What Simon Didn’t Say

by Joy Copeland

  “Right. I don’t think she liked it here. She and Ray did not get along.” As Regina talked, the young woman’s urgent need to exit seemed to disappear. She lowered her voice, indicating that what she was about to disclose was “privileged” information. Early on, Zoie had learned that she could count on Regina for the office gossip. Thus far Zoie found Regina’s tendency to gossip useful. She liked her young assistant but couldn’t help wondering what the young woman said about her behind her back.

  “So Ray and this Carmen didn’t hit it off, huh?” Zoie said, fanning the flames.

  “Those two were oil and water.” Regina laughed and rested her heavy bag on the floor. “Carmen tried to tell Ray things, but Ray just wouldn’t listen.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “I’m not quite sure. Carmen was young, a smart dresser like you. Attractive. She knew her stuff—not like some of the others around here, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t,” Zoie said with a raised eyebrow.

  Regina looked around to see if anyone was in listening range. “Stick around long enough, you’ll see. I’m not sure what the final straw was with Carmen. She never discussed her disagreements with Ray. But everyone knew something was up. One day I caught her crying in her office. She told me it had to do with a death in the family. She didn’t want to talk about it. I know it didn’t have anything to do with anyone dying. Hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you,” Zoie said.

  “Who knows? She probably turned him down.”

  All kinds of visions went through Zoie’s head. Was Regina talking sex?

  Regina continued. “Then a couple of days later, Carmen packs up and leaves. Wouldn’t even come back for the little going-away party.”

  Sexual harassment? Was it possible that Ray had been harassing Carmen? Zoie had dealt with plenty of those cases. Attractive young women, older men, sometimes young men too. Actually, it didn’t matter what the women looked like. Sexual harassment, like rape, was about power and control—not sexual gratification. Naïve corporations shelled out millions on these cases, most often settling out of court. They spent fortunes because of the uncontrolled egos and overexcited gonads of the higher-ups. Call it “hush money.” The strange thing about it was that only some of the perpetrators were ever fired. Since the settlements carried no admissions of guilt and used nondisclosure agreements, the perpetrators often folded quietly, back into the corporate ranks. They were allowed to stick around to offend another day. But no matter how much a company tried to keep a thing like that under wraps, it always leaked.

  Plastic-smile Ray seemed a little sleazy, but so far he’d given no indication that he was an office predator. Maybe Ray wasn’t an equal-opportunity harasser. Maybe she hadn’t been there long enough. Or maybe Ray was careful in picking his victims. Maybe he knew better than to mess with an attorney who knew a lot about harassment cases.

  “So what happened to Carmen?” Zoie asked. “Where did she go?”

  “Florida. She’s got family there. I’ve got her forwarding address for personal mail.”

  “Huh. Too strange.”

  “This place is strange. All I know is Ray’s a lot happier without Carmen around,” Regina said.

  Part of Zoie wanted to press her assistant for more details. Given the opportunity, Regina would gush gossip like water from an open hydrant. But Zoie thought about Regina’s child, a darling two-year-old, whose picture Regina displayed prominently in her workspace.

  “Hey, aren’t you going to be late for your son?”

  Regina checked her watch. “Damn! The Red Line better be running right today. Zoie, about those files,” Regina said, backing through the exit door, “Ray’s in Bethesda, and I know he keeps his door locked. I’ll get them for you in the morning.”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll have to wait.”

  Chapter 15

  Attack of the Clones

  Zoie and Jahi’s pseudo-date happened the weekend after they’d shared iced coffee at Sunrise Café. She walked the twenty blocks from her apartment to Uptown Theater, heading up Connecticut Avenue. A block from the theater, she spotted Jahi outside the theater. She wiped the sweat from her brow and lengthened her stride. She was late.

  “Sorry,” she called to him from ten yards away.

  “This was the time we agreed to meet?” Jahi dipped his eyes to check his watch. “The movie is about to start.”

  It was Star Wars: Episode II, Attack of the Clones, playing on the big screen. When Jahi had suggested getting together, Zoie had hesitated. Mahali was a client, and Jahi was the head of it. Perhaps that was a conflict. He wasn’t her usual type, but something about him intrigued her, an attraction beyond the physical—although the physical wasn’t bad. From college onward her experience dating black men was limited. White guys, not brothers, always sought her out. Part of her wanted to know if a relationship with a brother could work. A movie seemed a safe way to start, especially since it wasn’t supposed to be a real date. Right.

  “Forgive me. Some last minute family business,” Zoie said, slightly out of breath from her fast walk. She patted her damp face with a balled-up tissue.

  Jahi didn’t respond. At least he wasn’t frowning. He was dressed in the same casual manner as at the Shelter. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt, which advertised an image of Miles Davis, and jeans. The thick soles of his combat boots added at least an inch to his already-tall height.

  “At least there’s no line,” Zoie said, looking around.

  “That’s because everybody is already inside,” he said.

  “Sorry. I’m usually punctual.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, this time smiling. “Two for the eight o’clock show.” He pushed two tens through the ticket booth’s small slot without looking at the cashier.

  Zoie took note. Elliot had never shelled out money for her. She and Elliot had made the agreement to always go “Dutch” early in their relationship. At the time the arrangement made sense. Elliot was a well-paid securities broker; she, an equally well-paid attorney. Why shouldn’t they cover their own expenses? In their seven years together, except for Christmas and her birthdays, Elliot never offered to pay for anything. Looking back, she noticed clues to his lack of commitment had always been there. She’d chosen to ignore them.

  “Sir, the total prices is twenty-two dollars,” said the young cashier, drumming his fingers on the counter.

  “What!” Jahi said, his head darting to the theater’s price chart behind the cashier.

  “Twenty-two,” the cashier repeated, “eleven a piece.”

  “When did movies get so pricey?” Jahi asked.

  “It’s still cheaper than New York,” Zoie said, offering him a ten.

  “No, that’s all right.” Jahi opened his wallet and fingered its remaining bills. “Guess it’s been a long time since I’ve been to a movie.”

  “Here, take it. I can’t let you pay my way,” Zoie insisted.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can afford to pay my own way.”

  “And I can’t afford to pay for you?” he asked, seeming indignant.

  The truth was that she did know how much he made. The Shelter’s grant package listed his compensation along with other Shelter expenses. “Don’t get all sensitive on me now,” she said.

  “I should be insulted. But you’re right. I don’t make attorney money. Is that a problem?”

  “No,” she answered quickly. “My covering my own expenses avoids any impropriety.”

  “I’m not going to fight you about this. But eleven dollars is hardly a bribe!”

  “It can’t even have the appearance,” she insisted.

  “Jeez!”

  “Sir, do you want the tickets or not?” asked the irritated cashier.

  “Yeah. Okay, okay.” Jahi took Zoie’s ten, bought the tickets, and kept the change.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “You can buy me an ice cream after the show.”

  Inside Jahi boug
ht his own popcorn, and she bought a bottle of water. The theater was packed, and it was dark. The flickering light of the coming attractions provided enough light for Zoie to see that some people had come in Star Wars costumes. Jahi spotted two empty seats down in the front.

  “This is pretty close. I usually sit in the back or at least the middle,” Zoie told him after they had climbed over several people to settle in their seats.

  “Well, I usually sit on my sofa and watch a DVD,” he responded.

  When the Star Wars theme music started, the enthusiastic crowd let out a loud cheer.

  Perhaps this is going to be all right, Zoie thought as she looked to her right, where Jahi appeared ready to enjoy the movie. But about fifteen minutes into the movie, he began shifting nervously in his seat.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “The dude behind me is kicking my seat,” Jahi whispered back. Then he turned to face the culprit. In a low, firm voice he said, “Settle down, boys. We’re all here to enjoy this movie.”

  Zoie swung around to see three snickering adolescents, huddled together like the hyena trio in the Lion King, a movie she’d watched twenty times with Nikki. The kid directly behind Jahi had a red pimply face and spiked hair. His defiant eyes labeled him the ringleader.

  Jahi continued to monitor them with a fierce stare until their snickering stopped; then he turned back to the movie. The peace lasted all of ten minutes before the snickering started again.

  Zoie closed her eyes and prayed under her breath. “God, please make this go away.”

  Her prayer was too late. Jahi rose from his seat and faced the boys. “Goddammit! Who do you little fools think you’re messing with?”

  “Sit down up there! You’re blocking the screen!” came the cry from somewhere in the back.

  “Yeah, sit down!” was the command from another part of the theater.

  Jahi ignored these protests.

  “What’s your problem?” asked the pimple-faced kid as he squirmed further into his seat.

  “You’re my problem.” His face contorting with anger, Jahi leaned over and grabbed the kid’s collar. He twisted it tightly against the boy’s throat and yanked the boy from his seat.

  “Let me go,” said the kid, managing only a throaty whimper.

  “Hey, man—let him go!” cried another of the three, a greasy-looking short teenager, who was bouncing as if he were about to wet himself. “Man you’re choking him! Let him go!”

  Jahi seemed to not hear the kids’ loud protests or the continued calls from onlookers. With his one-handed grip, he pulled the kid’s face close to his. The boy coughed and struggled to pull free, his efforts as hopeless as an antelope in the grip of a lion. For all their histrionics, neither of his buddies lifted a hand to rescue him.

  “Somebody call the police,” cried another person in the theater.

  Zoie was on her feet. “Let him go! Let him go!”

  “You little bastard! I ought to wring your neck like a chicken!” Jahi growled, causing the kid to pee in his pants.

  “Jahi, listen. This kid is a brat. Whatever he’s done, it’s not worth it.” Zoie grabbed Jahi’s straining bicep, and her doing so seemed to trigger the release of Jahi’s grip. The boy fell back into his seat with a bang.

  “Little bastard,” Jahi said, massaging his hand.

  A small crowd had gathered at the end of their aisle. “Where’s the police?” an onlooker cried out.

  “Let’s get out of here. We can do without this publicity,” said Zoie, grabbing her bag and Jahi’s arm. She led him past the patrons, who backed away as they passed.

  Outside the theater it was dusk. A light drizzle had started. Zoie and Jahi quickly crossed busy Connecticut Avenue and headed down the block at a good pace. As far as Zoie could tell, no one was following them. Jahi seemed unconcerned. They stopped under the awning of a Greek restaurant, at the corner. Zoie looked back at the theater. Two police cruisers pulled up in front of the theater, and the officers went inside.

  “Oh, God. Just what I need—a night with you in DC jail,” Zoie said, breathing heavily, her heart racing.

  “And your purpose there would be to serve as my attorney,” Jahi said, his tone more appropriate for candlelight cocktails than the frantic scene they’d just escaped. “Don’t worry. I know these guys. DC cops have better things to do than to come after us. Do you want to go back?”

  “You must be kidding! What I want to know is what the hell happened back there?”

  “You were there! You saw!” Jahi said in falsetto.

  Zoie was exasperated. “I saw teenagers horsing around. That’s no reason to choke anyone.”

  “I assure you that I was not choking that bastard. If I’d wanted to choke him, he’d be dead.”

  Zoie was at a loss for words. Arms crossed, she tapped her foot while contemplating her next move. Guys she had dated in the past were never so physical, so hot tempered. Bullying kids was not being brave. It was time to go home, time to call it a night. She shook her head and looked over to see Jahi groping his locks.

  “I think those little bastards did something to my hair.”

  “Let me see,” Zoie said with a huff. In the fading light, she could make out spots of gray mass in the already-matted hair. The stuff was soft and sticky. “Oh, God, it’s gum. All stuck in your hair.”

  Jahi pulled his locks forward to see for himself. “Damn! Damn! What did I tell you?”

  “The only way I know to get gum out is to cut it out.”

  “Damn, I want to sue! You see, Counselor, it was self-defense!”

  Chapter 16

  Don’t Be Afraid to Live

  Life was good, even without someone like Jahi Khalfani in it—albeit a little boring. The summer was slow. Thus far Zoie hadn’t made good use of her solo time. She’d intended to do all sorts of things while Nikki was in Ohio. Somehow the time slipped away. At thirty-six her life had become predictable and passionless. Like a child on playground equipment, Zoie spun in her black leather chair, lifting her shoeless feet from the floor as she propelled herself round and round. On each go-round her eyes avoided the ten-inch pile of folders on her desk, which represented at least five hours of dry reading.

  Two weeks had passed since she and Jahi had attempted to see the Stars Wars movie; their date of sorts had been sabotaged by pimply punks and Jahi’s quick temper. Whatever the reason, their evening had been wrecked. She was angry with Jahi and not the boy. After all, Jahi was the adult. She’d witnessed his temper. She could still see the boy’s face filled with fear as Jahi’s fingers tightened his collar. Never had she imagined that Jahi was capable of such fury. Yes, it had been two weeks since she and Jahi had scurried down Connecticut Avenue to avoid the police.

  That night her heart pounded. The whole thing was maddening, childish, and even frightening. Still, in the midst of it, she felt alive. She hadn’t experienced anything that exciting in a while. Zoie took a deep breath, blew it out, and whirled again.

  The intercom buzzed. It was Regina. “Mr. Khalfani on line two. You want to be in?”

  Zoie hadn’t talked to Jahi since that night. Zoie thought for a moment. He could be calling about business.

  “It’s okay, Regina. I’ll pick up.” Zoie closed her eyes and took another deep breath. It was as if God had answered her unspoken prayer and sent her a spark, something to wake her up. Still, she needed to be careful. What God had sent her was not a spark. It was fire.

  She tempered her voice to be strong and businesslike. “Mr. Khalfani, how can I help you?”

  “Zoie, don’t be that way.”

  “Is this call about Foundation business?” she asked.

  “If I said yes, would that make it easier? Would you talk to me?” he asked.

  “Business is business. If I remember correctly, the last time we had a conversation you almost ended up needing me to represent you in court. Let’s see…felony assault? Assault on a minor?”

  He sighed. “And you wo
uld have been fabulous in court. But I do believe that little snot was at least eighteen.”

  “Let’s not quibble,” she shot back.

  “You know you’ve been on my mind a lot.” His voice was low and calm. “I realize how wrong I was. How can I apologize? How can I make this up to you?”

  “How can I trust you not to attack anyone again?” she replied. There was silence. He sounded so sincere. Part of her wanted to believe him, but he wasn’t getting off that easy. “You don’t seem to handle the general public very well, Mr. Khalfani.”

  “I know I have issues. It’s a long story. Perhaps one day you’ll allow me to explain. None of it, however, is an excuse for not controlling my temper.”

  His deep voice sounded so good. Her heart fluttered. Her resolve to be careful was failing fast.

  “Tell you what,” he continued persuasively. “I’d like to fix dinner for you. Away from the general public, as you say. Then we can talk without interruption.”

  Alone with Jahi? Should I dare it? “Whoa! How did we get from criminal court to dinner at your place?”

  He laughed. “Well, actually, not at my place. I have a humble abode. I’m house sitting for a friend who’s on a three-month assignment overseas, for the State Department. So some days I stay at his place on Capitol Hill. I get to use his gourmet kitchen. What do you say?”

  “I thought your friend at the Shelter did all the cooking.”

  “Hank is the master of cooking for the masses, but for more-intimate dinners, I’m not so bad, if I do say so myself.”

  Zoie made little circles with her finger on her desk. “And you promise there’ll be no teenage boys?”

  “I promise.”

  Zoie didn’t know quite what to expect when she arrived at the row house on Eighth Street SE, several days later. She rang the bell, and Jahi was immediately at the door, his dreads pulled back in a sort of ponytail, wearing a black silk-looking shirt and light-colored slacks, both of which were protected by a cook’s apron. What a change.

  “Greetings, Ms. Taylor,” he said, taking the bottle of wine she offered. He gave her a peck on the cheek.