*
* *
Day after day, Smythe sat on her sofa, and as she sunk into the cushions, she came to the same conclusion—she had witnessed a murder, and day after day, the terror of it consumed her. Desperate to clean away the memory of the parking lot, she isolated herself in her apartment. She repeatedly mopped her floors, sponged her sideboards, and vacuumed her bedroom. She dusted her coffee and side tables, each and every lamp, every piece of art, and even the doors within her apartment.
This excessive cleaning reminded her of training from childhood. Smythe held memories of her family’s constant travel from one Army base to another, rarely staying in one place for more than two consecutive years. Near the end of each assignment, Army protocol required military personnel to inspect an officer’s military housing vacated by a family. Using white gloves, inspectors would meticulously seek out dirt and grime. They ran their fingers above and along the sides of door frames, scouring for dirt and dust along the baseboards, and inspected inside cupboards and closets. When dirt was found on the glove, family members were expected to clean it right then and there. Everyone in her family participated when it came time to prepare their home for inspection. As a result, Smythe became a stickler for clean and tidy. In this case, aspiring to an excessively clean, tidy apartment was a refuge from a mind and body desperate to extricate terror.
News of the crime traveled fast. It stunned Smythe’s sleepy community, and they were not taking it well. With only the occasional vehicle break-in or DUI incident, residents were shocked at the unthinkable violent crime in their community. They wanted answers. They spoke about it everywhere—grocery stores, bookstores, gas stations. Everyone gossiped, and everyone knew—but no one knew about Smythe or her intimate role in the heinous act of cruelty.
Adhering to the mandate of local police to tell no one what she witnessed (save law enforcement), Smythe began to sense the creation of a new jail cell. Now, rarely going out except to pick up a few groceries, she remained locked behind her apartment door and cleaned. Through a variety of media outlets, Smythe learned the suspect was part of a larger crime ring that had quietly encroached into the valley a few years earlier, immediately catching the attention of the FBI.
If only I hadn’t been there at that hour! What was I thinking? How involved will I have to become now? How will this affect my new practice? What will potential clients think? What will my friends think? And my mother!
With the passing of a few weeks, Smythe displayed more resiliency, settling into a routine of writing and studying. Her mentor’s teaching also helped to ease her anxiety, and, steadily, she became more relaxed, recognizing she had control over her response. She also chose to no longer follow any of the news reports. She mustered the courage to leave her apartment more often and began to smile again, noticing spring was near. Trees displayed their hibernating buds, the melodic chirping of birds serenaded the passersby, and the sun started to warm the air. Life, she thought, continued to unfold, and she needed to re-engage with it.
Arriving home one morning after an early workout at the gym, Smythe received a phone call from FBI Supervisory Special Agent Carole Richardson. She introduced herself as the agent in charge of the murder investigation. A ten-year veteran with the FBI, Carole was considered one the best in her field, and an expert in syndicated crime activity. With a dry, matter-of-fact tenor to her voice, she requested Smythe’s presence at the local FBI building that day and set up an appointment.
A few hours later, staring blankly at the table in front of her, Smythe found herself seated in a sterile conference room within the FBI building. She tugged at the sleeve of her charcoal blazer and smoothed her matching slacks. She tapped her finger on the table and glanced at the wall clock before returning her gaze to the conference table.
1:50. She’s late.
Carole Roberts sat back in her chair. Lost in thought, she peered into the one-way mirror of the conference room, observing Smythe. She narrowed her focus onto Smythe’s stubbled head. Carole self-consciously brushed her hand through her own tousled, jet black hair. She reflected on her early years working within the bureau. As an African American female, she learned that in order to fit in, she could not stand out. To fit in, the female normative appearance standard within the FBI had to be met—which included relaxing her hair. She stood, adjusting her black suit jacket and smoothing her slacks with her hands, sighing. Moments later, she walked into the conference room.
She introduced herself to Smythe and remained standing. She told her an information leak had occurred, and an eyewitness could identify the suspect. She paced back and forth as she described her plans to take the necessary precautions to ensure Smythe’s safety. Still, Smythe, already disgruntled by the agent’s tardiness and curt demeanor, was having none of it.
Maybe it was her childhood experience with police which contributed to Smythe’s simmering anger toward Agent Roberts. Sitting in the small conference room, Smythe began to feel the walls close in and around her and immediately felt the memory of her first encounter with local law enforcement.
As a teenager, she had been stopped by a local police cruiser with two officers in her mostly white neighborhood. She was walking along Aimes Avenue. A fairly quiet thoroughfare, Aimes was nestled between a canopy of sycamore trees. Her backpack slung over her right shoulder, Smythe remembered looking down at her feet as she meandered down the sidewalk, her slender frame buffeted by the blustery winds arising in the midday sun.
She checked her watch. Her mother would not be home for another half hour or so. She paused for a moment, felt for change in her pocket and pulled out several quarters, calculating the amount for a phone call.
I’ll call her when I get there.
Just then, she felt a slow, heavy movement behind her. She could hear the low hum of an engine and the crunching of a vehicle’s tires as they rolled along the asphalt.
Smythe snapped her thumbs and middle fingers together.
Is someone following me?
She clenched her jaw, and her chest began to rise and fall more quickly. Should I turn around and see who is following me? Or should I continue to walk, pretending not to notice? She quickened her steps, but, to her growing alarm, the crunching of tires kept pace with her.
After a quarter of a block, she came to a breathless, abrupt halt. With her hands balled into fists, she finally turned around. Her eyes widened. A police car rolled up next to her, coming to a slow stop. She closed her eyes and briefly exhaled a sigh of relief.
A white officer with a chubby, freckled face, and narrow blue eyes rolled down his window and spoke with suspicion.
“What are you doing here, girl?”
Fear immediately caught in her throat, and Smythe found herself unable to respond.
He repeated his question, rephrasing it slightly. “I said—what are you doing in this part of town?”
“I’m going to the library.”
“Don’t they have a library in your neighborhood?”
“This is my neighborhood,” she said defiantly.
With some effort, the red-headed officer removed himself from his car. He seemed to tower over her, even from a few feet away. She frowned at his obese stomach, which hung over his utility belt, a fact all the more accentuated by the placement of his hands on his hips.
As he approached, she took a step backward. He just kept walking, crossing the grassy strip that separated the curb from the sidewalk. He stopped before her and glared. Smythe glanced to her left. The officer’s partner, a slender, white man, exited the passenger side of the vehicle and strode onto the sidewalk. Together they flanked her, allowing for no forward or backward movement.
“Prove it!” the portly officer said.
“I live at 111 Cedar Drive. It’s about a mile back that way,” Smythe said, pointing a shaking finger behind her. “I just got out of school, and I’m heading to the library to study.”
“And you study,” the second officer said slowly, “at the li
brary?”
“Yes, sir. Every day after school.”
“Hmph,” sneered the portly officer.
The slender officer asked her to remove her backpack. Smythe dropped her shoulder, allowing the backpack to slide to her hand. She blushed, looking around, hoping no one she knew saw her, yet wishing someone—anyone, would come to her aid. She placed the backpack at her feet, hearing it thump onto the sidewalk and took another step back. The slender officer picked up the pack and unzipped it. Smythe clenched and unclenched her hands, watching as he rummaged through her belongings.
“Do you have any identification?”
“My school ID is in the front zipper.”
Smythe could hear the sound of the zipper intensified from the anxiety as he opened the front pouch. He found the ID with her picture printed on the front of it and handed it to his partner, who then examined it, turning it over and over again between his fingers, holding it up to the light of the sun.
It’s real, you stupid jerk! Smythe screamed inwardly.
“You’ll need to come with us and show us where you live.”
“I’m not sure my mom is home yet.”
“She better be, for your sake.”
Smythe caught her breath. She felt a piercing cold in the pit of her stomach. Tears began to fill her eyes. Willing her tears away, she bit the inside of her cheek. She stared at the stubby finger of the portly officer who pointed it toward his vehicle. She dropped her chin to her chest, and with her shoulders slumped forward, she followed the officers to an uncertain fate, her eyes darting from side to side. The portly officer opened the back of the patrol car, and she reluctantly entered the vehicle.
The seat was low, covered in smooth black vinyl. Her legs were cramped against the back of the front seat. Metal mesh separated the space between the back and the front seat, preventing the occupant from striking at officers. There were no door handles to allow her to open the door from the inside, and the windows were shut. Smythe coughed. The car was stuffy and smelled of stale, rank human body odor. And, while outside the fall air had risen to only 55 degrees, Smythe began to sweat profusely inside the car.
But I didn’t do anything!
The portly officer plunked himself into the driver’s seat and spoke into his radio. He looked into his rearview mirror.
“What’s your address?”
Smythe began to sigh out loud and abruptly caught herself.
“111 Cedar Lane.”
After a few moments, the officer drove away from the curb. No one spoke, save the occasional voice of the radio dispatcher. Smythe pressed herself against the back of the seat and leaned her head away from the window, watching through the windshield as the car neared her neighborhood. Once they turned onto her street, she pierced the silence, pointing out her home.
A white colonial, two-story home with black shutters framing the windows sat majestically among other well-cared-for homes. Smythe felt her heart as it beat faster, thinking it would beat right out of her chest. It almost ached. Tears once again filled her eyes.
Please be home, please be home, please be home.
Once parked, the slender police officer strode along the walkway, which separated a neatly manicured front lawn into two halves. The work of her father—daylilies, peonies, and geraniums lined the walkway and front of the house.
The officer eyed the flowers and climbed the three steps to the front door and rang the doorbell. No answer. His brow gathered across his forehead, and he waited. He looked back toward the patrol car. He rang the doorbell again. No response. As he turned to walk away, a heavy-set, light brown-skinned, woman with long brown hair opened the door.
“Are you Mrs. Daniels?”
“Yes, I am. What’s the matter, officer?”
“Do you have a daughter by the name of Smythe Daniels?”
Mrs. Daniels raised her hand to her chest and frowned. “Yes, what’s happened!?”
“We found your daughter walking on Aimes Avenue.”
“Is she alright?!”
“Yes, ma’am, she is. We just needed to verify her residence.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “No, you didn’t! You didn’t just—you didn’t just pick up my daughter? For what? Walking?”
Her mother snapped her gaze past the officer and eyed the patrol car at her curb. She ran out her door, pushing past the officer, her round figure bouncing down the steps toward the car.
“Let her out! Let her out! She is no criminal! Baby girl! Smythe, are you alright?! Let her out, I say! Please. Right now!”
The portly officer lumbered out of his vehicle and eyed Clara before opening the back door. Smythe slid across the seat. With her eyes lowered to the pavement, she stepped onto the curb. Tears Smythe could no longer contain streamed down her face as she took a step toward her mother. With her arms outstretched, her mother pulled Smythe into an embrace and held her tightly against her body.
“Haven’t you ever seen a kid walk to a library?” Clara chastised. She pulled herself back from Smythe. “Didn’t you tell ‘em where you were going, honey?!”
Smythe simply nodded.
“Ma’am, we’re required to stop all suspicious-looking individuals in this neighborhood. We’re simply doing our job. We had to verify she lived where she said she lived.”
Her mother stomped her foot. “She lives here!” she said through clenched teeth.
“Well, this is an upstanding neighborhood with very low crime. We see to it. She was walking alone with a backpack. It’s unusual to see that in this neighborhood—especially unaccompanied by a parent.
“That’s ridiculous!” Clara snapped. Bone-achingly weary of the treatment she and her family routinely received from every corner of society, she reminded herself to hold her tongue. She softened her gaze, a forced slight smile creasing the edges of her mouth. With strained politeness, she continued.
“I thank you for returning my daughter home, officer. However, she was coming from school, like she always does, and heading to the library, like she always does. She is a straight-A student. We live here, and she has done nothing that any other teenager wouldn’t do. Nothing.”
Clara’s eyes filled with the grayness of sorrow, piercing those of her daughter’s.
“Smythe, go inside. Now.”
“They have my backpack and ID,” Smythe whispered.
Her mother slowly, cautiously squared her shoulders, holding back all of the rage and fury which coursed through her frame.
“Please. Re. Turn. Her. Belongings.”
The scene reminded Smythe of the writings of James Baldwin in an essay called “A Stranger in the Village.” Her mother had a copy upstairs in their family room, next to Smythe’s room. Smythe read the writing several times, imagining the scenes in Switzerland and the feelings Mr. Baldwin must have felt. A passage from the essay came to mind. As she watched her mother, she heard the echo of Mr. Baldwin, and a cold shiver traveled the length of the spine.
“The rage of the disesteemed is personally fruitless...the rage generally discounted… There are, no doubt as many ways of coping with the resulting complex tensions as there are black men in the world, but no black man can hope to ever be entirely liberated from this internal warfare-rage...having inevitably accompanied his first realization of the power of white men.”
Smythe comprehended the moment, leaned into her mother’s tender arms of rage, and felt the rhythm of her heartbeat.
The portly officer regarded Clara and paused before he stooped into the front seat of his car. He reached in, pulled out her backpack, and handed it to her mother. Smythe stepped away as her mother reached for the items.
“Go into the house now, honey. I’ll be there in a moment,” her mother whispered.
As if pulling her back from a dream, the FBI agent’s words finally registered for Smythe.
“Ms. Daniels? Ms. Daniels. Smythe!”
Smythe raised her eyes and caught the gaze of the agent, not letting go.
“You will be t
estifying against the individual you identified in a police lineup a week ago. Because you will be testifying against someone connected to the crime syndicate, we need to place you into our witness security program until after the trial. We don’t want to alarm you, but we feel—”
“No, thank you.”
“Ms. Daniels, please. It’s in your best interest if we keep you safe until after you testify.”
Smythe could feel the heat in her cheeks. She rolled her neck and her shoulders with clenched teeth and narrowed her eyes.
“Until after the trial, and then what? You remove all protection from me? What happens to me, then?”
Agent Roberts leaned back against the office window. “It will be a bit of an adjustment for you, Ms. Daniels, but it is in your best interest. We will relocate you to another state until you testify, and then after your testimony, it’s up to you. But our witnesses usually choose to permanently relocate.”
Smythe’s eyes pierced through the matter-of-fact demeanor displayed on the agent’s face.
“Wow. Then let’s be a little more honest here. Moving me out of the valley really isn’t about caring for my long-term wellbeing. It’s more about the short-term benefits for your agency. It sounds like your objective is to keep me alive long enough to testify against your bad guy.
Raising her right index finger, she swept it downward. “Score one for the FBI; they’ve cleaned up the valley. But at whose expense? No. No, thank you, Agent Roberts. I’ll figure it out myself.”
Agent Roberts moved forward. “Ms. Daniels, we cannot stress enough the importance of keeping you safe. You are correct; we want to win this case. This individual has a record a mile long, and his influence is not only here but also—”
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