Chapter 1
There is blood dripping down the windshield.
I punch my brakes and pull over immediately, pissing off nearly everyone who is driving behind me in this bumper-to-bumper New York City gridlock caused by protests.
I hear the rhythmic chants in the near distance: “We want JUSTICE!” Having served as an investigator in the so-called criminal justice space for the past six months, I’ve discovered that actual justice is elusive.
I turn my attention back toward the accident.
I hope I haven’t killed her. I rush out of my taxi, and there she is, lifeless.
I dig my nails into my hands to stop from crying and try to see if she’s still breathing. Shock makes me move on autopilot.
Dead. She’s dead.
She looks peaceful in death, and were it not for the blood, someone may assume she died a quiet, nonviolent death. Goose bumps crawl up my arms as I stare at her.
“Siri! We gotta go!” Amaya shouts from the car.
I trek back, wondering who I should call.
“I killed her,” I say softly as I get back into the car. The first living thing, if you don’t count numerous bugs, that has died at my hand.
Amaya cranes her neck out the open window. “It’s a pigeon, Siri. And it flew into your windshield. Your only crime may be keeping your taxi windshield so clear the bird couldn’t see it.”
“It was a rock pigeon. They mate for life and are devoted parents.” Pigeons get a pretty bad rep in the city, but the fact that they are so family-oriented reminds me they’re sort of like any of us trying to get by in this crazy city.
I didn’t grow up with this type of pigeon as a small kid and am less traumatized by them than the rest of NYC.
“Are you into birds now?” Amaya says, probably recoiling at my sentimentality. I’m sentimental when it comes to everything. Amaya seems like she’s sentimental about nothing.
“Yes. It’s a soothing hobby…and surprisingly fun.
” I realize I sound like I’m twenty-eight going on sixty-five right now.
Maybe this is why I’m still single. My hobbies include early-morning bird-watching and Jeopardy!
once a week with my parents. “Should I call someone to make sure she’s picked up and buried? ”
“Why do you assume the pigeon is a she? Flying into windows seems more like a man’s work.
We aren’t as oblivious to our surroundings,” Amaya replies with that characteristic snap in her voice I’ve come to love, especially when it’s not directed at me.
“Call the Department of Sanitation to come pick him up. If he were still alive, we could have driven him up to the Wild Bird Fund on the Upper West Side and maybe tried to save him.” She emphasizes him, and I laugh a little.
Just when I think Amaya doesn’t care…
“Will do,” I say as I google the number.
While it may appear as if the city has no system of sanitation, thanks to the rats, roaches, and outrageous smells coming from the trash in the summer, I know that without the Department of Sanitation, things would be a lot worse.
After reporting the dead rock pigeon, we start navigating through the traffic again.
In Sri Lankan culture, a bird running into the windshield or a window is a bad omen.
I remember the few times it happened when I was living with my parents and how spooked my normally rational Ammi would get.
It’s a bad sign of things to come, she would say ominously before going back to whatever she was doing like nothing had happened at all.
A slight shiver runs down my spine before I revert to common sense and logical thinking.
It was an unfortunate accident, that’s all.
Back in the car and still stuck in traffic, I see a group of people holding signs. “What do you think they’re protesting?”
“Look at the state of the world. Could be a million things,” Amaya mutters. “Fossil fuels, health insurance, the loss of due process…”
I keep thinking she’s going to stop, but she continues to list things.
Currently, I’m balancing driving my taxi part-time and serving as the Legal Services of Manhattan’s newest investigator with Amaya, my former attorney turned colleague.
I’ve been on the job for a little under two months and am still very much learning the ropes.
You’d think with these jobs I’d share her outlook.
Sure, I see plenty of crappy things in my cab and as an investigator, but I also see the good things people do and the resiliency they show in terrible situations.
Many of them have been dealt an unfair hand.
It’s true there seems to be very little justice to be had in the criminal legal system with people being hauled to prison for minor crimes unless, of course, you’re rich and can pay bail.
Somehow, my clients remain hopeful even with the cards stacked against them.
To say I’m busy is an understatement. If you look up “chicken with its head cut off” online, I’m pretty sure a picture of me would pop up.
Yet, I love it. I thought I’d be a cabdriver forever, and while there is nothing wrong with that life, a part of me has always wanted to know if I could hack it in the legal world.
Once, I’d thought it would be as an attorney, but life as an investigator is close enough.
We edge closer as the traffic moves just slightly. I see someone in Native American dress and hear parts of a speech. “Our ancient graves deserve dignity. NYC must not build over these sites…”
“Oh, I think I’ve heard about this…” I don’t watch Channel Five news as much as I did when I lived with my parents, but occasionally, if I’m home at 6:30 p.m., I turn it on for nostalgic value and to find out what’s happening in my city.
“Last night they were talking about some small protests around the city. There’s reason to believe there are a lot of ancient Native American burial sites that are being exhumed by new construction.
I bet it has something to do with that.”
“Interesting. First, we basically steal this land that wasn’t ours to begin with, and then we desecrate the graves of those same people.” Refreshingly, Amaya always gets to the point.
I nod my head in agreement. It feels wrong to disturb these sites without even acknowledging their existence.
Amaya’s phone buzzes.
“We’ve got to head to court. Criminal court arraignments are super busy today.”
Amaya looks over at me, imploring me to go faster without saying anything. We spend so much time together these days, I can usually guess what Amaya is thinking. She also wears her emotions on her face, so that helps.
With that, I make a right turn, artfully avoiding the group of tourists who are paying no attention, and head toward 100 Centre Street to meet our next client.