Shortly after their quiet departure, the heated conversation on the balcony abruptly stopped and the sliding glass door opened. Hermes came in from the deck. His face, tucked behind a thick scarf, was clouded and tired. “Okay, Sidonie, I’m heading out. You’ve got my number, text me with yours. I’ll want to stay up on things, so don’t hesitate to call anytime.”
“It was so nice to finally meet you, Hermes, even under these hideous circumstances. Thank you for helping out. We couldn’t have gotten him up here without you.”
He once again pulled her into a sturdy hug. She liked that about him, his tactileness. She liked him in general, hoped he’d stay in her life regardless of what happened between him and Vanessa.
After he left, she expected Vanessa to follow suit. It was chilly outside and the sun had almost set, but she remained on the deck long enough that Sidonie pulled on her coat and slid the door open. Even in the shadows of gathering night, she could see Vanessa had been crying. Sidonie slipped into the chair next to her and said nothing. They sat that way for a good ten minutes, both huddled against the cold, until Vanessa finally spoke:
“I want to hate him but I can’t. I love him more than anyone I know and can’t bear to think of life without him.” Silent tears streamed down her face.
Sidonie knew she was in tender, fragile territory. Vanessa’s vulnerability was an ephemeral thing; saying the right words was critical. Or at least not saying the wrong ones.
“Is there hope . . . even a bit? Enough to keep trying?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it.”
She didn’t snap; she didn’t brush her away. Sidonie took the small victory as Vanessa, unexpectedly, continued:
“He seems set in his belief that we’re too far apart to find any way back.” She wiped her eyes and took a sip of wine, hand trembling as she lifted the glass. “The thing is, I’d like to see the world the way he does, with his sense of optimism, but that’s not the world I see. What I see is the worst of life—kids getting shot, women abused, and my brother, one of the most honorable men on earth, beaten like a dog. Hermes tells me I can’t bring my anger home, that I have children and need to nurture their hope and joy, and he’s right. I want to be that person. I try so hard to be that person! Then I walk away from those sweet faces into the raging world and anger grabs me up.” She stared straight ahead, her eyes glassy with sorrow. “And so . . . I lose him. I lose my husband to that rage. And that makes the world’s agonies all the more tragic to me.” She sobbed quietly.
Sidonie could think of nothing to say. Nothing that didn’t sound patronizing, that wouldn’t be feeble and petty next to the depth of Vanessa’s anguish. The only thing she could do was reach over and take her hand, hold it tight and hope the empathy she felt would stream from her heart, through her hand, to offer at least some comfort and solidarity to the woman she touched. Vanessa wept and held on tight.
FIFTY-SEVEN
CHRIS, AWAKENED FROM FITFUL SLEEP BY THE MURMUR of voices in the foyer, heard the click of the front door and the silence that followed, relieved. He’d hoped no one would feel a need to check on him one more time; to offer bromides about healing quickly or overcoming obstacles. He wanted none of it. He wanted to freely indulge in the anger and affliction he felt.
His attempt to move his body in the lift chair was thwarted when he dropped the remote twice before finding the necessary leverage to sit up. The pain emanating from his midsection and back made him yelp. He’d never broken a rib before, much less three, and would not have believed, prior to this event, how agonizing it would be. But it was, in fact, just one of the aching parts that screamed at him as he lay inert and overwhelmed.
This was a tipping point; of that there was no doubt. The moment when the equanimity and patience taught by his father, the acceptance and decorum passed on by his mother, ebbed and evaporated to be replaced by his rage, his sense of injustice. The sweaty realization that he would get a pass for nothing—not the blackness of his skin, the quirks of his nature, the innocent turn of his head; not even the choice of woman he loved—broke him. He would pay full price for it all and there would be no rules to protect him, no predictions of when it might strike, or certainly how it might end.
Police, lawyers, trials, threats of incarceration, the loss of all he’d created. It loomed, it harangued—it terrified him. It made him want to cry.
When she slipped in after tentatively cracking the door, wanting to see if he was up and in need, Sidonie saw his tears, something she’d never witnessed before, and they frightened her. She needed him to be strong so she could believe they’d get through this, mostly because she couldn’t hold that belief on her own.
She sat on the bed across from him. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. I’ve taken everything I can. I’m just waiting for it to kick in. I ate some yogurt. That’s all I can handle.”
They sat in silence. He wiped his eyes with his good hand.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she finally asked.
He looked at her. “You know whatever they said I did, I didn’t do?”
“Of course. What I don’t know is why they beat the crap out of you.” Her eyes flashed.
“They said I was resisting.”
“Were you?”
“No. I was just trying to get to you.”
Which put another crack in her heart.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over him. “I’m too tired to talk about it right now. I just wanted to be sure you knew I didn’t do anything but put water in my car.”
Her eyes teared up. “I know.”
“Good. Then hopefully I can sleep. We’ll break it down when I feel better, okay?”
“Okay,” she said helplessly . . . because all she wanted to do was talk and talk and talk until she understood what had just happened to them.
FIFTY-EIGHT
SIDONIE LAY IN THEIR ARTFULLY DECORATED BEDROOM upstairs, her phone close in case Chris texted or called from below, feeling hollow and isolated. The distance between them was one floor and a few feet, yet it felt like a chasm, one she feared would only gape wider in days to come.
Just as she was drifting off, her phone buzzed. She jerked to a seated position, certain it was Chris and he was in pain, or emotionally distraught, or in need of something urgent. In a strange moment of conflicted emotion, she saw Patsy’s name. Despite her continued moratorium on their friendship, despite her stoic belief that they needed to keep their distance, the thing she felt most in this moment was the urge to talk to her oldest friend.
She picked up. “Hey.”
“Sid. My God. I just talked to Karen. I know it’s late, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I had to call. I figured if I was overstepping, you’d just ignore me.”
Sidonie began quietly sobbing. “They hurt him so bad, Pats. He can hardly move. They beat the living shit out of him . . .”
“Oh, Sid.” Patsy’s voice was almost a whisper. “I can’t imagine how you feel, how he feels. I am so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. It’s awful. I just want you to know I’m here, if you need me for anything. I mean it. You might not want my help, but I’m here.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“I don’t think so. At least not right now. It’s all so . . . I dunno. I don’t know what it is yet.”
“Just remember you’re not alone. You have Karen, you have me. I’m sure you have Chris’s family. We’ll—you’ll get through it.”
“Will we?”
“Yes! I promise.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t, that’s true.” Patsy sighed. “But I actually believe it. And I’m gonna go now. I know you’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. I just wanted to reach out, Sid, and tell you that I love you and I’m here anytime you need me, okay?”
“Thanks, Patsy.
It means a lot that you called.”
It did. On this particular day, it did.
FIFTY-NINE
THE NEXT FOUR DAYS CAME WITH A BUZZ OF ACTIVITY that perversely mimicked the process of event production: there were intersecting calls and texts, various meetings with a rotating list of participants, furtive discussions, passionate arguments, and a prevailing sense that everyone involved felt they knew best, cared most, and had primary investment in the outcome.
Chris focused on managing Sound Alchemy from a laptop set up near his lift chair. He hobbled around as instructed by the doctor, but had yet to tackle the stairs. Sidonie arranged for his unavoidable replacement at the club: Andrew and Jasper would do the smaller gigs coming up, with two of Chris’s Alchemy team coming in during the larger events. Frank operated on the assumption that Chris would be out for two weeks.
Hermes stayed in regular touch with Sidonie, a bright spot she anticipated. He brought food over twice, delivered handmade get well cards from Chris’s niece and nephew, and in general maintained his role as the family optimist. Diante came bearing bags of Chris’s favorite takeout, none of which was eaten but all of which was appreciated. On the other end of the spectrum, Vanessa stayed fierce and focused on gleaning whatever information was available from the police, handling all ongoing conversations with the defense attorney, Philip K. Lewis, while pulling together funds to pay his not inconsiderable retainer. Sidonie insisted on contributing, something Chris and Vanessa initially resisted until an impassioned speech about love and commitment won her a seat at the table.
Somewhere in the stew of need and anxiety, Vanessa and Sidonie entered a new phase of their relationship. After the night on the deck, when vulnerabilities had been too revealed to pretend otherwise, they were almost forced to find a tentative foundation for what might later become a friendship. It was too soon to tell at this point, but for now walls had been breached and connections made. Anyone in the family circle who noticed was pleased.
Sidonie reluctantly went back to work Friday afternoon. The “we’re unfortunately cancelling the party” notices had been emailed the night before. Everyone uniformly sent regards and regrets, decorously avoiding questions, but Sidonie could feel their palpable curiosity as she made her way to the office.
When she checked in with Jasper, his distress was evident, translating into monosyllabic conversation. “Hey, Jasper, Chris said all the cues for the weekend are programmed, but he does want to talk to you about tomorrow night. He’s hoping you’ll give him a call sometime today.”
“Okay.”
“Did Andrew do okay running the shows this week?”
“Yep.”
“And you’ve got the contact info for the Alchemy crew?”
“Yep.”
“Jasper.”
“Yep.”
“What’s going on? Just the Chris thing, or are you upset about something else?”
Jasper looked up as if he’d been hit. “Isn’t the Chris thing enough? And your thing? How do you think I feel, leading you into that clusterfuck?”
She was stunned to see his hands shaking. “You must know that wasn’t your fault!”
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. On TV, sure, in movies, but this was real life, man. My life. Your life. Chris’s life. It made me sick.” He finally looked at her. “How are you doing? Your face looks like shit.”
She had to suppress a smile. “I’m okay. Chris is going to take a while, though.”
He shook his head. “All I can say, Sid, is I hope you kick their asses. Right to the fucking curb. Get that lawyer to sue them for everything they’ve got. Chris did not deserve that, no way, no how.” Jasper’s fervor was cleansing.
“Thank you, I agree,” she responded. “But right now the focus is on getting this trial moved ahead so he can exonerate himself. After that, I have a feeling his sister will look forward to going all scorched earth on their asses.” She had to grin, picturing tiny Vanessa taking on the whole of the Chicago police department.
Frank approached the stage area, a raft of Fed Ex envelopes in his hand. “Sidonie, can we sit down and go over these contracts? I want to get the calendar updated.”
She squeezed Jasper’s arm as she stepped off the stage and followed Frank to his office.
His pace seemed purposefully brisk, and, as he got situated at his desk, he avoided eye contact, making clear that remnants of his annoyance remained.
“So, Frank . . . am I being hypervigilant or do we need another conversation about this before we get down to work?”
He sighed and finally looked at her. “Sidonie, I’m not going to lie: this situation is a problem. I’m sorry Chris has got some injuries to deal with, but his being out for two weeks is no small thing at this particular time of year and with the roster we have coming in. I just hope you can keep your focus on the job during all this.”
His bluntness was skin scraping. “I’m sorry you’re having a problem with the inconvenience of it all, but those injuries he’s dealing with, as you put it—which are significant and brutal, by the way—are the result of serious police overreaction. I know you hate to hear that, but it’s the truth.”
He shifted in his seat. “Is it possible, though, that there’s a lack of objectivity in the way you continue to characterize it?”
“I don’t know, Frank.” She was seething but struggled to contain herself. “If there is, it’s probably because it’s hard to be objective under these particular circumstances. But which characterization, specifically, are you referring to? Where I tell you the man I love and have lived with for the past seven months is not a criminal but was still beaten to the point that he can barely move? Where I mention that I know whoever these people think they saw breaking into their garages is not the man who’s done an amazing job improving the status of your club? The part where I assure you that, despite his significant injuries, Chris has every single event staffed and cued, with Jasper and Andrew set to manage everything as needed? In fact, the worst thing that’s happened in relation to your club is that I had to cancel our party, which, it turns out, was something the staff was really looking forward to. So which part, Frank?” Her eyes were blazing.
His posture softened. “I get it. It’s been horrific for everyone involved, especially you and Chris, but the legal issues put me in a bind. We’ve hosted events for the police department every year for the past decade, we have one on the books for March, and I don’t relish the prospect of an adversarial situation with you two spilling into the club, with trials and lawsuits and bad publicity. It doesn’t reflect well. That’s all I’ll say. But I have to trust that you’ll keep it as far from here as you can, and we’ll go from there. Is that cool?”
She shifted in her seat. “It’s cool, Frank. It’s cool.”
It wasn’t cool, but she didn’t want to talk about it with him any longer. She picked up the contract envelopes and proceeded as if everything was . . . cool.
SIXTY
PHILIP K. LEWIS WAS A SHORT, STOCKY, BESPECTACLED black man wearing a brown suit that was too tight to be buttoned at the middle and too short to be worn with beige socks. Despite his sartorial failings, he was known as a brilliant attorney and powerful advocate for victims of overzealous prosecution and police brutality, both of which, Vanessa assured him, factored into this case. She’d known him since college, relying often on his expertise with both her social work cases and those funneled through the BLM chapter with which she was affiliated. She trusted him implicitly, enough to defend her own brother.
Though she’d met privately with Philip at the hospital when he came to photograph Chris’s injuries, this was the first official discussion between the two men, one arranged by Vanessa at a time that conflicted for Sidonie, despite it being held at their home. Vanessa claimed this was not intentional. Chris promised she’d be kept informed. Sidonie was irked but chose to believe them both.
“Let’s get right to it, Chris,” Philip intoned briskly. “The arra
ignment is next Friday, so let’s take this time to prepare, okay?”
Chris nodded. Vanessa took out a notepad as Philip began.
“The case is built on eyewitness testimony only, at least at this point. Records show that where your car broke down is an area that’s suffered a rash of break-ins and robberies over the last year, and the Neighborhood Watch there is one that’s been active since the Cabrini-Green days. The woman who saw you use the hose and followed you to the club not only positively identified you the night of your arrest, but later ID’d your picture as the perpetrator of at least one break-in. A second witness, a man—another neighborhood resident who claims to be unacquainted with the first woman—also pointed to your picture as someone seen peeking in windows that were later broken into.”
Chris shook his head, exasperated. “How is that possible? I’ve never been on that street before in my life.”
“Not even just walking or driving by?”
“I have no memory of ever being on that street before that day.”
“Okay, let’s leave that for the moment. The bigger problem we have was conveyed to me today by the prosecutor.” He took a pause.
Vanessa looked up, alarmed. “What?”
“About six months ago, about a block away from where your Jeep broke down, a teenaged girl was sexually assaulted, raped, in the laundry room of the apartment building where she lives with her family. They never caught the guy. She said he was black, and they say they have fingerprints. They’re implying they’re Chris’s.”
Boom. It was on the table.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Chris recoiled like a bullet had struck.
“Implying?” Vanessa almost screeched. “What possible legal precedent involves the implication of evidence?”
“Vanessa, I understand your outrage. My guess is they’re floating it in hopes of shaking the trees, police strategy meant to—”
“Oh my God!” She looked as if a light had gone off. “Sidonie said something about fingerprints!”
The Alchemy of Noise Page 22
