Lala Thankyou_Dark Homecoming

by Erica Gerald Mason

  "Looks like they’re gonna take you to a holding cell," my lawyer said. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear. "Say nothing, OK?"

  "No. No!" I said, holding my palms up. "You can’t put me in a holding cell."

  "Oh, I think you can," Stephens said.

  "No, you can’t," I said. "I’m a man in a dress. If you put me in a holding cell with other men, I’m gonna get the shit kicked out of me. Please. Please don’t send me there."

  "I will not give you special treatment because you’re a cable TV celebrity," Stephens said. I stayed seated and shook my head.

  "This isn’t about treating me...special," I said, my voice cracking. "This is about treating me as a human."

  Stephens froze, and stared me up and down, as if he was seeing me for the first time. He nodded, as if he was answering an internal question. The room fell silent as we waited for Stephens’ answer. He walked to the interrogation room door and opened it.

  "Wait here," he said. He closed the door behind him as he left. My lawyer sat back down, this time using the chair the detective left empty.

  The lawyer’s cell phone rang; it was my mom, wanting to learn what was going on. The lawyer spoke to her in hushed tones that soothed both of us and make us feel a sense of calm. It didn’t work for long: I entire body felt heavy as I slumped over the table again. My life was over. My future was a jail cell and there was nothing I could do to stop it. How could I prove I was set up? I didn't understand who would do this. Who hated me so much that they wanted me to punish me? I couldn't think of anyone. I didn’t have any friends, let alone enemies. I took a few deep breaths as I tried to calm my nerves. I felt powerless, and I knew the cops wouldn't help me if they thought I was the killer.

  For the first time in my life, I wished I had a friend.

  Maybe if you had hung out with those other makeup artists, you wouldn’t be in this situation, I thought. But no. You had to be antisocial and go to your hotel room alone. You're avoid human interaction and look what it’s gotten you. In jail, with no one to tell the police what kind of person you are.

  I listened to the door creak open as the detective came back into the room.

  "Let’s go," he said. He kept the door open and motioned for me to follow. The lawyer and I glanced at each other and then back at the detective.

  I got up and strode to the door.

  "We need your clothes."

  My head snapped around.

  "My...what?!"

  "For evidence. We need to test your clothes for blood stains. And maybe take a few pictures. And a couple more tests. For fun. Humor me." I stared at him, not understanding what he meant. I looked at Mitchell and he nodded.

  "It’s OK, Laz," he said. Mitchell turned to the detective and added, "I’ll come along to make sure my client doesn’t get mistreated."

  "Whatever," Stephens said and led us down a brightly lit hallway. We passed two empty interrogation rooms before settling on the third, a larger version of the room we left. Three uniformed police officers waited for us. One held a camera, the other a brush. The third stood behind a long table covered in what looked like oversized plastic food bags. Mitchell nodded at them and turned once more.

  "Laz, they’re gonna take your clothes. Then they’re gonna check to see if you have any scratches or bruises. And then they’re gonna test your fingers for gunshot residue. And then fingerprint you. I will be here the whole time."

  I shook as my fingers fumbled with my jacket.

  "No, Laz not yet," Mitchell said. "The officer has to watch you take it off. Wait until you get all the way inside and they close the door, OK? I’m not going anywhere."

  I nodded and stepped inside. The officer at the table motioned and pointed to a spot right in front of him.

  "Stand on the green dot, please," he said.

  I looked down and saw the dot; I’d missed it by a few feet.

  "Take off each item of clothing and set it on the table. Do not stack them."

  "Everything?"

  "Down to your underwear, please."

  I took off my jacket, my shirt and my skirt, folding them.

  "And your shoes."

  "These are new…"

  "Your boots, ma'am. I mean...sir..I mean..."

  “The name’s Lala. Or Laz.”

  I looked over at Mitchell. He nodded.

  I took off my boots. I loved those boots. They were knee high glitter boots, and they sparkled like a unicorn’s daydream.

  "On the table."

  "It’s bad luck to put shoes on a table," I said and regretted it. I shook my head and placed my boots on the table next to my clothes.

  "Over here, sir-ma'am...Lala," the officer with the camera motioned me over to him. I covered my half-naked body with my arms as best as I could and shuffled over. He didn’t have to tell me to stand on the blue dot. I stood on the dot and watched as the first officer placed my clothes in bags.

  "Lala?" the officer with the camera said. "I need you to hold your head up and keep your arms up and spread out."

  I did what he said, and he took pictures of my outstretched arms.

  Mitchell and Stephens watched as the camera clicked every few seconds.

  "Make sure you mention that my client has no bruises or blood," Mitchell said. "And he has no signs of a physical altercation of any kind."

  Stephens said nothing, but nodded.

  "Turn around," the camera guy said. I did.

  "Umm, excuse me?" I said, holding up my finger to get anyone’s attention.

  "Yeah, Laz," Mitchell said.

  "Can you tell that guy," I pointed to the first officer who folded my boots into a bag. "Can you tell him to NOT fold my boots? They’ll crease, and creases don’t come out of boots. They’ll get ruined"

  I looked at all the officers. I saw blank stares in return. I tried again.

  "Boots aren’t supposed to be-"

  "Thank you, Mr. Mercy. We’ll take it from here," Stephens said, nodding to the first officer to keep working.

  "But my boots…"

  "Are now evidence. After we finish with them, you can submit a form and have them returned to you."

  I turned to Mitchell, who himself turned to Stephens.

  "I’m sure, Detective, you can take these boots into evidence without ruining them."

  Stephens sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers.

  "Put the damn boots in a bigger freaking bag," he growled. Stephens turned. "And you. Let’s check your hands for gunshot residue."

  "WHAT?"

  "Not before my client puts on new clothes," Mitchell interrupted.

  "But I don’t have my-"

  "I stopped by your hotel room before I came here and picked up things," Mitchell said, reaching into my leather satchel. I hadn’t realized he’d been carrying it on his shoulder this whole time. He pulled out a pair of black jeans, a white shirt and a pair of loafers.

  I tugged on my clothes, trying to dress in front of the staring police officers.

  I hurried over to the testing station and had my fingers swabbed for residue, then rolled back and forth on the little fingerprinting machine as fast as I could.

  "Ok. You can go." Stephens pointed to the door.

  "I don't get it. I-I-I can go?" I stammered.

  "Your alibi checks out. For now. Go, but don’t leave town."

  "I-I-I don't understand." I said.

  "Ms. Hammond is waiting for you outside." Stephens answered. Hammond? I knew just one person named Hammond, but it couldn't be...

  "Laz?"

  "Olivia?"

  3

  My old college roommate Olivia. I moved into freshman dorms early; it was still 90 degrees outside and they pools were still open. I’d promised my mom I would try to meet people at college, so I went to the university pool prepared to make conversation. But only if it was necessary .

  Every afternoon I walked to the pool, took off my t-shirt and put on a smile. Other students wandered past me, jumping into the poo
l or sitting on the pool chairs and talking with each other. As I grinned like a total idiot, other freshman walked up to groups of strangers and talked to them. I couldn’t do it. I’d sit and watch the other freshman play Marco Polo or make plans to grab a pizza, and hope someone would turn around and talk. This went on for a few days. Until then one day one of the other swimsuit-clad girls sauntered up to me.

  "We’re gonna split a pizza. You wanna chip in?" I turned towards the voice and saw Olivia staring at me.

  So I split a pizza, even though I wasn’t hungry. Olivia and her friends moved her deck chairs closer to mine and we all laughed and joked as we waited for the pizza. We hung out together until the pool closed for the night and then walked around campus together.

  The next morning I went back to the pool. When Olivia and her friends saw me, they invited me to join them.

  "This pool sucks. Wanna go to the mall?" Olivia asked the group. I was the only one who went, so the two of us left together. We were inseparable after that.

  I had made my first friend that first week of college. Olivia was the only person in the world who knew me, other than my mother.

  We were close. We hung out every day and most of the nights. I visited her in her hometown and she visited me. Even our mothers became good friends. After a year of the dorms, Olivia and I shared a two bedroom apartment close to campus. The rent was too expensive on our own, but the two of us could afford it if we stayed within a budget. It was perfect. She was the best roommate: Olivia understood when I needed space, but she also knew when I needed to shake things up a little. And then one day Olivia asked me to help her put on her makeup; the rest was history. Olivia loved it. She told her friends. Her friends asked about me and then boom. I had a business doing girl’s makeup before they went on dates. When I got super booked doing that, then I took appointments for everyday looks. One day I put on lipstick to test it for a client; I liked the way it looked and so I did my whole face. I liked who I saw in the mirror- I felt right. I kept practicing on myself, learning everything I could about how to mix and apply makeup.

  Olivia encouraged me to sign up for a local drag contest. I worried about the contest for weeks, fixing my makeup at least five hundred times before I took the stage. I was terrible. I deserved to lose...I wore old jeans and a made up face, but I also learned something. I learned about costumes and stage makeup and how to work a crowd. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, I signed up for the next drag showcase. I lost that one, but I learned about hair and wigs. By the time I did my third drag show, I was hooked. Within six months, I had moved out of our apartment and bought a bus ticket to Los Angeles. Olivia understood, though. She even gave me a ride to the bus station.

  The last time I saw Olivia, I’d been getting on a bus to go west. We both went our separate ways that day and hadn’t kept in touch. And there I was, standing in front of the same Ollie I knew from when I was a baby drag queen.

  Mitchell told me he’d be in touch and disappeared down the hallway. Olivia smiled up at me and gave me a hug.

  "Are you hungry? Want to grab some coffee?" she asked me.

  "Uhh-sure," I said, unsure of what to reply.

  I followed her outside and jogged to keep with Olivia as she strode across the street and into a tiny restaurant across from the police station. I preferred to find the closest hotel and crash for the night- I’d been through a lot. But Olivia met me at the jail so I figured I owed her a cup of coffee and some uncomfortable small talk.

  I wasn’t sure how she got me out of there, but I would wait until she felt like telling me. Olivia sat a tiny table and drummed her fingers on the surface for a moment. She stopped drumming when she made eye contact and picked up a menu instead.

  "You guys ready to order?" The waitress asked.

  "I'll have pancakes and hash browns," Olivia said as she handed the waitress her menu.

  "And you?" She asked me. I wasn't ready. My brain turned to mush, and I did not understand how to answer.

  "Um. A-a...a pineapple smoothie. And umm.. A bagel?" I asked.

  "We don’t have either of those. Do you need another minute?"

  I didn't know what I wanted. I opened my mouth to say something, but Olivia stepped in and saved me.

  "Just make that 2 pancakes and hash browns." she said. After the waitress walked away, she turned back towards me, "So, how long are you in town?"

  "I, uh, tomorrow," I checked my watch and corrected myself.

  "The day after tomorrow. It felt like I’d been in the station for a few days, not a few hours. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to leave, though."

  "So, I hear you’ve been doing the makeup on some big photo shoots. Anyone I've heard of?" Olivia asked.

  "Well, um... I’m backstage at a few shows during New York Fashion Week. I’ve done Marc Jacobs. I’ve done Burberry. Last fall, I did Chanel."

  "That's nice. I work for the probation department here in Indy. My boyfriend’s a cop on the force. Dannon? You met him earlier. He gathers the evidence to send to the lab. When he told me about your arrest, I came down here to see you."

  "Tell your boyfriend it's not polite to fold a lady's boots," I said.

  Olivia laughed and promised she would. We kept up with the small talk. She told me how she became a probation officer, and how she met her boyfriend when one of her clients missed a meeting. It was a shorter story than how I worked the Marc Jacobs show. Yet her story took about 20 minutes to tell.

  And the conversation dragged on forever. I hated having conversations about nothing. Two people, talking back and forth about...the weather...traffic...holidays. Just empty thoughts thrown and caught for the sake of words being spoken.

  It’s not that I can’t hold conversations with people, I do. All the time. But back and forth...was torture.

  "Laz?"

  "Yes?"

  "You didn't answer my question." she said, her brow furrowed. I didn't hear what she asked.

  "Sorry. I was thinking about something." I said.

  "It’s OK. You have a lot on your mind right now." Olivia answered, and the subject at last changed to the problem at the hotel, "So, ah. Um. What are you going to do about the murder charge?"

  “Nothing.” I said, after taking a moment to consider the answer. There's nothing I can do except for hope to evidence showed Stern died well before I got there.

  "What?!" Olivia said, her nostrils flaring. I’d forgotten how they did that when she got angry.

  “What can I do?” I told Olivia about being framed. Her eyes widened as I explained about how the killer had to have known me from when I was a kid. “You see what I mean? Whoever wanted to kill Stern wanted me to take the blame for it.. I don't even know who this person is framing me. I don't know how to find him.”

  I felt my heart pound in my chest. I took a deep breath and fixed my hair, then patted my chest.

  "How do you catch a killer when you don't have evidence?" I asked.

  "I don’t know but try, Laz."

  I wanted to tell her something-anything, but didn’t know where to start. Olivia continued.

  "You know, you’ve always sized up a person with five seconds of metting them. You're just good at this intuition thing," she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "You could always take one look the person sitting in your chair and figure them out."

  “This isn’t the same as someone waiting for a makeover, Olivia!”

  “Sure it is,” she shrugged. “You’re scanning until something jumps out at you, right?”

  I nodded, but refused to answer. I couldn’t scan a telephone call. I reflected on the message I got from the killer. 'Welcome home', he said. What did that even mean? Indianapolis wasn’t my home. Bloomington was. Was this guy messing with me?

  "Home." I mumbled under my breath.

  "What?"

  "I’m almost home. But not quite. Bloomington’s an hour away." I rubbed my brow. "I think whoever killed Stern wants me to go to Bloomington.."

  "Does
this mean you will catch this guy yourself?" Olivia asked, her face spreading into a smile.

  "Catch as in tackle? No," I said. “Catch as in find? Yeah. I think I have to. God knows what else he may have up his sleeve.”

  "Well, we won't be able to get any official cooperation from the cops, but maybe my boyfriend will help. And maybe I can ask a few of the parolees if they know anything."

  I smiled at Olivia. After all these years, she dropped everything to help me. It meant a lot.

  Two plates piled high with pancakes arrived at the table. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I saw them; I hadn’t eaten for almost 24 hours. I shoveled food into my mouth as I old Olivia my plan.

  She insisted I stay at her place in the trendy Broad Ripple section of town. I pointed to hotel after hotel along the way, but she shushed me again and again. After the fourth hotel, I stopped protesting and accepted her offer. We parked in the street in front of a row of brownstones. Olivia caught me staring at coffee shops and bookstores across the street.

  “A lot has happened since you left,” she said. “I didn't think it was possible, but Broad Ripple became even artsier.”

  I pointed to a sign across the street announcing the grand opening of a barbershop slash record store.

  “You've gone from artsy to hipster,” I laughed. Olivia giggled as she unlocked the door. Stepping into the brownstone reminded me of our college days. The same posters covered the walls, in tasteful frames instead of taped to the wall. The same planters dotted the same coffee table, but the plant itself was lush and billowed out of the wicker container. Seeing the navy couch brought me back to the night I learned how to apply fake eyelashes. Olivia replaced the droopy little side pillows with taut pink pillows that looked like and handful of stray polka dots. Olivia’s place was adorable and I told her so. She smiled and tugged my arm, pulling me from my perch in the doorway.

  The first time I had seen Olivia since college and we picked up right where we left off. She pointed me to a spare bedroom and said goodnight. I closed the door to the room and sat on the bed, running my fingers along the iron headboard. My mind buzzed through the facts of the day again and again. I knew I wouldn’t get much sleep that night. I tiptoed to the bathroom so I wouldn’t disturb Olivia and took off my makeup, using wipes first then a foamy cleanser. Some people exercise. Other people garden. I do skin care. I applied a facial mask, taking care to apply the goopy mixture down my neck and touching my collarbone. I went back to the bed and lay down while it worked.