The Color of Law_ A Novel - Mark Gimenez [101]
She thought of her short life. She had turned her first trick at twelve. Unless you counted her uncle, who fingered her when she was six, then gave her fifty cents for a snow cone. She was using cocaine regularly at fourteen, pregnant at fifteen, and hooked on heroin at sixteen. Twelve years a prostitute, eight years a smack addict.
The only time she felt good about herself was times like this. When she was on the stuff, she felt like a little girl again, all happy and light and clean. She wasn’t poor or a white man’s whore. She was young again and didn’t know anything about drugs or hooking on Harry Hines or white men wanting black girls. She was just a happy little girl like Pajamae.
And thinking of her baby made her cry. She cried because she pictured her Pajamae shooting smack into her arm and lying down for money and never being loved for anything else. She wanted her baby to have better than she’d had. She wanted her to have a good life, marry a good man, and live in a good home. She wanted someone to love her Pajamae as much as she did. The only thing Shawanda Jones loved more in life than heroin was her daughter.
TWENTY-ONE
SCOTT, LOUIS, and the girls arrived at the federal building at noon the next day, Saturday. Louis stayed outside in the car because of his outstanding issues with the Feds. Scott carried the big picnic basket inside, which the weekend security guard manning the metal detector checked thoroughly, as he always did. Now that Scott was no longer eating lunch at the Downtown Club, they had gotten into a regular habit of eating lunch with Shawanda at the federal lockup.
“Another picnic, Mr. Fenney?”
“Yep. How ’bout some fried chicken, Jerry?”
Jerry, an overweight white man about fifty, smiled and took a drumstick. They rode the elevator to the fifth floor and were met by the black guard.
“Ron,” Scott said. “Picnic time, buddy.”
Ron led them down the hallway to the same small conference room, but he seemed different today, silent and solemn. He had already moved the table and chairs to one corner. Boo and Pajamae spread the blanket on the cement floor and plopped down in their places. Ron left and returned shortly with Shawanda, who hugged Pajamae first and then Boo. She turned to Scott.
“Mr. Fenney, your woman leave you?”
“Yeah.”
“’Cause of me?”
“No, Shawanda, because of me.”
“We’ve got chicken, Mama, from the Colonel!” Pajamae said. “And potato salad and beans and rolls, the kind you like.”
Ron scratched his head and said, “Mr. Fenney, I, uh—”
“Ron, how many times I gotta tell you? It’s Scott. You can’t eat fried chicken with me and call me Mr. Fenney.”
“Scott, I’ve, uh…I’ve got to search everyone.”
“What? Why?”
“We searched Shawanda’s cell and found some, uh”—he glanced down at Pajamae—“some controlled substances.”
“You think I’m bringing it to her?”
Ron shook his head. “No, sir, not you.”
When the meaning of Ron’s statement finally registered with Scott, they both slowly turned to Pajamae. Scott said, “Pajamae, when we stopped by your apartment, did you get something for your mother?”
With Louis riding shotgun, Scott felt no fear returning to the projects. But the Jetta did not attract a crowd. The few residents who did notice them were actually friendly. One young boy asked, “Louis say you run for a hundred ninety-three yards against Texas—that true? A white boy?” When Scott assured him it was true, the boy said, “You the man.” He waved when they drove off.
Pajamae shrugged. “Just Mama’s medicine.”
“And where was it at?”
“In the medicine cabinet in the wall under the sink in the kitchen.”
“Please give it to me.”
She stuck her hand in her pocket and retrieved a plastic Baggie filled with a black substance. Scott handed it to Ron.
“Mexican black tar,” Ron said. He looked at Shawanda. “This stuff is eighty percent pure. It can kill you, girl!”
Shawanda lunged at Ron and snatched for the