by Nina Revoyr
“You don’t have to volunteer in my programs. There’s a lot of other stuff going on—tutoring, job training, that kind of thing.”
Her first reaction was to say no, she was too busy, but after all the time she’d spent on extracurriculars that winter and spring, she knew that wasn’t the case. Her second reaction was that she wouldn’t be any good—what did she know about tutoring, or even teens, for that matter? But then she realized that these reactions were silly. It was a wonderful idea—a way to see Lanier regularly, and to honor her grandfather. And it was a way for her, finally, to do something useful; to get out of herself and give to somebody.
They met Lois on the steps of the Hall of Administration and Jackie made the introductions.
“This is my aunt Lois,” she said. “It’s her who started all this. And Lois, this is my friend James Lanier.”
They shook hands and looked closely at each other. “I’m trying to figure out if I remember you,” Lanier said, laughing.
“I don’t know how much I remember, either,” Lois replied. “But I feel like I know you already.”
It was a beautiful morning, the sun bright in their faces, and Jackie could see that meeting Lanier and the prospect of resolving the boys’ murders had made her aunt more bouyant than she’d been in several months. And something about meeting Frank’s daughter sent Lanier back in time, and he turned away so the women couldn’t see his moistened eyes. Lois felt this, too, the collapsing of the years, and she thought of her old neighborhood, children riding on bikes, and above all she thought of her father. Frank, who’d taught her what it meant to call a place home. Frank, who was so much a part of the neighborhood that he was never the same after the family moved away. But the memories made her feel connected to something again, and it was more a reclamation than a loss. This man, Lanier, was part of her father, too. He’d been a child with her, back in the Mesa.
Inside the D.A.’s office, they checked in with the receptionist and took seats in uncomfortable chairs. Lois and Lanier spoke of the old neighborhood, the people they knew in common. Jackie asked her aunt about the new house that she and Ted had just purchased, their plans for the move, the final packing of her grandfather’s things. Lois asked Jackie about her conversation with Matsumoto, and, watching her niece and Lanier answer together, finish each other’s sentences, she saw a closeness between them she wondered about, an intimacy she’d never seen Jackie share with anyone else.
After they’d been waiting for twenty-five minutes, a voice called out from the doorway. “Mr. Lanier? Ms. Ishida?”
They all looked up and saw a short, slim woman in her middle or early thirties. “Yes,” they all answered, standing. Lanier straightened his tie.
“I’m Pauline Richardson,” the woman said, extending a slender hand to Lanier, and then to Jackie and Lois. “I’ll be sitting in with Deputy District Attorney Silverman today. He asked me to bring you back to his office.”
She turned and walked back through the door. At the end of the hallway, Pauline stepped into an office, and Jackie saw the words “Alan Silverman, Deputy District Attorney” on the door. Inside, sitting down, was a tall, thin man whose head was rimmed with graying hair.
“Hello, Alan Silverman,” he said, reaching across the desk to take their hands. “So you’re James Lanier.” Then he turned to Jackie. “And you must be Jackie Ishida. Professor Greenberg had some very nice things to say about you. You’re starting at Turner, Blake & Weinberg in the fall?”
“Yes,” she answered, slightly embarrassed. “Thank you for agreeing to see us.”
“Well, it sounds like you have an interesting story, so fire away. Ms. Richardson will be sitting in, if it’s all right with you.”
“That’s fine,” Lanier replied.
“This all started about three months ago,” Jackie began.
Silverman leaned back in his chair. “When exactly?”
“February 5th,” said Lois. “The day of my father’s funeral.” She told them about the old will and the box of money, and Jackie gave a summary of what she and Lanier had uncovered. When she reached the part about Robert Thomas, Silverman looked up from the yellow legal pad where he’d been furiously scribbling notes. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes,” Lanier responded. “His partner gave him up. And one more person saw Lawson leave and Thomas go in when the boys were still alive.”
Pauline Richardson was scribbling also, looking down at her pad. “Did the second witness actually see this Thomas kill them?”
“No,” Jackie said. “Only the partner did.”
“And you believe the partner?” Silverman asked.
“Yes, we do.” Then she and Lanier, together, told them why. They laid out the story in greater detail, including Thomas’s refusal to cooperate with Lanier; his misleading information about Paxton; his reputation in the neighborhood; his behavior when they finally confronted him. They gave Matsumoto’s account as well, including his later encounter with Lawson, withholding his name until they knew the D.A. would consider immunity. They gave them the histories of Curtis and Frank, omitting everything about Frank’s relationship with Alma. It was irrelevant, really, to the fact of the murder. But more importantly, Jackie realized, she wanted to protect Frank and Alma and their undercover love; she wanted it to remain theirs forever.
Thirty minutes later, their voices trailed off and the attorneys put down their pads. Silverman looked very serious now; his brow had crunched into deep furrows and his mouth looked small and tight. “I knew that there were a lot of unreported incidents in ’65. But this one…” He didn’t go on. There was silence for a minute or two; then Silverman looked up at them. “I’ve got to tell you. I don’t know how much of a case we have here. There’s really only one witness, and it’s Paxton’s word against Thomas’s.”
“Couldn’t we get Lawson to testify?” Pauline asked.
Silverman shook his head. “We could try. But it’s not likely he’ll admit to being there in the first place, let alone seeing Thomas come in.”
“So what do we do?” Lanier asked. His shoulders had tightened, his breath was shallow and fast. If Thomas slipped through their fingers now, he didn’t know what he would do. Even as he was trying to right things for Curtis, he couldn’t stop letting him down.
Silverman knocked twice on the surface of his desk. “We’ll tell the police.” He put his hand up when Lanier and Jackie tried to protest. “Probably Internal Affairs. They’ll send detectives out to interview all the witnesses you mentioned—just give us their names again, along with addresses and phone numbers. If they’re still telling the same story, we should be able to take this to court.” He paused. “But more than that, I can’t really promise you.”
Jackie, Lanier, and Lois were all silent. Jackie opened her bag and pulled out her datebook, then copied down the names and numbers of the people they’d talked to.
Silverman took the sheet from her and laid it in front of him. “This city, what goes on here, all the violence and racial hatred. I can’t imagine how it could get any worse.” He ran his hands over the paper, staring at the words. “You did a hell of a job, you two.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not good enough,” said Lanier.
Pauline Richardson walked them out to the lobby again, chattering, assuaging. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “If anyone can bring this Thomas down, it’s Silverman. He’ll make sure we find other witnesses, and he’ll force Thomas to make a mistake. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted on developments myself.”
They didn’t speak as they walked back toward the parking lot. When they reached Lois’s car, they all stood and looked at each other.
“Well, what do you think?” Jackie asked.
“I guess we’ll have to see,” her aunt replied. “But you did what you could do. I’m proud of you, Jackie. Thank you.”
“No problem,” Jackie said, and she didn’t say what she was thinking—that it was she, Jackie, who had really been rewarded.
Lanier just looked at her. “Aw, Lois, you don’t have to do that.”
“Well, you didn’t have to do all of this.”
“That’s very generous of you. But I mean, are you sure?”
“It’s what my father would have done, I think. It’s in keeping with him and Curtis. Why not give the money to you and keep it in the family?”
“You’re right. But shit. Thirty-eight grand. We could do a lot with that money.”
“Good.”
“Hey, thank you,” said Lanier, placing a hand on her arm.
“No,” Lois answered, “thank him.”
That Friday, Albert Stevens, the one gay man in Jackie’s law school class, was having an “Air Out Your Closet” party to celebrate the end of the semester. Jackie had spent the afternoon shopping for business suits with Rebecca at the Westside Pavilion, and now they were back at Rebecca’s place, changing for the party. Both of them were looking forward to going to Albert’s; there would be students from several other departments. They’d already had an eventful day—trying on and discarding several dozen different outfits, making fun of each other, and driving all the salespeople crazy. And they were both in great moods—Jackie feeling unburdened, if not totally satisfied, after the trip to the D.A.’s office; Rebecca because a district judge had delayed the deportation of the garment workers, pending further hearings.
“What are you going to do with yourself now?” Rebecca asked that evening, as she and Jackie laid out their dresses on the bed. “You’re going to be bored after that big adventure, and all you have to do now is study for finals and the bar.”
“I don’t know,” Jackie shrugged. “Try to figure out what to do about Laura.”
“Did you ever tell her what was happening?”
Jackie shook her head. “No, not really.” She hadn’t told Laura much of anything the last few weeks, and she knew it was just a matter of time before one of them brought their worn-out relationship to an end. When she really stopped to think about it, she did miss Laura, but that feeling was outweighed by the relief she felt when she didn’t have to see her.
“Well, don’t despair,” Rebecca said. “I can think of a bunch of people who are waiting if you suddenly become available. A couple of them will probably be there tonight.”
“Oh, bullshit. Like anyone cares. Hey, where did you get that?” She was pointing at Rebecca’s dress, a small shimmery black thing that complemented even the bed.
“At Nordstrom’s. And I look good in it, I don’t mind telling you.”
“I’m sure you do, Miss Ego. Come on, it’s time to get dressed.”
Jackie expected her friend to offer the bedroom or send her into the living room. But Rebecca, facing the mirror, removed her shirt right there, and Jackie realized they were going to change together. Rebecca stood there in her bra now, a delicate blend of black lace. Then she reached around with both hands and the front of the bra came forward as she unfastened the clasps in the back. The straps slid down her arms and Jackie tried not to look, but she caught a glimpse of the firm, perfect breasts, their dark and lovely nipples. Rebecca nodded at her, as if issuing a dare. Jackie felt extremely self-conscious—but also intrigued. She pulled off her own shirt, unclasped and removed her own bra. No sound except their breathing as they stepped out of their pants, folded them, and placed them on the bed. Jackie wasn’t sure what to do with her eyes. She pretended to concentrate on putting on her dress and stole glances at her friend as she slipped into hers, seeing black hair spread against smooth olive skin, long toned arms, and delicate collarbone. Rebecca looked so much more fragile without her clothes, and Jackie realized she wanted to touch her. She felt loss for the breasts as they disappeared beneath the fabric; wanted again to see the flat stomach, the bits of curled hair that were not entirely contained by the white bikini panties. And she felt Rebecca doing the same thing to her—trying not to look, but unable to help herself. Once Jackie’s dress was on, she examined herself in the mirror. Her short blue dress worked well with the curves of her body, and she looked good, though not as glamorous as Rebecca. They both leaned over Rebecca’s vanity, inches away from the mirror, putting on make-up and doing their hair. They added stockings, necklaces, watches, and pumps. And then, completely ready, they paraded in front of the mirror, looking at themselves and at each other. They hadn’t spoken since Rebecca removed her shirt, but now she turned to Jackie, who realized how fast her heart was beating, how quick and shallow her breaths had become. They’d never stood so close—only inches apart—and Jackie felt the goosebumps, the sparks jumping off her skin, even before Rebecca leaned in and kissed her. She shivered—how long since she’d shivered!—and when they both pulled back she looked at her friend, her beautiful friend, the moist lips, the cut cheeks, the green, cat-like eyes.
“I can’t promise anything,” Jackie said.
“I know. You’re a self-involved asshole.”
“But for some reason you like me anyway.”
“Yep. Always have. You’ve got a lot of potential. And you’ve improved so much these last few months.”
“It was Lanier, you know. And Curtis. And my grandfather, too. But mostly it was Lanier.”
“I know. And I thank him for it. Remind me to send him a card.”
“And I don’t know what’s up with Laura, either. I mean, I know it’s over, but I’m…tired. She really went through me. And there’s still some things we have to figure out.”
“There’s no hurry. Neither one of us is going anywhere.”
“Everything’s a mess—my relationship, my family, I don’t know how I feel about my job. You don’t mind all this in-between stuff?”
Rebecca smiled. “Honey, look at me. I am in-between stuff.”
And very gently, patiently, Rebecca kissed her again, and Jackie felt something loosen in her, something ancient and glacial start to creak and break free. She was the one, she thought, who’d had a lover all this time, and Rebecca the one who’d been alone. But it was Rebecca who seemed to know, now, where they were both going, and Jackie felt the relief, as Rebecca’s hand moved down her neck and over her shoulder and onto her breast, of being with someone who was capable of meeting her halfway. Jackie touched Rebecca’s face, her smooth, long back, and pulled her tighter, closer. And she knew, for the first time—and finally, with this person—that in surrendering herself, she would also, somehow, be given herself in return—stronger, newer, and complete.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
1965
THE YOUNG man was now an older man, and had hired young men himself. This morning, the fourth young man he’d hired, but the one he loved most, had come in early because of the burning in Watts to get his work done, and then to help lock the place up. The older man watched him as he bent over the desk, wrestling figures that weren’t adding up to the number he wanted. The boy grunted to himself and scratched his head. He was a handsome boy, and smart and responsible, and the man wished he could take credit for this. He couldn’t, though, and he knew it—this boy was his mother’s product, and his own.
“We should get a couple more deliveries of bread each month,” the boy said. “We always get real close to running out.”
“That’s a good idea. Anything else?”
“Yeah. I noticed the eggs been getting smaller lately. Maybe we should get them from another distributor.”
“Good. We can do that.”
“And the candy bars.” Here, the boy grinned sheepishly. “I always take one to Angela, you know, and she’s getting tired of what we got. I think we should try to order a couple more kinds.”
The man smiled. “Anything for Angela.”
The man left the office then, and w
ent out into the store. They were both trying to act like everything was normal, despite the storm that was brewing outside. In a while, before the looting got worse, he’d send the boy home; he’d only come in himself to make sure everything was locked. The man walked up and down the three small aisles, straightening boxes of cereal, counting packages of flour. He loved this place—it was, more than any other place, his home. But he’d known for some time that he should leave. His daughters were sixteen and fourteen now, and working until eight o’clock six days a week he’d somehow missed most of their childhood. It wasn’t too late, though—with different work, with better hours, he still had a chance to get to know them before they left his house forever. He’d lined up another job, a nine-to-five, with a local distributor, who figured his years of experience in the grocery business would help them keep up with changing markets and trends.
The boy was eighteen now, and had just graduated from high school. He’d moved into his own apartment and was about to be married; he’d worked at the store all summer, and even though he was preparing to start classes at the junior college, he’d stay on full-time in the fall. The boy didn’t know the man was planning to leave, nor was he aware of what the man had in mind for him. The man knew his proposition was going to make the boy happy; just anticipating his reaction made him smile.
Although the man’s wife didn’t like the idea, it made perfect sense that the boy take over the store. He’d worked there nearly four years, all through high school, and he understood all aspects of the job, both personal and business. He went at everything— the orders, the books, the physical arrangements—as if it were the most fascinating project in the world, and he’d said many times that he wanted to run his own store someday. The way the man figured it, he would tell the boy what he’d planned, then spend a couple of months on formal training. Then, gradually, he’d make himself less and less present, until the boy was completely on his own. The man would still own the store, but the boy would manage it, on salary; after a few years, the man would turn it over to him. He had been thinking over this plan, pounding out the details in his head, almost all of his waking hours.
