“Because I knew this is where Alonzo was arrested.”
“Who dat wit’ you?”
“This is Sonny Lester, who works at the newspaper with me. Mrs. Sessums, I’m here because I thought about what you said and I want to look into Alonzo’s case. If he’s innocent I want to help him get out.”
Accent on if.
“A course, he’s innocent. He didn’t do nothin’.”
“Can we come in and talk about it?” I said quickly. “I want to see what I can do.”
“You can come in but don’ be taking no pitchers. Uh-uh, no pitchers.”
The screen door popped open a few inches and I grabbed the handle and pulled it wide. I immediately assessed the woman in the doorway as Alonzo Winslow’s grandmother. She looked to be about sixty years old, with dyed black cornrows showing gray at the roots. She was as skinny as a broom and wore a sweater over blue jeans even though it wasn’t sweater weather. Her calling herself his mother on the phone on Friday was a curiosity but not a big deal. I had a feeling I was about to find out that she had been both mother and grandmother to the boy.
She pointed to a little sitting area where there was a couch and a coffee table. There were stacks of folded clothes on almost all surfaces and many had torn pieces of paper on the top with names written on them. I could hear a washer or dryer somewhere in the apartment and knew that she had a little business running out of her government-provided home. Maybe that was why she wanted no photographs.
“Move some a that laun’ry and have a seat and tell me what you goin’ to do for my Zo,” she said.
I moved a folded stack of clothes off the couch onto a side table and sat down. I noticed there wasn’t a single piece of clothing in any of the stacks that was red. The Rodia projects were controlled by a Crips street gang, and wearing red—the color of the rival Bloods—could draw harm to a person.
Lester sat next to me. He put the camera bag on the floor between his feet. I noticed he had a camera in his hand. He unzipped the bag and put it away. Wanda Sessums stayed standing in front of us. She lifted a laundry basket onto the coffee table and started taking out and folding clothes.
“Well, I want to look into Zo’s case,” I said. “If he’s innocent like you said, then I’ll be able to get him out.”
I kept that if working. Kept selling the car. I made sure I didn’t promise anything I wasn’t going to deliver.
“Jus’ like that you get him out, huh? When Mr. Meyer can’t even get him his day in court?”
“Is Mr. Meyer his lawyer?”
“That’s right. Public defender. He a Jew lawyer.”
She said it without a trace of enmity or bias. It was said as almost a point of pride that her grandson had graduated to the level of having a Jewish lawyer.
“Well, I’ll be talking to Mr. Meyer about all of this. Sometimes, Mrs. Sessums, the newspaper can do what nobody else can do. If I tell the world that Alonzo Winslow is innocent, then the world pays attention. With lawyers that’s not always the case, because they’re always saying their clients are innocent—whether they really think it or not. Like the boy who cried wolf. They say it so much that when they actually do have a client who’s innocent, nobody believes them.”
She looked at me quizzically and I thought she either was confused or thought she was being conned. I tried to keep things moving so her mind wouldn’t settle on any given thing I had said.
“Mrs. Sessums, if I’m going to investigate this I am going to need you to call Mr. Meyer and ask him to cooperate with me. I’ll need to look at the court file and all the discovery.”
“He ain’t discovered nothin’ so far. He just go roun’ tellin’ everybody to sit tight, is all.”
“By ‘discovery’ I mean the legal term. The state—that’s the prosecutor—has to turn all their paperwork and evidence over to the defense for viewing. I’ll need to see it all if I’m going to work on getting Alonzo out.”
Now she appeared not to be paying attention to what I had said. From the clothes basket she slowly raised her hand. She was holding a tiny pair of bright red panties. She held them away from her body like she was holding the tail of a dead rat.
“Look at this stupid girl. She don’ know who she playin’ with. Hidin’ her red underneath. She a fool an’ a half she think she get away wi’ that.”
She walked over to the corner of the room, used her foot to press a pedal that opened a trash can and dropped the dead rat inside. I nodded as though I approved and tried to get back on track.
“Mrs. Sessums, did you understand what I said about the discovery? I’m going to—”
“But how you going to say my Zo’s innocent when all yo facts come from the po-po and they lie like the serpent in the tree?”
It took me a moment to respond as I considered her use of language and the juxtaposition of common street slang and religious reference.
“I’m going to gather all the facts for myself and make my own judgment,” I said. “When I wrote that story last week, I was saying what the police said. Now I am going to find out for myself. If your Zo’s innocent I will know it. And I’ll write it. When I write it, the story will get him out.”
“Okay, then. Good. The Lord will help you bring my boy home.”
“But I’m going to need your help, too, Wanda.”
I dropped into first-name mode now. It was time to let her think she was going to be part of this.
“When it comes to my Zo, I’m always ready to help,” she said. “Good,” I said.
“Let me tell you what I want you to do.”
THREE: The Farm
Carver was in his office with the door closed. He was humming to himself and intently watching the cameras, his screens set in multiplex mode—thirty-six views on each. He was able to scan all of the cameras, even the angles nobody knew about. With a flick of his finger on the heat pad, he drew one camera angle into full screen on the middle plasma.
Geneva was behind the counter, reading a paperback novel. He tightened the focus, attempting to see what she was reading. He couldn’t see the title but he could make out the author’s name at the top of the page. Janet Evanovich. He knew she had read several books by this writer. He often saw her smiling to herself as she read.
This was good information to know. He would go to a bookstore and pick up a copy of an Evanovich book. He would make sure Geneva saw it in his bag when he walked through reception. It could be an ice-breaker that could lead to conversation and maybe more.
He remotely moved the lens and saw that Geneva’s purse was open on the floor next to her chair. He pulled in tight and saw cigarettes and gum and two tampons along with keys and matches and wallet. It was that time of the month. Maybe that was why Geneva had been so curt with him when he had come in. She had barely said hello.
Carver checked his watch. It was past time for her afternoon break. Yolanda Chavez from administration was due to walk through the door and let Geneva go. Fifteen minutes. Carver planned to follow her with the cameras. Out for a smoke, to the restroom for a squat, it didn’t matter. He would be able to follow. He had cameras everywhere. He would see whatever she did.