Dr. P.’s mustache twitched, but he did not smile. “She sounds like a very strong-willed woman.”
“That’s putting it politely.”
“What do your siblings do?”
“My baby sister, Rhodesia, is working on her second Ph.D., but as long as she’s in school my parents let her live at home. I’ve got another sister, Macon, but she lives up in northern California and doesn’t come around much anymore.”
“And what does she do?”
“Headmistress of a private school up in the Oakland Hills. Then there’s my brother, Perris. He’s an ex-cop who saw the light and became an attorney. He’s always on my case about why I stay in the department. And then there’s me, the black sheep of the family, the only one who doesn’t have initials behind her name.”
Dr. P. was scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. He paused to ask: “Was your brother Perris LAPD?”
“Yeah, he was on for five years, then got out about fifteen years ago, after he was shot on the job.”
“That’s hard,” he murmured, as if it had happened yesterday. “And you came on the department before or after he was shot?”
“Four months after.” This was not the way I had expected this session to be going. I had planned to pick Dr. P.’s brain and raid his magic toolkit for techniques to help me deal with the madness on the job, showing in the process what a good little patient I was so I could get the hell out of there and back to work, I was hoping, by the end of the week. But instead of tools that were going to help me deal with the assholes on the job, we’d drifted into depths I had no intention of plumbing. “Is all this necessary?”
A frown creased Dr. P.’s soft-featured face and made his mustache twitch again. “I was just wondering how you came to policing.”
Despite the coolness of the morning, Dr. P.’s office began to feel close. I peeled off my jacket and rubbed at the back of my neck. “That’s too long and too boring a story.”
Dr. P. put down his pen and reared back in his chair. “We’ve got time.”
“Fine.” I told him as quickly as I could about the graduate work Keith and I were doing in criminology, how theoretical it was, how isolated it made me from crimes and the people who commit them. “So I became a cop.”
“Who’s Keith?”
“My hus—my late husband. There isn’t anything in my file about a Keith Roberts, or how he died? Surely Dr. Betty said something to you.”
“You want to fill me in?”
The room began to shimmer, causing the masks on the wall to grow indistinct in the early morning light. They were replaced by Keith’s face, convulsing in pain, the life pulsing out of his midsection, the light draining from his eyes. I took a deep breath and said: “There’s not a lot to tell. My husband and I worked together, doing research on L.A. gangs. We got married, had a baby who was murdered with him in a drive-by the same day my brother got shot. They died, my brother lived, I went on the department, end of story.”
Dr. P. sat motionless through my recitation. “How awful for you,” he said quietly.
“I got over it,” I said, relieved to see the masks coming back into focus.
The room was silent for a while. Eventually, Dr. P. said: “So you joined the LAPD after your husband and daughter were killed and your brother was shot.”
“Is there an echo in here or what?”
“I was just wondering—”
“I passed the psychological exams, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you were unstable, Charlotte. Just that you came on despite the terrible tragedy you suffered. That’s pretty remarkable.”
My heart began to pound, and I held my breath for a moment to quell the rumbling of my stomach. “Coming on was actually the best thing I could have done. The pace, the variety, the ability to make things right for victims’ families.”
“You said something like that in our first session. Bringing closure and justice to families who will never be whole, I think you said.”
“Yeah, well, it sure beats the hell out of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.” Or sitting around in places like this, picking away at words and feelings I’d rather leave be.
Dr. P. tilted his head until he caught my eye. “I can see where coming on under those circumstances must have put a tremendous burden on you to succeed,” he said softly. “To fail would be like letting your family’s murders go unanswered.”
My eyes pricking with unexpected tears, I glanced at a bowl of marbles on the end table and managed a nod, afraid my voice would betray me.
“How long ago did this happen?”
The marbles were all sizes, from huge cat’s-eyed ones to tiny swirls of milky blue and white, and every color in between. “May tenth of ’seventy-eight,” I told the marbles, determined not to resort to pulling a Kleenex from a nearby box.
“And did they find the person responsible?”
“The man,” I corrected, reminding myself to breathe while I explained about Cinque Lewis and his connection to Keith’s research on the Black Freedom Militia. “And he wasn’t found until May of last year, during the riots.”
“That’s a long time.”
Finally, I saw an opening in the conversation and went for it like a running back for daylight. “That’s how cold cases can be. Which is why I wanted back on the Smiley Face investigation, so Mrs. Shareef and the Zuccaris don’t have to wait forever for some sort of resolution. Which is why I’d like to talk about some tools that will help me do my work.”
Dr. P. ignored the hint, making a note on his legal pad. “You said your mother was disappointed by your decision to become a cop. Do you think it was primarily because of her aspirations for her children?”
“She’s always been worried about us kids, always harping on what a dangerous world it is. But she and Perris have gone to such lengths to prove their point lately, it’s a little hard to take.”
“How so?”
“My brother takes a lot of criminal and civil cases where his main strategy is attacking the department. You know the drill—accusations of planted guns, tampering with evidence, sexual harassment. But this latest stunt he’s pulled is beyond the pale. I’m just about finished with both him and my mother.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
Surprisingly, I did. I explained about Keith’s missing files on Cinque Lewis and the Black Freedom Militia, how Perris had taken them from my house with my mother’s full knowledge and, I believed, encouragement. I told him about my anger at Perris, my mother, and Aubrey, and my entire family for letting me down, and about the argument last night during Justice Family Film Night. “Perris’s old partner suggested he took them because he didn’t want me to start my life with Aubrey carrying a lot of baggage. As if I couldn’t recite every detail in those files from memory.”
“Can you?”
“I was speaking theoretically.”
He leaned forward. “I’ll ask again—can you?”
The masks on the wall seemed to echo the question. I rubbed at my temples and fished an antacid out of my Altoids tin. “You’re the mind reader, Dr. P. You tell me.”
“I’m nothing of the kind, Charlotte, but to do my job I have to be a student of human behavior, just like you when you’re investigating a case.”
“You mean when I’m interrogating a witness. Is that what this is—an interrogation?”
“No, it’s not. I’m just wondering—was there some truth to what your brother’s old partner said? Before you disagree, consider this—as much as we might wish otherwise, sometimes we can get stuck on an issue, or an experience, or a person. But there comes a time when we have to examine it, and deal with it, and move on with our lives.”
“Move on? If I move on any faster, I’ll get jet lag! Do you realize in the past ten months, in addition to my other cases, I’ve solved the murder of Cinque Lewis, gotten involved with Aubrey Scott, put my house on the market, packed up, and moved in with the man? For G
od’s sake, what more can I do?”
“That’s an impressive list,” Dr. P. acknowledged. “But maybe there’s something you’re still holding onto. Maybe that’s what concerned your brother when he took those files.”
“I don’t need to come here and listen to you defend Perris!”
“I’m not trying to defend him, Charlotte. I’m just encouraging you to consider alternative reasons why your brother might have taken those files.”
“I’m not buying it. I think it has something to do with a case he was working.” I left Burt Rivers’s name out of it. Given Burt’s longstanding connection to Dr. Betty and BSS, I saw no need to show my hole card.
“And what if it doesn’t?” he pressed.
My head was beginning to pound, and I was having trouble seeing clearly through what had become angry tears. I snatched a Kleenex from the box. “Even if what you’re suggesting is true, why couldn’t Perris come to me and say something? Why sneak around like some kind of a thief? He stole something very important to me. He stole . . .”
“What did he—?”
“He stole . . .”
“What?”
“It’s like he stole a piece of my soul!” I could hear myself wailing, but I couldn’t stop. “Something that made me who I am.”
“Is that what those files represent to you? Who you are?”
“They were mine and Keith’s, you know, from when we worked together! And here they were—my family—invading my space, making me move—”
“Move?”
“Move out my files and my furniture and sell the house, and . . . and . . .”
“Move in with Aubrey. Did your parents make you do that, too?”
I couldn’t understand why I was crying, but I couldn’t stop either. Dr. P. waited me out, giving me room to say more to incriminate myself, just the way I did with suspects. “Oh, God, you must think I don’t love Aubrey, but I do!”
“I never said you don’t love him.”
“He’s a great guy, you know? Very smart, very successful—he used to be an ER doc before he started running this big emergency medicine group—and caring, and he’s great in bed. The man even cooks for me. And the sex is great.”
Dr. P. nodded. “You mentioned that.”
“So why am I so upset?”
“Maybe because it’s all happening so fast? Maybe you don’t feel you can trust him?”
“He does get up in my face about things sometimes.”
“Just the kind of man your mother would want for you?”
“She is one of his biggest supporters.”
Dr. P. leaned forward in his chair. “Charlotte, you’ve been through a lot of changes in the past year. You solved the murder of the man who killed your family.”
I nodded, tears still flowing. “But I never had the chance to confront him!”
“I see. So perhaps a part of your anger at your brother taking those files is pent-up anger against this man, Cinque Lewis, who was a member of this gang—”
“The Black Freedom Militia.”
“—whom you’ve never been able to confront.”
“I’d never thought of it that way.”
“Then there are these cases you’ve investigated lately. Every one of them has resulted in some sort of physical or emotional trauma to you. And, before you say it, I know that’s the nature of the job, but it all adds up, Charlotte. The bodies, the violence done to them, and the people who kill them. Pretty soon you feel like it’s more than you can handle, like maybe you’re about to lose it.”
At that moment I felt I had already lost it, broken into a thousand pieces that were falling from my eyes and coming out of my pores. I reached for another Kleenex. “This is ridiculous! I don’t usually react to things this way.”
“I’m sure you don’t. What cops do, like doctors or lawyers or psychologists but even more so, is put on their game face. Like these masks on my wall. They’re angry or cynical or emotionless, but they’re all masks to cover what’s really underneath.”
“But I can’t function like this! I can’t go out there and do my job if every little thing that goes wrong in my life reduces me to tears.”
“You’re a highly skilled professional, Charlotte, so I think there’s little chance of that happening. But what if it did? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I can’t imagine. Guess I’d be crying all the time.”
“And what would happen then?”
“I’d just be crying. I don’t know what else you want me to say.” But even as I said it, I could think of one more thing: Everyone would know I’m faking it.
Dr. P. studied me for a moment before saying: “Stress manifests itself in different ways. You may not break down in tears, but your reflexes may be off a beat; your cop’s intuition may falter. Sometimes cops end up having affairs, or drinking too much, or doing drugs to compensate for the pain.”
A shudder passed through me. “So what’s the solution?”
“You need to have a safe place—here, at home with Aubrey, or with members of your family—where you can be however you need to be: happy or angry or sad. You understand what I’m saying?”
“But they can’t understand what the job is like! Death—it suffocates you! The pressure to close out cases, the harassment I get from the guys I work with. Aubrey has some sense of it, being a former ER doc. But even when he was working the ER, he was saving lives, not cleaning up the mess on the ones he couldn’t.”
Dr. P. nodded.
“It’s not like we don’t talk about the job at all. It’s just at some point Aubrey’s going to start trying to tell me what I should do, or how I should feel, trying to fix me. And that’s when I turn off.”
“One of the drawbacks of the male species is our propensity to fix things,” Dr. P. gave me a wry smile. “Worked great out in the wild, not so great in the home.”
I snorted in agreement, glad to finally be able to laugh at something this morning.
“Is it possible to hear the caring behind Aubrey’s words when he’s trying to ‘fix’ you? Maybe see him as a sounding board instead of your judge and jury?”
“A sounding board instead of the Board of Rights.”
Dr. P. smiled at my cop humor. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Maybe. I can try.”
He noticed I was checking my watch. “We’ve still got a few more minutes, if there’s something else you want to discuss.”
“When are we going to talk about tools? You said you’d show me some tools to help me cope.”
“Okay, Charlotte,” he replied, smiling and moving to the bowl of marbles on the end table. He grabbed a big handful and encouraged me to do the same. “Now hold them as tight as you can.”
I tried, but they began to dig into my palm, slipping out of my grasp and onto the carpeted floor.
So were his. “When we try to control, to hold on so tight to these marbles, or to our emotions, they seep out, hitting the floor, making us feel like we’re—”
“I get it. Losing our marbles.”
“Exactly. Now loosen your grip on them. See how they nestle in your hand? Imagine they’re your feelings about the job, your boyfriend, your family. Let those feelings nestle somewhere in you, Charlotte. Make room for them instead of wrapping your mind around them so tightly. Soon those feelings begin to feel more natural, even the angry ones—just marbles in your hand, nothing more and nothing less.”
He rose from his chair and deposited his marbles back in the bowl. “That’s all we have time for today. See you next Monday?”
I dumped my marbles into the bowl except for a little yellow one, the color of egg yolks, swirled with white, which I put in my jacket pocket. “See you next Monday.”
12
A Smile and a Gun
By five that evening, Paul Taft and I were inching across the Bay Bridge in a Crown Vic signed out from the FBI motor pool. We had spent the afternoon interviewing Taft’s old informant, Verdelle Shabazz, a
t the Bureau’s Golden Gate Avenue field offices, and we were on our way to an Oakland bakery where Malik Shareef’s half brother, Rashaan Muhammad, worked.
Fog rolling across the lower deck was obscuring the path ahead, as were the circumspect answers Taft was giving me. “Tell me again—why are we talking to Muhammad when Shabazz said it was Eddie Aycox who made the blue-eyed devil comment?”
“One, because Aycox is slick as eel shit, and he’s a jailhouse lawyer to boot, so you’re only going to get one shot at him before he demands representation. Interviewing Muhammad first will help you get your ducks in a row before you make a run at Aycox.”
“Slick how?”
Taft was silent. To my right, cranes at the Port of Oakland were suspended over shipping containers like ravenous insects. “Look, I’m not traipsing all over the Bay Area without knowing what I’m getting into here!”
“Okay, okay!” Taft exclaimed. “But this is not for general consumption, understand?”
Should I activate the Cone of Silence? I wanted to ask. “Just spit it out, will you?”
“Eddie Aycox used to own a bunch of vending machines down in Mobile, Alabama. Cigarette, snacks and candy, soda, you name it. You know how that kind of business is—cash only, difficult as hell to trace the income, half of the machines stocked with goods that fell off of the back of a truck somewhere—”
“Sounds like a money launderer’s heaven.”
“Very good, Detective,” Taft nodded approvingly. “Fourteen years ago, the Birmingham and Mobile offices collaborated on hooking up Aycox and three of his associates for laundering money for a group of Jamaican drug dealers. The U.S. Attorney froze all of their assets they could find, but we suspected they might have missed some of them. After Aycox was paroled, the Mobile office was watching him pretty closely when he fell in with Muhammad and got permission from his parole officer to move to California to take a job.”
A jailhouse convert to the Nation of Islam, Aycox had met Rashaan Muhammad and Verdelle Shabazz at a Saviour’s Day Rally, where he had repented his association with drugs and alcohol. Aycox had joined Muhammad in Oakland soon thereafter, and the two of them had begun a nonprofit business development firm in the black community, which catered to small start-ups, until they latched onto the Shareefs. If Aycox was angry enough at Malik Shareef to contract to have him killed, Shabazz contended, Muhammad would have known about it.
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