The Bridge: A Novel

by Solomon Jones

  “Where’re you going?” Jocelyn asked in a sleepy voice as she lay unmoving beneath a single sheet.

  Lynch considered lying. He didn’t want his wife to know where he was going. More important, he didn’t want her to know that a woman he’d known since childhood had asked for his help. With the troubles they’d had in their marriage lately, he knew that Jocelyn would read more into it than was there.

  Things had changed in the six months since she’d lost the baby.

  Jocelyn had experienced complications five months into the pregnancy and was forced to go in for an emergency delivery that was supposed to be routine. The baby was a boy. They’d planned to name him Kevin. He didn’t survive. Jocelyn nearly died, too.

  Though she had come through the experience physically, she’d suffered a terrible emotional toll. And rather than cling to her husband, she withdrew from him. No sex, no communication, open bitterness.

  It played on Lynch, made him tense, magnified everything he felt. His wife knew that, and it worried her. Because somewhere deep down, she believed that he would eventually look elsewhere—away from the staid environs of Chestnut Hill—to find what she refused to give at home.

  She knew that a part of him longed for the raw energy of the projects. The Bridge, after all, was just like him. Concrete slabs, damaged and defiant, wrapped tightly around a steadfast will to survive. He still had old memories, old friends, and old connections in the projects. He claimed to want to forget them, but in reality, he cherished them. They gave him identity.

  His wife, though she would never say it, believed those connections to the projects impeded his ability to smooth out his rough edges the way she wanted him to.

  Even in the dark, Lynch could feel his wife’s concern. He turned away from her as he answered her question.

  “Something came up at work,” he said vaguely. “I should be back sometime this morning. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Be careful,” Jocelyn whispered in an anxiety-laden voice.

  He mumbled a response, then strode down the hall and into his daughter’s room. He stood silently beside her bed, watching her sleep, then brushed his massive hand against her face.

  “I love you, Melanie,” he said, sweeping her hair away from her forehead to get a better look at her.

  He stood for a moment, marveling at the young lady his daughter had become. She didn’t play the same childhood games as other girls her age. Rather, she immersed herself in black thought and high fashion—taking weekly shopping trips with her mother so the two of them could satisfy their cravings for revolution and Armani.

  But beneath all that maturity, she was the same as Kenya—a little black girl who could very well be missing, too. A girl who, in the scheme of things, didn’t matter much to anyone but her family.

  That thought crowded Lynch’s mind as he backed softly out of her room. He knew that it was only by the grace of God that he could still kiss his daughter good night. Not everyone was that fortunate.

  It was six o’clock by the time he started down Germantown Avenue, breathing in the morning through the open window of his unmarked Chrysler Grand Fury.

  The police car bounced along the cobblestones of the centuries-old street, the tires sliding on and off the trolley tracks that followed the winding road from affluence to poverty. Watching absently as the pristine sidewalks north of Mount Airy Avenue gave way to discarded beer bottles south of Chelten, he tried to think of where his best friend’s daughter could be.

  It had been years since the last time Lynch had seen Kenya. She was only two years old then, sitting quietly on her mother’s lap as Lynch sat across from them in Daneen’s apartment. Kenya had stared at him. And he stared back, his eyes filled with loathing for the project whore and her bastard child.

  Lynch hated Daneen for what she’d done to his friend Tyrone. He despised the way she’d lied to him about the child. The way she’d conned him into the crack trade. The way she’d placed the sliding board in front of him and pushed, then stood back and watched as his addiction had spiraled down to a violent death.

  He hated Daneen Brown for all that and more. He tried to hate the child, too. But he couldn’t. Though nothing of Kenya physically resembled Tyrone, there was something in the way she’d looked at him. It was like Ty’s spirit was alive in her, peering out from the sparkling, coal-black eyes. It was like he’d known her for years.

  That day, when he’d finally seen for himself the woman and the child Tyrone had loved as his own, he knew that what he’d always suspected was true. Kenya Brown was not Tyrone’s daughter—not physically.

  But in spirit, she was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. She was all that was left of him. Lynch swore to himself after looking into her eyes that he would help Kenya Brown to make it out.

  It was a promise he’d done little to keep. But that was about to change.

  After leaving Judy’s apartment, Daneen stood outside the building, waiting anxiously for Lynch to round the corner. Ten minutes turned into fifteen as she tried to ignore the stench of death emanating from the man-size weeds in the vacant lot on the corner.

  By six-fifteen, she knew that she couldn’t stand there any longer. She had to do something.

  Daneen rushed back into the building. Up the steps, down a hall. And then she was there, standing in front of Lily’s door and pounding her fist against it. She pounded again, then waited, praying that Lily had allowed Kenya to stay the night with her. When Lily answered, Daneen didn’t wait for a greeting.

  “My daughter here?” she said, barging into the apartment and looking around the living room for signs of Kenya.

  Lily felt sorry for her.

  “No, Daneen, she ain’t here,” she said as she walked into the kitchen. “You want some coffee or somethin’?”

  “Lily, I ain’t got time for no small talk,” Daneen said, standing near the front door and looking around nervously. “You seen Kenya or not?”

  Lily came back to the couch with a cup of black coffee. “Sit down, Daneen.”

  “I don’t wanna sit down,” Daneen said, raising her voice. “I want my damn daughter. Now where she at?”

  Lily sipped at the coffee and contemplated telling her about the dream she’d had concerning Kenya.

  “I don’t know where she at,” she said, after deciding against it. “She played with Janay almost all day yesterday, then they came in here, and I gave ’em dinner. Kenya stayed ’til somethin’ after nine, then I sent her home.”

  “She ain’t come back here last night?”

  “She ain’t spent the night here in ’bout a week, ’cause Judy don’t want her stayin’ here no more. Least that’s what Judy told me. If it was up to me, she could stay here all the time, ’cause it ain’t like Kenya got a real home to go to.”

  At that, a simmering anger filled Daneen’s eyes. Lily could see it. So could Janay. She had come out of the bedroom and was watching them from the hallway.

  “I ain’t mean that like it sounded, Daneen. It’s just that—”

  “Yeah, I know what it’s just,” Daneen said. “It’s just that you one o’ them bitches think they better than everybody else.”

  Lily stood up. “Look, you ain’t gon’ be standin’ up here disrespectin’ me in my house.”

  “I’ma do more than that you don’t tell me where my daughter at.”

  “Oh, so now all of a sudden Kenya your daughter,” Lily said cynically. “Where was all that mother love when she needed you, Daneen? I probably done spent more time with Kenya in the last year than you ever did. Now you got the nerve to bring yo’ ass down here like you gon’ save the day? You shoulda been down here before somethin’ happened to her.”

  Daneen’s head reared back as if she had been slapped. “What you mean somethin’ happened to her? How you know somethin’ happened to her?”

  Lily answered in a near whisper. “I just know.”

  Daneen knew, too. That’s why she didn’t answer.

  Jana
y watched it all from the hallway. But she couldn’t let it go at that. So she walked into the living room, and through a haze of tears, asked the question that was burning on her lips.

  “Why you let her stay there with Miss Judy and Mr. Sonny anyway?” she cried, her accusing eyes fixed on Daneen.

  “Janay, go to bed,” Lily said. But Janay would not be silenced.

  “You know what they do in there, Miss Daneen.” Janay’s voice shook with emotion as it rose to a near shout.

  “And you let Kenya stay there anyway. You ain’t come get her. You ain’t do nothin’. They was hurtin’ her up there, Miss Daneen. They was hurtin’ her and ain’t nobody care.”

  Janay broke down, the sobs wracking her body as she collapsed against her mother. Daneen stood speechless, staring at the nine-year-old and wondering what she meant by hurt.

  Lily glanced at Daneen, then took Janay’s chin in her hand and raised her face until she was looking into her daughter’s eyes. She wiped Janay’s tears and ran her fingers through her hair. And then she asked.

  “Who was hurtin’ Kenya, baby?”

  Janay looked from her mother to Daneen and back again. Then she fixed her eyes on the floor and uttered the name no one wanted to hear.

  “It was Mr. Sonny,” she said. “He was doin’ it to her. She told me it hurted.”

  It was six-thirty when Lynch parked the unmarked car on the sidewalk and ran into the building, bounding past the elevator and into the stairwell.

  He moved with purpose, pulling himself up by the railing that ran alongside the stairs. He was passing the fifth floor when Daneen stumbled out of the hallway and into the stairwell, nearly bowling him over in the process.

  Lynch reached out to grab her, and as his hand touched hers, they both paused, almost imperceptibly, before she tore away from him and bolted up the steps.

  “What is it, Daneen?” he called after her, ignoring the electricity he’d felt in her touch. “Did they find Kenya?”

  She rounded the landing to the seventh floor. With Lynch lagging behind, Daneen flew down the hall and burst into Judy’s apartment.

  Judy had barely looked up before Daneen was upon her.

  She jumped headfirst into the chair where Judy sat, knocking it backward. Money and caps flew into the air as Judy’s head bounced against the floor. Daneen was merciless, straddling Judy’s chest and using her knees to pin her arms to the floor.

  “Bitch! You knew what that nigga was doin’ to my baby!”

  She punctuated each word with punches and slaps. With her eyes stretched wide and a rope of saliva swinging from her open mouth, she looked like a madwoman. She drove Judy’s head into the floor, punching her again and again as Judy struggled in vain to break free.

  Lynch tried to stop her, but Daneen would not be denied. She continued to flail away as she repeated the words like a mantra.

  “You knew!” she cried, pounding her fists into Judy’s face. “You knew what that nigga was doing!”

  She continued until Lynch was able to force his hands under her armpits and clasp them behind her neck, pulling Daneen’s arms into the air and dragging her away from Judy.

  Daneen threw her head back and unleashed a tortured howl. Then she fell backward into Lynch’s arms, weeping. He let her go quickly, as if he had touched something hot. She staggered to the far side of the room, sliding down the wall and sobbing loudly.

  Lynch heard a movement behind him and turned to find neighbors standing in the doorway, staring openmouthed at Judy sprawled on the floor, her head surrounded by a fractured halo of money and crack.

  He went to the door and closed it, then pulled his police radio from his belt and called for a paddy wagon before walking over to Judy.

  “You’re under arrest for possession of narcotics,” he said, reaching down and placing handcuffs on her wrists. “Now, where’s Kenya?”

  “Like I told Daneen when she came in here a hour ago,” Judy said through swelling lips. “She’ll be back.”

  At that, Daneen jumped up and tried to charge, but Lynch held her.

  “Back to what, Judy?” Daneen said. “Back to Sonny screwin’ her every chance he get?”

  Judy seemed genuinely confused. “What you talkin’ about?”

  “Sonny raped Kenya,” Daneen said, enunciating each word for emphasis. “Molested her, whatever you wanna call it. And you knew about it, didn’t you, Judy? You knew what he was doin’.”

  “Sonny ain’t never touch Kenya,” Judy said emphatically.

  “Yes he did,” Daneen said. “And you knew all about it. Just like you knew all about—”

  “All about what, Daneen?” Judy asked quickly.

  Daneen looked up at Lynch, who stared back and waited for her to answer Judy’s question. Daneen fell silent as she looked at Judy, then dropped her eyes to the floor.

  Just then, Lynch’s radio squawked.

  “Six-oh-two on location,” the wagon officer said over the air.

  “This is Dan 25,” Lynch said into the radio. “Send me a car to secure this location. Hold them out on a crime scene detail.”

  “Okay, Dan 25.”

  Lynch placed his radio in his belt and spoke without looking up. “Daneen, I’m going to have an officer meet you here and take you around the neighborhood so you can look for Kenya.”

  “How I’ma find her ridin’ around in a cop car? That ain’t—”

  “You asked me to help you, Daneen,” he said in measured tones. “That’s what I came here to do. Now, I already saw you running the hallways, so you obviously looked in the building. Now it’s time to look outside.”

  She folded her arms like a petulant child, then opened her mouth to speak.

  “We’ll find her,” Lynch said, looking Daneen in the eye. “One way or another, we’ll get Kenya home.”

  As he reached down to help the handcuffed Judy up from the floor, Lynch wasn’t sure if what he’d said to Daneen was true. In fact, what he’d seen in the last few minutes caused him to question more than Kenya’s whereabouts. But he knew that the answer to it all lay in Sonny. And he knew that the sooner he was able to find him, the sooner he’d find the little girl.

  A breeze rustled the vertical blinds that covered the picture window of the second-floor loft. It whispered through the room, kissing each of the trinkets that graced the tastefully appointed walls—from the Fulani tribal masks to the Andrew Turner oil paintings.

  When the breeze finally brushed against a grim-faced Sonny Williams, he was standing in front of his walk-in closet, hastily changing his clothes.

  Sonny had kept his apartment on Third Street—halfway between the historic Betsy Ross and Ben Franklin houses—for just such an occasion. He’d known for years that the day would come when he’d leave the Bridge for good. But he hadn’t known that his plans would allow him to do it so soon.

  But then, things had always gone better than expected for Sonny. In the Seventies, he’d sold the bulk of the heroin that fueled Girard Avenue’s shadow world of prostitution, ruthlessly taking from a community that could ill afford to give. It was around that time that he took Judy. First as his lover, then as his tool.

  By the late eighties, when the lucrative crack trade took hold in the projects, Sonny had convinced Judy to part with some of the welfare she’d collected through multiple identities and fake dependents. He took the money, then added some of his own to buy their first package of cocaine.

  In a scant three years, Sonny and Judy became two of the most prosperous crack dealers in North Philadelphia. But to look at them, no one would ever know.

  They eschewed the inordinate flash of the young dealers who passed away as predictably as time. Instead, Sonny and Judy carefully orchestrated their appearances to hide their success.

  They dressed simply, never donning the jewelry and designer clothing their young competitors preferred. Sonny’s Cadillac was eight years old, and Judy had never owned a car. They even let people believe that Sonny was merely the enforcer wh
o allowed Judy to operate unharmed.

  Neither the neighbors, nor the police, nor the pipers who bought their crack knew the extent of their enterprise. In truth, neither did Judy.

  One year into their partnership, Sonny had begun skimming money from their packages. Soon, he’d taken enough to begin buying and selling quantities of powder cocaine to select clients in Center City. After the first kilo, it was easy. He merely reinvested the money and repeated the process again and again.

  Sonny’s nest egg was held in a bank account under an assumed name, and totaled over half a million dollars. Judy held the bulk of the profits from the day-to-day cap trade, which amounted to a little more than one hundred thousand in cash.

  But five-to-one wasn’t good enough for Sonny. He wanted it all. And in order to have access to the money he knew Judy had hidden away, he needed more control. Simply put, he needed to make Judy disappear.

  He had decided that night, when he’d left shortly after Kenya did, to make Judy’s disappearance happen quickly. So he stopped at a phone booth on his way back from Ninth and Indiana with their package, and he made an anonymous 9-1-1 call.

  When he arrived at the building with the hack taxi driver and saw the police van outside, he believed the police were there to investigate his call about a man with a gun in apartment 7D. Of course, there was no gun. But there were drugs. And Sonny hoped that the drugs would get Judy arrested.

  When he shuffled out of the hack taxi, ran back to his car, and drove to his Old City apartment, he waited an hour, then called one of Judy’s neighbors. She told him that Judy had been led out in handcuffs.

  Sonny called one of his Center City contacts and arranged for funds to be transferred to his bank account in exchange for the package he’d brought back to his apartment in the garment bag. He left the drugs in his normal pickup spot—a mailbox outside the building. Then he made plans to return to the Bridge.