7. Chapter 7
The elevator at the attorney’s office dings and Cherice, Carl “Mr. Fancy Lawyer” Phillips and I reach the third floor. We are greeted by a young woman in a pantsuit, not too unlike Cherice’s, who escorts us to an office with a large, dark-oak table that looks like it sits twelve. Carl undoes the button on his suit jacket as he takes a seat, while I shrug out of my blazer and hang it over the back of the chair next to him. I decided earlier my black pencil skirt looked classy enough for our meeting with the King family.
Cherice sits to my right, and the three of us are facing the open door, waiting for Mrs. King and her oldest son, Anthony, to join us with their legal representatives.
As the moments tick on, I suspect they are trying to make us sweat. We are offered bottled water and coffee by the pleasant staff of Langley Partners as we wait patiently.
Just as I am about to stand up and exercise my legs, a tall, thin man sweeps into the room carrying a briefcase, followed by a leggy blonde in a knee-length sheath dress, who motions for their clients to take a seat as Mrs. King and Anthony file in.
“Kendrick Langley,” the tall fellow announces cordially as he extends his hand across the table, first to Carl, then me, and lastly, Cherice. “This is my assistant, Annette Allen.” We repeat the handshakes with Ms. Legs.
Mr. Langley smooths his tie as he removes a pen from behind his ear and smiles at the three of us. “A bit chilly out today, isn’t it?” He’s trying to be cute, since it’s like 95 degrees out—even though it’s practically fall.
“Definitely too cold for my blood, but then again I’m a Georgia native, Mr. Langley,” Carl quips.
“Please, call me Ken.”
As the pleasantries continue, I steal a few glances at the Kings. Anthony is tugging on his tie while his mother clasps and unclasps her hands in her lap. At one point she looks up and we lock eyes, before we both look away.
“Alright, I guess we should get down to business,” Ken opens his briefcase and pulls out a piece of paper. “Now, the Kings are seeking corrective action against a number of different individuals and groups involved in Jerome’s death and the events surrounding it. When it comes to ROC Record, specifically, the Kings are not seeking damages. Rather, the family hopes you’ll divulge information that was gathered from sources during the research for the articles written about Jerome’s death.”
Cherice starts to shift in her chair, but Carl shoots her a don’t say a word look and chimes in. “That’s not the protocol we typically follow for a situation such as this,” he says.
“And we absolutely understand that, but considering the unique nature of this case, we were hoping some sort of alliance could be worked out.”
Cherice shifts again. “Are you referring to the suit filed against the police department?” she asks.
My eyes widen as I stare at her. What?
“Actually, Mrs. Armstrong, so far all that’s been filed is an intent to file,” Ken responds. “And, let me also remind you that this is all off the record, of course.” He shoots a glance my way, and I close my gaping mouth.
“What kind of alliance are you talking about, Ken?” Carl interjects.
Ken glances at his clients, then dives into his briefcase and pulls out photographed copies of our newspaper, specifically articles I have written on the case. “Well, there are some differences between what the police have told the family and what has been printed in your newspaper.” He slides one paper across the table and points to a highlighted part.
“Here, where it states that drugs and paraphernalia were found in Jerome’s possession, that’s not what the Kings were told when they first arrived on the scene.”
I glance at Mrs. King, who is following along closely.
“You see, the commanding officer at the scene told Mrs. King there were drugs found in the building, and a substantial amount was later found in his vehicle, but none of the first responders who treated Jermone, nor the police who did the initial investigation, reported finding drugs on his body.”
Ken looks up at me. “Did you get that information from a report?”
“Please direct your questions at me, Ken,” Carl snaps.
“He told me that, himself,” I answer.
Carl snaps at me, “Lyzbeth!”
“Who?” Ken asks.
“Chief Scott.”
“Not another word,” Carl spits out at me. “Mr. Langley, this is highly unprofessional.”
Ken exchanges a glance with the Kings and pulls out another article. “Here,” he points to another highlighted part. “You quoted a neighbor named Celia Stewart.” He looks back up at me, and I nod.
“That’s it!” Carl slams his hands on the table. “This meeting is done.” He stands up.
Ken’s eyes move from me to Cherice, and back again. “We couldn’t find a Celia Stewart in that neighborhood. We canvased it twice.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “You just missed her apartment, I’m sure.”
“Where, and when, exactly, did you look?” Cherice asks Ken, and the Kings, as she leans onto the table, glancing at the article.
“For God’s sake, Cherice, a little help, here!” Carl is practically foaming at the mouth.
She looks up at him with a glance that says talk to me like that again and I’ll eat you for dinner, and then focuses her stare on Ken. “Well?”
“We hit the streets the day the article was published.”
Cherice looks at me. “I spoke to this woman. We were face-to-face. I’m sure I quoted her correctly,” I stammer out.
“Would you be able to tell us where you found her?” Ken asks.
“I could, but I won’t,” I say, apologetically. I glance at Cherice for help.
“We would never divulge the information of a source,” she says to Ken and the Kings.
Carl sighs and sinks back into his seat, defeated.
“I understand,” Ken says, as he anxiously shifts in his chair, glancing nervously over at the Kings and carefully choosing his next words. “Do you think you could reach back out to Ms. Stewart again?”
I already plan to. I made the decision the moment her name came up. But I hold my cards close.
As if able to read my mind, Cherice speaks up. “Ken, Mrs. King, we absolutely empathize with your situation, but our responsibility in this case ended last year. Now, unless you can prove intentional defamation of character by my reporter, I believe we’re done here. Come on, Lyzbeth.”
As I rise, Mrs. King speaks up. “As his mother, when does my responsibility end?”
Cherice squeezes my elbow, and I take my cue to follow Carl out the door.
I am struggling to get my arm back into the sleeve of my jacket as we head down the hall back toward the elevator. “Cherice, I—”
“Don’t talk now. Not here.” She stabs the “down” arrow on the wall repeatedly. Carl isn’t saying anything. It’s probably best he doesn’t.
I am suddenly feeling claustrophobic, confused and overwhelmed, and I know what’s coming. Looking around, I spot the restrooms. “I’m gonna use the ladies’ room, I’ll catch up with you outside,” I say, and make a B-line before either Cherice or Carl have a chance to respond. I don’t need them witnessing my impending panic attack.
I check under all the stalls and don’t see any feet, so I drop my purse on the floor, run the faucet and use my hand to spoon cool water onto my forehead and cheeks, careful to spare my eye makeup.
What the hell is going on? I know I was in a fog while this case was going on but is it possible I misquoted my sources? Misidentified them?
Gripping the sink, I dip my head down and take a deep breath, then blow it out as I count to five. I do this a few times, until my hands stop shaking and my lungs are able to inflate without feeling like they are being crushed.
I remember Celia Stewart.I remember her walking right up to me when I was canvasing the block looking for neighbors to talk to. She was eager to talk.
And what the hell is up with the police chief? If I had printed incorrect information, he surely would have let me know. Maybe the Kings are wrong. Maybe they are still reeling from their loss and searching for answers. For someone to blame.
I hear the door swing open and another woman enters a stall. I dry my face and hands on some brown paper towel, grab my purse and head back out toward the elevators. I step inside and hit the button for the ground floor when I hear a woman’s voice call, “Hold the elevator, please!”
Without thinking, I fling my hand between the doors to halt it.
“Oh, thank you so—”
As I look up at the person entering the elevator my heart skips a beat. And, it seems, so does Mrs. King’s as she looks back at me.
I step to the side and hit the button for the ground floor again as she steps in beside me. I pray for someone else to join us, but the doors slide shut, and it’s only the two of us.
Among the hum of the elevator, I can hear her slow, steady breathing, as I’m sure she can hear mine. We both stare straight ahead. The air between us is weighted. Am I really not going to say anything to this woman?
Carl would absolutely advise against it. He would be sweating bullets just knowing how close we are. And yet we just stand here in silence, as the elevator slowly dings with each floor we pass.
And then we reach the ground floor, the doors open, and she steps out and is gone. I must have been frozen in place because the doors almost close again before I stop them and step out. I catch up to Carl and Cherice on the sidewalk outside the building, wanting to pick my editor’s brain and ask her what in holy hell is going on.
“Cherice, I—”
“Not now. Not here.” She stops me in my tracks. “Let’s just digest all this and talk about it later.”
Carl throws his hands up in the air. “Oh, now we’d all like to take a moment to think before we speak. Well, do me a favor and let me know when you’ve got it all figured out. Until then, I’ll be back at my office dealing with my other cases—people who actually listen to the advice I have to give.” He storms off down the sidewalk.
“Don’t blow a gasket, Carl,” Cherice shouts after him. “It’s a good way to an early grave.”
She puts her hands on her hips and looks back at me. “Listen, you and I have to talk, but just the two of us. Put our heads together. But I’ve got appointments today so we’ll have to meet later. What have you got on your plate today?”
“Um ...” I run my hand through my hair, trying to quell the static that caught from the silky lining of my jacket. “I have to stop at the police station. I want to check the arrest log, compare numbers for the past couple of years, see if there’s a pattern.”
“You think you smell something?” Cherice holds a hand up to her forehead to block the sun from her eyes.
“Not exactly. I’m just reaching for strings at this point.”
She nods. “Well, do what you gotta do. I’ll see you back at the office.”
At the police station, as I wait for Sgt. Henderson to finish taking a complaint over the phone, I spend quality time shooting the shit with a couple of the officers. While there are only certain members of the department who can give me an official quote, I have a good rapport with most of the cops.
I sit on top of a desk, my legs swinging over the side, as Deputy Cook tells an inappropriate joke to me and some of the officers who are enjoying a coffee break. Cook is a hefty fellow with a boyish face whose beer gut overflows from his belt.
“So then, the chick clamps down and says—”
“Slow day, have we, boys?” Chief Scott’s voice booms over Cook’s, and all the guys straighten. I slowly slide off the desk. “I don’t imagine we’d be telling dirty jokes in the presence of a lady, would we?”
The guys all mumble and scatter.
“Ms. Mitchell.” Scott extends his hand to me. “What can we do for you today?”
“Thanks for calling me a lady,” I joke as we shake hands, but he doesn’t laugh. I clear my throat. “Chief, I was just waiting for the sergeant here to help me with some arrest records.”
“Anything in particular you’re interested in?”
“Just looking at some trends, is all.”
There is a brief moment when the chief gives me a look, and then he concedes. “Well, I’m sure Sgt. Henderson here will be of help as soon as he’s off the phone. Let me know if you need any more information, OK?”
“Will do. Thanks.”
Henderson hangs up the phone moments after the chief leaves. Spinning around in his chair and crossing his arms behind his big, bald head, he asks, “Miss Lyzbeth, long time no see. What do you need?”
The short sleeves of his department-issued polo shirt look like they are going to rip right open as his giant biceps, one of which is wrapped in some sort of tribal tattoo, flex beneath it.
“I’m looking for arrest records. DWIs, drugs, assault …”
“That, I can do. Come with me.”
I follow him down the hall to a small room packed with boxes. The sergeant tells me all the records from 2001 to the current day are on the computer, with anything prior to that in paper files. I am only interested in the past year or two, so I sit at the computer as he leans over me and explains the system so I can navigate it.
I scroll through the reports from two summers ago and realize this is all in police code. I know a lot of the big ones, but not all of them.
“What’s a 901b?” I ask.
“Drowning.”
“Drowning?” I look at the date. “Oh yeah, the fisherman. What’s a 10-59?”
“Security check.”
“What’s a 10—”
“Seriously? You gonna ask me for every incident in there?”
I put my hands up, conceding. “Sorry,” I mutter.
Henderson pulls up another chair and plops down beside me.
I notice the 10-54 in August, which was the body of the runaway they found in an abandoned house. There are a couple of 10-71s and 10-72s, not surprising. But what I am really looking for is missing.
“How come I don’t see any drug arrests in here?” I ask.
“Different database.”
“Huh?”
Henderson sighs. “When we make a minor drug arrest, anything less than, say, half an ounce, depending on the substance, we don’t have to make a call out for backup, so it doesn’t get logged here. Instead, the report gets written up and filed in a different system.”
He pushes himself away from the desk and swivels over to a different computer. From behind, I get a glimpse of the rolls at the back of his head. “Here’s where we keep the drug reports,” he says.
“What about larger drug busts?” I ask as I get up, walk over to Henderson.
“Depends. Some of those reports you’ll find in here. Others, which may still be active, depending on undercover officers, or any insiders who may be collaborating with us, those are confidential.”
He types in some passwords and navigates to a screen similar to the one I was at before. “What’cha looking for, specifically?” he asks, looking up at me.
“The last two years, drug activity, or lack thereof.”
He types in some codes and scrolls down a bit. Then raises his eyebrows. “Wow, looks like we’ve had quite a year.”
“How so?” I lean in.
“This is the list of closed out cases. Some may have convictions pending, but the investigation and charges are settled.” He points to a substantial list of cases on the screen.
“And these,” he moves on to another folder, “are ongoing cases.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.” Henderson rubs his chin. “It’s all the chief’s doing. He’s really been pushing his drug task force. Trying to get drugs off the street.”
“Can I look at these cases?”
“Not these ones, but you can look at the closed cases.” He goes back into the previous folder.
“Can we print some of these reports out, so I don’t have to look over your shoulder all day?” I look down my nose at the sergeant and give him a shy smile. I see his glance dart to my chest so briefly, I’m not even sure it happened. But it causes me to straighten up.
“My pleasure,” he says and punches in a few more keys. “Should be spitting out in the printer in the main office.”
“Thanks!” I give a salute and stand.
“You just remember this,” he says. “Next time you get an unflattering photo of me, I want you to have Monty doctor me up.”
“When have we ever run an unflattering photo of you?”
“Two weeks ago. The crash at 104 and Ridgeway. I looked like an Oompa Loompa.”
I have to put my hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh about to burst out. I know the photo he is talking about. And, yes, he did look like a character from Willy Wonka.
“You were pissed—and rightfully so!” I say.
“I was purple.”
I let a laugh out. “OK! OK! I’ll talk to Monty about color-correcting your complexion.”
“Much appreciated.”