Drama City Page 8

  Rachel stared at her a bit harder now. Nardine looked away. She was too thin and had bad color and foul breath. She was irritable. These were signs that she was back on drugs.

  “It’s hard,” said Nardine, her voice trailing off.

  “I know it is,” said Rachel.

  I fall down too. I fail, just like you.

  “Miss Lopez, I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You can try. Now, you need to get yourself to work. And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “You have to get over to the clinic.”

  “Again?”

  “You have to drop urines regularly. You know this. You haven’t done it for a while.”

  Nardine lowered her head and began to cry. Her shoulders shook and tears dropped into her lap. Rachel allowed her to cry without comment. It could have been an act or it could have been real. It made no difference, really, in the end.

  “Mommy, why you sad?” said the daughter.

  “Just play your game, girl,” said Nardine with an angry slashing motion of her hand.

  Rachel had fewer female offenders than she did males, but her female cases tended to take up a disproportionate amount of her time. Women were the most difficult offenders to reform. They often had children and leaned toward relationships with nonproductive men. In terms of their pasts, they came with the most baggage. Most of Rachel’s female offenders had been sexually abused, either by family members or the boyfriends of their mothers, in their childhood and early-teen years. This, and their environment, had led them to drugs and drug addiction. They turned to scams, shoplifting, and prostitution to finance their habits, and graduated to crimes like armed robbery. Since the mideighties, at the acceleration point of the urban drug epidemic, the female prison population had more than tripled. The negative effects of this rippled out; two-thirds of incarcerated women had at least one minor child on the outside.

  In prison, many of these women received drug addiction treatment, and got clean, for the first time in their adult lives. But when they came out, the situation for females was even more harrowing than it was for males. Few had held jobs in the past, and some were simply unemployable. A federal law enacted in 1996 imposed a lifetime ban on female offenders from receiving family welfare benefits and food stamps. No wonder many of these women believed they were better off behind bars.

  Rachel thought there was some truth to this, for women and for men. Certainly for those who were beyond reform, or for those who were simply unprepared to deal with the straight world ever again, prison was a “better place.” No question, it was easier to jail, for some, than it was to live on the street. Many offenders she had known, those who were clearly not going to make it, had spoken almost wistfully about going back to prison. In a couple of cases, she had told these offenders to violate themselves, go back to jail, get fat and recharged, and then come out and try it again. Many, of course, never did come out.

  What she wouldn’t do, what she could never do, was believe that supervision and reform did not work just because they did not work for everyone. If she lost faith in the possibility of redemption, then what she did on a daily basis made no sense.

  “I’m gonna try to get over to that clinic next week, Miss Lopez,” said Nardine.

  “Tomorrow would be better,” said Rachel. “Okay?”

  LORENZO BROWN AND MARK Christianson sat in the Tahoe, idling on M Street, Northeast, off 3rd, looking at a used-car lot surrounded by a high fence topped with concertina wire. Nearby stood the husk of the old Washington Coliseum, its arched roofline rising above the landscape. A pack of kids rode their bikes down the street, turning to cool-eye the uniformed men in the truck.

  Mark pulled the case report on the car lot’s owner, Patricio Martinez, and studied it.

  “Man still got Cujo back in there?” said Lorenzo.

  “You mean Lucky.”

  “How many Spanish you figure call their dogs Lucky?”

  “They do like that name.” Mark closed the file. “C’mon.”

  They locked the truck and walked across the street, entering the open gates of the lot. The business sold old cars, none guaranteed, all with available financing at an exorbitant rate. Ford Tempos, low-end Nissans, Pontiac Fieros, Geos, and Chrysler products from the eighties and early nineties were parked in rows, some unwashed, all with prices soaped on their windshields. Most went for under a thousand dollars.

  A young Hispanic man came out of the garage beside the lot office and eyed the men in uniform as he rubbed his greasy hands on a shop rag. The man was dark and small.

  “Patricio around?” said Mark, that pleasant smile on his face.

  “Offi’,” said the young man.

  “Can you get him for me?”

  The man made no move to do a thing. They all stood there for a minute or so, Mark smiling and the young guy rubbing his hands on the rag and staring implacably at Mark and sometimes Lorenzo. Then a rotund middle-aged Hispanic wearing a gold chain decorating his neck and hairy chest, visible through an almost completely unbuttoned sport shirt, came out of the office to greet them.

  “Mark Christianson,” said Mark, extending his hand, which the rotund man, Patricio Martinez, shook. “From the Humane Society.”

  “I remember you, sure.”

  “Here to check up on Lucky. You mind if we get a look at him?”

  “Yeah,” said Patricio Martinez in a jovial way, “sure, sure.”

  Patricio made a come-on gesture with his hand and moved his bulk between the rows of cars. Lorenzo and Mark followed.

  Lorenzo could see Mark’s jaw tightening behind his smile. The keeping of guard dogs got Mark’s back up. Animals kept in auto parts graveyards, used-car lots, warehouses, and retail establishments had no care or companionship after business hours. On the days that those places were closed, or during act-of-god weather events, many had none at all. During big snowstorms, Mark went out while the rest of the city was at a standstill and fed, watered, and checked on dogs like Lucky. In fact, Mark had ripped his pants climbing over the concertina wire of this very lot to check on Lucky during the blizzard of 2003.

  They turned a corner and came upon a cage, the back of which gave to an open bay door. Lucky smelled their presence. He came out, galloping like a horse, and began to bark, stopping in front of the links, baring his teeth at Mark and Lorenzo. It was a deep, booming bark, fitting for the dog’s size. Lucky was the biggest rottweiler Lorenzo had ever seen.

  “Looks like he remembers you, man,” said Lorenzo. “From that time you came down here in the snow. They say once you feed ’em, they love you for life.”

  Mark ignored him and whistled softly, the way he liked to do when he approached an animal, making a loose fist and putting his knuckles close to the links. The dog snapped at his fist and continued to bark. Mark kept his hand in place and looked around the cage, checking for water and cleanliness. Brown streaks, left from recently shoveled feces, were visible on the asphalt. Greenhead flies had lit on the streaks. Flies, in bunches, were parked on Lucky’s gnarled ears as well.

  “That’s a boy,” said Patricio Martinez, looking fondly at the beast. “Goddamn Lucky, he’s good.”

  “You see those feces?” said Mark.

  “He no got fleas!”

  “Feces,” said Mark. “Dog shit.”

  “Dog shit, sure. I clean it up.”

  “But you didn’t clean it up good enough. After you shovel it, you have to hose it away completely. Otherwise you get all those flies. And then the flies get on Lucky’s ears. They get inside Lucky’s ears, you understand?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  Mark withdrew his hand, knowing the dog would not quiet down in the presence of his master, Lucky being Lucky, doing his job. Then Mark gave instructions to Martinez as to what could be done about the fly problem and the dog’s ears. Mark said he would drop by a solution to rub on Lucky’s ears in the next few days, to get him started on the treatment. Mark wrote out anothe
r Official Notification report so that Martinez would know he was serious.

  “And you need to get that dog neutered,” said Mark.

  “Eh?”

  Mark made a scissoring motion with his fingers down by his own crotch.

  Martinez pursed his lips in distaste. “I’m not gonna do that to Lucky.”

  Having those big balls on him, thought Lorenzo, that’s what keeps old Lucky angry. Unlike Mark, Brown wasn’t going to put his hand anywhere near that animal. Pit bulls got all the negative press, and they could do some serious damage, but in Lorenzo’s experience, unneutered male rotties were the least trustworthy, most aggressive dogs of any type. This one here had a head the size of a buffalo’s too.

  Mark truly believed that there was no such thing as a bad animal. Lorenzo had to remind him that they were animals. Mark just trusted them too much sometimes.

  “Get him fixed,” said Mark, finishing off the form and handing it to Martinez. “We don’t need any more unwanted animals in this city.”

  “Lucky’s good,” said Martinez, wiping at a tear in the corner of his eye that was not there.

  “I’ll be seeing you again,” said Mark.

  Lorenzo and Mark walked out of the lot and crossed the street to the truck.

  “Lucky was really feelin’ your love vibe back there,” said Lorenzo.

  “You lived like that, you’d be angry too.”

  “I bet no one steals none of those hoopties out of that lot, though.”

  “Why would they?” said Mark. “I wouldn’t take one of those cars if Martinez was gonna give it to me for free.”

  “True.”

  “Lucky’s just lonely.”

  “Maybe you ought to come down one night, crawl into that cage, and lie down beside him. Sing him a lullaby, somethin’ like that.”

  “You think?”

  “Show him that scissor sign while you’re at it,” said Lorenzo. “The one that says, I’m about to cut off your nut sack.”

  Mark chuckled. “Maybe I will.”

  “See how old Lucky responds to that.”

  NIXON VELASCO HAD BEEN working as a day laborer for the past three weeks at a construction site on North Capitol Street, south of New York Avenue. Rachel Lopez had told him she was going to visit him on the job sometime during the week and that she would be speaking to his foreman about his performance. She had known which day she would do this, but she had purposely not given him the exact information. She wanted the threat of her visit to be his incentive to show up for work daily and on time.

  “Como te va?” said Rachel, using her Spanish, knowing he would answer in any English he could muster, a game the two of them played.

  “Good,” said Velasco, a short, barrel-chested man with native features and night black hair. His skin, already dark, had been deeply coppered by the sun. “Is okay.”

  They were off to the side of the site, by a trailer. Some of the other men had blown kisses at Rachel as she’d arrived, but Velasco had silenced them with his eyes. Later on, Velasco would tell them that Rachel was his probation officer. On future visits, the men would keep their eyes on their work and make no comments as she passed through the site.

  “Esta trabajando duro, eh?” said Rachel.

  A thin smile came to Velasco’s lips. His face carried a film of dirt. His tan T-shirt was brown with sweat. He stank of perspiration and last night’s beer. She could see the answer to her question in front of her. But he didn’t take offense. It was pleasant to look at her, and he felt that she truly was watching out for his best interests. Besides, she was only doing her job.

  “Yes,” said Velasco, preferring to answer her, mostly, in English, telling her in his own way that he knew of the mixture in her blood. “I work har’.”

  “Esta estable tu trabajo?”

  Velasco nodded. “I come every day.”

  “Very good,” said Rachel. “Recibi los resultados de tu prueba de drogras.”

  “The clinic?”

  Rachel nodded. “You dropped a negative. Esta limpio.”

  “I no use the drug.”

  “Keep it up. You’re doing fine.”

  Maybe, thought Rachel Lopez, you’ll make it this time. Velasco, named Nixon by his father in honor of the man revered by many Hispanics, had seen plenty of trouble in his youth. A member of the old Brown Union gang in Columbia Heights, he had done a stretch for multiple drug offenses, been paroled, and gone back in on an aggravated assault conviction, which had been pled down. By the time he had returned to the street, his former gang members were gone, erased by death, prison, or deportation. Newer, more violent Hispanic gangs like 1-5 Amigos, STC, La Raza, MS-13, La Mara R, and Vatos Locos had since come to prominence around the city and made headlines for their brazen, murderous acts. At thirty-one, Nixon Velasco was too old to survive the new game. Age and maturity, more than jail time, remorse, or conscience, had reformed him. He knew he could not compete, and he was too tired to try.

  “Donde este tu jefe?”

  Velasco pointed at the trailer. “Ramos in the offi’.”

  “Until next time, Nixon.” Rachel looked him in the eye and shook his hand.

  On the way to the trailer, Rachel passed another of her offenders, Rafael Salamanca, also out after back-to-back jolts. Rachel had used Salamanca as a contact to help find Nixon this job. Rachel greeted him in Spanish, but he only nodded grimly in return and kept his eyes on the hole into which he was thrusting his shovel.

  She knew Salamanca was having problems with the straight life. Stress in his home environment, not pressure from old peers, was the main cause. A veteran of a defunct Latino gang himself, Salamanca had returned from prison to find that his daughter, a recent high school dropout, had joined Vatos Locos at sixteen years of age. In that particular gang, one of the initiation rites for females was submission to group rape. Salamanca, normally a quiet, brooding man, had recently confessed to Rachel that he craved drugs as a means of escape from the harsh reality of what his life had become. During that conversation, he had also called his wife a puta and a drunk, and her mother, who lived with them in their apartment, a “filthy old pig.” Rachel was awaiting the report from Salamanca’s latest urine test and was not optimistic about the results.

  Rachel handled forty cases at any given time. Of those offenders, the majority worked in day labor, construction, landscaping, and house painting jobs. They found these jobs through other offenders and through employers who were sympathetic to the problems facing ex-cons, either because they had relatives who had been incarcerated or because they had done time themselves. Still others actively sought out offenders for employment, from shelters, halfway houses, and bulletin boards, because they felt it was the Christian thing to do. Every day, hopeful offenders stood before dawn at pickup points like University Boulevard and Piney Branch Road in Maryland, and Georgia and Eastern avenues in the District. If they did good work, and if they were dependable, this day-to-day struggle could often lead to steady employment.

  In the air-conditioned trailer, Rachel found Nixon’s boss, a good-looking, gray-templed man named Ramos, who had done a federal jolt in Lewisburg many years ago, behind a desk. He told her that Nixon Velasco was a good worker and, in his opinion, on the straight. This particular job would probably last for another three months. Ramos planned to keep Velasco on the payroll, if possible, for the duration of the build. After that, he couldn’t be sure. If Nixon kept working the way he was now, maybe he’d take him along to the next job.

  “How about Rafael Salamanca?” said Rachel. “How’s he doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “He’s missed a few days. He needs a little encouragement sometimes.”

  “Let me know if you need me to jump in.”

  “How will I get in touch with you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do I have your number?”

  “You have it. I gave you my card the last time I came through.”


  “But that’s just the work number, eh?”

  Ramos tented his hands and smiled. The muscles in his tan forearms bunched with the action. He looked Rachel over in a manner that was not about business, and he smiled.

  “You ever go out for a beer, something, when the day’s done?”

  “No.” Rachel shook her head and tried to keep his eyes. “I guess I’m all about work.”

  “You should enjoy yourself more. Good-looking woman like you.”

  Rachel glanced at her wristwatch.

  “Even with no makeup,” said Ramos.

  “I’ve got to get going.”

  “Okay,” said Ramos, amusement in his eyes. “You go ahead.”

  In her car, Rachel smoked a cigarette, her hand out the open window. She thought no further of Ramos, but rather of Nixon Velasco and Rafael Salamanca. It looked as if Nixon was going to make it and Rafael was not. No matter what she did, no matter how diligent and tough she was, she felt she had little control. That was during the day. It could be different at night.

  She had a few more stops on her schedule: Eddie, whom she always enjoyed visiting, and a couple of others, whom she did not. She could put all of these appointments off until tomorrow, she supposed. It would set her back at the office in terms of her paperwork, but the field visits needed to be done.

  She didn’t have to meet with those offenders now. She was ready for a drink, and something else.

  TEN

  DEERIC GREEN COULDN’T DECIDE between small DVD screens in the headrests or one big screen in the dash. That way, he could look at movies and videos himself as he was driving his Cadillac. Why should he care if his passengers had their own screens? They wanted them, they could do their own cars that way.

  The other thing was, he didn’t want to mess up his ride now that he had it the way he wanted, customized and personalized. He had paid this woman good money to embroider his name on every headrest in the truck. She had done it in cursive and used gold thread. Against the black leather, the gold looked real nice.