion and the excitement of keeping the lid on it was lost. The best nights were those Alana never knew about or the rare occasion that Amy lied to her, perhaps because Alana would not approve. Nights when Amy was “free-falling” with the bad boys, as one of her favorite songs would say. So, when Alana asked what Amy was planning for this evening, Amy said she was going to Cool Jo’s Café, just to get a reaction out of Alana.
“With Thomas?”
“No, why would you assume I’m going with him anyway?”
“I thought Thomas flew in to see you on his way to Japan.”
“He did, and he is at his hotel.”
“What’s come over you? Why would you go to a Black nightclub by yourself, when Thomas is there to go with you?”
“Now, how do you know it’s a Black nightclub?” Amy asked.
“Cool Jo’s? Honey, don’t be naive. No self-respecting café goes by such a name.”
Amy and Neda had arranged to have drinks at a hotel in downtown Los Angeles and go to a movie afterward. Amy decided to walk. It was windy, for LA, and the night felt cool. The sky was cloudy, though no rain was expected. As was her practice when she went out socially with her girlfriends, she wore the ring from her failed engagement. Traffic was still busy as she walked toward Fourth Street. She had been tempted to drive because she would be coming back late but finding herself alone on the sidewalk while cars filled the one-way boulevard beside her with noise and exhaust fumes, she felt proud of her decision.
At the bar in the hotel, she told Neda about her brother Edward’s new girlfriend, Angela, an actress, whom Alana had called to tell Amy about. Edward met her after a performance his hospital staff attended in New Haven.
“Edward now goes to watch plays regularly in the theatre,” Amy said. “That should tell you how smitten he must be. He never saw a single play in his life before the one he met her at.”
“Then your mother is right. She must be the one. That is how it usually happens. Just when you’re not looking, a new world you’ve never been to or noticed in the past opens up, and the person you’ve been waiting for all your life just walks in,” Neda said.
“What does that say about us? We don’t go to new worlds and I’ve known Thomas all my life,” Amy said, raising her glass to her lips.
“A new world opens every day, you just have to sail into it. Unlike you, I’m open for adventure,” Neda said. Amy chuckled.
“It could also be the death of you. Goldie, the victim in my new murder case, met the ex-boyfriend who killed her that way. She turned her back on a man she had known all her life for adventure.”
“That is really the way you see life, isn’t it? Every new day is like one door opening for you, that leads to either adventure or death. And you think, if you don’t get up and walk through it, you will never die.”
“Oh, I don’t mind dying, it’s the disappointment of a false adventure that feels like being buried alive. For that, I�
��d rather stay in bed and order room service.”
“How the hell did we become friends?”
“You sought me out for adventure,” Amy said. They both laughed.
They were again interrupted by a man offering to buy them drinks, before their glasses were empty. It was the second time someone offered. Amy and Neda looked at each other, then at their half-full glasses and started laughing. They declined.
“Oh, by the way, my mother asked where I was going tonight, and I said Cool Jo’s Café just to see her reaction. That’s the club the accused in my case said he was in when his ex was killed.”
“Then let’s go there.”
“Are you trying to get me sent back to your office?”
“How would they know?”
“The investigation is still hot, I’m sure there’ll be undercover cops at that club tonight. This guy owns the nightclub.”
“So…live a little.”
“Nah, I’d rather not. I just told my mom that to give her a nightmare.”
“Why are you doing that now? Are you back to rebelling from your mom? Come on, think about it. How would you feel if you were her? My mother is the one who tries to get me off the phone when we talk.”
“It’s different with me and Alana. You were separated from your mother for a while when you left Iran. I can’t even imagine that at this age.”
“I think that’s how your mother feels, like you’ve moved to Tehran and left her in the Bay Area, at least emotionally.”
“No, she gets why…I mean not exactly, but she knows it is about boundaries. She reminded me again today.”
“She reminded you that she knows why you’re giving her nightmares?”
“…that I take after my grandfather.”
“How?”
“Alana says I take after him by running away from my family name.”
“I thought your grandfather made the family name?”
“No, my original family name was not Wilson. My great grandfather, John D. Willis, built the family fortune. But he was a rogue character back in Texas. He was a former Texas Ranger who acquired so much land in Texas and later Oklahoma back in the day that even his family was embarrassed to talk about how much he had or how he got it. They said he had to be ruthless to properly protect what was his. Mexicans said his middle initial stood for ‘Diablo.’ When oil finally hit, people swore he saw it coming. After he died, my grandpa decided to move out west, change his last name to Wilson, and build his own fortune with part of his inheritance. But he mostly turned to things that would give people a better life, like cure diseases, build infrastructure, and invest in key manufacturing products. My mom thinks that’s what I’m doing by working here and not in the private industry. She said I run the other way when I see the Wilson name and think I’m out here doing good.”
“Do you?”
“Of course not. I’m very proud of my family name…especially when I see my brother rise to it. He carries it well. But I like that my mother thinks that—she can be a bit much.”
Neda said nothing and finished her drink.
“I’ve never told anyone this story; you won’t ever repeat it, will you?”
“No, I won’t,” Neda said and smiled.
“Were you serious about going to that nightclub?”
“We won’t stay long, and we can go to the movie from there.”
“At least I won’t feel too guilty about lying to Alana.”
“Don’t pretend you are a nice person. It is beneath you.”
Amy laughed.
Cool Jo’s Café was boxed in a flat-roofed square building on Hope Street, a few blocks south of the hotel where Amy and Neda met. It looked like a warehouse from the street, and there were no signs or lights to suggest it was a nightclub. The neighborhood was fast peeling away from the rest of the city and falling into official neglect. Buildings struggled to reach full occupancy and ladies of the night hugged light poles at corners of the street. Neda first circled the block trying to decide which of the many large parking spaces was safe to park. The lots seemed to have been raised where buildings had been torn down to eradicate their aesthetic nuisance. Behind Cool Jo’s Café, Amy noticed another nightclub with a line of predominantly Hispanic Americans waiting in front.
A line of about twenty African Americans stood outside waiting to be let into Cool Jo’s Café, too. Alana’s perspicacity with no more information than the name of the club seemed uncanny to Amy. She turned to gauge Neda’s reaction.
“Did you know that it was an all-Black nightclub?” Neda asked while they briefly sat in the car with the engine running. Amy shrugged.
“It is owned by an African American.”
“Do you want to go back?” Neda continued.
“I am not standing in line to go to any nightclub,” Amy said.
“Have some faith,” Neda said and shut the engine off.
“So, how would two white chicks get past that line?”
“With a State Department ID.”
“A what?”
“I have an idea, just come,” Neda said, and went to the front of the line.
Amy waited a minute across the street before Neda waved her over. The entrance opened into a hallway leading to a back area from which much of the music emanated. The song “Creep” by TLC was playing. Immediately after the entrance, there were two doors facing each other to the left and right of Amy. Once past the doorman, Neda peeked into the door to the left, and turned quickly to enter the door on the right as though she knew where she was going. Amy also peeked into the door on the left before following Neda. The lighting inside was dim, and the aisles between the booths were beginning to fill with people.
Amy had hoped to steal into a corner of the club with a glass of vodka mixed with grapefruite juice on ice and observe the scene. The only other Caucasian that Amy could see besides herself and Neda was a burly bartender with a baby face and thick brown hair. Neda took off her jacket and approached the bartender. Amy looked around, trying to smile without looking directly at the men. Her eyes met some of the women’s gazes and though she could not really make out their expressions, she felt judged as if she had trespassed into one of the few places left for them to be themselves without someone like her being there to judge them.
Many of the woman wore tight dresses, stiletto heels, and black panty hose. The heavier the women, the higher the heels and the tighter the dresses, it seemed. A few wore jeans, loose skirts, and T-shirts, a flower pattern dress, or a white pant suit that must have seemed elegant at the wedding for which it was purchased. Most of the men seemed tall and big boned, in tight fitting T-shirts over broad chests and bulging biceps, but always a jacket. The taller and bigger men seemed to prefer baggy pants with their suits.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked Neda.
Amy was standing tightly behind Neda as the bartender spoke when she noticed someone’s hand come over her shoulder from behind and rest on it. As she tried to turn, expecting the man had mistakenly rested his hand on her, the hand squeezed her shoulder. Amy froze. Her shoulders hunched up to her ears and her spine stiffened to the audacity of a familiarity she could not imagine having with anyone in this club. Then she heard his voice.
“Amy Wilson? What on Earth are you doing here?”
Neda turned before Amy could, with a grin on the verge of laughter. Amy held Neda’s shoulders and turned her back around to face the bartender, then Amy turned to see Kenneth in a white shirt and black slacks looking as young as she remembered him six years prior. A smile affixed upon his face, his eyes on hers. His hair was neatly low cut.
“Kenneth,” Amy said, but Neda quickly interrupted her.
“What would you like to drink?” Neda asked.
“A greyhound,” Kenneth said.
“Not you, her,” Neda said, pointing to Amy.
“I’m telling you what she would like.”
Amy nodded to Neda and turned her around again before Neda could say another word.
“Excuse me. The ghost of Kenneth Brown, what brings you to life?” Kenneth did not answer, not with words. They gazed at each other briefly, then embraced. The bartender retreated with Neda’s order, and Neda turned around to face Kenneth and Amy.
“So, you’re really in Los Angeles?” Amy asked.
“So, you got my calls.”
“You guys go ahead and find a table, I’ll bring the drinks,” Neda said.
Amy, still a shade scarlet, said, “Kenneth meet Neda, my dearest friend and colleague. Neda, Kenneth, and I were in college together.”
“Together?” Neda asked, as she extended her hand to Kenneth.
“Classmates,” Kenneth said. “Please, let me get the drinks.”
“You’re here alone?” Neda asked.
“I am. I just got here.”
“You live in the area?” Amy asked.
“Yes, well, Long Beach.”
Neda was looking around the clubhouse for a table as Amy and Kenneth spoke.
“We’ll be over there,” she said, pointing to the general direction of several booths.
“Sure,” Kenneth said. Amy could feel him watching her as she walked away with Neda. She and Neda were seated for some time while Kenneth waited for their drinks.
“So, together in college, ha. How come I never heard of him?” Neda asked.
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Like what? What is it like?”
“Oh, he’s an old friend, and…the nicest guy you ever met.”
“Nicest? I’m ‘Mommy dearest’ and he’s nicest?”
“I never called you that…”
“Still, I prefer nicest, he can keep dearest.”
Amy waved Neda’s teasing away and looked around. She admired the women’s many hair styles, cornrow braids that split the rows from the center of the head down to the sides to end at the natural hairline, those with bangs and those with extensions that fell on the shoulders, braids that stood single and separately without cornrows, attached to extensions, thick braids and tiny braids, the short dreadlocks sprouting off the head, not longer than a pinkie, and the long Rastafarian dreadlocks. The blow-dried good old Afro seemed to still hold its own, though it appeared much shorter than it ever was and more common with women than with men.