Chapter 21
Amaya is waiting for me outside of the offices of New Frontier.
The company has premium real estate on the twenty-fifth floor of a shiny, tall skyscraper set in the middle of Midtown Manhattan.
It makes sense that a technology company is in the center of the city, smashed between the prestigious law firms and bank headquarters likely in need of their services.
These places are full of men in suits and women in chic heels, scurrying to get to work under the darkening sky.
At any moment, it looks like the clouds will open up.
James doesn’t seem to fit the same profile as those on the street, what with his side job of writing reviews for a Brooklyn pizza parlor and his love of his snake, Frankie.
I remind myself that people are complex.
Full of contradictions and eccentricities.
It’s another reason why I love this city.
One corner may feature a beatboxing priest, another a man dressed in a giant rat suit scurrying around on all fours.
New York City is for everyone—conformists and weirdos alike.
As I navigate the sidewalks, I wonder why so many tourists never leave Midtown to experience the sights and delights of the city’s other neighborhoods.
Yes, there are things to see in the heart of Manhattan, such as Broadway and Times Square, but if you venture a little farther out, you can see a microcosm of so many of the world’s cultures right in this city.
There are multiple Chinatowns and enclaves of food from around the world.
Ukrainian Village features a pierogi that I think of at least monthly, Flushing has some of the best Asian food in the world, and in Jackson Heights, the Mexican food cooked streetside is so otherworldly that eating it makes me have an out-of-body experience.
It isn’t my business, but when someone asks to get driven to Olive Garden in Times Square, I want to suggest a million other places that will cost a lot less.
As soon as I approach Amaya, I know something is wrong. While she usually looks stressed and overwhelmed, now I can also see worry etched on her face. She furrows her brow, and her forehead wrinkles.
“Is everything okay?” I feel the familiar concern in the pit of my stomach grow. An all too common feeling these past few years.
Amaya hands me a copy of the New York Post. “This is going to be hard to see, but I don’t want to hide things from you.”
I hold the paper in my hands. There is a photo of me taken from court, under the words Sadistic Taxicab Murderer!
in bloodred lettering. They could have at least given me a more creative moniker.
Below are some bare details about my case and more details about James, the dead man.
They describe James as a loving environmentalist, survived by his sister and parents.
They briefly touch on his work as an activist; there is no mention of New Frontier.
The article is followed by something decidedly less touching: two editorials.
The first declares that “women can be killers, too” and details famous female serial killers, which feels equal parts insulting and feminist. The second is an editorial about “how safe are you really in yellow taxicabs,” which, based on my quick skim, advocates for greater security checks on a driver’s background.
I groan. It is hard enough for my fellow drivers to make money at this job, and now they may be plagued with this?
It might lead to profiling even more Black and Brown people who drive taxicabs—many of whom had taxi medallions passed down through their families for years.
I don’t want to belittle anyone’s public safety concerns, but usually the people most in danger in the cabs are the drivers themselves.
I’d like the writer of the article to deal with passengers who are at least a dozen drinks in.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s rough,” Amaya says. Her phone rings and she doesn’t answer it.
“They couldn’t have used a better picture?” I don’t want to admit how jarring it is to see my own face staring back at me in the paper just below the word murderer.
I read the article again. This time, upon seeing James’s name, I feel a pang of guilt for worrying about my own reputation.
James was killed on my watch. Even though I didn’t kill him, I failed to protect someone in my care.
Amaya looks at me expectantly, like I’ll tell her how I’m feeling.
Of course, I don’t want to talk about this now.
There’s nothing to do except go forth with the investigation.
“How are we going to do this? Just walk in?” I ask.
I try to be polite even though my inner monologue can be biting.
At the end of the day, my job depends on being a courteous service worker.
To mostly not be seen. Therefore, to simply walk into this building and demand someone’s attention makes me feel like asking to use a restaurant’s bathroom without buying anything—uncomfortable and invasive.
I don’t have that luxury of running away.
Spurred on by the newspaper, I’m ready to take definitive action.
“I’ll walk up to the security desk and say it’s urgent,” Amaya says. “They’ll call up to someone. I’ll say we’re here about James Wilkerson-Taylor. Maybe they’ll think we’re police back for a second round of questioning.”
I raise an eyebrow at this implausible course of action.
Amaya is dressed professionally, but I could have dressed a little better.
I thought I had dressed up—when my normal outfit is a ratty band tee and jeans, I guess anything is an upgrade.
At least there aren’t any holes in this shirt, I think, before looking down and seeing a tiny hole in my shirt that wasn’t there this morning.
I admire Amaya’s unapologetic boldness—something I desperately wish I could muster more of in my own life.
At the end of the day I usually just capitulate to costumers, as I’m too exhausted to keep fighting.
Meanwhile, Amaya seems like she would be well suited to a life of espionage if it weren’t for her facial expressions.
I can usually tell what she’s thinking based on those alone.
Her tells have become obvious in the short time I’ve known her.
“What about me?”
“They’ll probably think you’re an investigator.”
“Or they’ll recognize me from this!” I say, holding up the paper. My face is clear as day.
“You wanted to come along,” Amaya shoots back as if this is all my fault. Her face softens a little. “Worst-case scenario, they’ll assume you’re co-counsel. I doubt they’ll expect their colleague’s suspected murderer to be turning up at their door.”
The thought of being a lawyer, even just as a fantasy, makes me think of a seminal movie from my childhood, My Cousin Vinny.
Sure, it’s not one of those hard-hitting legal thrillers, but it’s still a favorite.
Wisecracking New Yorker goes down south to fight his cousin’s murder charge despite overwhelming evidence of guilt and a court system riddled with racism.
I’d always related to Vinny and his unpolished yet determined ways.
My being any sort of lawyer would make my parents much prouder of me than they are of my life now—but it’s more than the external achievements.
I want to fight for the voiceless, the people the system uses and abuses—people like me.
It’s more than my fear of public speaking that prevents me from achieving my dreams.
I can’t understand why Amaya allows me to be here, other than to avoid wasting the energy it would take to placate me if I weren’t included. I don’t question it now though; I’m just grateful to be here.
“And maybe wear this.” Amaya produces a worn baseball cap with the Yankees symbol prominently displayed. “I have it for bad hair days.”
“I’m a Mets fan,” I say, smiling wryly despite myself.
—
We are granted access to the twenty-fifth floor, home of New Frontier, much more easily than I anticipated.
Amaya approaches the sleepy security guard and tells him we are there to see Brett Ryan because we have questions about James Wilkerson-Taylor.
The guard simply nods, asks for identification, and phones up before buzzing us through.
I wonder if we, as two South Asians, come off as less threatening.
Most people stereotype us as nerdy doctors, motel owners, and convenience store workers.
Apu from The Simpsons was the only South Asian I saw on TV for years.
To find out he was voiced by a white dude was infuriating.
I don’t tell Amaya, but I spent half the night researching Brett Ryan, CEO of New Frontier.
His LinkedIn would move any ambitious finance bro wannabe to envy.
Hell, it moved me to envy. He rowed at Yale.
His parents are on the board of the Museum of Modern Art.
He’s interested in improving the environment.
I scanned the internet to find something, anything useful.
Other than discovering he’s handsome, rich, and well pedigreed, I came up with nothing.
But I then remember true crime rule number seven: Anyone can be a suspect.
Don’t discount someone just because Ammi and Thathi would salivate at the thought of having them as a child instead of me.
Most anyone can commit murder in cold blood if given the right motivation.
And as I’ve learned in my taxi, being rich, pedigreed, and handsome doesn’t prevent you from doing super-shitty stuff.
We pause at the elevator banks. Amaya’s phone rings again, which makes me feel unreasonably annoyed. I know she has other responsibilities, but in this important moment, I selfishly want to feel like I’m the only one.
“Are you going to get it?” I snap, regretting my tone as soon as I speak. My nerves are getting to me. I just want to question Brett and get some answers.