"How is that possible?"
"It's possible if somebody makes it possible."
Soledad's head ticked; the idea she was about to speak, her mind couldn't quite grasp."Somebody got rid of the documents?"
"Somebody's lying. If it's not you…"
"That doesn't… Why would anybody…"
"Here's something else: Cop's involved in a shooting, let's say he puts a bullet in the back of some unarmed innocent. Every time, the same thing: The department does everything it can to make it look like the cop's in the right; the guy who got shot wouldn't follow police instructions, made a sudden move, looked like he was holding a gun. They back the cop's play best they know how; keep everyone from looking bad, keep the department from getting buried under lawsuits. What they don't do is put a spotlight on the fact the cop screwed up.
"You take out a metanormal, even I admit he was a bad one. The department ought to be hanging medals all over you; show the world what a great job MTacs do. But they're acting like you going in with your piece is the next worst thing to Mai Lai."
Soledad, trying to logic things out: "What I did… I look back,
I see how I was wrong. The department has to try and protect itself."
"Man, you're a good soldier; throwing yourself on their grenade for them. Who's the department protecting itself from? And from what? The voting majority that's got no problem with metanormals getting shot in the street? Amnesty International filing some useless lawsuit? Would anybody even have any idea what happened in that warehouse if the department hadn't started an investigation? And if the charges that you're facing are so god-awful, you're a vigilante who used an unapproved weapon, why does IA need to investigate you at all? Why not just go with things as they stand?"
Gayle was talking… what she was talking were lies and deceit and conspiracy, and Soledad didn't know what to make of any of it. She didn't know what to do other than to say: "We should… we should go to Rysher."
"That's no good."
"He's my lieutenant. If something's going on, he can help."
Between her palms Gayle rolled her tea mug, the liquid so black it kicked back a fluid reflection of herself, of herself saying: "He's got no desire to help. Soledad, where do you think this IA investigation came from?"
She didn't know. But what Soledad couldn't believe…"The lou… No. Since I've hit MTac, he's been there for me."
No response from Gayle.
The lack of engagement pushed Soledad's conviction."He has my back. He's treated me solid from day one. Told me he'd do what he could to help clean all this up. Why would he build something against me?"
"You really are the good soldier. All the questions I ask, as far as I can follow things, it started with him. More than that, I think he might be poisoning the well against you."
Lies and deceit and conspiracy Gayle was talking.
The actor guy got up to leave. He was replaced by another just like him only Asian.
"Why are they doing this to me?"
Gayle shook her head.
Soledad asked, desperate: "What do we do?"
"If all you had to face down was the law… the law I know, I know how to work the law. What's going on now… I don't know what's going on now. I don't know how to fight it, don't know if I can. So what we do now… what do you want to do?"
Without thought, what Soledad should do was obvious."I should quit things. That would be the smart play. It's what they want. Just take whatever out they give me, walk away."
Gayle said nothing to that.
Soledad: "I won't. I won't do it."
"No matter how bad it gets?"
Letting her head swing free, Soledad looked around the cafe. Didn't look at anything in particular. It was motion for motion's sake. It was being wound so tight some kind of release, no matter how slight, was needed."The good thing, bad thing about being a cop: the blue wall. The idea that we all stick together. Protects you from a lot of crap, you know? A lot of crap out there. But it keeps things in too. Things bounce off the blues. You get the echo of all the quiet voices."
"And the voices say?"
"They say: Look at her. She wouldn't be here if she wasn't a woman. Wouldn't be here if she wasn't a black woman. She got handed the job. She's no good. Why do we have to make exceptions for the black woman? Course 'woman, ' 'black': They've got other ways of saying that. You hear them so often you get good at reading lips at a distance. You can read eyes too. A cool stare, a cold look. And you can read between the lines: You're a good girl, Soledad. A credit to your race, Soledad. Backhanded compliments. A slapping back of the hand. All they're saying: You're okay, Soledad, but too bad you're not one of the boys."
A little laugh from Gayle.
From Soledad: "That funny to you?"
"You first met me, didn't we have a conversation about me being too good-looking to be a decent lawyer?"
"You don't trade on your sex?"
"Trade on it? No. Flaunt it? Yeah, I do. But I'm not about to hide the fact I have the capacity to look good when sixty-eight percent of the rest of America has the capacity to eat drive-thru fast food until they blow up like stuffed pigs. And if somebody figures my good looks equal stupid… well, my rearview mirror is littered with the wreckage of people who've made that mistake." Gayle took a breath, leaned back in her chair, gave Soledad a moment to see the error of her misjudgment."You know, I'm starting to get you. Maybe you're not always right, you've always got to prove other people wrong."
"I'm not getting run into the ground, have people think I got what I deserve for being nothing but a poster child for affirmative action."
"Isn't that the mistake you made with your gun? No one responded to you, they ignored you, so first time out you've gotta prove your thing works because Soledad O'Roark is never mistaken. Yes or no?"
Soledad said nothing.
"You're going to prove yourself into a grave."
"You came to me. You don't like what I am, you don't like what you're staring down…"
"I'm asking this: Who are you trying to prove things to? To yourself? Then good; stand. Fight. Go down swinging so you'll know you're the fighter you believe you are. But if you're trying to prove things to some old boys—no matter how things come out, they're going to think of you the same as they think of you now—then you're killing yourself for the wrong reason."
Soledad didn't answer. She was getting tired. She was burning out.
"I'm not quitting things." Gayle, lightening the mood, trying to: "You don't get rid of me that easy. I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is, it's dirty. Okay. If that's how things are going to go, I can get dirty too. I can—"
"You can what?"
"If I have to, trust me, I can hit these fuckers coming out of the sun."
Northridge.
The man walked into the Devonshire police station. The interior of the building, the building looking to have been built in the sixties, was in a slow state of decay. Paneling was cracked and fraying. Tiles were missing from the floor. Tiles were missing from the ceiling. The furniture, what little there was, was hand-me-downs from LA Unified. Plastic and dirty and dated when it was factory new.
It was late and fairly quiet at the station. The desk sergeant was talking to a Hispanic guy with a bad, bleeding bash on his forehead. The Hispanic guy seemed only to be able to speak Spanish, and the desk sergeant communicated in a busted language that sounded as if it had been patched together after several years of trying to get information from people who knew Spanish and nothing but Spanish.
"Porfavor llene las formas," the sergeant said. Tried to say.
The man, the man who'd just entered the station, sat in one of the dirty plastic chairs and waited for the desk sergeant to finish his business. The man dabbed his upper lip with a handkerchief and had himself a look around. Not much to look at. A few plaques from the Rotary Club, Kiwanis Club, the Chamber of Commerce thanking the police for this or that. A few softball trophies. Old. The man didn't figure police officers much got together for things like soft-ball anymore. Some public service posters reminding people to be safe, telling kids to stay off drugs and stay in school. Considering the state of the world, the posters didn't seem to be doing much good. Maybe if they were hung somewhere besides inside a police station…