28. Chapter 25 | Dom #2
Seven other workers followed her out. Young women, middle-aged women, old women. Some had worked in that cafeteria for twenty years. Dom knew what they were giving up—paychecks, references, perhaps their only income. The manager was already making sure none of them would ever work downtown again.
Their footsteps echoed in the suddenly quiet cafeteria.
Dom's throat was too tight to swallow. Eight women walking away from jobs they needed, from security they'd spent lifetimes building, because some things mattered more than survival.
Elle began to sing. "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine."
Others joined. CJ's voice, Ruth's, Rev. Alexander's bass rumble, Oretha's clear alto. The sound filled the cafeteria, bounced off tile and marble.
Police arrived six minutes later. Eight officers, clubs on their belts, the sergeant a thick-necked white man Dom recognized from her own arrest three years ago.
"Y'all got one minute to vacate the premises."
Rev. Alexander stood. "We have a right to be served in our city's own building."
"That's trespassing. We're placing you all under arrest."
Officers grabbed the chairs where Sondra Nixon and Doris Jean Castle sat. Carried them out still seated, hands folded, dignity unbroken. Flash bulbs popped.
Ruth started crying. CJ took her hand under the table.
Rev. Alexander sat down on the floor. Lowered himself with the same dignity he did everything, crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap.
"Stand up," an officer said.
"I'd rather not."
Two officers grabbed his ankles, dragging him toward the marble staircase.
Dom's whole body went rigid. She'd seen that marble, knew its unforgiving hardness, what would happen when his head hit.
Three steps to Rev. Alexander. Five to CJ.
She chose the Reverend.
Oretha's quiet voice beside her: "I've got him, Dom. I've got CJ." She met Dom's eyes—the promise Oretha had broken three years ago, now offered again. "I won't leave him. I swear it."
Dom nodded once, then ran toward Rev. Alexander.
She dropped to the floor beside him as the officers reached the first marble step. Covering his head with her hands, she took the protective stance she'd use in the ring.
"I've got you, Reverend."
They dragged them both.
The first stair hit her knuckles. The second cracked her shoulder.
The third drove through bone. Rev. Alexander's head knocked against her palms, the impact reverberating up her arms. One flight, two flights.
Dom kept her hands locked, kept counting stairs.
Her fingers broke, blood slicked between her palms, the world grayed at the edges.
Behind her, CJ's voice: "Mom!"
She couldn't look back. Couldn't see his face. But she kept her hands locked around Rev. Alexander's head. Some choices couldn't be remade.
The dragging stopped at the top of the stairs. Officers jerked her to her feet. Handcuffs bit into her broken wrists. She looked down—three fingers on her left hand bent at wrong angles, blood streaming from both palms.
It was worth it. Rev. Alexander was conscious, being hauled up beside her. His head bled, but he was alive, whole.
They were herded toward the police wagons outside. Dom glimpsed through the crowd—Oretha in handcuffs. Elle moving through the chaos. Ruth sobbing.
CJ stood frozen near the cafeteria entrance, poster clutched in both hands.
An officer turned toward him, started walking his direction.
Dom's heart seized.
She lunged. The officer holding her arm wasn't expecting it. Dom ignored her broken fingers, making her body the only thing between that cop and her boy, handcuffs and all.
The cuffs jerked her back. Pain exploded through her wrists. She threw her body sideways, blocking the path between the officer and CJ.
"Run!" The word tore out of her throat. "CJ, RUN!"
The officer coming for CJ hesitated. Just a second. Just long enough.
CJ moved. His poster dropped. His feet found purchase.
Then an arm caught Dom across the throat, slamming her into the wall. Her head cracked against marble. White light bloomed.
More hands. A club to her ribs—the ones Lewis had cracked, the ones that never healed right. She couldn't breathe, couldn't see.
"Resisting arrest," someone said. Clinical. Bored.
She went down, marble cold against her cheek.
She tried to turn her head, tried to find CJ, tried to find Elle. She couldn't see through the blood.
The singing started. Rev. Alexander's voice, deep and steady: "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine."
They threw her into the back of a police wagon. She hit the metal floor hard, tasted copper. Rev. Alexander climbed in after her, knelt beside her, his hand gentle on her shoulder.
"Easy, sister. Easy now."
The wagon lurched forward. Dom's broken ribs ground against each other.
"Did he—" Her voice was crushed gravel. "Did you see—"
"Hush now. Save your strength."
She closed her eyes, saw CJ's face—that last moment before she'd lunged. Saw his feet finding purchase, the poster dropping.
Did he make it out? Did Elle get to him?
She didn't know, couldn't remember seeing them clearly.
Run. Both of you, run.
The singing swelled, filling the wagon, spilling out into the New Orleans streets.
The wagon hit a pothole. Pain whited out everything.
When it cleared, the edges of her vision darkened. Dom tried to recall CJ's and Elle's faces, tried to remember if she'd seen them get out.
She couldn't.
The darkness pulled her down.