3. Chapter 3
Monty and I make our way back to the office after a much less exciting day than yesterday. It’s close to 5 p.m. by the time I pull his car into an on-street parking space in front of ROC Record. It’s a storefront office along a street of bodegas, coffee shops, bars and other eateries located in downtown Rochester.
We just left a presser, and now I have to write up some lame story about how the city is installing more red light cameras at intersections. “I’ll get the names of those officers who did the demo,” I say to Monty as we enter the building. “You got them in the shot, right?”
“Yep,” he replies as he removes his round glasses from his face and uses the tail of his shirt to clean them before replacing them. His expensive camera dangles from a strap hanging along his elbow.
The office is cool compared to the steamy outside, but I know the initial shock will wear off soon. Summertime in New York State can be a hot and sticky mess.
I linger around the front desk where our receptionist, Dee, is on the phone. She isn’t saying anything, which means whoever is on the other end of the line is doing all the talking. I wait patiently for about twelve seconds, but that isn’t any fun.
Dee and I make eye contact, and she rolls her eyeballs into the back of her head and holds the phone out as far as her arm will extend and mouths “stupid prick says his ad is wrong.” She brings the phone back to her mouth and does a “uh huh” and then pushes her arm back out and mouths “dickwad.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth to hide a chuckle.
Dee is my best friend. Her platinum hair is cut in a bouncy shoulder-length bob, with thick, straight bangs. Her skin is tanned, and her nails are painted blue today. She is obnoxious and wears too-snug clothes around her curves. She’s by far the worst person to run the front desk because her customer service skills are non-existent.
I lean my elbows on the counter that Dee sits behind and rest my chin on my folded arms, waiting for her phone call to end. Eventually she lets out a harsh laugh and says, “Yeah. OK, great. Nice talking to you,” and hangs up the phone.
“What’s up, girlie?” she says cheerily.
“Oh, you know, same ol—”
“Listen,” she cuts me off mid-sentence. “Cherice is looking for you. There’s a guy in a suit in her office, and he’s been waiting for a while.”
“Did you tell them I was on assignment?”
“Oh yeah, she knows. She’s not mad … I don’t think.”
I shrug, then straighten up, slip back into the suit jacket I had been carrying and start to turn toward my editor’s office. I stop mid-turn and look back at Dee. “If I’m not out in fifteen minutes—”
“You’ll have a phone call. I got you.”
“Thanks.”
To get to Cherice’s office, I have to go through the bullpen, otherwise known as the newsroom. It is an open area full of chaos. Three cubicles are arranged in the center, either backing up to one another or adjacent to one another. Each houses a reporter, including me.
The photographer’s “suite,” otherwise known as Monty’s mess, is a desk tucked into the back corner of the space. He uses three computer screens stretched across tables and desks.
I drop my notebook and keys on my desk as I make my way to the back office. I knock lightly on the door that reads CHERICE ARMSTRONG, EDITOR.
“Come in,” I immediately hear from inside.
I crack the door open slowly and peek my head around, seeing Cherice sitting behind her large mahogany desk, waving me inside without looking up.
She is dressed to the T, as usual. Today she is wearing a skirt suit in deep maroon, with a lacey black silk top underneath. Her nails match the color of her suit, and a chunky silver bracelet hangs around her forearm.
She tucks a piece of her dirty blonde locks behind her ear. A few pieces have fallen out of the twist it is in, which is unusual for her, but it is the end of the workday, after all.
Cherice points to one of the chairs sitting across from her desk, and I know it’s an indication I should sit. In the other chair, is the suit. A man, maybe in his 60s, gives me a nod. The first thing I notice about him is the bald spot on the back of his head, with dull brown hair circling it.
“This is Carl Phillips from our legal team,” Cherice says as Carl reaches across to shake my hand.
“Lyzbeth Mitchell.” We shake.
Being called into the editor’s office with a lawyer present might rattle some reporters. It’s much like being called into the principal’s office in high school. But it has happened enough times in my experience that I know not to get worried until there is something to worry about.
“Mr. Phillips got a call from someone representing Ms. Tamara King.”
And that, right there, is something to worry about.
“This name should ring a bell. You did a story on her son, Jerome.” Cheriece pulls her reading glasses off as she finally looks up at me.
“Yes. Jerome King was killed in a drug raid gone bad, about three months ago,” I say.
“Yes, that’s the case,” the attorney chimes in. “Ms. King, the mother of the young man who was killed, is upset about the manner in which the coverage was handled. She claims her son was in no way connected to the other men who were selling. She says he was just walking back from school at that time. A wrong-place, wrong-time situation.”
“OK, but why is this our problem?” Cherise interjects. “Looking back at the articles, I can tell you we covered every angle. Lyzbeth got comments from the victim’s family, she obtained all the police reports that were filed on the incident. If Ms. King is upset her son came out looking poorly, we can’t help that.”
“And Ms. King’s attorney tells me they very well understand that,” says Carl. “This type of thing is typical in this type of case. The grieving family always wants justification. I’m sure we’ll be able to clear this matter up when we meet with the family.”
“The Kings want to meet with us?” I ask, trying to hide the stress in my voice.
“Yes. Well, it’s just Ms. King and her remaining son, Anthony. He’s older than Jerome. Late twenties.”
“When do they plan on meeting?”
“We’ll meet them at their lawyer’s office Friday afternoon downtown,” replies the suit. “And then,” he reaches down and picks up his worn brown leather briefcase from the floor beside his chair, “we’ll get this whole thing straightened out and move on.”
Carl stands up, smoothes the front of his jacket, and steps around his chair. “Ms. Armstrong,” he says as he reaches across Cherice’s desk and shakes her hand. “Ms. Mitchell,” he says as he shakes mine. “I’ll see you two in a couple days.” And he leaves the room.
I turn back to look at my editor. She already has a hand extended toward me with a piece of paper in it. I can tell by the logo on it that it came from the mayor’s office. I take it slowly from her hand.
“This came in today. Apparently, the city plans on buying an old lot on the south side and making it a headquarters for the city police on this side of town, and …” She shoves a second piece of paper toward me. This one is a half-sheet that has been torn out of a notebook. It has just a telephone number on it. “I got a call from someone who suggests the mayor will get a hefty campaign contribution from the chief if he goes along with the plan.”
I look up at her face for the first time since our exchange began. She looks tired today. “It is an election year,” she says.
“It’s always an election year,” I add, as I glance back down at the papers in my hand.
Cherice sighs, closes a folder on her desk, and looks back up at me. “That’s all I have for you. Go. Skit.” She waves me away.
I get up slowly and head for the door but pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Cherice,” I begin. “About the King case … Maybe I could do some sort of follow-up piece. Talk to—”
“No, Lyzbeth, you’re fine. You did what was required of you. Mr. Phillips was right. The Kings are just grieving. We’ll get it sorted out.”
“Right,” I say. “OK.”
I make my way to my cubicle and see my desk is buried beneath paperwork and little sticky notes. As I start to sift through it all, I hear a coworker pipe up.
“Hey, Lizzie! Catch any bad guys recently?” Our most junior reporter, Zack, swivels around in his chair to face me. His black, thick-rimmed glasses nearly hidden by his too-long black hair, which looks funny on his skinny frame.
“Yeah, actually. I chased one down and tackled him to the ground. Didn’t I, Monty?”
A grunt comes from the photographer’s corner, and we all chuckle.
George waves me over to his desk, which is a disastrous zone of papers and wrappers and award-winning clips.
“Listen, Liz, before you dive into whatever it is you’re working on, could you fill me in on Alderman Benjamin Sanchez? I’m working on a piece about repurposing one of the old Kodak properties, and I’m trying to track his voting record.”
I pull my chair over to the silver-haired man wearing corduroy pants and a denim shirt and explain. It’s a while before I’m able to start on my own story, and when I finally put all the pieces together, it is just starting to get dark. Dee is closing the front office and the only other people left in the building besides us are Zack and a janitor.
Oh, and probably EJ, the graphic designer who lays out the newspaper. He sneaks in later in the day and usually stays holed up in a separate room in the back, headphones on, while he places the stories and photos and designs the newspaper before sending it to a proofreader who works offsite, who then sends it to the printer.
I’m fairly certain EJ is not actually his name. He’s a veteran, close to thirty, and jacked as all hell. EJ is a man of few words, but he’s a gentle giant. And he’s great at what he does. So what if he just wants to keep his head down? Either way, I’m pretty sure he’s back there.
“Hey, lady! You need a ride home tonight?” Dee calls from the front of the office.
“No, Dee, I’m good, thanks. Just filing my story now, then I’m calling it quits.”
“You gonna make it home before dark?” Her question isn’t unusual, since crime has gotten worse in the city with every passing day.
“I’ll be fine. Seriously, I’ll be leaving in like, five minutes.”
“It’s your funeral.”
What Dee doesn’t realize is since Knox and I separated, I make my way through this city—in daylight and in darkness—by myself.
We’re still married. Neither of us has said the “D” word, yet, but I don’t really know where we’re headed.
I do know I fucking hate him. Sometimes I wish he were dead so I wouldn’t have to spend one more second of my life thinking about him or us or what’s next. When will I run into him? Who is he with? What is he doing?
My mind stays on my husband as I finish my work and head out to my car, then make the quick trip home.
I hate how he took up too much room on the couch, long legs spread out while he mindlessly adjusted his balls. I’m thankful I no longer trip over his work boots when I walk in the door. And I’m definitely happy to not be washing endless loads of laundry made up entirely of sweaty undershirts and filthy work clothes, most boasting his dad’s Mitchell Sons logo.
I don’t miss the way his eyes would lock with mine anytime I said “I’m fine” when I definitely wasn’t, because he always knew when I wasn’t. He still knows.
I make it the several blocks to the apartment Knox and I have been living in while his family and work buddies finish the house we’re having built. The house was supposed to be finished by now, but between insufficient funds, time lapsing faster than a burning match, and the shitstorm that has become our life—no, our lives, separate—the home we were supposed to be in by now is still only a frame Knox has constructed from a design I helped dream up.
I climb the stoop of our—my—building, and as I’m fishing my keys out of my purse to unlock our mail slot, my phone chimes a familiar ring, causing my scalp to prickle and my palms to go clammy.
I pull my phone out of my purse to read the text from Captain Banana Hammock:
I know you sometimes work late Fridays, so can you text me when you get home so I know you’re alive? Cuz if someone mugs you and leaves you for dead, I’d like to take the bed back and stop sleeping on my dad’s sleeper sofa like an asshole
I swallow hard and send him back a middle finger emoji. Is that enough indication I’m still alive, dickhead?
I slide the phone back in my bag and collect the mail: a Verizon bill, a flier for someone running for Supreme Court justice, more spam. I tuck it under my arm and head upstairs.
I can hear Kennedy barking inside before I even slide the key into the slot, and the second I open the door to the small space he’s jumping and whimpering and just all up in my grill.
“All right, all right!” I say as I drop my things on the counter and give attention to this annoying animal. He’s just another thing Knox insisted on having, and then left with me. I don’t know why Knox didn’t just bring him to his dad’s with him, because Kennedy has an unhealthy attachment to Knox and has been barking incessantly ever since he moved out.
We’re not sure what mix Kennedy is. He was a stray Knox couldn’t shake from one of the construction sites he was working at and, I think, was kind of a kindred spirit. He was a little lost, a little restless, a little needy, and a little skittish. The veterinarian thinks he has some Australian Shepherd in him, but I’ve always thought his black and white fur is too short.
Kennedy barks when I’m making something to eat because Knox always used to give him scraps. He barks when I’m in the bathroom because Knox used to crap with the door open. He barks when I leave, and he barks when I come back.
Once inside the apartment, I wish I had stayed longer at work. Knox and I used to trip all over each other here, but now that I’m alone, it feels entirely too big.
The door to the apartment opens right into the kitchen, and when I’m done welcoming Kennedy, I walk over to the fridge, weaving around the damn dog every step of the way, and take out a beer and a container of leftover chicken lo mein. I also pick out a Styrofoam takeout container that’s been in there all week, open it, and see there’s a dried-up piece of beef inside.
“All right, mutt. Here,” I mumble as I put it on the kitchen floor, and Kennedy scarfs it down.
I take my dinner into the living room, which is really just on the other side of the kitchen island, sit on the couch and set my food down on the coffee table in front of me. I ask Alexa to turn on Spotify, and a familiar Kings of Leon song plays.
I like to have sound all the time because the silence is too empty.
I pull out a stack of papers from under the coffee table and start rifling through them. I tend to keep prominent articles and stories that keep coming up handy in case I need to reference them. Just like now.
I finally find what I’m looking for and spread the newspaper out in front of me as I cross my legs on the couch and sit back with my dinner. Kennedy, having finished his meal, jumps up on the couch beside me, which is something I said I’d never let him do, and rests his head in my lap. For once he is quiet.
I begin reading:
I think back a few months and try to remember what happened in the days and weeks after the raid. I remember getting the call from Mrs. King the day the article was published. I remember her anguish, her insistence that her son was not involved in this drug case in the least. Her certainty.
And I remember believing her. But why did I not follow up?
I rummage through some more papers and find my notes from the case, and some sort of investigation analysis saying all the evidence pointed to King. Drugs in his system, on his person; days he skipped school coincide with dates of sales.
I sit back, and Kennedy lets out a human sigh. With my pointer finger, I stroke the fur along his snout several times.
I know exactly why I didn’t ask any more questions or pay better attention. That was right around the time Knox moved out, and I was completely consumed by what was going on in my own life. It’s not like me to just go along with one side of the story, or to simply believe the police chief. Especially the police chief. But I was too distracted by my anger and hurt, even more than I am as of late.
But I forbid myself from thinking of Knox tonight.
Not even a little bit.
Not even for one split second.
So, I decide to take a steaming hot shower and stay under the spray until the water turns tepid. Then I step out and wrap myself in a floor-length terry cloth robe, scurry into the bedroom and dig myself a hole under the bedcovers and bury myself inside.
Kennedy whimpers and yips at the bedside and I growl in response. “Fine,” I say, and flip the covers up so he can jump in. “But we’re not going to make a habit of this,” I tell him as he settles in.
I never used to let the dog sleep in the bed, but since Knox has been gone, it’s been entirely too big. And Kennedy is a good space-filler.
I fall asleep with wet hair and doggy breath at my back.