All these years later, I’m passing the lions and climbing the marble stairs dressed not in a costume of a news reporter but as one. I didn’t know the family who lived here before or if it’s the same one now; I just know it’s the home of an obscenely rich person.
“Excuse me, miss, could you take my jacket?”
I’m barely two feet into the foyer and am too distracted by the wallpaper that appears to be made of real pony fur, not to mention the Basquiat that looms at the end of the entrance hall, to register what the man is saying.
I turn, and a white guy, my age, wearing a bright pink T-shirt under a suit jacket, is thrusting his coat at me. It clicks.
“Excuse me?” I glare at him, forcing him to admit his mistake.
“Sorry. I thought you were working here. I didn’t mean… Shit. I’m really sorry. It’s the outfit.”
Yes, I’d slipped off my coat and I’m wearing black pants and a black sweater. But no, it isn’t the outfit.
“It’s fine,” I say to him. “I’m a reporter.” Why am I telling him that it’s fine? Why am I justifying why I’m in this room? Because I want him to go away. I want this awkward moment to be over so I can do what I came here to do. He apologizes again and rushes into the well-heeled crowd convened in a living room that’s four times bigger than my entire apartment, and infinitely more opulent. I grab a glass of sparkling water from one of the servers. Champagne would be better—to stop myself from turning around and walking right back out the door, back to my house, and crawling into bed—but I don’t drink on the job. It would sure take the edge off though, and lately I’m on edge about everything, so close to the abyss, the dark thoughts like hands reaching out to pull me down into the quicksand. This is always the scariest part of depression, the panicked edge where you think, If I can hold it at bay, stay out of its grip, I’ll be okay. The fear of the fall is so much worse than the bottom, because once you’ve let go, once you’re in the darkness, there’s comfort in the dull surrender. It’s easier than the fight. But I still feel like I can push myself back from the brink. It’s the reason I’ve been forcing myself to run every morning, why I went to church this weekend again—last week too, much to Momma’s surprise and delight.
I look around the room. This is not my idea of a good time—a stuffy fundraising event with a bunch of wealthy people doing their good deed for the quarter. But Sabrina Cowell’s assistant insisted it was the only time on her calendar this week and if I wanted to get five minutes of face time with the district attorney I’d need to stop by. And I desperately needed to get in front of the woman if I was going to land a live interview. Coming off the high of my interview with Tamara, I had mentioned, somewhat impulsively, in our daily news meeting that I had my sights on sitting down with the city’s new upstart DA. When Scotty turned to me and said, “Get it done,” it went from tentative idea to mandate before I even closed my mouth.
“Riley?” I hear my name punctuated by two taps on my shoulder.
“I’m Amina, the district attorney’s chief of staff. You didn’t have any problems at the door?” The young woman has the tiny frame and energy of a hummingbird, head flitting right and left to survey the scene as her fingers fly over the screen of her iPhone, sending a message, all while also talking to me.
“None at all,” I lie, swallowing down the microaggression, as I’ve done a thousand times.
“Thanks for making the time. Sabrina’s work schedule is jam-packed right now.”
Not so full that she can’t take time to slowly work a room, as I watch her do now across the way, rubbing elbows and eating canapés with Philadelphia’s moneyed elite, who will be critical to financing her rumored mayoral campaign.
Amina continues to type words in her phone as fast as they come out of her mouth. “I’m going to introduce Sabrina—share her story. And then she’ll talk for about ten minutes. She’ll shake hands, take selfies, collect some checks, and then you can have ten minutes with her.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
For the first time since speaking to me, Amina finally looks up at me. “DA Cowell knows everything.”
I snag another glass of sparkling water as Amina heads to the front of the room and grabs a microphone. After two loud taps to test the sound, she starts speaking.
“When I graduated from Georgetown five years ago, I thought I wanted to stay in DC and be an aide on the Hill. And then I read about Sabrina Cowell and I knew I wanted to work for her, so I wrote her a fangirl letter out of the blue telling her how much I admired her career, and she said, ‘Well, then, come work for me.’ It was the best thing to ever happen to me, so thank you, Sabrina, for taking a chance on a complete stranger who slid into your DMs.” She stops for laughter. “Many of you here tonight have heard my boss’s story, but it’s a good one, so I’ll tell it again. Sabrina Cowell was raised right here in Philly, over in the Tasker Projects. She went to Masterman High School, received a full scholarship to Tulane and then Penn for law school, and became one of the youngest women ever and the first Black woman to make partner at Johnston Caruthers. But corporate life didn’t suit her. Too much money, too little time. You all can appreciate that, right?”
Appreciative titters from the crowd.
“She found a home at Gardner and Jones, where she worked on pro bono civil rights cases against the police force with unmatched tenacity. But still… it wasn’t enough. Change only happens in this city if you’re on the inside. And so she challenged the old guard, ran a tough race, and tossed them out on their behinds. Please welcome Philadelphia’s district attorney, Sabrina Cowell.”
Sabrina jogs the few feet over and takes the mic from Amina after a long and what appears to be genuine hug. A hush falls over the crowd as we shuffle closer to her. It’s instantly clear—before she even speaks—that she’s one of those people who seem to have a field of energy around them, drawing you toward her like a magnet, all the makings of a great politician… or a cult leader.
I take in the full force of Sabrina’s hair, which is just that—a force. A massive halo of natural corkscrew curls. If I hadn’t started relaxing my hair in the eighth grade, if I weren’t addicted to the “chemical crack” and my standing appointment at the hairdresser every twelve weeks on the dot, I’d want my hair to be exactly like hers. I’d also love to be able to pull off a bright magenta lip, as she does, even though Momma would insist this flashy shade was reserved for “hussies.”
Sabrina scans the room before she starts talking. “A lot of people don’t know that my grandmother used to clean houses here. On this very street. Hell, maybe even this very house. And who would have thought that one day her granddaughter would be here getting y’all to pay me, without dusting or shining a damn thing.” A pause. “Not this girl.
“Everyone loves the story Amina told you about me. Poor girl from the hood makes good. It’s the all-powerful myth of exceptionalism that people salivate over so they can use it to validate the rags-to-riches possibilities of America. If this Black girl did it, everyone else can too. So if someone doesn’t, or can’t, it must be a personal failing. Never mind the systemic issues stacked against people—brown people, poor people—all the barriers and disadvantages that keep the playing field in this city and this country about as level as a seesaw with an anvil on one end, and the American dream on the other. We gotta move that anvil, folks, and that’s why I wanted to be the district attorney and why I’m considering a run for mayor.”
She pauses as the crowd breaks into applause—the guy who handed me his coat whistles loudly—then continues. “Every one of you out there wants to change; you see yourself as social justice champions, am I right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have paid five hundred dollars to be here tonight. Thank you for that, by the way.” Her laugh is deep, husky.
“But as important as voting is, it’s the personal changes and accountability that matter too. You think racism is so awful. You want to level that playing field I mentioned. But are you willing to acknowledge how much you bene
fit from white supremacy? That every single social, political, and legal system in this country is built and maintained by white people, on the bedrock idea of white power, and that allows you to move through the world with a basic confidence in your sense of safety, opportunity, and respect. That as white people you are automatically associated with everything that is good and right and ‘normal,’ and everyone else’s experiences and value are weighed relative to that. A thousand books and movies and lessons in school have told you this was true, so much so that it’s seeped into your very soul. That wasn’t your fault, but what you do about it now is. So how will you confront the lie? What will you sacrifice? What are you willing to put on the line? Are you going to send your kid to the public school down the street? Are you going to rent your house to a young Black family? Are you going to hire more eager dark girls with kinky curls to be your junior executive? Because your well-meaning intentions, your woke T-shirts, your Black Lives Matter tote bags, your racial justice book clubs are not going to cut it.”
She stands at the front of the room staring out at the audience, letting them simmer in an uncomfortable silence.
It’s more than an hour before Sabrina can free herself from the claws of her admirers. I get lost looking for the bathroom and find myself peering into the kitchen—there are two Black or brown faces out there, including my own, but in here, there are dozens of brown people serving and washing dishes who smile at me warmly. As I wander back toward the living room, I’m about to give up when Amina appears, grabs me by the elbow, and ushers me down the hall into a quiet library where Sabrina has already made herself comfortable in one of the host’s leather club chairs. I settle into the one across from her in the dimly lit, wood-paneled room like we’re about to smoke some cigars and talk about our golf handicaps.
“Nice to meet you, Riley Wilson. Why’d you want to talk tonight?” Her brisk officiousness is intimidating. So much for the girlfriend-to-girlfriend vibe I’d hope we’d cultivate, hashtag BlackGirlMagic.
“Well, I’m new to KYX—”
“I know who you are, Riley. I watch you. You’re a good reporter. But what exactly can I do for you?”
“I’m glad you think so. Then you know that I’ve been front and center on the Justin Dwyer story.” When she nods, I say, “I want to interview you.” I can get straight to the point too. “It would be a special segment like I did with Tamara Dwyer.”
“I saw that. It was compelling.”
“Her story, Justin’s story, the shooting—it’s showing the deep divisions in our community. I don’t want it to get lost in the news cycle. This is an important moment. Things have to change.”
Sabrina nods in agreement. “Well, I’m with you there. As you just heard, I’m all about reform. And you know how these white folks just love to be chastised, like it’s their racial penance or something. Makes them feel like they’re learning. All they want to do is stay learning…” Her eyes roll with the word. “Like that does a damn thing. Let’s just hope it gets them to open their checkbooks though…” She trails off, then turns to look at me. “Before I decide one way or another about this interview, I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“How long have you been friends with Jennifer Murphy?”
I should have been more prepared for this, that someone would figure out our connection. The most cursory Internet search reveals it. Before I reached out to Tamara, I’d googled, “Jennifer Murphy AND Riley Wilson” to see what came up. There was one old picture of the two of us holding our medals at Penn Relays. But Facebook was a different story. Jen’s profile had a lot of pictures of the two of us, more than mine, because I mostly use it for work. It was a relief when she deactivated her Facebook account a few days later. Then I’d felt gross about being so relieved. The guilt hits like I’ve been caught red-handed doing something wrong. And if Sabrina found out this easily, Scotty could too. Even with my exceptional talent for denial, I can see it’s probably only a matter of time, and then what?
Thinking fast, I shrug like it’s no big deal, like everyone knows everyone in Philadelphia, which is a little bit true. It’s a city, after all, where people ask where you went to high school before they ask what you do. “Jen and I grew up in the same neighborhood,” I offer carefully.
Before the shooting I would have said, “We’ve known each other since we were babies. We grew up together in the Northeast.” But that was before. Before. Before. Before.
“Hmm, well, with you working on this story, it must be…” Sabrina raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow as she searches for the right word. “Tricky?”
I almost laugh. Tricky, that’s one way to describe it.
“Well, I haven’t really spoken to Jenny since… since the incident.”
“Since Justin was murdered?”
“Yes,” I say; even though her word choice is meant to be a pointed provocation, it’s also true.
Amina appears in the doorway, looks at her watch, and puts up five fingers. I’m sure she’s been instructed to give Sabrina an escape.
“I think it’s pretty clear that you’re going to be the next mayor.” I don’t have much time to seal the deal, so I go with flattery, a shameless tactic. “That crowd loved you. And the time is right. The city needs you to shake things up.”
“From your lips. Isn’t it something that we are out here, still chasing firsts? The city’s first Black woman DA and first mayor.”
“It would be amazing, a game-changer. But I know it’s tough, too. Your DA campaign was brutal. All those op-eds that said you were unhinged and unqualified, that questioned your ‘electability.’ ”
“You don’t even know the half of it. They kept calling me angry and power hungry. As if that’s an insult! Hell yes, I’m angry! Yes, I’m power hungry! That’s supposed to be a bad thing? Do they not realize I can’t change anything without power, the power to rethink, hell, to upend, our tired policies, our practices, and our policing if we are going to get anywhere close to where we need to be? If I were a man, they’d be celebrating me for that. That’s why my philosophy is WWWMD.”
“I’m not even going to try to guess.”
“What would a white man do?”
“Ha-ha, love that.”
“Seriously though, a white man would come into this office, or a boardroom or whatever, and believe he had the duty—the power—to change things, make history, lead a charge. Well, I do too.”
If I had half of Sabrina’s confidence, I’d already be on the Today show. Forget the white man; I was going to start asking myself, What would Sabrina do?
“Real talk, it’s time for a new day. We can’t have the same old, same old. Not anymore. Not on my watch. It’s a dangerous combination when we have officers with weapons and all the power, who also feel superior to the people they serve, when they look at our communities as places to control and police rather than protect and serve. The white officers approach white people one way and Black people another way, often with less humanity, less concern, less humility. That’s just a fact, whether they even realize it or not. We know how it goes. On my watch, I want our justice system to have a culture of humanity, and that means weeding out the officers who don’t and reallocating funds to departments that can provide services our communities need.”
I think of the officer in New York who made headlines six months ago for the text he sent his supervisor letting him know that a Black suspect had died at their hands during an arrest. Not a big deal, he’d written. Talk about a lack of humanity.
“You can’t shoot an unarmed teenager and expect zero consequences. Until people understand that fundamentally, we will have cops that are too cavalier out on our streets. We can’t let officers continue to kill innocent kids, or men, or women. Period. The price is too high.” Sabrina pauses. “I know we’re talking about your friend here. Have you figured out whose side you’re on, Riley?”
“I’m on the side of justice. And that’s exactly why you should do an interview
with me. Will you?”
“Your phone is buzzing,” Sabrina says. When I go to switch it off, I see it’s Shaun, who rarely calls over texting. Something’s wrong. I fumble to press the green button. As soon as I hear his voice, quivering with anguish, I have a childlike fantasy that if I hang up now, the words he’s saying won’t be true.
Chapter Eight JEN
Snow falls in sheets as thick as paste, coating my windshield, hopeless against the wipers. After days of increasingly manic weather reports, the first storm of the season is here. Action News meteorologist Hurricane Schwartz started calling it “Snowmageddon” in his frenzied forecasts, advising the greater Philadelphia area to hunker down and stay off the roads. Everyone seems to have listened. Everyone but me.
My hands are slick on the steering wheel. I push my foot on the brake, and the car fishtails on the slippery road. I haven’t driven in weather this bad for more than a decade, not since that time I drove to Chicago to pick up Riley for winter break her sophomore year at Northwestern. I was dying to visit her at college, and driving was cheaper than a plane ticket. So I’d hopped in my ten-year-old Camry and hit the road, only to be waylaid when a record-making blizzard descended on the turnpike right outside Pittsburgh.
I had no choice but to wait it out at a cheap motel. I was sure the place had bedbugs. But I didn’t care that it was the drive from hell, not once I saw Riley standing there inside her dorm lobby waiting for me, looking like some model for a college brochure, fresh-faced, hair in a loose bun, wearing a bright yellow Medill School of Journalism sweatshirt. Meanwhile, my hair was a greasy blob and I was covered in orange crumbs from the bag of Doritos I’d plowed through during the final twenty miles. I threw my arms around her anyway, Dorito dust and all. Riley was the RA that year and lived in a single that also looked straight out of a brochure: framed poster of Starry Night, bright pink mini-fridge, a photo collage filled with people I didn’t know.
If Riley noticed my weird mood during her enthusiastic tour of the beautiful, snow-blanketed campus or lunch at a local sushi restaurant (Riley eats sushi now?), she didn’t let on. As I fumbled with my chopsticks, she asked where I wanted to go that night: a Kappa Alpha Psi frat party (“It’s a Black fraternity,” she explained), or karaoke with some of her friends from the college paper. We got ready in the dingy communal bathroom, pregaming with a box of wine, pretending we knew how to contour our cheekbones. It felt like the beginning of an epic night. Until Riley announced that Gabrielle would be joining us. Even though we’d never met, I was convinced that Gaby—the famous Gaby I never stopped hearing about, like she was some kind of celebrity or something—didn’t like me. It was silly, but sometimes I convinced myself that Riley had moved on, and Gaby was my replacement, and the two of them sat around talking smack about me all the time. Or worse, that they didn’t talk about me at all. If Gabrielle did hate me, she didn’t let it show. Still, I tried too hard that night, loudly reminding Riley of our shared history, trotting out our best memories and inside jokes so Gabrielle would see She’s mine.
We Are Not Like Them Page 16
