The Right Wrong Thing

by Ellen Kirschman

“Lakeisha’s mother or her grandmother. Maybe Darnell Taylor has a jealous girlfriend. Maybe that crazy guy I saw in the parking lot.”

  Manny laughs, a short bark that bounces off the walls. “Maybe her father came back from Mars on a spaceship.”

  “Nobody knows her father’s whereabouts.”

  “My point exactly. Look, Doc. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re the one who told me that police work changes people. It doesn’t take much. Get lied to once or twice, you start believing everyone’s a liar. Get bounced on your butt, you start believing everyone wants to hurt you.”

  “There are many ways to get hurt, Manny. One of them is to shut down emotionally and lose touch with the person you used to be.”

  He steps down to my level and puts his hands on both my shoulders. His cheeks have returned to their normal color and the tightness around his mouth has softened. “You worry too much, Doc. I’m still the same guy. I still know right from wrong. My skin’s a little thicker and I’m more wary of people, but I’m pretty much the same. Losing a cop is the worst thing that can happen in any department. If we’re heavy handed with suspects, you need to cut us a little slack. So does the chief.” And with that he takes the stairs, two at a time, and doesn’t wait at the top to hold the door open for me.

  * * *

  I get it—and I don’t. I get that it’s nearly impossible to turn off your adrenaline after a hard chase. Or when someone has killed a fellow cop. A gust of wind slaps at the windows in my kitchen and pushes the rain across the patio. I can see my reflection in the glass doors. My face is rain streaked as though I’m crying and then, suddenly, I am crying. Safe here in my own home, no need to be brave or competent or helpful. Am I crying for Randy? Or am I crying for my father? Are the Kenilworth police any different from the cops who beat my father, rendering his arm useless for life, breaking his spirit, and leaving him with a fearful disdain for authority. My father was provocative, dared the cops to attack him, served himself up as a youthful martyr for a cause that didn’t outlast his injuries. But is that what the Gibbs boys did, or Darnell Taylor? Were they running because they were guilty or because they were scared and knew they would be beaten? And what am I doing? Am I working for an upscale, community-minded police organization or a bunch of thugs?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  There are ten messages on my voice mail, mostly from frightened parents and spouses. The risks of loving a dangerous job fall to the officer’s family. The phalanx of cops who came to Randy’s funeral will fade away. With few exceptions, their promises to be there for Randy’s family and for Rich will be reabsorbed into the grind of their own everyday lives. The family’s grief will be prolonged and deepened by the public spectacle that surrounds the murder of a police officer—the national memorials, the annual graveside ceremonies, the highway signs, the scholarships in her name, and a statue that won’t look like her and is covered in bird shit. Rich has a hard road ahead of him. I make a note to call him in a few days to see how he’s doing.

  The next-to-last message is from Jack Shiller, cub reporter. He talks fast, trying to beat the bleep that will cut him off. His voice wavers between registers, suggesting he really is as young as he looks. “So, I was nosing around, I’m a curious kind of guy. Just wanted to let you know that the Gibbs brothers and Darnell Taylor have been discharged from the hospital. Guess their injuries weren’t all that bad. Chester Allen is asking that they be released on their own recognizance, but in case the judge doesn’t go for that, he has offered to put up the bail himself. Ms. Gibbs is so distraught, she can’t work and doesn’t have any money. If you have anything to say about this, give me a call on my cell.” I delete his message.

  The last call is from Charla Gibbs Bernstein, requesting an appointment with me. My first reaction is to refer her to the county’s victim services. Counseling citizens is not in my job description although the chief seems to think it is. I’m not eager to get involved in the machinations of a family suffering from decades of dysfunction. Grandmother may be the most articulate and emotionally contained member of the household, but there was something about her that didn’t feel right, some malice underneath her cool composure. I remember how she spoke to her daughter the day Lakeisha was killed. She was cold and cruel. But more than what she did say was what she didn’t. She offered no words of support or comfort, only a cool analysis edged with contempt. As much as I don’t want to, I reach for the phone. I know the chief wants me to be involved and I want to do something to make up for the way I talked to her in her office.

  * * *

  Charla Gibbs Bernstein arrives at my office dressed like she’s going to the opening of an art gallery. Flowing silky pants and a kimono-like jacket adorned with an eye-popping handcrafted necklace that must weigh two pounds. She composes herself on my couch before she starts to speak.

  “I am deeply aggrieved by Officer Spelling’s murder, not just for her family but for my own family and my community,” she says. “I have lost my beloved granddaughter to careless police behavior. If you care to know, I don’t believe Lakeisha’s death was malevolent on Officer Spelling’s part, despite what others might say. What concerns me is what is happening now. Because it is malevolent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The police are on a campaign to blame my grandsons. They’re on a witch hunt, racing toward a conclusion for which they haven’t a shred of evidence. My grandsons were at church when Officer Spelling was murdered. But, of course, my word is worthless because I’m their grandmother. They’ve already been convicted in the press, ruining any chances they might have to get a decent job or join the military. As I told you before, I all but abandoned Althea because I was so caught up in the headiness of the sixties. I’m not going to turn away from my grandsons like I turned away from my daughter. I have a chance to redeem myself and I’m going to use everything in my power to make this right.”

  I can’t tell if this is a declaration or a threat. “How can I help?” I ask.

  “I come to you because, as a psychologist, I am hopeful that you will understand how tilted the odds are for my grandsons. That you will be a force for balance, slow things down, keep the police from jumping to conclusions.”

  “That’s the police chief’s job, not mine.”

  “I understand. But I don’t know the police chief, beyond her one visit to our home and what I see on television or read in the paper. She appears to be a thoughtful person, but she has limited control over her department and, from what I read, is struggling to retain the confidence of her employees.” She digs in a large black leather satchel, pulls out a business card, rises from the sofa with some difficulty, and hands it to me. It says Charla Gibbs Bernstein, Ph.D. Professor of Sociology Emeritus. “I believe we have something in common, you and I. Perhaps several things. Our training and our ability to look at the larger picture, for one. It is for this reason that I want to give you some information that I believe validates my fear that my grandsons will not get a fair shake.”

  She pulls a large envelope stuffed with papers from her bag and lays it on the coffee table. “I have some information for you, including a study by the Pew Research center about racism in law enforcement.”

  She looks to me for a reaction. I’m feeling warm and sweaty, about to have a hot flash that I hope won’t turn my face scarlet.

  “You’ll find one statistic that speaks directly to my concern for my grandsons. And that is the disproportionate number of black students who are arrested, referred to criminal court, and sent to adult prisons.” She pauses, waits for me to speak, and when I remain silent, she asks me for a glass of water.

  I go out to the empty waiting room and draw two glasses of water from the bottle of water that sits inverted on a wooden stand. Not exactly a Zen fountain, still, the sound and cool feel of the water glasses is an antidote to the oppressive heat spreading through my body.

  Dr. Bernstein thanks me, straightens her back, wincing slightly, and takes a long drink. �
��Do you see why I’m frightened? And not just for myself. The community is like a tinderbox, ready to explode with very little provocation.” She takes another long drink and sets her glass on the table. “So, Dr. Meyerhoff, what is your reaction to what I’m saying?”

  “I’m afraid you’ve gone to a lot of effort for nothing. I don’t know what I can do to help. This is out of my hands.”

  “I see.” She pauses without taking her eyes off my face. “Is it that you can’t do anything or that you won’t do anything?”

  “Number one, I don’t know what to do. Number two, I have no authority over the police, even if I knew what to do. I am a consultant here. My job is to counsel police officers. I do not make policy nor give advice about tactical operations.”

  “I’m not talking tactical operations. I’m talking attitudes, perceptions, just the kind of things about which psychologists are the supposed experts.”

  “I’m sorry. But it won’t make any difference. I am not in a position to help you.”

  Her once soft green eyes glint like shards of broken glass. She scoots forward to the edge of the couch.

  “I wasn’t going to bring this up, but you haven’t left me any choice.”

  “Bring what up?”

  “My grandsons are in danger of being blamed for something they didn’t do. They will not be treated fairly. You know that and I know that.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Knowing about the injustices that are about to occur, your father would have figured something out. He wouldn’t have slept until he did.”

  “My father? What do you know about my father?” Suddenly my heart is pumping. I feel lightheaded and grip the arms of my chair.

  “We were students together at Berkeley in the sixties. And very good friends.” She pauses to let this sink in. “I thought I recognized you when you and the chief came to my apartment. You have your father’s facial structure and your hair is graying just like his. Your name confirmed it. As I recall, he began graying shortly after he was beaten by the police.”

  My father never had a secret life. We shared everything. If he had had a good friend, I would have met her or heard about her. My mother would have known her.

  Bernstein’s voice grows soft. “It’s possible, though not probable, that my daughter could be your half-sister, my dead granddaughter your half-niece, my grandsons, your half-nephews.”

  “You need to leave right now.” She doesn’t move. “Your father would have wanted you to help me. He would have expected you to do so and would have been exceptionally disappointed at your refusal. And, it goes without saying, that he wouldn’t have wanted your mother to know about his and my special friendship.”

  “Are you threatening to tell my mother that you had an affair with my father if I don’t help you?”

  “Of course not. I want you on my side.” She picks up her satchel and stands. “Haven’t I given you enough reasons to help me slow this rush to judgment? Don’t hide in your office. Get involved. If for no other reason than to honor your father’s memory. Come to my apartment, meet my grandsons, face to face. Judge for yourself.”

  She loops the handles of her bag over her shoulder, walks to the door with a newfound alacrity, and places her hand on the doorknob. “I remember your mother. A cheerful sort of woman. Struck me as living in some kind of rosy unreality. A world of her own making. I don’t imagine she would take kindly to learning that the world she thought she inhabited might be a fiction.”

  * * *

  The door closes behind her. My shirt is damp with sweat, and I don’t trust myself to stand. If my father had another child beside me, he would never have abandoned either one of us. Is that why we were so poor? Was he splitting his meager salary between two families? Is that why he was always so tired, scuttling back and forth between two worlds, supporting a subterfuge of lies and promises?

  I have exactly fifteen minutes to pull myself together before meeting my next client for her first session. I need to clear my head. I duck under the bathroom faucet and hope she won’t notice my shiny naked face and my wet hair. My mirrored self begins a cross-examination. Have I just been blackmailed? Is Charla Bernstein telling the truth? Should I ignore her or talk to my mother before Bernstein gets to her? The bathroom door opens. Judging from the look on her face, this is my new client, and she has just discovered her new therapist standing in the bathroom talking to herself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I turn on the evening news to fill the silence. I’m exhausted after my encounter with Charla Bernstein. Frank is off meeting a potential client. Chester Allen’s face fills the screen.

  “An outrage is what this is. Look at this boy.” He shoves Darnell Taylor in front of the cameras. The left side of his face is distorted, and his eye is swollen shut. “Look at this.” Allen sticks his fingers in the boy’s face and parts his lips. He is missing several teeth, and there is a visible cut on his upper lip. “And this.” He raises Darnell’s hand which is wrapped in bandages. “Three fingers broken.” He starts to pull at the boy’s pant leg, but Darnell pushes him off. “Who did this to you, Darnell—tell the people.” He shoves a microphone in Darnell’s face.

  “The guard.” His voice is a mumble.

  “What guard?”

  “Dunno. Too many. Couldn’t see.”

  Allen takes back the microphone. “It was Rich Spelling, was it not? Husband of slain officer Randy Spelling. Imagine, putting this young man in Spelling’s charge, when he is a suspect in the death of Spelling’s wife.”

  He’s right, I can’t imagine it any more than I can imagine that Rich is back to work barely a week after Randy’s death, a mere four days after her funeral.

  “Who is he, no matter how grievous his loss, to be both judge and jury, to administer street justice to a man who has not been convicted, has not had his day in court?”

  “What about the Gibbs boys?” Jack Shiller shouts. “Were they beaten, too?”

  “All three sustained injuries during their arrest. The Gibbs brothers went to juvenile hall. As of last night, they were released to the custody of their grandmother. I’ll be interviewing them later today. I hope they were treated better than Darnell was at the county jail.”

  * * *

  Dr. Bernstein never mentioned that her grandsons had been released. Nor had she mentioned Darnell Taylor. Her concern for the plight of black men and boys everywhere, apparently doesn’t extend to him.

  I call Rich at home, planning to leave a message. He answers the phone. “I have two questions,” I say. “Is it true about the beating and are you all right?”

  “What did they expect? I’m supposed to watch this creep? Make sure he eats his din-din and wipes his ass? He was mocking me. Going ‘boo-hoo, who gonna be your bitch now?’ I shoved him once when he wouldn’t shut up. Didn’t even break skin. They pulled me off, sent me home. I guess my buddies finished what I started.” There’s noise in the background. “Hold on a minute. Someone’s at the door.” He lays the phone down with a clunk. I can hear faint voices. One of them sounds like a woman. “I got to go. Some friends just dropped by.”

  “I was surprised to learn that you went back to work so soon.”

  “I was going nuts at home. It’s like a mausoleum. Couldn’t stand it. Her stuff is everywhere. Never occurred to me I’d be assigned to the same floor as that asshole. Maybe somebody thought they were doing me a favor, giving me a crack at the guy.” There’s more noise behind him. “Some favor, huh? Now I’ll probably lose my job. Maybe even go to jail. She took it all, didn’t she? Got what she wanted.” He muffles the phone with his hand and says something to the people in his house.

  “Randy never wanted to hurt you,” I say.

  “Think so? Anyhow, Doc, do me a favor, will you?”

  I perk up.

  “Sure, Rich. Anything.”

  “Don’t call me again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Gibbs boys are sitting ramrod straight at
the dining table, dressed in starched-white dress shirts and black pants. They fit right in with the decor. So does Althea Gibbs, who is seated on her plastic-covered couch wearing black pants and a white sweater. Bernstein is wearing a zebra print caftan and silver slippers. I feel like I’m in a fun house of black and white, everyone but me, camouflaged, able to disappear into the background, leaving me, the blotch in a green suit, standing alone. An easy target.

  The boys stand as Bernstein introduces me first to Omari and then to Rashan, their handshakes are limp and tentative. I suppress an urge to try the homie, hand bumping, jive shaking, finger wrapping greeting I see among young people, only I don’t know how to do it and I’d look pretty stupid trying. I’m here against my better judgment, ignoring all the warnings I gave Randy, about how dangerous it would have been for her to visit Ms. Gibbs. The only difference is that I have, euphemistically speaking, been invited. I’m getting more like my mother every day, able to spin dross into gold.

  I join Bernstein and the boys at the table. Althea Gibbs swings her body to the right, staring past us out the window.

  “Ms. Gibbs, would you join us?” I ask.

  “This her brainy idea.” She acknowledges her mother with a bounce of her head. “I don’t want nothing to do with it.”

  These two women are so different that if I didn’t know they were mother and daughter, someone would have to tell me. They don’t look alike, they don’t talk alike, and they don’t think alike. The only things they have in common are the way they flaunt their differences in each other’s faces, their fondness for dressing in black and white, and their determination to protect Omari and Rashan. A determination so fierce, I imagine the boys will have to run away from home if they ever want lives of their own. And then what? Without Omari and Rashan to hold them together, they’ll be at each other’s throats.

  Bernstein hisses a lengthy sigh. “Tell the doctor about yourselves, boys, please.”