No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  ‘Everyone has a dark side.’ Her words were slurred but deliberate. ‘Everyone. Some more than others.’ She closed her eyes and Solange knew that the conversation had ended. Still … more than she had hoped. Ma was not a fan of Johnny Leroy. Something in his past bothered her and that was a positive. Solange had told Archer he should do another background check. Ma had just re affirmed that. Everyone had a dark side. That might be true, but Ma was convinced that Officer Leroy had a darker side, darker than most. She knew her mother had just indicted the dead officer. Solange was convinced of it. She wasn’t sure what Ma had indicted him of, but there was something in his past. Something that needed investigating.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I’m calling it, Q. When my eyes start to get blurry, it’s time to quit staring at all this print.’

  ‘I’m starting to agree with you, Josh. There doesn’t seem to be a lot here. I suppose we can go a little deeper on the actual details, but …’

  ‘Look, we know that he shot one armed burglar. The incident was ruled self-defense, and there was no argument. The perp drew on him. All evidence proved that he had no choice. And sure, a couple of collars skated, but he made most of his cases. He was solid, and looking at his record, he was what most patrol officers should aspire to.’

  ‘We’ll tackle it tomorrow. I’m staying a little later,’ Archer said. ‘I just want to review my notes and go through a couple more files.’

  ‘Have at it, my friend.’

  ‘Thanks, Josh.’

  Staring at the folders stacked in front of him, he once again read the brief employment history of Johnny Leroy. It didn’t appear that his career as an officer of the law had gone sour. No bad marks, no reprimands. He’d been totally cleared on the shooting charge. The robber had drawn on him and he fired in self-defense. No bad marks. None.

  Even good cops had blemishes on their record. Archer certainly did. Yet Solange had the distinct impression there was something shady about Leroy. And as little as he really knew about her, he’d grown to trust her instincts. In several cases, she’d surprised him out of the blue with information that she should have no way of knowing. Something in Leroy’s history led her to have those feelings. Escape, money and reflection.

  Maybe Levy was right. Maybe Archer was letting his interest in the voodoo lady control his investigation of the case. Levy had made the point. His attraction to Solange Cordray might be interfering with good detective work. But what if she did have a glimmer, an inkling of a parallel universe where Leroy used the system. Where he had a past that he was able to hide. God only knew how many cops did abuse the job. From perks like free donuts and coffee and half-price meals to scams. And scams to wholesale manipulation.

  He’d read just that week about three cops in East Texas who threatened out-of-town motorists and shook them down for cash and valuables. And the scam had been working for three years before they were caught. As in any profession, there were players who used everything possible to make it work for them. Maybe Leroy was one of them.

  Archer stood and stretched, picked up an empty, stained coffee mug and walked to the coffee machine. He poured hot water in the cup. He steeped a bag of green tea in the steamy liquid and walked back to his paperwork.

  The arrest records had yet to spark an interest. The twenty-five-year-old background check wasn’t stirring any thoughts and no one had seen a young black man with a tattooed necklace. So, when the press called, he ignored the call. He had very little to offer them, except to say there was no news. So why say anything at all. And besides, they now had bigger fish to fry. An unarmed black man had been shot down by an overeager white cop. There was going to be some big news in Algiers tonight no doubt about it. The area was ripe for a riot, and that might just take some heat off him. Temporarily at least.

  Archer knew well enough to leave the fireworks alone. He could watch some of them from the banks of the Mississippi, or just put in foam earplugs and go to bed early. It was going to be a wild ride on the other side of the river and he was just as happy to be on this side, where normal crime and violence took place. In Algiers, tonight would be off the charts.

  First there had to be an insurgent. And, there had to be a unified resistance, that being the armored National Guard, the state Highway Patrol, the NOPD and the Sheriff’s Department. If the enforcement didn’t show up, there was no reason for the insurgent.

  And the unified resistance did show up. The insurgents attacked with long poles, swinging them at the cops, the enforcement battering back with shields. It was early evening and the offense was somewhat half-hearted. No firebombs yet, no broken windows or looting. No burned-out vehicles … yet. Both sides were still testing the water. The darker the sky the more intense the confrontation. There was almost a science to riots.

  Once they had begun, the mob, the insurgents, had a life of their own. Deep-seated resentments, repetitive frustrations and long-standing disappointments galvanized people into action. The insurgents provided cover. It became easier to overcome one’s usual reticence or moral scruples when a mob mentality was fronting you. You could be immersed in the movement. It was a heady experience, almost joyful. You could release long-suppressed emotions.

  And leadership emerged spontaneously. Changing rapidly. Unlike a political climate, a riot changed by the minute, not by the year. The heady environment of violent activity, of a mob rushing to defy authority, was adrenalin to the max and many relatively sane people got caught up in the moment, only to realize later that their actions were not well thought out. They found themselves imprisoned, in hospitals or never found themselves at all. They’d been killed in the conflict.

  Joseph walked the streets, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, watching the chemistry of a riot ready to ignite. Let tonight bleed. Let the frustrated and the forgotten have their moment. It was healthy and after tonight, hopefully some of the riotous activity would settle down. Then his riotous act would stand out. Tomorrow. His final tribute. In spite of the act to come, in spite of the fact that he’d shot Leroy dead center in the head, he smiled. He’d dreamed of this night for years, payback for his father’s untimely death. If you didn’t stand up for family, then what was there to live for?

  ‘Dude.’ A chocolate-colored man put his hand up, stopping him from continuing his walk.

  ‘I’m just passing through, brother.’ His right hand hung low, ready to draw his pistol from the pocket of his cargo shorts.

  ‘Stay for the resistance, my man.’

  ‘That’s why you stopped me?’

  ‘No, actually I was attracted to your tat.’

  ‘Attracted?’ Immediately his defense was on high alert. It was a guy versus guy thing. Not that he was homophobic, but …

  ‘Very telling, my man.’

  ‘Step aside, brother.’

  ‘No, no.’ Still holding up his hand, the interloper said, ‘Not in that way, man. It’s strictly a symbol.’

  ‘Of what?’ Very few people even mentioned it, and fewer ventured a guess as to its meaning. He was confrontational. ‘Just what do you think this stands for?’

  The man turned his head, trying to grasp the visual of the entire piece of art. As Joseph stood still, the observer looked him over. He had an intense glare in his eyes as he walked around him.

  ‘Unity. Has nothing to do with the Jesus thing, does it?’ The man nodded, looking into Joseph’s eyes. ‘It’s all connected. Every link unites with the next one. These thorns, they interact, you know? I love this, man. Like our gathering this evening. We’re all here for a common cause, dude. That’s what it represents. Am I right?’

  ‘Sure. That was the point,’ Joseph said, pushing away with his left hand. He just needed to move on.

  ‘I’m glad I got it.’ He held his right palm open and gave him a high five. The man shuffled off and Joseph lowered his head and kept on walking. Low profile. He didn’t need anyone busting his chops. The whole idea was to be the puppeteer, the man behind the screen. He couldn’t affor
d to be exposed. Not right now.

  The event was building. Soon, hopefully, to a riotous peak. He needed it to be off the charts. Then, tomorrow when calm and reason had reentered the equation, he would cause his own sense of chaos. His crowning achievement.

  It was going to be one hell of a night.

  SIXTEEN

  She stripped off her T-shirt, feeling a thin sheen of perspiration covering her lithe, naked body. She’d showered, dried herself and still wasn’t refreshed. The heat was relentless and she felt like she could cut the humidity with a knife. The air conditioning at Ma’s center was actually preferable, but sleeping there was frowned upon and would be too depressing. She’d stayed with Ma one night, and the wails and suffering in that building convinced her to never spend another evening.

  Cranking up the dial on her rattling room air conditioner, she climbed between the thin cotton sheets on her single bed. Solange stared at the plaster ceiling, still stained brown in one corner from a leak on the floor above three years ago. Someone’s bathtub had overflowed. The pattern of the stain roughly formed a map of Louisiana. An odd-shaped designer boot with Shreveport in the upper left corner and New Orleans on the toe. The image was often the last sight she had before falling into a troubled sleep.

  She looked for symbolism in so many things in her life, trying to read between the lines. That was also a pattern. A pattern of the way her life played out. The boot was probably a coincidence, but she’d printed a map of the Pelican State and after studying it, realized the shape of her ceiling stain was almost an identical replica. She pondered the phenomenon and wondered what to make of it. It was here on the toe that Ma had made a reputation for herself. Here in Louisiana that Solange had been born and raised, had been married and divorced, and was given the skills and spiritual guidance to make a difference in people’s lives. And she firmly believed that she had those skills.

  There were so many times in her relatively short life that she’d seen results, she’d seen her spells produce miracles. She’d had positive outcomes. And she felt certain that this was where she was meant to be. To take care of Ma and other patients, to help guide her clients through uncharted waters. She made the world, or her tiny part of the world, a better place.

  Solange would study the stain, the map, the outline, estimating where rivers and bayous would be. Remembering where cities like Baton Rouge, Lake Charles and Lafayette were located. She got to know the state and its geography very well. The concentration would eventually calm her and she would drift into a dreamless sleep. Not tonight. Her city was at a boiling point, and she prayed that the pot would hold the water. If it boiled out, if the water couldn’t be contained, New Orleans was in for a stormy night.

  She understood stormy nights. Solange had lived through one of the city’s worst catastrophes, where the pot literally couldn’t contain the water and when it eventually boiled out it had destroyed hundreds of homes and devastated thousands of people’s lives. The catastrophe known as Katrina would haunt this city for twenty lifetimes.

  Her head was filled with dozens of thoughts, and sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon. She focused on the potential riot in Algiers, just across the river. The civil unrest was bigger than anything she could control, but still she prayed. She asked her living spirit to rid the mob leaders of Agau, the anger god. It was said that when the earth tremors, Agau is angry. There was no question. The earth was set to tremor.

  The masses always fell in line, but it was the leaders of the violent protest that were filled with Agau’s spirit. That was the danger. Those who were strong enough to keep him in their bodies were puffing with all their strength and sputtering like seals. One had to be very strong to harbor this spirit. If she could defuse, get rid of the spirit of Agau, then she had a chance of tamping down the vehemence. The chance was slim.

  Pushing aside the sheets, she stood up and walked naked into the outer shop, and picked a candle from the shelf. A peace candle. The candle of tranquility. Exactly what was needed at this time.

  Placing the thick wax cylinder on the candle table, she lit the wick with a purity match. No one was around to smile, assuming she was showing off to the tourists. No one was there to question her sincerity as so many did. She believed, and that was all that mattered. She’d seen evidence of miracles. Maybe not this time. Maybe not for this event, but the prayer went out. The candle flickered and Solange had done what she could do. The fate of the evening, the potential riot, the lives of people were in the hands of the gods. That, she firmly believed. She’d just done her part. This was as much as she could offer.

  She prayed fervently that the god of anger and violence left the souls of those people and they were filled with peace and tranquility. That is what she prayed for. But she was very much aware that this was probably bigger than anything she could control. Solange believed in the power of one on one. But when confronted with hundreds, even thousands, then the odds weren’t so good. The gods seemed much more comfortable working individually. Cities, countries, continents, they weren’t so easy to manipulate.

  She shook. She shivered. After an hour, she rose and found the T-shirt. Goosebumps rose on her arms and legs.

  Walking back to her bed, she lay down, letting the air conditioning unit chill her almost naked body. She briefly considered taking the ferry and going to Algiers. The traffic coming back from the community would be horrendous, but she might be able to read some trends in the participants. Those who were fleeing, fearing for their lives, and those who were going to put their lives on the line. Or … find a reason to steal a TV and a six-pack of beer.

  The voodoo lady was tempted to turn on the television and watch the riot unfold. But she’d seen her city implode too many times. Maybe the map above her was simply to show her how limited her view of the world was. Possibly it was there to remind her there were forty-nine more states plus an entire planet she could explore.

  This city, this microcosm of the universe, was totally unique. The ebb, the flow, the mix of race and ethnicity, the culture, even the food and the spices. The crime and even the types of crime … the inventive ways of murdering people, it was inimitable.

  When she finally thought her head would explode, Erzulie floated above her, sending healing thoughts and calming messages. Solange couldn’t see her, only feel her love, her soothing influence. She whiffed the scent of perfume, she saw the glimmer of sparkling jewelry that flashed in the ceiling stain. There was no question it was the goddess. It was Erzulie.

  And as she finally drifted into an unconscious state, she prayed that Erzulie would make her presence known to the unruly mob in Algiers. She was needed. Her loving presence should calm some of the rebellious crazies who intended to blow the city wide open.

  She slipped into sleep, far from dreamless. Sometimes the mind causes more problems when at rest than when active. She saw the riots, she felt the pressure that Quentin Archer felt in his search for the cop killer. She heard the voice of the black, unarmed thief, begging for forgiveness for a murder he may have committed. He was the reason for the unrest, yet he had been responsible for killing someone, she was positive.

  She heard Ma. Begging for release. Begging for an afterlife where she would be free of her constraints. Free of her silence. Ma was calling to her, asking for deliverance and that was far beyond Solange’s ability. Her skillset was limited. She somehow knew the parameters.

  And, asleep, unconscious to the real word, Solange Cordray cried real tears that ran from her eyes and moistened her pillow.

  As she slept the events unfolded. Beyond her imagination. Mobs roamed the streets, becoming increasingly violent, incendiary at times. The spirit of the unarmed black man, Joe, was given a new birth. His death spawned a new beginning, or at least a temporary resurgence. But most of the anger, the vitriol, the bile, became personal and the violators took advantage of the situation; stealing, molesting, mugging, they used the protest as a reason to wreak havoc on a mostly stable civilization.

  Of c
ourse, as much as the civilized population would argue, New Orleans didn’t subscribe to a stable civilization. In any area of the city at any time, things were not what they seemed. It was the nature of the beast. Whether natives or people who were drawn there, it made no difference. The Big Easy gave you license to live on the wild side. And tonight was a wide-open pass.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sixteen-year-old T. J. Bannon heaved the first firebomb of the deadly riot. A high school student whose mother thought he was in his room completing a homework assignment. The young man lit the rag stuffed into a chocolate Yoo-hoo glass-bottle now filled with gasoline, an incendiary device that cost about two dollars total. Throwing it at a blue-and-white SUV, he waited a moment too long to see the results. In retrospect, he should have run like hell.

  As the bottle exploded and the NOPD vehicle erupted in flame, two cops rushed him and tackled the young man to the ground. Roughly, a young officer yanked the boy’s arms behind his back and snapped his wrists with plastic ties. The first arrest in a long night of incarcerations.

  Lines of officers with helmets and protective visors pulled over their faces and riot shields in their hands, advanced on the protestors. Spread in wide formation, they marched, leaving aisles for the defectors to escape. Protestors reached into buckets of rocks and jagged cement pieces, throwing those missiles at the encroaching police officers often with amazing accuracy. The marching force tightened up. In spite of all the defense, body armor, shields and visors, two patrolmen went down, both bleeding from head wounds.

  Another Molotov cocktail hit its mark, exploding outside a hardware store, the bright orange flame illuminated in the establishment’s front window for a brief moment until the window shattered into a thousand pieces. There was a roar as twenty rioters rushed the store.

  The mob kept up a relentless attack on the advancing police force, allowing many of the others to turn their attention to shops and service businesses along the path. Tossing large chunks of concrete at windows, they followed as the glass barriers disintegrated, exposing a large entrance for the intruding throng. And they pushed their way in, grabbing everything in sight. Computers, furniture, building supplies, nothing was sacred.