John Lescroart - A Certain Justice

'Lie.'

Allicey Tobain was in the storefront's inner office with Philip Mohandas. N'doum was outside standing guard. In spite of the insistent hum of the voices – some of them raised – of the other people in the front, N'doum could clearly hear Allicey through the door…

She was pacing in the small room. 'You are losin' sight of the reality here, Philip. You are being manipulated by that, that politician .' She spat out the word, stopped pacing, faced Mohandas. 'You tell me this – what we got out of all this? We got one of her people in the DA's job. We do that for her, in exchange for something… right? But where's the exchange? Where's the something? We get a promise, that's all, but I'm not seeing any something. And in the meanwhile we're losing sight-'

'You keep saying that, Allicey, but what of? What am I losing sight of? And we will get the something. We get a million dollars a month.' He spoke quietly, gestured to the door. 'That buys a lot of pamphlets, girl, a lot of advertising time, a lot of everything – you hear what I'm saying?'

She wasn't buying. Bringing her face up to his, she said 'I ain't running no day-care center. This isn't about no underprivileged youth . This is about our people , Philip, about how we're really treated. We got a man lynched here three days ago and so far not one person has been arrested. Far as I can tell, nobody's even lookin' anymore. You call that justice? You call that progress? That what you want?'

He was silent.

She crossed back to Philip's sleeping couch, stopped, turned to him again. Her tone softened. 'She's playin' you, Philip. She takin' your teeth out. Don't you see that. It's a game for her. You get caught up in the game, you forget what you're about, who you are, who you can trust.'

'I don't forget that. But she's offering something important we can use, something-'

' Goddamn , man, listen to yourself. You talkin' about her offer , you playin' her game…' Coming back to him, she put her hands on his arms, holding them. 'Let me ask you this – is Jerohm Reese out of jail? Is that man Drysdale still working? If you remember, that's what we wanted this morning – those two things – when Senator Wager gives us the call. You remember that? We got either of them?'

'You were with me, Allicey – '

'I got sucked in a minute, too. I thought we were getting something. But ask yourself, what do we got now? Alan Reston? Who's he? We got the mayor upping the reward on Kevin Shea, but I don't see no Kevin Shea. You see him? You see anything really happening?'

She let go of his arms, smoothed the fabric of his shirt. 'We got brothers and sisters fighting out there, Philip. Losin' the streets. Ain't nothin' make them feeling any better until a little simple justice comes down here. That's what we gotta be calling for – some simple justice. And I think in the heat of all this… this negotiating with the senator … we losin' track of who we are, what we all about. That's all I'm sayin'.'

Philip Mohandas kept his face impassive. He backed up a couple of steps, came up against one of the folding chairs and lowered himself into it, his back straight.

Flanked by Allicey and Jonas, Philip Mohandas was out in the front of the store surrounded by perhaps forty of his followers. Even at this time of night, there were a half-dozen microphones, a representative (with telecam) from one of the cable TV stations, a female reporter from the Bay Guardian who'd been hanging at his headquarters all day. Mohandas, aware that he was being taped, was orating:

'… most emphatically are not satisfied with what you're calling the progress of the city, the situation as it stands today. All that we have seen, and continue to see, is lip service, that is all .'

The Guardian reporter spoke up. Behind Mohandas, Allicey and Jonas frowned. 'But what about Alan Reston? Wasn't he your candidate? He's black, doesn't that show some kind of-'

Mohandas let his voice out a bit. He partially raised his fist. 'Whoever it was, the new DA had to be an African-American. The mayor realized he had no other option. Any other choice would have been… gratuitously inflammatory. Mr Reston himself was acceptable under that minimum criteria, but we remain adamant that Jerohm Reese is an innocent victim as well as a continuing example of white oppression, that Mr Art Drysdale is a racist who must be retired from any public position. So no, to answer your question, we are not satisfied.'

'What about the increased reward? Doesn't that-'

Mohandas pointed at the stringer for the cable network. 'Now I'm glad you raised that question because it's more of the lip service I've been talking about. It's an empty gesture, designed to lull my community – my outraged brothers and sisters – into a belief that the power structure, that people of non-color are concerned. Concerned. But we don't want concern. Concern isn't enough. We want results . What good is a reward – be it fifty dollars or five million dollars – if it does nothing to produce the man?' He pointed to The Picture taped to the wall. 'We got to have the man.'

He turned to the camera, focused and intense. 'Let's not get lost in rhetoric, in so-called good intentions. Let us not forget what has happened here in San Francisco, what continues to happen. Arthur Wade has died and nothing has changed. Jerohm Reese is in jail and Kevin Shea walks the streets, and until that gets corrected, until these facts get turned around, we cannot rest. We will not rest.'

His voice had hoarsened somewhat, and Jonas N'doum handed him a glass of water, from which he drank. 'That is why I am calling for a solidarity march – a peaceful solidarity march – on Saturday morning, presenting these demands to the city once and for all: that there is action on Jerohm Reese, that there is action on Mr Art Drysdale, that the city employ all its resources, all its power to find Kevin Shea and begin the righteous task of bringing him to justice.'

The room exploded in a chorus of 'right ons' and 'amens' and Mohandas half turned, received an approving nod from Allicey Tobain, then faced the camera with an expression of fixed resolve.

They were walking on the cold sand of the beach below the Cliff House, Loretta barefoot with her shoes in her hand and wearing Glitsky's flight jacket against the slight chill. There was no wind. He was holding her other hand, pretending to be immune to the weather. They had gotten out here to the ocean, Loretta still driving, along the northern edge of the city, through the Presidio and the Seacliff neighborhood, bypassing anything resembling a curfew area.

'So when are you going back to Washington?'

'I don't know exactly. I'd like to see this… this whole thing resolved, at least stay until that. If it's not too long, which I gather it won't be.'

The night had been all personal – both Abe and Loretta were under the impression that Kevin Shea would be in custody by sometime the next day. The madness would be dissipating. They didn't have to discuss it – it was moving toward its conclusion.

She was continuing. 'I do feel I'm part of that, of all of this. I'm still very worried about Elaine.' Her steps slowed and she stopped walking, turned to look up to Glitsky. 'And then there's you.'

He kept walking, step after step. His factual voice. 'Yes there is.'

'I don't suppose you get to Washington much.'

'That's a good guess.'

She stopped him, studied the sand, drew a few lines in it with her toes. 'I'm here at the recess, couple of times during the year, mostly campaigning.'