I realized the scale of my failure to help Louise. I’d tried to do a good deed, and now my friend was headed for prison. Her family was destroyed, and Roger — the bad guy in all this — had come out unscathed. Everything I’d tried to do to help Louise had only made matters worse. Yeah, I’d made a mess of things, but maybe I could still help on the margins. I’d keep an eye out for Lily, and would even use some of the payout from Nestor’s case to help her. The least I could do.
So, it was time to get back to work. My DUI cases had dried up, but I still had Nestor’s personal injury lawsuit. That case was the best piece of luck I’d had in a long time. As I booted up my computer, I could sense that things were about to turn around for me. A new day, and a chance to finally get the respect I deserved.
My cell phone vibrated. I looked down and saw there had been five attempts to call me and one voice message. I picked it up and hit the button.
“Griff, it’s Nestor. Nestor Vega. Anyway, I been trying to call but can’t get hold of you. So I guess I gotta leave this message, hope that’s okay. Yeah, so, I wanna let you know that I hired another lawyer. I mean, you’re great and everything, but this guy Colt called me and said you’re not doing so well with my case. Like, totally messing it up. You know, I can’t work no more cause of my accident, and I really need that money. So I called that lawyer on TV — you know, the guy who calls himself the Big Fist, and I went ahead and signed the papers with him. Uh, yeah, I just wanna thank you for the work you done. That’s it. Later.”
I heard a rushing sound in my ears and the walls began to waver. A fury overcame me and rose up through my spine. That racist Colt Jackson had fucked me over royally. Never mind that he’d broken every norm of professional ethics — he realized he could screw me and get away with it.
I knew what I had to do. I kept a baseball bat under my desk for emergency situations. I’d take it and show him not to mess with a Native warrior. I pushed my chair back, reached under the desk, and grabbed the bat. It felt good in my hands, and I thought about what it would be like to take Colt out, inflicting some street justice on a jerk who deserved it.
Then I saw my reflection in the window — kneeling down on one leg, grasping the bat like a rifle. I realized that I looked like the famous photo of Geronimo, the one where he’s holding his weapon upright and scowling at the camera. Geronimo, whose real name was Goyahkla, the last Native warrior to surrender to the US military; he spent his final years in an army prison, only being released to appear in Wild West shows where he was trotted out as a curio for the spectators. Natives believed he had the power to foresee incidents that would occur in the future, even though he was unable to change or influence those events. I wondered if he’d been able to predict what was in store for him — the years of imprisonment, the demise of Native traditions, the loss of his culture. On his deathbed, Geronimo said to his nephew, “I should have never surrendered. I should have fought until I was the last man alive.”
I pondered what my future would hold if I beat the crap out of Colt with the bat. Would I be upholding my honor and paying tribute to the spirit of Geronimo?
And then I felt foolish. It was ridiculous to fantasize about taking revenge on the asshole defense lawyer. I’d only end up in jail, where I’d experience the criminal justice system from the other side. I’d be validating everything that Colt and other racists had probably said about me and every other indigenous person.
I tossed the bat on the floor. As it rolled across the room, I realized that there was nothing left for me here, that I’d never ascend to the legal heights of which I’d once dreamed. The respect of my peers, the chance to win some courtroom victories, working for the causes I cared about — these things were beyond my grasp, and there was no longer any reason to keep fighting. Like Geronimo, it was time to surrender.
I grabbed my keys and started walking. I’d need to get a job, a real one, and I knew there was an opening at the Zephyr.
A Life of Little Consequence
by Twanna Latrice Hill
Capitol Hill
By the time LaVonda returned from setting the table, the two men had nearly traversed the length of her block. She had watched them for over an hour and now it was dusk. As they approached her walkway, she closed her book and rose from her chair.
“You’d best come in,” she said, before either of them could speak. She ignored the screech of her screen and turned back into her apartment, settling herself in the middle of her slate-gray sectional. Even though she was wearing jeans, she crossed her legs delicately at the ankle.
The taller of the two men mounted the porch and stopped at the screen door. He was a large man, blond, with close-cropped hair that marked him as ex-military, but the fleshiness of his face and the protuberance of his gut told her that had been some years ago.
“We’re with the Denver Police Department,” he said, holding up the badge around his neck.
Don’t be nervous, LaVonda thought. She filled one of the coffee mugs from the carafe on her coffee table. “Black, or do you take sugar and cream?”
“I’m Detective Niedermeyer and this is my partner, Detective Delgado,” he said, inclining his head toward the other man, who followed him into the apartment. “Um, black is fine.”
“And you?” she asked the younger detective as she handed a cup of coffee to Niedermeyer.
Detective Delgado glanced at his partner before sitting on the chaise at the opposite end of the couch. “If there’s sugar, I’ll take some.”
LaVonda hoped her hands didn’t tremble as she filled the second cup. Delgado was maybe forty, with thick black hair and a neatly trimmed mustache above full lips. Dark tendrils curled above his collar. Thin trails of sweat trickled down his neck and his long-sleeved shirt clung wetly to his body. The tang of his musk teased her nostrils as he leaned forward and took the mug from LaVonda’s hands. She felt a slight quivering between her legs. Don’t get carried away, she thought to herself.
“We were hoping you might look at a picture for us,” Niedermeyer said.
Detective Delgado set his coffee on the tray, slid a piece of paper from the clipboard on his knees, and held it out to her. “Do you recognize this man?”
Don’t stare at him, she thought, turning her attention from the detective to the flyer in his outstretched hand. She took it and studied it for several seconds. An image, captured in black-and-white, looked back at her. The picture was a few years old and grainy, but the drawn face with the furrowed brow beneath an untidy Afro was clearly recognizable.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s Ronnie. But this looks like an old picture. He’s much older now.”
Niedermeyer flipped open his notebook and began writing on a large yellow legal pad. “How do you know him?”
How did she know Ronnie? He wasn’t a friend, not really. But he was more than an acquaintance. “He just hangs around the neighborhood,” she said. “Why? What happened?”