in West that had nothing to do with her growing
isolation as she continued to get promoted in a man’s world. Her increased smoking, consumption of fat and beer, and her refusal to exercise were completely unrelated to her
breaking up with Jimmy Dinkins, who was allergic to Niles, and, frankly, hated the cat to
the point of pulling his gun on Niles one night when Dinkins and West were arguing and
Niles decided to insert himself by pouncing on Dinkins from the top of the refrigerator.
West was still sweating, her breathing labored, as she led their prisoner back to the car.
She thought she might throw up.
“You got to quit smoking,” Brazil said to her.
West stuffed the subject into the back of the car, and Brazil climbed in the front.
“You got any idea how much fat’s in Bojangles, and all that other shit you eat?” Brazil went on.
Their prisoner was silent, his eyes bright with hate in the rearview mirror. His name was
Nate Laney. He was fourteen. He would kill these white cops. All he needed was a
chance. Laney was bad and had been since birth, according to his biological mother, who
also had always been bad, according to her own mother. This bad seed could be traced
back to a prison in England, where the original bad seed had been shipped out to this
country, around the same time the troops in the Queen City had been chasing Cornwallis
down the road.
“I bet you never exercise.” Brazil did not know when to quit.
West gave him a look as she wiped her flushed face with a tissue.
Brazil had just sprinted a hundred yards and wasn’t even breathing.
She felt old and crabby, and sick and tired of this kid and his naive, self-righteous
opinions. Life was entirely more complicated that he
thought, and he would begin to see it for himself after he’d been out here a year or two, with nothing but fried chicken places on every corner. Bojangles, Church’s, Popeye’s,
Chic N Grill, Chick-Fil-A, Price’s Chicken Coop. Plus, cops didn’t make much money,
certainly not in their early years, so even off-duty options for dining were limited to the
pizza, burgers, and bar food that were plentiful in Charlotte, where citizens loved their
Hornets and Panthers and Nascar race-car drivers.
“When was the last time you played tennis?” Brazil asked as their prisoner plotted in the backseat.
“I don’t remember,” she said.
“Why don’t we go out and hit some.”
“You need your head examined,” she said.
“Oh come on. You used to be good. I bet you used to be in shape, too,” he said.
The massive concrete jail was in the heart of downtown. It had been built at the same
time as the big new police department, in this city that enjoyed a crime clearance rate that
exceeded the actual number of cases, according to some. There were many levels of
security to go through at the jail, starting with lockers where police were to deposit their
guns on the way in. At a desk, deputies checked all who entered, and Brazil looked
around, taking in yet another new, scary place. A Pakistani woman in dark clothing and a
veil was being processed for shoplifting. Drunks, thieves, and the usual drug dealers
were being herded by cops, while the sheriff’s department supervised.
In the Central Warrant Repository, West searched her prisoner, emptying his pockets of
Chap Stick, one dollar and thirteen cents, and a pack of Kools. She shuffled through his
paperwork. He was happy now, laughing, full of himself, checking to see who was
watching Nate the Man.
“You able to read?” West asked him.
“My bond on there?” Her prisoner was jailing, wearing three pairs of boxer shorts, two pairs of shorts, the outer ones green, falling off, no belt, looking around and unable to
stand still.
“Fraid not,” West said.
Inside blue metal solitary holding cells, another young boy beyond redemption stared out
with forlorn, killing eyes. Brazil stared back at him. Brazil looked at the Holding Area,
where a cage was packed with men waiting to be transported to the jail on Spector Drive