Read Online Hailey's War by Jodi Compton - Free Book Online Page B

limit that day on Wilshire Boulevard; it’s just that the late-afternoon sun was in my eyes, and when six-year-old Trey Marsellus ran out in front of my car, I hit and killed him.

six
    I never saw Marsellus, not once. Trey hadn’t been with his father, nor any of his family. He’d been out with his young Haitian au pair. It had been her shrill screams that made me realize I hadn’t hit a large dog, which was what I’d thought at first.
    The family, once notified, went directly to the hospital. I was taken to the precinct “while we straighten this out,” in the words of the traffic-division sergeant. Once there, I called CJ, but he didn’t answer.
    I was at the precinct for several hours. The police hadn’t been sure at first what really happened. They couldn’t get anything out of the grief-stricken nanny. I kept saying that Trey had run right out in front of me—which was true, though what else would you have expected someone who’d hit a child to say?
    Fortunately, there had been pedestrians who’d seen the accident—not the usual “I heard squealing brakes and shattering glass and turned to look,” but people who’d actually seen Trey Marsellus run from his nanny and dart from between two parallel-parked cars.
    As the traffic sergeant said to me, “We’re not going to hold you, but don’t leave town, okay? Not until we’ve closed the official investigation.”
    I agreed, walked stiffly out the front door, and went to the hospital. I had an immediate and all-consuming need to apologize to the family.
    I hadn’t succeeded. Two very large young black men, with tattoos and exquisitely tailored suits, blocked my way. “The family’s not seeing anyone right now,” one of them said.
    At the time, the question
Who are these guys?
didn’t occur to me. I was mentally numb, except for being fixated on making this right. “I need to talk to them,” I said. “I’m the one who—”
    â€œThe family’s not seeing anyone,” he said again, and I broke off, finally realizing they were serious.
    CJ, who’d gone to the precinct too late, found me as I was walking back to visitor parking. He was pale and shaken, almost as if he’d been the one to hit a child, but he was immediately supportive. He took me back to his place, where I paced, angry and guilty, saying over and over that the kid had run right in front of me, that the sun was in my eyes, that I couldn’t have stopped.
    â€œI know, baby,” CJ said. Then he asked me to repeat the boy’s name.
    â€œTrey Marsellus,” I said.
    â€œMmm,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWhat?” I persisted.
    â€œI think you might’ve hit Luke Marsellus’s kid,” he said, pensive.
    â€œWho?” I’d said.
    An hour later it was on the news: Rap mogul’s son killed in Wilshire Boulevard accident. I still didn’t get it. The news reports cast him only as a respected music-world figure, not as Marsellus the South Central OG.
    I should have known something was really wrong when CJ picked up a pack of cigarettes a friend had left on the coffee table and tapped one out. CJ almost never smoked, so this meant he needed something to do with his hands, which meant he was nervous. Which was bad, because CJ was almost never nervous.
    â€œAre you okay?” I asked. Stupid question, considering.
    â€œYeah,” he said. He lit the cigarette, exhaled smoke, and said, “Listen, give the family a couple of days, all right? Marsellus is …”
    â€œIs what?”
    â€œHe’s kind of heavy.”
    â€œI can’t turn my back on this,” I said.
    â€œI know,” he said, “but I need to think about how best you should approach him.”
    As it turned out, CJ never did hit on the right way for me to talk to Marsellus . Something else happened first that changed