by Joy Copeland
Tarik shrugged. “It all got away from me.”
“What got away? What about Ray Gaddis? Why?”
“Ah, that one. That one was a bushti…a fag,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.
“I know what it means,” Jahi said, his jaws tightening. When did Tarik become so homophobic? He closed his eyes and shook his head. “So what are you saying?” Jahi asked in a heated whisper. “So what does that mean? Were you blackmailing him?”
Over the few days since Tarik’s arrest, Jahi pieced together parts of the story. At the precinct Tarik remained sullen. Te had given him vague replies to his questions. She had warned him by saying, “It’s better if you don’t know.” In frustration he’d gripped her by her delicate shoulders. He wanted to shake her until she confessed. What was really going on? He demanded to know. She hadn’t struggled, instead letting her head roll back like a bobblehead doll. When he stopped, she looked at him with those dark eyes, eyes filled with a kind of hatred he didn’t understand. He let her go.
“Were you blackmailing him?” he asked Tarik again.
It took a while for Tarik to respond. He looked up at the ceiling, spotting the camera, but continued to talk. “No, not at first. He was the one who proposed the kickback deal. For a cut he’d make sure we got the grant. He wanted too much. It wasn’t until later we found out about his extracurricular activities. We followed him to the Bee Boy Bar on Capitol Hill.”
Jahi hung on Tarik’s every word, each syllable. He looked for some remorse in the boy’s face, in his voice. But there seemed to be none. “But how? How did you find out about Gaddis? How did it work? And who is the we?”
Tarik leaned into the glass. “Jahi, Jahi, my sometimes father,” he said with a smirk. “Your naiveté amazes me. For someone who’s fought in a war and lived on the edge of life here in DC, how could you miss these things?”
Jahi didn’t know what to say. His face was frozen. The boy, the man, who Jahi looked at through the glass was someone he didn’t know.
“Oh, I know your head’s been in the clouds with all that fake political shit,” Tarik continued. “And then lately that woman.”
“Tarik, don’t make this about me.” His voice was sharp but not loud. “You can’t blame me for what you’ve done…you’re right about something, though: I have been blind. But it’s not the what that surprises me. It’s the who. I trusted you. I trusted your mother.” Jahi’s jaw was clenched. “Tarik, how could you do this? I don’t know you anymore.”
“Didn’t money still come to the Shelter from the Foundation?” Tarik shot back. “You’re worried about the khat. Khat is nothing. It’s less harmful than chewing tobacco. We had a way to bring funds into the Shelter. If your girlfriend hadn’t interfered, perhaps Gaddis wouldn’t have freaked. Perhaps he wouldn’t have threatened to tell all and shut down your precious Shelter.”
“So you killed him, and you almost killed that man at the Shelter?” Jahi stuttered. “You could have come to me. We could have found a way out of this without the killing.”
Jahi’s anger turned to tears.
“Humph.” Tarik seemed to take pleasure in watching Jahi’s pain. “You’re right about one thing, Jahi: you don’t know me anymore.”
The trauma ward at Washington Hospital Center was quieter than the rest of the hospital. Zoie stood at the main reception desk and watched the two nurses who were in a deep discussion. One nurse stood with her hand on her hip and with several charts anchored under her arm. Zoie hoped that one of them would turn around and acknowledge her. But it seemed that they needed some coaxing.
“Hello. I need some help here,” Zoie called out.
They turned to her in unison. The taller of the two women moved closer. She was dressed in a pink smock, and her hair was in a neat bun. “May I help you?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m looking for a man named Maynard. He was brought in a few days ago.”
“What’s the last name?”
“I don’t know it. He goes by Maynard.”
“I know the guy she means,” the other nurse piped in. “He’s the one in 806.”
“Oh yeah, that guy. Are you family?” the first nurse asked.
“Obviously not,” the other nurse said sarcastically. “She’s doesn’t even know his full name.”
Zoie smiled, determined not to get into a tiff with the hospital staff. “She’s right. I’m not family. I’m a friend,” Zoie answered with all the charm she could muster. “Maynard’s been homeless for a while. And I was with him when he was injured.”
“Well, we don’t usually let patients in his status have nonfamily visitors,” said the first nurse.
“I doubt he’ll have any family visiting,” Zoie said. “They probably don’t know he’s been hurt. I’m here because Maynard saved my life—not once but twice. I need to say hello and thanks.”
The nurses looked at each other in silent agreement.
“Okay, I’ll walk you down there,” said the first nurse.
“Thank you.”
As Zoie and the nurse in pink headed down the hall to 806, Zoie asked, “Has he received any visitors at all?”
“I’m not here all the time. But I’ve only seen the hospital’s social worker and police detectives come to this room. He was admitted by an ER doctor after being beaten, right?”
“I believe so.”
“The first day he was unconscious.”
“Have you seen another guy? Dark skinned, wearing a cap?”
“No…no one by that description.”
“Just thought maybe his good friend Simon might’ve come by.”
“While I’ve been here, no one except the social worker, cops, and you have come.” Outside the room the nurse said, “He’s conscious but under mild sedation. I should warn you that he gets agitated very easily.”
“I understand,” Zoie said with a knowing look.
“And another thing,” the nurse continued, “they admitted him under the name ‘Maynard.’ He’s conscious but not answering to that name.”
“Did he call you the devil’s minion?”
“Come to think of it, one of the nurses mentioned she heard him say something about Satan. And he talks about someone named Coach.”
“That’s Maynard all right.”
Accommodations in the critical-care ward comprised high-tech private rooms, albeit with glass walls so nurses could easily view their patients. The two women entered room 806 and, from the foot of the bed, looked down at the man. He seemed to be awake. At least his eyes were open, though they were surrounded by blue-black skin. His gazed at nothing with a cold, empty stare. Open-eyed comatose. The monitoring equipment next to him indicated a steady pulse. His forehead and cheeks were bandaged, and his long, thick dreads—which gave him his fierceness—were evident on the pillow.
“Maynard,” said the nurse as she adjusted the valve controlling the drip of the intravenous solution, which hung close to his head. “Maynard, can you hear me?” There was no response. She turned to him directly. “Sir, how are you feeling today?”
This time he mumbled, gritted his teeth, and then rolled his eyes.
“If you start feeling pain again, use the call button.” She placed the button near his hand. “There’s a visitor here for you. She says she’s a friend.”
“Humph.”
The nurse took Zoie aside. “He’s got several broken ribs, and he lost his spleen. He won’t be able to exert much breath to talk. And laughing is a definite no-no, though he doesn’t look in the mood for that,” she whispered, looking back at him. “You should also know that he still has some residual effects from those drugs he took. He’s lucky to be alive.”
“He didn’t take those drugs,” Zoie whispered back in his defense. “The thugs who attacked him injected him with those drugs.”
“I did hear that,” the nurse said slowly, as if distracted. “Sorry. I’m going to leave you with him now. Try not to get him excited. Even with the sedation, I’m afraid he might pull
the line out of his arm.” The nurse looked back at Maynard and then turned and whispered, “Poor thing. I’d rather not restrain him.”
“Does he still have the binder with him?” Zoie asked.
“Strange that you should ask. The police came by earlier. They said they didn’t get much from him. They wanted to take the binder, but he made a fuss. That’s when we sedated him.”
“Did they take it?”
“No. It has a note attached that says, ‘Must stay with patient.’”
“I gave the binder to the EMTs with those instructions when they put him into the ambulance,” Zoie explained. “One of the EMTs must have written the note.”
“Well, it’s in the drawer next to the bed. But let’s not go through that again,” the nurse said. She looked back at Maynard once again and then left.
Zoie sat herself in a chair next to Maynard’s left side. Then realizing it was difficult for him to see her, she stood up and leaned over to talk to him.
“Maynard, or whoever you want to be today, it’s me. Remember Ms. Smarty Pants?”
Maynard didn’t answer or turn to look at her.
“Thank God that you’re still alive. I’m so sorry I made you go back to the Shelter. You warned me. But the police got those guys. The devil’s minions are in jail.”
“Simon told me,” Maynard finally responded. His voice was faint and gravelly. He managed to turn his head ever so slightly to look at her. Even that bit of movement looked painful, so she moved closer.
“Simon came to see you? How does he know all of this?”
“Ms. Smarty Pants, you still don’t get it.”
“Yes, you’re right. Guess I’m dense.” She could tell that he wanted to laugh, which was a no-no. “I’m so glad you survived this. I was really worried.”
“It’s not over. The devil’s still out there.”
“Yeah, and the police still have my laptop and briefcase.”
“Humph. They wanted to take my binder. Simon says you’ve been calling on God lately.”
“Huh?”
“‘Thank God…God help me.’ Simon says I got to trust you, trust you to do the right thing.”
“Then tell me—please—what is the right thing?”
“Take my binder. Keep it for me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure,” he said weakly. He closed his eyes.
Zoie took Maynard’s worn binder from the bedside drawer, stuffed it into her oversized bag, and left the hospital.
Chapter 52
Starting Over
“This is quite a document, Zoie,” Dylan Ross said. He leaned against the doorframe of her office, waiting for permission to enter, nervously tapping the roll of paper against his free palm. It was the document that explained the Foundation’s potential liabilities in connection with Ray Gaddis’s kickback scheme.
“I’m glad you found it helpful,” Zoie said, her expression sullen.
“Thanks for getting it to us early. Your doing so gave us time to properly absorb it. And your presentation today was most enlightening. Gee, I don’t know what to say. I’m still in shock.”
“It’s been a crazy couple of weeks,” Zoie said with a frown.
“Yeah, it got rough in there. But you handled it…Zoie are you okay?”
The Board’s second emergency meeting since Ray’s death had just adjourned. Board members wanted to linger. They were still bewildered by the betrayal and the obvious criminality of their leader, Ray Gaddis. They wanted to commiserate, and they wanted to talk to Zoie. But she’d politely retreated to her office. Four hours talking to the Board was quite enough. She had trudged through the legal ramifications of the Shelter mess and admitted her affair with Jahi Khalfani. Now she was tired of explaining and their questions. She was embarrassed that her personal life had intersected with her professional responsibilities. Most of all, however, she was just plain tired.
With elbows on her desk, she leaned forward and beckoned Dylan to enter. “Have a seat, but first close the door.”
He complied.
“Dylan, I’m fine.” She sighed. “Don’t fret about me. I had to retreat. I needed some breathing room.”
“Of course, of course. I understand.” Dylan was one of the sharper Board members—thoughtful and insightful, not like Ray’s flunkies, the Board members who received a quarterly stipend to fill a conference room chair. In the past Dylan had always been her ally, a voice of reason. Plus, he wasn’t hard on the eyes.
Zoie had been back in the office for two days. Her reentry after ten days away proved awkward. Milton was fine, but a few of the other staff at the Foundation seemed nervous in her presence. They couldn’t look her in the eye. The office gossip was thick. The Washington Post carried the story of the drug bust and the speculation of crimes, which might involve the Foundation. Stuff like that always leaked. Too many people knew her story.
Both days Regina Bullock had called in sick. A smart move, thought Zoie, since she didn’t know what she’d say to her young assistant when they came face to face. Still, Zoie hadn’t told Milton about her suspicions about Regina. Part of her didn’t want to be responsible for causing the foolish young woman to lose her job. Zoie also hadn’t mentioned anything about Ray’s recreational sex to the Board. Certainly she hadn’t said anything to Milton. The investigators would have to fill in the blanks on their own. One day soon, they’d uncover hard facts about who did what to whom. As far as Zoie was concerned, she’d done her duty.
“I tried to explain it as best I could,” she said.
“I’m still in shock,” Dylan said again, his blue eyes twinkling in a way that grabbed her attention. “It’s one thing to lose Gaddis. Tragic for his family, especially under the shadow of these allegations. It’s hard to put a dead man on trial. But we have to come to grips with where the evidence seems to point.”
“I have no doubts about what happened, but the investigators will have to come to their own conclusions.”
“But why resign?” Dylan asked calmly but forcefully. “Why do you feel the need to resign over this? Nobody blames you. You’re the one who brought this all to light.”
Milton had announced Zoie’s resignation at the Board meeting. His announcement came at the end of the session so that the Board could focus on her report without being distracted. The news brought wide eyes and groans. One Board member asked her, “Are you doing this because you feel you’re culpable?” No one had mentioned conflict of interest. After all, she was on the Board, and she’d had an intimate relationship with a Foundation grantee. Certainly it was a situation to be frowned upon.
Alone with Dylan, Zoie took a deep breath. “I feel I need to be doing something else with my life,” she said, not wanting to admit that she no longer felt comfortable working for the Foundation, knowing what she did about Milton and Ray’s relationship, and having Regina around. Plus, she didn’t want to help unwind the tangled mess the Foundation was in. She thought the simplest answer was the best. “It’s time for me to move on.”
“Move on? Gee, you’ve only been here four months.”
“I know,” she said with a shrug.
“Well, I’m here on behalf of several of the Board members, including Milton. We’d like you to reconsider. We think you’re the best person to see us through the legal hoops in connection with this whole Shelter mess. You’ve pointed out just how much we’re at risk here. You’re familiar with the situation, and if you stay we won’t have to bring a new person up to speed. We’ve got to look at our grantee portfolio and ensure that Ray hasn’t corrupted our entire process.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me,” Zoie said with a weak smile. “But I’ve made up my mind. I need to move on.”
“But…” he stammered.
She put up her hand, signaling him to stop.
“Okay,” Dylan said with a sigh. “I hear you. Seems your decision is firm. I’ll have to report back to the members that you’re truly not interested in staying on.”
>
“Dylan, I’ll be around the next two weeks, working mostly from home. There are things that I need to wrap up. Crayton will assign an attorney from corporate to fill in until Milton can hire somebody.”
“Well, we’ll miss you.” Dylan sighed again. “So I’ve fulfilled my official assignment, which was to ask you to reconsider.” He leaned back in the chair, looking more relaxed. “Now…on a separate matter. And I’m sure there’s no conflict of interest here.” He cleared his throat. “Would you consider going to dinner with me?”
The following afternoon, without so much as a hello or “sorry that I’m late,” Lena slid across the seat of the booth where Zoie had been waiting for her. “Well, it’s done. Mahali is closed,” Lena announced with a grimace.
When Lena and Zoie agreed to meet at the small Greek restaurant on Eighteenth Street in Adams Morgan at 3:00 p.m., they hoped the place would be empty in the off hours. And it was. Lena was finally going to get her exclusive.
“Crayton pulled its funding, and other contributors followed suit,” Lena explained. “Who can blame them? Nobody wants to be caught funding criminals. So Mahali’s Board shut it down. Shut it down.”
Zoie knew that the Crayton Foundation had pulled the Shelter’s funding. Mahali’s decision to close was the surprise. “What about the residents?” she asked, thinking mostly of Jazz and the other women she’d met at the Shelter.
“Yeah, what about them?” Lena replied sarcastically. She was clearly pissed about something. “The women probably got shipped off to other shelters. Since the men only stay for the night, there are a few other places they can go. Finding a cot for the night won’t be a serious issue until winter.”
“Sorry to hear it. No, maybe I’m not sorry,” Zoie said, correcting herself. “Mahali’s rot goes deep.”
“Well, Charles told me they haven’t arrested anyone else other than the bunch they got that night you were there, the ones picked up in New York in the van, and a few others.”
“But other folks working at the Shelter are involved,” Zoie said emphatically.