Things You Won't Say (19 page)

In a hushed voice, a reporter holding a microphone was narrating what was about to happen: “In just a few minutes Lucia Torres, mother of the teenager shot to death by D.C. Police Officer Michael Anderson, will hold a press conference here at the park where her son loved to play. Gathered together are family, friends, fellow church members, and neighbors of the Torres family, including Roberto Sanchez, who lives next door.”

The camera panned back to reveal a fiftyish man wearing dark glasses and a red T-shirt. He was holding a handmade sign that said:
JUSTICE FOR JOSE.

“Mr. Sanchez, can you tell us a little bit about Jose?” the reporter asked.

“He was a good kid,” Mr. Sanchez said.

“A good kid,” the reporter repeatedly somberly.

Wasn’t there going to be any mention of the fact that Jose was fighting? Jamie wondered if anyone had thought to check how bad the other boy’s injuries were. Could they get a doctor to testify that the kid might’ve been killed in the assault? Would that justify Mike’s using deadly force? She’d have to mention it to the lawyer.

“Ms. Lucia Torres is approaching the podium,” the reporter said, and Jamie leaned forward to get a better look at the
woman. She was tall and slim, and wore a simple black dress and sensible black heels. She walked quickly, with determination, flanked by several other women—maybe sisters, or friends. Ms. Torres’s head was held high and her expression was restrained, but Jamie could tell turmoil raged within her. In a strange flash of recognition, Jamie saw something of herself in the woman.

Ms. Torres stood at the podium, her large brown eyes passing over the crowd. She nodded a few times to people, then leaned forward and began to speak. Her voice was strong and clear.

“When will it stop?” she asked.

She let the silence gather for a long moment. “Too many of our boys have been killed because of the color of their skin. I ask you this: If my son had been white, would the police officer have drawn his gun so quickly?”

A few people in the crowd shouted, “No!”

“My son liked to watch cartoons,” she said. “Jose’s favorite foods were pizza and chicken burritos with molé sauce. He went to the grocery store for me every week, because he didn’t want me to have to carry the bags home. He watched after his younger brother when I had to work. He was a good boy. I love him.”

Her voice broke on the second to last word of her speech, but she kept staring straight into the news camera.

“None of us mothers expect to be here, before news crews, talking about our kids whose only crime was to be brown or black,” she said.

It’s not like that!
Jamie wanted to cry. Where was the mention of Mike’s clean record of nearly two decades on the force, his award, the respect he had in the community? Mike had never discharged his weapon in the line of duty before. Mike had once given a boy a ride home late at night after he’d discovered the kid alone in an unsafe area.

“No one can bring my son back,” Ms. Torres said, her voice swelling. It seemed to leap out of the television and fill the room. “So now all I can ask is for justice for Jose.”

She stepped back from the podium and reporters began shouting questions.

A voice soared above the chorus: “Ms. Torres, the longtime partner of Michael Anderson was shot in front of police headquarters just a few months ago, an attack Anderson witnessed. Do you think emotional trauma could have played a part in the shooting of your son?”

Ms. Torres reached for the microphone. “Perhaps,” she said. “But that won’t bring back Jose.”

Another reporter shouted: “Will you be filing a civil lawsuit?”

A woman who’d been standing just behind Ms. Torres leaned forward and gripped the microphone: “We have no announcement at this time about a civil suit.”

At this time.
Jamie felt nausea rise in her gut. She thought about their meager assets. The house, the old minivan, a tiny retirement account . . . Could they be held personally liable?

Her stomach heaved. She ran to the bathroom just in time to retch into the toilet.

By the time she made it back into the bedroom, the news conference was over, replaced by a daytime talk show. Fortunately the hosts had moved on to another subject: Fourth of July crafts. Jamie sat there dully, watching a woman demonstrate how to put a candle in a glass vase and layer red, white, and blue sand around it for a festive centerpiece.

At least their children were safe, she thought. She could endure anything, as long as she had Mike and the kids. She thought of Ms. Torres, walking through the park with her head held high, images of her son riding his bike swirling around her like ghosts, and she wiped away tears. No matter what pain she was in, no matter what she would have to endure, it shrank in comparison to Ms. Torres’s.

Jamie had to hug her children, to hold them close and feel their soft little hands, to kiss their chubby cheeks. She opened the bedroom door and almost screamed. Mike was standing there.

“Did you see it?” he asked.

She put a hand over her racing heart and nodded. “It wasn’t . . . that bad,” she lied.

“Oh, come on,” he said.

She reared back her head. “You watched?”

“I turned it on in the basement,” he said. Their basement wasn’t finished, but Mike kept a small television and old sofa down there along with his exercise equipment.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She was sorry for lying, sorry for not urging Mike to see that police psychologist after all. Sorry for not recognizing her husband hadn’t been ready to go back to work.

He shrugged, a small, defeated gesture. “I need to take a shower,” he said.

The doorbell rang, and Jamie felt her pulse quicken. What now? She had the sudden, wild thought that Mike’s parents had driven down from New Jersey. But no—it would be impossible for them to get here so quickly. Maybe it was a reporter, or someone serving a subpoena, or a friend of Ms. Torres’s who’d been at the press conference today . . .

“I get it!” Eloise shouted, and Jamie began to run down the stairs.

“No! Eloise, please let me—”

It was too late. Eloise had pulled open the door, giving Jamie a clear view of their front stoop from her vantage point midway down the stairs.

Jamie sank down onto a step as men began filing into their house. Five of them, in total. All Mike’s good friends from the police force. They weren’t wearing their blue uniforms, which meant they’d all arranged to take the day off, which must’ve been quite a feat. Arun Brahma was with them, holding a huge bag from KFC. Another man carried a few liters of soda.

“Is Mike around?” asked a guy named Shawn. He and Mike had joined the force at the same time. Along with their partners, they sometimes met up for coffee in the morning on slow days. He’d had dinner at their house before.

Jamie nodded, as a tightness filled her chest. She heard Mike coming down the stairs, and she shifted aside to give him room to pass.

“Hey, man,” Mike said. He reached out and slapped Shawn’s palm, then Shawn pulled him in for a hug. Suddenly Mike was surrounded, swallowed up by the men.

It was, Jamie thought as she bent her head to hide her tears, as if Mike’s fellow officers had heard a silent signal. An officer-needs-assistance call that they’d all rushed to answer.

•••

“Ma’am? Excuse me? Are you deaf?”

Lou blinked and looked up at the guy standing on the other side of the counter. He was young, with a goatee and a Bluetooth phone bud in his ear. Those always confused Lou; she never knew if customers were talking to her or to someone on the line, and sometimes, like today, she guessed wrong.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“A skinny double latte, extra foam,” he said.

When did the word
please
begin to disappear from our vocabulary? Lou wondered. Only about one in every ten people even bothered to thank her for making their coffee. She swallowed a yawn and decided to treat herself to a latte, too. Usually smelling coffee for so many hours put her off it, but today, she desperately needed a jolt. Jamie’s house was so hot she hadn’t caught more than a few hours’ rest. She’d taken to dozing on the living room couch, next to one of the fans she’d bought at Home Depot, but even with the windows open, the air was stifling.

“Hello, miss?” Was the customer actually snapping his fin
gers at her? Maybe she was moving a little slowly, but come on, she thought.

“Your latte’s coming right up, sir,” the barista working next to Lou said. He took the cup out of her hand and poured in two shots of espresso before adding milk. “Let me get you a free scone to make up for the wait.”

“No carbs,” the man said.

“Our apologies, then,” the barista said. “Enjoy!”

The customer walked out, and Lou turned to her colleague, a middle-aged guy who’d lost his job in finance a few years earlier and, after six months of filling out applications and with one kid on the cusp of college, had found himself on the other side of the counter. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m moving a little slowly today.”

“No worries,” he said. He winked at Lou. “I gave him decaf and full-fat milk. Do you want to take your break now?”

Lou laughed. “Sure.” Normally she walked around the block to soak in the fresh air, but today she felt too exhausted to do anything more than take her latte to a corner table. Unlike restaurants, where there was a clear ebb and flow of customers based around mealtimes, the coffee shop always seemed busy. It wasn’t until Lou sat down heavily, releasing an involuntary sigh, that she realized the depth of her sleep deprivation. Her vision was actually a little blurry. She rubbed her eyes and wondered if she could put down her head to steal a catnap.

“Excuse me.” The woman standing in front of her was holding an iced tea and smiling. “I just wanted to say I thought that guy was really rude. You handled him well.”

“Oh,” Lou responded. “Thanks.”

The table next to Lou’s was empty, and the woman plopped down. “Is it really only five o’clock?” she asked, unwrapping the cellophane from a package of cookies. “I feel like it should already be tomorrow. Want one?”

Lou hadn’t realized it, but a cookie was
exactly
what she
wanted. Normally she didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but today she craved sugar.

“Thanks,” she said again, reaching for the sweet in the woman’s outstretched hand.

“Long day for you, too?” the woman asked. She smiled brightly at Lou and didn’t wait for an answer. “Hey, are they hiring here?”

“I’m not sure,” Lou said. She took a bite of cookie, tasting lemons and sugar. “I could check with the manager.”

“Oh, don’t get up. I know you probably don’t get many breaks. This place is a madhouse,” the woman said. “I can ask for myself. Do you mind, though . . . is the job okay?”

“Yeah, usually,” Lou said. “The hours are flexible.”

The woman nodded. “Oh, I’m Kaitlin by the way.”

“Lou.”

“Nice to meet you. Here, have another.” She passed a second cookie to Lou. “I’m an artist,” Kaitlin said. Lou blinked at the sudden turn in conversation, but Kaitlin didn’t seem to need any encouragement to keep talking. “But not a real one, I guess. No one pays me for my paintings. I don’t know, my older sister keeps nagging me to get a steady job. That’s why I asked about this place.”

Lou wasn’t sure why the woman was revealing all of this, but she nodded to be polite.

“Do you have a sister?” Kaitlin asked.

“Yes,” Lou said. She took a sip of her latte.

“Older or younger?”

“She’s older,” Lou said.

“Ah, so you know what I mean.”

Actually, Lou wasn’t quite sure. But she was so sleepy, and the woman seemed so certain, that it seemed easier to just sip her latte and nod again.

“Do you get along well with your sister?” Kaitlin asked.

“Sure,” Lou said.

“You’re lucky,” Kaitlin said. “I used to see mine all the time,
but she married this jerk of a guy.” Kaitlin was ripping open a sugar packet and pouring its contents into her tea and swirling her straw around in her plastic cup, creating a mini-tornado. “He’s got a real temper.”

“That’s too bad,” Lou said.

“Is your sister married?” Kaitlin asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” Lou said as she covered up another yawn. She only had fifteen minutes off, and she needed every one of them, but she couldn’t be rude to a customer. The woman was only trying to be friendly. Besides, she’d given Lou half of her cookies.

“What’s her husband like?” Kaitlin said.

“Whose?” Lou asked.

“Your sister’s,” Kaitlin said, laughing. But not in a mean way, like she thought Lou was dumb. It was more like they were in on the joke together.

“He’s great,” Lou said.

“You’re so lucky,” Kaitlin said. “So he’s not a yeller, like Joey? That’s my brother-in-law’s name.”

“What? No. I mean, sure, he can get mad sometimes. Once he threw a beer can at the TV when someone messed up a football play.”

Kaitlin laughed again, as if it was one of the funniest things she’d ever heard, and Lou found herself sitting up a bit straighter. The sugar and caffeine were coursing through her body now, and her exhaustion was receding. Lou knew she didn’t always make a great first impression. She could tell you ten different routes to the Washington Monument and she could multiply double-digit numbers in her head. But people, and the strange, subtle signals they gave off, could be confounding. They cried when they were happy. They smiled when they were angry, or spoke in especially calm voices instead of yelling. They mixed together their feelings in such a busy way—Lou always thought of it as an emotional stew because it was like walking into a kitchen and inhaling the
scent of a stew and being asked to list the ingredients. Who could puzzle out exactly what was cooking, when there were so many different things mingling together?

She looked more closely at Kaitlin, who wore expensive designer jeans and high-heeled shoes with openings at the toes revealing pink-painted nails. She had on a silky tank top and her hair was long and flowing. Her face looked open and friendly. Not the sort of woman who usually tried to befriend Lou, but maybe she was new to town, or lonely.