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Authors: Valerie Wilson Wesley
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checked my messages one last time to see if I’d heard from Barnes, but there was nothing.
“Come on, Jamal, I’m hungry! I want to get on the road before it gets too late,” I yelled again as I sorted through the usual mess of bills and mail.
The doorbell rang twice, and I went to answer it, tossing the unwanted junk in the kitchen trash on the way to the door. “Come on down, Jamal, I’ll be in the car,” I said, grabbing my bag off the back of a chair and heading out. I’d get rid of whoever it was as quick as I could; the thought of Chardonnay and Cajun shrimp was making my stomach growl. I stopped short when I looked through the peephole.
Two of them were standing there, one white, one black; one older and shorter by three inches, both clean shaven, neatly dressed, one in gray, the other in blue. No style. Cheap suits. I knew the look: stare straight ahead, no show of feelings, hands at side, never let them see what’s on your mind. I cracked the door, left the chain on.
The older one spoke first, pulling out a badge as if I needed to see one. I’d been a cop myself once.
“Is this the residence of Jamal Curtis?” The question was simply put, with no threat, no assumption made. Professional. I gave him that.
I nodded, unable to speak. Finally, I got the words out. “I’m Jamal’s mother. Has something happened?”
“I’m Detective Ransom, and this is Detective Coates. We’d like to speak to him,” said the young one. He was well built and blond, his hair circling his head in a wreath of golden curls. A rookie Adonis, smug and sure of himself for no good reason.
What could they possibly want with my son?
I tried to send Jamal a message.
Don’t come down, Son. Don’t come down!
I kept my eyes glued to the young cop’s face. “He’s not home from school yet,” I said.
“School?”
“Summer school.”
“It’s going on six. Kind of late, isn’t it? From what I remember, summer schools end at noon,” Ransom said. A smart-ass. I saw that by the way he looked me over, chin jutting out.
“What do you want to talk to my son about?” I knew the deal with cops and black boys. Pull them over first. Ask questions later. Shoot before they answer sometimes. Always the suspect. Always the victim.
“May we come in?” Coates asked, his voice patient, polite.
Don’t let them in.
I knew that instinctively.
Coates was old enough to have known my brother, one of that first wave of young black men who had joined the force to make a difference in the lives of the black community. But his weary eyes told me that the world he patrolled had worn him down; he was probably ready to retire, bounce grandkids on his knee, and never think about what he’d seen.
“I was just on my way out.” I stepped onto the porch, slamming the door behind me. The younger one threw a furtive glance at the older, who stared straight ahead. “What do you want with my son?”
“We need to ask him about something he may have seen.” The rookie’s gaze and tone were cocksure. I know how to handle this bitch, that look said, but the older one shifted his eyes from me to the rookie; the slight flick of an eyebrow said he’d take it over.
Jake.
His name came to me as it always did when there is trouble with Jamal.
Don’t let them talk to Jamal unless Jake is present.
“Just what do you think he saw?”
“We’re investigating a murder that occurred last night. We have reason to believe that your son may have been with the victim prior to the murder or may even have been one of the last people to see the victim alive. We found an item that belonged to your son in her car.”
“Her?” The question in my voice told them more than I wanted them to know.
“Perhaps you knew her,” the veteran said. “The victim’s name was Lilah Love. She was brutally beaten to death late last night. We found her body in the trunk of her rented Altima at seven thirty this morning.”
“When was the last time you saw your
“Come on, Jamal, I’m hungry! I want to get on the road before it gets too late,” I yelled again as I sorted through the usual mess of bills and mail.
The doorbell rang twice, and I went to answer it, tossing the unwanted junk in the kitchen trash on the way to the door. “Come on down, Jamal, I’ll be in the car,” I said, grabbing my bag off the back of a chair and heading out. I’d get rid of whoever it was as quick as I could; the thought of Chardonnay and Cajun shrimp was making my stomach growl. I stopped short when I looked through the peephole.
Two of them were standing there, one white, one black; one older and shorter by three inches, both clean shaven, neatly dressed, one in gray, the other in blue. No style. Cheap suits. I knew the look: stare straight ahead, no show of feelings, hands at side, never let them see what’s on your mind. I cracked the door, left the chain on.
The older one spoke first, pulling out a badge as if I needed to see one. I’d been a cop myself once.
“Is this the residence of Jamal Curtis?” The question was simply put, with no threat, no assumption made. Professional. I gave him that.
I nodded, unable to speak. Finally, I got the words out. “I’m Jamal’s mother. Has something happened?”
“I’m Detective Ransom, and this is Detective Coates. We’d like to speak to him,” said the young one. He was well built and blond, his hair circling his head in a wreath of golden curls. A rookie Adonis, smug and sure of himself for no good reason.
What could they possibly want with my son?
I tried to send Jamal a message.
Don’t come down, Son. Don’t come down!
I kept my eyes glued to the young cop’s face. “He’s not home from school yet,” I said.
“School?”
“Summer school.”
“It’s going on six. Kind of late, isn’t it? From what I remember, summer schools end at noon,” Ransom said. A smart-ass. I saw that by the way he looked me over, chin jutting out.
“What do you want to talk to my son about?” I knew the deal with cops and black boys. Pull them over first. Ask questions later. Shoot before they answer sometimes. Always the suspect. Always the victim.
“May we come in?” Coates asked, his voice patient, polite.
Don’t let them in.
I knew that instinctively.
Coates was old enough to have known my brother, one of that first wave of young black men who had joined the force to make a difference in the lives of the black community. But his weary eyes told me that the world he patrolled had worn him down; he was probably ready to retire, bounce grandkids on his knee, and never think about what he’d seen.
“I was just on my way out.” I stepped onto the porch, slamming the door behind me. The younger one threw a furtive glance at the older, who stared straight ahead. “What do you want with my son?”
“We need to ask him about something he may have seen.” The rookie’s gaze and tone were cocksure. I know how to handle this bitch, that look said, but the older one shifted his eyes from me to the rookie; the slight flick of an eyebrow said he’d take it over.
Jake.
His name came to me as it always did when there is trouble with Jamal.
Don’t let them talk to Jamal unless Jake is present.
“Just what do you think he saw?”
“We’re investigating a murder that occurred last night. We have reason to believe that your son may have been with the victim prior to the murder or may even have been one of the last people to see the victim alive. We found an item that belonged to your son in her car.”
“Her?” The question in my voice told them more than I wanted them to know.
“Perhaps you knew her,” the veteran said. “The victim’s name was Lilah Love. She was brutally beaten to death late last night. We found her body in the trunk of her rented Altima at seven thirty this morning.”
“When was the last time you saw your
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