by Joy Copeland
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you’ll get your things back at some point. But for now I think you’re gonna have to wait. Most likely they’ll go into evidence as stolen property.”
Discouraged, Zoie sighed.
“Zoie, I need to give you some more disappointing news. It’s unlikely these other folks you’re naming will be arrested tonight.”
“What?”
“Now hold it. You should know the drill. They’ll either be brought in for questioning or be asked to come in to give statements. Until there’s more evidence to incriminate them, they’ll end up in that vague category known as ‘persons of interest.’”
“A criminal attorney, I’m not.” Zoie was indignant. “But ‘persons of interest’! I’m telling you what I overheard! You guys need to take them off the street before they hurt somebody else. My family and I won’t be safe until they’re locked up.”
“Was this conversation that you overheard on speakerphone?”
“Well, no.”
Charles rubbed his lips in thought. “Look, I hear you. But here’s my unofficial opinion, for what it’s worth. What you overheard was only one-half of a phone conversation, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, so what you heard lacked full context. And was the whole part of what you heard in English or in some other language that you comprehend?”
“Well, parts were in English, and the rest was in their language.”
“Their language. Well, there it is.”
Too furious to acknowledge the truth of Charles’s statements, with her jaw locked, Zoie remained silent. The truth was that she couldn’t really remember what Tarik had said or say that she understood it, except that in the course of his conversations on the phone or with Asad, he mentioned Jahi and his mother.
Charles continued but with a gentler tone. “Khalfani and this Sister Te person, as far as everyone knows, are upstanding members of the community, right?”
“And your point is?”
“Get real, Zoie. That dude is running for the DC Council. He runs a homeless shelter, and Sister Te helps him. These uniform types all know them. They patrol this district. I wouldn’t be surprised if on occasion they’ve eaten in the Shelter’s dining hall. They ‘shoot the shit’ with this guy. You’ve heard the term police-community relations. That’s what’s going on here.”
Zoie frowned. “Hmm.”
“So you see, without clear evidence of specific wrongdoing by those individuals, these Fifth District guys aren’t going to move on them tonight. And by the way, since last I checked, having a guilty relative doesn’t make a person guilty. If the law worked that way, I’d be in jail a few times over.”
Zoie didn’t like that Charles was lecturing her about the law. Still, she recognized that he was giving her the straight scoop.
Having ended his conversation with the men on the loading dock, Jahi descended into the courtyard. His baggy jeans and a sloppy long T-shirt told Zoie that he’d dressed in haste. With dreads pulled back in a ponytail, his full face revealed a frightening anger. He looked ready to fight. She’d seen that expression once before, during the gum-in-hair incident at the movies at the beginning of the summer. That time the threat had been an adolescent prank. He’d been ready to do battle. This time his Shelter and its employees were under siege. He joined Sister Te and Annette, who were still engaged in an animated exchange with Officer Frankle. When Jahi joined them, Charles moved away. The only bit of the conversation Zoie could pick up was Sister Te’s anguished cry. “Ja’, they’ve arrested Tarik!”
Fists clenched, Jahi lowered his head as if in silent prayer. The stance seemed to calm him and soften his expression. He looked up in Zoie’s direction. His anger had dissolved. For a moment it seemed as if their eyes would meet. But it wasn’t so much that he was looking at her as through her, as if she were some ethereal being outside his realm of comprehension. His neutral reaction indicated that he didn’t recognize her. The eerie encounter lasted only seconds, but the Jahi Zoie saw gave her chills.
Perhaps Officer Frankle failed to mention that a woman named Zoie Taylor had made the 911 call, which resulted in Tarik’s arrest. It could be that her disguise was still working: without heels or even shoes or makeup, she wasn’t the Zoie whom Jahi had come to know. He’d seen her in the raw when they made love. Those times his eyes had been opened. He knew what she looked like unadorned. Here she was out of context. Zoie…at the Shelter…in the middle of the night. It didn’t make sense. To Sister Te and Annette, she was just Anna, a homeless woman they’d crammed into the women’s section.
It’s just as well he doesn’t know me.
Jahi turned to Zoie again and looked right past her to acknowledge Lena. “Lena! What are you doing here?”
In what seemed like protective positioning, Lena moved closer to Jahi, blocking Zoie from his line of sight. Lena smiled and drummed her nails on her plastic press badge, which now adhered to her damp bosom. For a moment the badge drew his eyes.
“Hey, Jahi—you know me. I go where the news takes me,” Lena answered whimsically. Then her tone turned serious. “Unfortunately, lover boy, today Mahali is where the news is…and I got to tell you—the news ain’t good.”
Jahi responded with a grimace and went to Sister Te’s side.
Charles pulled Frankle aside, leaving Jahi and Sister Te to commiserate about their child. Frankle had denied the pair’s request to talk with Tarik in private. “He’s not a minor,” Frankle told them, his tone apologetic. “You’ll have a chance to speak to him at the precinct, after he and his cohorts are booked.”
Sister Te was pissed. Jahi held her back.
Minutes later Charles told Zoie and Lena that he’d worked out a special arrangement for her. Frankle would allow Zoie to leave the crime scene under the stipulation that Charles would deliver her to the Fifth District station by 10:00 a.m. to give her statement.
“Since you don’t have ID, I vouched for you,” Charles explained, cocking his brow. “Vouched” meant that Charles put his reputation on the line. With that came the unspoken admonishment: Don’t let me down. “I trust Lena completely, and she says you’re okay.” Charles turned to Lena, who couldn’t contain her one-hundred-watt grin. “Lena, baby, you’ve got some wild friends.”
With a weak smile, Zoie thanked Charles for his efforts on her behalf. She’d never mastered gracious gestures, like admitting when she was wrong. She wasn’t sure she even liked Charles. She resented how he’d taken charge of the situation without consulting her. Decision making was her purview, something she’d always done on her own. Elliot’s departure from her life ended the necessity to confer with anyone when making important decisions. But this time Zoie was exhausted, too exhausted to exert dominance in her own life. Let this “knight” in shining armor take charge, she thought. What would be the point in resisting? Hadn’t Charles handled the situation just fine? As a DC detective, he probably knew the territory and how to negotiate around the police department’s bureaucracy. With Charles there she could avoid a direct confrontation with Jahi. In her peripheral vision, she tracked Jahi’s movements.
“If this Maynard had died, things would be different,” Charles said. “Then this would be a murder scene, and they’d take you right down to the station. And from what I gather, this homeless fellow is not out of the woods yet. Let’s hope he makes it.”
“Am I a person of interest?” Zoie asked.
Charles scratched his head. “Zoie, you got to admit that this whole scene and your involvement is pretty flakey.”
Lena had been quiet. She now piped in., “Charles, what’s the problem? I’ve already explained why Zoie came to the Shelter. I even helped with her disguise. Weren’t you listening?”
“Whoa! Cool down ladies,” Charles said. “You never know about these things.”
“I think he’s right,” Zoie said quietly, followed by a long sigh. “Lena, you don’t know everything.”
Lena bristled. “What do you mean?�
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“I’ll bring you up to speed later,” Zoie told her.
Charles said, “So far they’ve got the broom handle they think was used as the assault weapon and plenty of evidence about the khat operation.”
“I bet the guys in this district knew this was going on,” Lena said.
“Now, Lena, we don’t know that,” Charles said, his tone scolding. “Be careful with your accusations.”
“Hey, don’t get all ‘police brotherhood’ on me. I’m just saying. I’m being honest between we three.”
“I don’t know who knew what or how,” Charles sighed. “All I know is that khat is a Schedule I narcotic when it’s fresh. Most of the time, though, it’s not treated as such. I can’t say we heavily pursue enforcement of the stuff. Not in the way we go after cocaine or heroin. All I know is that African cabdrivers love it. They claim it keeps them alert. Most of them picked up the chewing habit back home. The stuff’s addictive. And from what I know, it’s difficult to get the good stuff here.”
“What’s the good stuff?” Lena asked.
“By good, I mean fresh. It’s got a short shelf life. And when it’s no longer fresh, they dry it and make tea. It loses its potency and is downgraded to Schedule VI when it’s dry, which most jurisdictions consider to be no big deal.”
“So which one is this—a big deal or no big deal?” Zoie asked.
“I don’t know yet. Anyway, congratulations, Zoie. You may have uncovered a prime khat-distribution point for the city’s Ethiopian, Somali, and Yemeni populations. This bust is gonna interrupt their supply. At least for a while. Cabbies aren’t gonna be happy.”
“Well, so be it,” Zoie replied. “These drug dealers are killers.”
“If khat is Schedule I, which is up there with coke and heroin, why isn’t it treated more seriously?” Lena asked.
“Good question. I guess it’s because it’s not really considered a street drug. Africans and Arabs seem to have restricted its use to their own communities. And the habit doesn’t cost hundreds a day like those other drugs. So these folks aren’t knocking over grocery stores to support their habit.”
“No, they’re just killing folks,” Zoie said sarcastically.
“And their little community ain’t so little anymore. What used to be all black Shaw around Ninth Street and U Street is now Little Ethiopia. Don’t get me wrong—I love the food,” said Lena.
Charles was well versed in narcotics. After all, narcotics was his beat. Maynard had known about khat as well. Their take on the drug matched the spiel that Sister Te had given Jazz. On the scale of harmful substances, khat, though harmful, ranked below marijuana in the eyes of crime fighters. Trying to stop its distribution was an afterthought.
“Taking a man’s life isn’t a petty crime,” Zoie insisted. But Charles had already turned away, his attention directed to his fellow officers.
Zoie was ambivalent about delaying giving her statement. While she certainly needed to get cleaned up, part of her just wanted to get the statement over with as quickly as possible. At some point she’d have to explain her visit to Ray’s house, a visit that might have coincided with his murder. Explaining the probable fraudulent ties between the Shelter, Ray, and the Foundation grants wasn’t going to be simple either. Nor was how she’d come to suspect her own assistant’s involvement in the criminal dealings. When the time came, she didn’t know whether she’d tell them about the uncorroborated info concerning Ray’s in-office sexual indiscretions. Would she mention Jazz’s name in connection with Sister Te and the drug operation? She’d promised Jazz that she wouldn’t involve her. Zoie wanted to be truthful, but at the same time, she didn’t want to inflict collateral damage, if it could be helped.
What she knew and what she suspected whirled in her brain, merging into a convoluted plot. Everyone at the Foundation or Mahali was now suspect. She wondered whether there’d be enough evidence to connect all the dots. It was far too early for her to breathe a sigh of relief. The crisis wouldn’t be over until all guilty parties were behind bars. Until then she and her family would be in danger
Zoie considered the particulars of her own situation. In a zealous rush to wrap up cases, sometimes the police made terrible mistakes—mistakes that dragged down innocent parties. Even though she might obtain vindication ultimately, a prolonged investigation might ensue, which could screw up her life for months, even years. Once the giant wheels of the criminal justice system got rolling, they sometimes crushed innocent people in their path. The damning aspect of her situation was that she’d been involved with Jahi, one of the Foundation’s clients.
Zoie fanned her face. I have nothing to worry about. There was plenty of evidence pointing to her innocent involvement in any criminal act. After all, hadn’t she been the victim? There was the break-in at her apartment and the arson at her grandmother’s house. What could be clearer? This gang wanted to keep her quiet, not so much about the khat operation, which she had yet to discover, but because she’d figured out the connection between Mahali, fraud, and Ray’s murder—a connection she still didn’t fully understand.
Yes, her delaying her statement to the police looked more and more appealing. She needed time to gather her thoughts before she spilled her guts. She also needed to retrieve her pocketbook and ID, to change out of her bloodied clothes, and to get shoes for her bruised feet. High on the list of things that she didn’t need was an encounter with Jahi. Now she had to admit that she was grateful for the delay that Charles had arranged. She so wanted to sleep but certainly not back at her apartment. She doubted, though, that sleep anywhere would be possible that night.
“We’re taking you back to my place,” Lena said, almost as if she could read Zoie’s mind. “And remember you owe me that exclusive.”
“Lena, I know what I promised. And I plan to fulfill it,” Zoie said, her tone irritated.
Zoie looked back at the Pen. Jazz’s pink baby-doll pajamas pressed against the chain-link fence and stood out like a neon sign amid the others’ drab attire. Zoie couldn’t read her roommate’s expression but imagined that it registered bewilderment and disappointment. Zoie mouthed a hushed “Sorry,” but the distance between the two women was probably too great for Jazz to read Zoie’s lips.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Lena said. She grabbed Zoie’s arm and signaled to her detective escort that they were ready to leave. The three exited the crime scene, maneuvering past the patrol cars, and headed down the driveway. No one from the Shelter tried to stop the two strangers who lead Zoie, also known as Anna, a Shelter resident, away. As far as Zoie could tell, Jahi was still unaware of her true identity. Perhaps he’d failed to even ask who placed the 911 call, which brought the hoards of law enforcement to his beloved Shelter. With his arm around Sister Te’s shoulder, Jahi was too busy comforting his ex to notice that the homeless woman who’d been integral to the night’s happenings was leaving the scene.
With Lena in the passenger seat and Zoie safely in the back, Charles navigated his late-model Cadillac Escalade through the empty DC streets and to Lena’s Southwest apartment. Wound tight, Lena chattered about Jahi almost the whole way. Slouched into the soft leather of the back seat, Zoie tried to ignore her.
“I think this Mahali drug operation has scuttled his political career,” Lena pronounced. When no one offered any comment, she said, “Hey, you’re mighty quiet back there.”
“What’s there to say? I agree with everything,” Zoie responded, though she wasn’t sure what everything was.
Charles, who’d been quiet, finally chimed in, offering an unsolicited explanation of how he had known that something funky was going down at the Shelter. One of his informants had tipped him off that a woman possibly fitting Zoie’s description had arrived at the Shelter in the early evening.
With this new line of conversation, Zoie’s interest perked up. “And who might this informant be?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Charles answered. “I wouldn’t be a good cop if I
told you anything about this informant. Let’s just say Narcotics has eyes all over the city.”
An informant, huh. Charles was being careful. He wouldn’t even give a pronoun clue to identify the informant’s gender. Arms crossed, Zoie sank back into the seat and considered the possible informant suspects. Who would have known that she was at the shelter? Of course, there was the enigmatic Simon. Maynard had said that Simon was the one who knew she was an attorney. Then there was Muwakkil, the taxi driver who’d chauffeured her for most of the day. He knew what she looked like before and after changing into her homeless getup. He also knew where she lived. For laughs Zoie put Jazz on her suspect list. Having been on the streets, Jazz would be a good source of information for the police. If Jazz were indeed the informant, the girl would surely deserve an Oscar for the best portrayal of an abused woman in the role of an undercover informant. Zoie guessed that Jazz was smarter than she seemed. And then it could have been anybody else at the Shelter, someone who’d been watching her from afar. Bea, the volunteer, perhaps? Tanisha or Martha? In the end Muwakkil stood out as the most plausible. Muwakkil, huh? The one who can be trusted?
“Yeah, Muwakkil can be trusted, all right. Trusted to do what?” Zoie said under her breath.
Chapter 47
Those Things Most Precious
In the wee hours, going from Northeast DC to Southwest DC, through the semi-deserted city was a fifteen-minute ride. Charles pulled into the no-parking zone in front of Lena’s building and stuck a placard on his dashboard, identifying his Cadillac as a police vehicle. Lena hopped out and keyed a code into the digital pad next to the main door. Still barefooted, Zoie took her time maneuvering the short gritty sidewalk to the building.
The young desk attendant knew Lena. “Good evening, Ms. Christian. Or is it morning? Please have your guests sign the visitor register.”
“No need,” Charles said, stepping forward and flashing his police shield.
If you liked the macho type, Charles is your man, Zoie thought. The threesome proceeded to Lena’s seventh-floor apartment. When Lena opened her door, all eyes focused on Lena’s carpet, a sea of white as threatening as the Rubicon. Lena shed her shoes. Obviously accustomed to the shoe routine, Charles followed suit.