Say Nice Things About Detroit Read Free Page B

the deep, rich color of stained maple.
    â€œI’m trying to get to the corner of Hancock and Cass,” she said.
    The cop looked to his left. Her destination was less than half a block away. “Why?”
    â€œMy brother and sister died there,” she said.
    â€œYou’re saying that the FBI agent, Burton, was your brother?”
    â€œSame mother,” she explained. It always needed expla-
nation.
    He waved the other cop car away, then handed her back her license and the other paperwork, which the rental car company had packed up in a plastic zip-lock baggie.
    â€œDrive up to Cass,” he told her. “Turn right, put your car in the lot. We’ll stay with you. I don’t want you out here alone.”
    The cop’s partner was another black man, older, his hair mixed with gray, frosty curls. She liked these men immediately. They meant to protect her.
    â€œIt’s the middle of the day,” she said.
    â€œYou got the art museum just a couple blocks north, Wayne State’s nearby, but you shouldn’t come down here alone. Not a woman, especially not a blond woman.”
    â€œYou’re asking for trouble,” the older cop said. “Even if it ain’t bad trouble.”
    Soon she was standing with the two men at the corner.
    â€œHow did this happen?” she asked.
    â€œI wouldn’t park here at night,” the older cop said. “No way.”
    â€œHe was waiting for someone,” said the other.
    â€œAnd vice versa, it looks like.”
    A thought came to her. “Why did you pull me over?” she asked.
    â€œYou looked lost.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    â€œA white woman in a rental car driving slow around here? That’s lost.”
    â€œMaybe looking for the art museum,” said the older cop.
    A moment passed, as if to accentuate the basic insincerity of what they were saying.
    â€œYou thought I was here to score,” Carolyn said. “You racial-profiled me.”
    â€œWhoa, ma’am,” said the younger cop. “None a that. You looked lost. We were just trying to help.” He paused. “Protect and serve. That’s what this is all about, ma’am.”
    â€œWould you have stopped a black woman here?”
    â€œA black woman would have been speeding,” he said.
    III
    T HE FREE PRESS divulged that the victims were brother and sister, and for a couple days the story moved the mayor’s troubles below the fold. David paced back and forth in front of his kitchen counter, looking at the phone number. He wanted to have an idea what to say; he was bad at speaking on the fly. There was a reason he hadn’t tried to be a litigator. He considered himself especially bad on the phone and often practiced how he thought the conversation might go. Mrs. Evans, this is David Halpert calling. I read about Dirk and Natalie in the papers. I am so sorry. It’s horrible.
    He felt an obligation to make the call, but he dreaded it. It was the sorrow. He’d had enough with sorrow. He could let his life become an exercise in it—his son, his marriage, his mother, eventually his father, his city—or he could make it otherwise. Cory was dead four years now. Simply to choose to live differently made as much sense as anything.
    He picked up the phone and dialed the Evanses, seven digits. He got an error message. The phone company wanted him to use the new area code.
    A woman answered.
    â€œIs this Mrs. Evans?”
    â€œPut me on your do-not-call list,” she said.
    â€œMrs. Evans, it’s David Halpert calling.”
    A pause. “David? Natalie’s friend?”
    â€œYes. I happen to be in town and, well, I’ve seen the papers and so I’m calling to say I’m very, very sorry. I don’t—”
    â€œThank you, David,” she said, saving him. “How are you doing?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œAnd your parents?”
    â€œMy dad is good.