A Certain Justice

The sound of more sirens came up to him as he put down Ridley's note. He got up and crossed the darkened room, looked sideways and down where the jail did not block the view. What he saw was not the aurora borealis flickering orange out there. The city was still burning.

52

Melanie's fantasy had been that she would ride like the wind up to the television station, where a handsome young receptionist who perhaps doubled as a crusading news reporter would grab the tape and hustle into the studio – herself in tow – and interrupt whatever program was in progress for what would be an important flash news bulletin.

The reality was more prosaic.

She skirted riot areas in the Panhandle and lower Twin Peaks before she got lost and wandered in what she supposed must have been Noe Valley until she found herself on Church Street, from which she knew she could get down to Army (two more miles or so out of the way), then over to the freeway and up again into the city.

Figuring that her best exit was Bryant Street, which she could then take back south ten blocks to Mariposa, she got off the freeway at the Hall of Justice. A mistake.

A fugitive driving a vehicle with stolen license plates, she pulled off not only into a substantial traffic problem, but into a convention, a gaggle of – she estimated – roughly seven million police cars. Acutely aware of the lack of the sideview mirror, which had been sheered off the night before during her high-speed chase, she had to get across four lanes of this traffic to make her turn to the south. She was also positive the entire time that some cop would pull her over and issue her a ticket for the missing mirror.

None of her worst scenarios developed. It took her nearly five minutes to go the one block but she made the turn, came around out of the traffic and headed south. At last, having arrived at KQED, she found the station dark, evidently closed for the night. The parking lot was fenced but there was an open entrance which she drove through, stopping six feet from a dimly lighted doorway. A fat, jowly security guard sat inside, feet on a desk, reading a comic book.

She buzzed at the door and the man looked up, sighed, slowly straightened, got out of his chair and walked to the door, gesturing to her to indicate what she wanted. It didn't appear that he intended to open the door.

Tentatively, she held the tape up. 'Tape?' she yelled through the glass.

He nodded.

'I've got a tape I'd like to leave for the newsroom. It's very important.'

Another nod.

'Please.'

The guard only pointed to a box by the side of the door, yelling something through the glass that sounded like 'Stickney's got the pox,' but it was probably more like 'stick it in the box.'

'It's really important, somebody's got to see it right away.'

He continued to nod. She had a vision that maybe he had springs implanted in his neck. Maybe it was a physical impairment. Maybe he belonged to the Constant Nodders of America Club. He was also pointing at the box, yelling, 'box, box!'

She couldn't just leave it like this. After all the hassle getting here, Kevin finally getting to tell his story, and now she had to entrust it to this Neanderthal with neck palsy.

But what else could she do? She'd already been driving over an hour and a half. Kevin would be worried sick. She didn't remember the addresses – or even the approximate locations – of any of the other stations. She couldn't just drive around all night and she couldn't go home with the tape, not after all this.

All right. She placed it against the wide slot and pushed. It was inside. Winkin' and Blinkin's buddy leaned over, picked it up, shook it, listened to it.

'It's not a bomb,' Melanie whispered. Then, more loudly: 'It's a tape. It's a VCR tape.'

Bobbing his head randomly, the tape now in his hand, he seemed to be waiting for something else. But she had nothing else. Pointing at the tape one last time, Melanie yelled at the glass, 'It's really important. Okay? Really.'

The guard nodded.

Kevin was up out of his chair as soon as he heard her key in the door, opening it before she could, pulling her to him, gathering her into his arms. 'What happened? Are you all right?' Kissing her, his hands over her back, through her hair, pulling away enough to see her face.

She just held him. Held onto him. Both.

The two of them embracing there in the open doorway, the hall yawning behind them. Finally Melanie remembered where they were and got them both over the threshold, closed the door behind them. 'You know, I think I could use a drink.'

'You? Melanie Sinclair? That's my girl.'

'I could use a big drink. What's a big drink?'

He thought a minute. ' Mai Tais. '

'Okay.'

Holding hands, they went to the kitchen. She was telling him her adventures while he rummaged in the closets, through the refrigerator.

'So, after all that, we're not sure it's even going to get seen?'

'I know. I mean I don't know. I feel like such a failure-'

'Don't,' Kevin said. 'Wes says nobody would believe it anyway. He says I shouldn't have run in the first place. I should have-'

'But you couldn't…'

'I could, I guess, but I didn't. But now that we've gotten to here, he says it's going to come down to a trial.' He tried to drop it casually, even following it with a little riff on drinkmaking. 'Apparently A

'Exactly what would they try you for?'

'What? Oh, murder, something like that. Wes thinks they might even prove it with the picture, public opinion, me being white and Arthur Wade black, all that. I told him I don't think…' He looked up, noticed she had started to cry, crossed to her. 'Hey, hey.' Gathered her to him. 'It's not that big a deal, she doesn't have 151 rum either, so we couldn't have Mai Tais anyway. You really need a float of Myers's 151 if it's going to be any good. Actually, she doesn't have any rum, so the whole Mai Tai idea turns out to be kind of lame.'

She didn't laugh, didn't even smile. Her body continued to tremble against his. He didn't know what to say.

Melanie was in one of the overstuffed chairs, hands folded stiffly on her lap, staring straight ahead. She had continued to cry for a while – she still held a handkerchief tightly.

Kevin came into the living room carrying two glasses in one hand and in the other a large pitcher of liquid with a head on it.

'This,' he said, 'is going to elevate the good time quotient on what I must admit has been a somewhat disheartening evening.'

'What is this?'

' "What is it?" she asks. But, I notice, without a really convincing show of interest. When at her very elbow is the very first rendition of a drink that may be to the nineties what the Margarita was to the eighties.'

'I'm tired, Kevin. I'm scared. This isn't going to work.'

He pointed to the pitcher. 'Whatever else may transpire on the roads of our lives,' he told her, 'this will work.' He poured into one of the glasses and handed it to Melanie.

She took a sip. 'I don't really need a drink anymore. I want to know what we're going to do.'

'When?'

She slapped the arm of the chair, the new drink overflowing. 'Damn it, Kevin! Now! What are we going to do now?'

Back on his heels, Kevin pondered. 'You're right,' he said seriously. 'We're going to have to think about this for a while. I propose we don't say a word for fifteen minutes.'

He drank from his glass, refilled the top inch of hers. She wasn't really thinking about it at all – she was too scared, angry, upset. She took a drink.