A young woman jogs around the corner, pushing a sleek jogging stroller that looks more like a racing car than a baby carrier. She is tall and slender with a long blond ponytail tucked through the opening in the back of a billed cap. Her form-fitting spandex running suit looks as though it was sprayed on.
“Can I help you?” she asks, only slightly out of breath. Her sleeping baby murmurs discontentedly at the change in pace. “This is my house. I’ve asked the police to remove this, and they haven’t responded. This is tragic, but I don’t want it in front of my house. All this traffic, all those people. I told the police, we’re having a party. Where is everyone going to park?”
Randy steps in front of the jogger. “Somebody died here, lady. Isn’t that more important than your damn party?” She steps back again and turns to face me. “Great idea, Doc.”
“Are you the cop who shot her? Oh, my God, you are.”
“And are you the whining bitch who called the police because a black seventeen-year-old homeless girl was sleeping in front of your house. Bet you wouldn’t have called if she was white.”
Blondie straightens up. “I had every right. She didn’t belong here. And not because she’s black. I didn’t know what color she was and I don’t care. She’s a vagrant. She should have gone to a homeless shelter if she needed a place to stay. Children play on this block. We did not move here to have homeless people living in our front yard.”
“What did she ever do to you?” Randy’s voice is a shrill whine.
“She played some boom-box thing, loud. And we could hear her talking on her cell phone when we were trying to sleep. You know, officer whatever-your-name-is, I just wanted the police to make her move. I didn’t want you to kill her.”
* * *
Back in the car, Randy’s face is rain slicked and shiny with tears.
“I feel like I’m trapped in a box and the instructions to get out are written on the outside.”’
“We’ll get through this, Randy. Not to worry. It’s still early days.” I reach to pat her shoulder and she jerks away.
I’m being prematurely reassuring and it’s disingenuous. I think about an old friend who was driving down the freeway, minding her own business on the way to a shopping mall, when some man jumped off the overpass and landed on her car, his face smashed against her windshield, frozen in horror, eyes open and staring. She had nothing whatsoever to do with his death, yet years of therapy haven’t erased the memory or released her to drive on a freeway. If she can’t get past that, what hope is there for Randy?
“Don’t give up,” I say, this time mostly to reassure myself. “I’m not giving up on you. We’ll get through this, whatever it takes.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunday morning Frank wants to go to the farmer’s market on the coast, and I want to stay home and watch Lakeisha Gibbs’ funeral on local cable TV. I tell Frank to go ahead without me, but he opts to stay and make me breakfast instead. He is quiet and alternates between watching and playing games on his iPad. There is a large crowd in front of the church in East Kenilworth. Chester Allen has timed things so that the regular churchgoers stay around to swell the crowd of mourners, although the large, mostly black crowd needs little supplanting. Women in hats that look like birds in flight, teeter on delicate stiletto heels, oversized purses dangling from their arms as elderly men in a rainbow of suits with matching shoes and fedoras congregate, their faces drawn and serious.
Jack Shiller, still looking like a rookie reporter out of a grade B black-and-white movie, interviews Lakeisha’s uncle, Samuel Gibbs, a handsome man with a trimmed silver goatee and a black beret.
“We want justice. My niece was taken from her family at the dawn of her life, pregnant with a child and pregnant with promise for her future. Instead, she was summarily executed for no reason at all. Officer Spelling was never in danger. My niece had a cell phone. Had Officer Spelling talked to Lakeisha instead of drawing her gun, we wouldn’t be having a funeral. My niece was a bright girl, a good student, a loving daughter and sister.”
“Why was she living in her car?” Shiller asks.
“She wasn’t living in her car, and even if she was, that is not a capital crime in the United States.” He turns directly to the television. “She and her mother had a temporary disagreement, not uncommon for a teenager. And certainly not grounds for execution. She and her mother were resolving their differences, and Lakeisha was intending to return home.”
“Can you tell us the basis for their disagreement?” Shiller asks and then turns away from Samuel Gibbs before he has time to answer. “I believe the car that just pulled up to the church belongs to Chief Jacqueline Reagon.” The camera moves left.
Jay Pence gets out first and holds the door for the chief. She is in uniform for the first time since I’ve known her. Her legs cased in neutral stockings and flat, black, walking shoes. Uniforms improve how men look, the sharp creases and expert tailoring making them look taller, straighter, and fitter than they might otherwise appear. Chief Reagon’s uniform only emphasizes her height, her thick legs, and her lack of grace.
I have no idea what the chief is doing here. If she had asked me, I would have told her it was a bad idea, worse than Randy’s impulse to apologize. Ms. Gibbs needs to hate someone other than herself for Lakeisha’s death. Even if she didn’t throw Lakeisha out of the house, what dreadful memories does she have of their last conversation? Who knows what horrible things they said to each other?
The camera follows the chief’s ungainly exit from her car. She climbs the low steps in front of the church so close to Jay Pence that she appears to be leaning on him. There’s movement on the right of the screen as Jack Shiller pushes through the crowd and mashes himself up against the chief.
“Did the family invite you to the funeral?” He is almost on tiptoes lifting the microphone to the chief’s face.
“I’m here to pay my respects. This is a tragedy of immense magnitude. I hope my being here demonstrates the police department’s deep concern for the Gibbs family and their loss.”
This is insanity. Jay Pence should have stopped her. What is she trying to prove? Being here is provocative. She can’t just show up and say ‘sorry.’ No matter how badly she feels, she isn’t suffering as much as the Gibbs family, and it’s offensive to suggest that whatever she or anyone else is experiencing comes close to the grief a mother feels for the death of her child. Unless, of course, it’s Randy.
Chester Allen, elegant in a dove-gray suit and matching bowler, moves to the top of the stairs in between the chief and the TV cameras. He is joined by Lakeisha’s uncle. Their heads bend in conversation. A minute later, Pence and the chief walk down the steps, get in their car and drive away.
Chester Allen turns to the reporters. “The family wishes to say Chief Reagon’s attendance at Lakeisha’s funeral is inappropriate, intrusive, and upsetting to the grieving family. What we need in this community is more than gestures of respect. We need genuine dialogue between the police and the community. There is no better evidence for the magnitude of this need than the tragedy that brings us here today, the death of Lakeisha Gibbs. It is not my place to speculate about the chief’s reasons for coming here today, but if she hopes to avoid a lawsuit or intimidate me into calling off our planned demonstration demanding justice for Lakeisha, then she has underestimated my determination and only increased community outrage at this injustice.” Two men emerge from the crowd holding picket signs saying “Justice for Lakeisha” and position themselves on the step below Chester Allen, careful not to obscure his face.
This is spin of the first order. I don’t know why the chief came here and I intend to find out, but I seriously doubt it was to forestall a lawsuit or prevent a demonstration.
The camera pans the crowd as solemn monitors usher people into a line that slowly files into the church, their feet shuffling in time with the solemn music of a hidden organ. I’ve had enough. I’m about to turn off the TV when I see a quick movement at the cor
ner of the screen. Someone dodges into a grove of trees planted between the church and a small graveyard surrounded by a low, wrought iron fence. It’s hardly more than a blur, but I don’t have to see her face to know it is Randy Spelling.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My office at police headquarters is on the flight path between the locker room and the briefing room. Mostly a place to hang my coat and leave my laptop. It’s a controversial location, given the reluctance most cops have to being seen talking to a psychologist. On the other hand, some of my best conversations have taken place in the hallway. Evidently, the police have a belief akin to my belief that food eaten while standing has no calories. If they’re moving or talking to me while leaning on the doorjamb with their feet in the hall, it isn’t therapy. But if they come into my office, sit down and close the door, that is therapy. When things get serious, cops prefer to see me in my private office on Catalan Court in a nondescript two-story building hidden behind a bank and a real estate firm.
My private office is on the second floor. It has two doors, one exiting down an external staircase, so that my clients, who are almost all cops and fire fighters, can avoid each other. Emergency response is a small world, everyone seems to know everyone else, and small departments, like Kenilworth’s, train and share mutual aid with the other small departments that line the peninsula from San Francisco to San Jose. I share the building with my old friend Gary Morse, his wife, Janice, and three other therapists.
Monday morning, I decide to swing by the station before heading to Catalan Court. It’s still early, the sky is gray, streaked with long flat fingers of cloud. There is a brisk, chilly wind in the air and a small traffic jam on my cul-de-sac as my neighbors back out of their driveways, and we line up at the corner stop sign waiting to turn onto the El Camino and head to the freeway. Back in the day, traffic on the El Camino Real would have been horses, cows, and vaqueros. Now it is one long strip mall lined with fast food chains, auto parts stores, and shopping centers. The curving streetlamps that are supposed to be quaint reminders of our Spanish past do little to mitigate the haphazard commercial mess.
There is a palpable buzz at HQ. I can feel it as I walk down the hall, open the door to my office, put down my briefcase, and hang up my jacket.
“You’re here early, Doc.”
“Hey, Manny. How you doing?”
“You got your hands full today. Plenty of pissed-off cops.” He smiles.
“What’s going on?”
“You don’t know? I thought that’s why you were here so early. The whole department’s jacked up because the chief went to the Gibbs funeral. She’s supposed to defend the troops, not line up with the bad guys.”
This doesn’t sound like Manny, who has never been a badge-heavy kind of cop. I want to remind him that Lakeisha was seventeen and pregnant, not my definition of a bad guy. But that’s stupid; anyone with a weapon is a threat, even a child. Two officers, one tall and thin, the other short and round, are walking down the hall. They stop when they hear what we’re talking about.
“Spelling let her get way too close. Never should have happened.” They are looking at Manny, not me.
He answers quickly. “The only one who knows what happened is Spelling. Second guess this all you want, she was there, you weren’t.” That sounds more like the Manny I know—being his own person, staying out of the locker room gossip.
“Bet your fucking ass,” the tall one says. “Excuse my French, Doc.” He grimaces. Am I offended? Disgusted? Going to report him to the chief? Truth is I am more offended by the apology than the language. It’s an unconscious stab at making sure I don’t forget who I am and that who I am doesn’t fit in.
“No fucking problem,” I say. They look at each other, eyes wide, not sure if I’m kidding or serious.
The skinny officer continues. “All I’m saying is if it was me, it wouldn’t have gone down that way. First off, I’d have waited for backup. Spelling’s a hothead.” The shorter officer winces—clearly this is dangerous territory to be discussing in front of me. He cranks his head toward the end of the hall. “We got to go. Later.”
Cops love to Monday morning quarterback. They want to believe that they’re invincible. Blame someone for making a mistake, convince yourself that you’d have done something different and presto, you banish random violence and your own human limitations.
Manny shakes his head as he watches the two officers walk away. “Half the department thinks Spelling acted right, and half thinks she blew it. It’s tearing the place apart. People aren’t speaking to each other. Morale is heading down the tubes. Been this way since the shooting and it isn’t getting any better. There’s only one thing everybody agrees on.”
“What’s that?”
“Everybody’s freaking mad at the chief.”
* * *
The door to the chief’s office is open. She’s bent over her desk, dressed in a gray suit, a pale beige shell and flat shoes. It’s the same outfit she wears every day, but in different colors. I picture her closet, four suits, four blouses, four pairs of shoes, neatly lined up, all ready to mix and match. Frank buys his t-shirts online, six at a time. I wonder if the chief does the same with her suits.
“Knock, knock,” I say. She looks up.
“Come in.” She stands up. Her predecessor, Chief Bob Baxter, was a fireplug of a man, short and broad. She is so tall that she blocks most of the light coming through the window behind her desk. The sun is still fighting to break through the clouds. “Have a seat.” She gestures to the small grouping of three chairs and a round table. “Coffee?” I nod. She fills my cup, but not her own.
“How is Randy doing?”
“As expected, under the circumstances. I really came by to see how you’re doing.” The light reflects off her glasses, making it hard for me to see her eyes. She sits straight, retreating into stillness as though she has suddenly gone into deep meditation. A minute passes.
“I was surprised you and Captain Pence went to Lakeisha’s funeral. Apparently this has upset the troops.”
“They’re upset with me, not him. I give the orders.”
“So, if I may ask, why did you go? Especially because you seem to be backing away from the investigation.”
Her eyebrows knit together and she pushes her chair toward the window as though trying to put distance between us. “Is there a reason you continue to question my decisions?”
“Yes. I’m concerned about you.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’m a psychologist. I have pretty good intuition based on twenty-plus years of experience. Call it a hunch, whatever. Something seems off with you.”
“Your concern belongs with my officers.”
“My concern is with the entire organization, from you on down.”
She takes off her glasses, removes a cleaning cloth from a case on her desk and cleans them as though they haven’t been touched in years. Her eyes are deeply sunk and ringed by purplish-gray circles. She replaces her glasses and straightens the earpieces, leaving a sprig of hair sticking out at an angle. If she were my friend, I would tell her to fix it, but I cannot even bring myself to call her by her first name.
“In my experience, police chiefs are the most isolated people in a police department. The cops have each other to talk to, but no one talks to the chief.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m not here to make friends.” She says this with no emotion in her voice, just a rendering of fact.
“Neither am I,” I lie. “But it does help to have someone to talk to. You’re under a microscope here. Everyone is watching you. The cops and the community.”
“What makes you think I have no one but you to consult with?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to read you.”
She smiles, a small twitch to her mouth, enigmatic, bemused, nothing more. “So I’ve been told. Rest assured, Doctor, I take care of myself and wouldn’t hesitate to ask for help when I need it. This is not the first time I’ve de
alt with an officer-involved fatality, nor, I imagine, will it be my last.”
“Are you aware that the organization is divided into two camps? One supporting Randy Spelling, the other against her.”
“There’s a third camp you haven’t mentioned. A rather unified movement for a vote of no confidence in me. Some officers seem to think I should not have attempted to go to Lakeisha Gibbs’ funeral. They are interpreting it as consorting with the enemy rather than a spectacularly failed attempt to stave off community outrage.”
Now I want to get in her face. If she recognizes that going to the funeral was a fiasco, does she have any idea why she went?
“Was this your idea or Jay Pence’s? You seem to be relying on his opinion a lot.”
“I take responsibility for all my decisions.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did Jay Pence tell you go to the funeral?”
I wouldn’t put it past him to act out in a passive-aggressive way. Losing his bid for chief was a blow to his ego.
“There is nothing I can do to stop the association from a vote of no confidence. In fact, it means very little, and I don’t have time to concern myself with it. I have a police department to run.”
“You could talk to the troops, explain your reasoning.”
“It would be a waste of time. They’re too angry and they need someone to blame.”
“You’re the chief, not a sacrificial lamb.”
Her face whitens slightly. I’ve pushed her as far as I dare. “Dr. Meyerhoff. I don’t want to be misunderstood. I do appreciate your concern. But, rest assured, I know when I need help and I won’t hesitate to get it. Now I must excuse myself. I have work to do. Please close the door as you leave.”
The Right Wrong Thing Page 8