Shoot, Don't Shoot (17 page)

“I am now,” Jenny answered. “I was afraid you’d be mad at me. Because of my hair.”

If there’s anyone to be mad at, Joanna seethed silently, it’s your grandmother, but she couldn’t say that out loud.

“Jenny,” she replied instead, “you’re my daughter. You could shave your hair off completely, for all I care. It wouldn’t make any difference. I’d sill love you.”

“Should I? Shave it off, I mean? Maybe Grandpa Brady would do it with his razor.”

Joanna laughed. “Don’t do that,” she said. “I was just teasing. Most likely your hair doesn’t look nearly as bad as you think it does. Now,” she added, “is Grandma Brady there? I’d like to talk to her.”

Moments later Eva Lou Brady came on the one. “Is Jenny right there?” Joanna asked.

“No. She went outside to play with the dogs.”

“How bad is her hair, really?”

“Pretty bad,” Eva Lou allowed. “Jim Bob says he could have gotten the same look by holding her finger in an electrical socket. Don’t be upset about it, Joanna,” Eva Lou added. “Your mother didn’t mean any harm. She and Jenny just wanted to surprise you.”

“I’m surprised, all right,” Joanna answered stiffly. “Now, is everything set for tomorrow?”

“As far as I can tell,” Eva Lou replied. “Kristin called and said you need us to bring along some papers from your office. We’ll pick them up on our way to get Jenny from school. We’ll leave right after that, between three-thirty and four.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “If you drive straight through, that should put you here right around eight o’clock.”

“That’s the only way Jim Bob Brady drives,” his wife said with a laugh. “Straight through.”

“How about directions to the hotel?”

“Jimmy already has it all mapped out. Do you want us to come by the school to pick you up? Jenny wants to see where you’re staying.”

“No, I’ll meet you at the hotel. It’s so close you can see it from here on campus. Jenny and I can walk over here Thursday morning so I can give her the grand tour.”

“Speaking of dinner, do we have reservations for Thanksgiving dinner yet?” Eva Lou asked.

“Yes. Right there in the hotel dining,” Joanna answered.

“Jim Bob needs to know if he should bring along a tie.”

“Probably,” Joanna answered. “From the outside, it looks like a pretty nice place.”

“I’ll tell him,” Eva Lou said. “I don’t suppose it’ll make his day, but since you’re the one asking, he’ll probably do it.”

Joanna put down the phone and left the lounge. Back in her own room, she realized she still hadn’t returned Adam York’s call, but she didn’t bother to go back down to the lounge. Instead, she lay on the bed in her room and thought about strangling her infuriatingly meddlesome mother.

Jenny’s long blond hair had been perfectly fine the way it was. Joanna remembered it floating in the wind as Jenny had waved good-bye.

Where the hell did Eleanor Lathrop get off?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Joanna Brady and Leann Jessup ate dinner at La Pinata, a Mexican restaurant near the capitol mall. Over orders of
machaca
tacos, the two women talked. In the course of a few minutes’ worth of conversation, they shared their life stories, giving one another the necessary background in the shorthand way women use to establish quick but lasting friendships.

“My mother divorced my dad when my brother was five and I was three,” Leann told Joanna. “The last time I saw my father was twenty years ago. He showed up at my sixth birthday party so drunk he could barely walk. Mom threw him out of the house and called the cops. He never came back.”

“You haven’t talked to him since?” Joanna asked.

Leann shook her head. “Not once.”

“Is he still alive?”

Leann shrugged. “Maybe, but who cares? He never called, never sent any money. My mother had to do it all. Most of the time, while Rick and I were little, she worked two jobs—one full-time and one half-time—just to keep body and soul together.

“In my high school English class, the teacher asked us to write an essay about our favorite hero. Most of the kids wrote about astronauts or movie stars. I wrote about my mom. The teacher made fun of my paper, and he gave me a bad grade. He said mothers didn’t count as heroes. I thought he was wrong then, and I still do.”

Joanna bit her lip. Thinking about her own mother and the flawed relationship between them, she felt a twinge of envy. “You like your mother then?” she asked.

“Why, don’t you?” Leann returned.

“Most of the time, no,” Joanna answered honestly. “I always got along better with my dad than did with my mother.”

She went on to tell Leann about her own folks, about how Sheriff D. H. “Big Hank” Lathrop died after being hit by a drunk driver while changing a tire for a stranded motorist and about the high school years when she and her mother had been locked in day-to-day guerrilla warfare. Joanna finished by telling Leann Jessup how, that very afternoon and from two hundred miles away, Eleanor Lathrop had been able to use Jenny’s hair to push Joanna’s buttons.

From there—from discussing mothers and fathers—the two women went on to talk about what had brought them into the field of law enforcement. For Joanna it had been an accident of fate. For Leann Jessup it was the culmination of a lifelong ambition.

Over coffee, Joanna got around to telling Leann about Andy’s death. Recounting the story always brought a new stab of pain. Telling Butch Dixon the night before, Joanna had managed to corral the tears. With Leann, she let them flow, but she was starting to feel ridiculous. How long would it take before she stopped losing it and bawling at the drop of a hat?

“What about you, Leann?” Joanna asked, mopping at her eyes with a tissue when she finished. “Do you have anyone special in your life?”

Pm a moment, the faraway look in Leann Jessup’s eyes mirrored Joanna’s own. “I did once,” she said, “but not anymore.” With that, Leann glanced at her watch and then signaled for the waitress to bring the check. “We’d better go,” she added, cutting short any further confidences. “It’s getting late.”

Joanna took the hint. Whatever it was that had happened to Leann Jessup’s relationship, the hurt was still too raw and new to tolerate discussion.

They paid their bill and left the restaurant right afterr that. Riding in Joanna’s county-owned Blazer, they arrived at the capitol mall well after dark and bare minutes before the vigil was scheduled to begin. Folding chairs had been set out on the lawn. A subdued crowd of two or three hundred people, augmented by news reporters, had gathered and were gradually taking their seats. After some searching, Joanna and Leann located a pair of vacant chairs near the far end of the second row.

The organizers from MAVEN had set the makeshift stage with an eye to drama. In the center of the capitol’s portico sat a table draped in black on which burned a single candle. Because of the enveloping darkness, that lone candle seemed to float suspended in space. Next to the table stood a spot-lit lectern with a portable microphone attached.

A woman who introduced herself as Matilda Hirales-Steinowitz, the executive director of MAVEN, spoke first. After introducing herself, she gave a brief overview of the Maricopa Anti-Violence Empowerment Network, a group Joanna had never heard of before reading the newspaper article earlier that morning.

“The people of MAVEN, women and men alike, deplore all violence,” Ms. Hirales-Steinowitz declared, “but we are most concerned with the war against women that is being conducted behind the closed doors of family homes here in the Valley. So far this year sixteen women have died in the Phoenix metropolitan area of murders police consider to be cases of domestic partner violence.

“We are gathered tonight to remember those women. We have asked representatives of each of the families to come here to speak to you about the loved ones they have lost and to light a memorial candle in their honor. We’re hoping that the light from those candles will help focus both public and legislative attention on this terrible and growing problem.”

Matilda Hirales-Steinowitz paused for a moment; then she said, “The first to die, at three o’clock on the afternoon of January third, was Anna Maria Dominguez, age twenty-six.”

With that, the spokeswoman sat down. Under the glare of both stage and television lights, a dowdy, middle-aged Hispanic woman walked slowly across the stage. Once she reached the podium, she gripped the sides of it as if to keep from falling.

“My name is Renata Sanchez,” she said in a nervously quavering voice. “Anna Maria was my daughter.”

As her listeners strained forward to hear her, Renata told about being summoned to St. Luke’s Hospital. Her daughter had come home from her first day at a new job at a convenience store. She had been met at the door by her unemployed husband. He had shot her in the face at point-blank range and then had turned the gun on himself.

“‘They’re both dead,” Renata concluded, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky. “I have had some time to get used to it, but it’s still very painful. I hope you will forgive me if I cry.”

Joanna bit her own lip. The woman’s pain was almost palpable, and far too much like Joanna’s own.

From that moment on, the evening only got worse. One by one the deadly roll was called, and one by one the survivors came haltingly forward to make their impassioned pleas for an end to the senseless killing that had cost them the life of a mother, sister, daughter, or friend.

Renata. Sanchez was right. Because the names were announced chronologically in the order in which the victims perished, the survivors who had lost loved ones earlier in the year were somewhat more self-possessed than those of the women who had died later. That was hardly surprising. The first survivors had had more time—a few months anyway—to adjust to the pain of loss. After speaking in each person took a candle from a stack on the table and lit it from the burning candle. After placing their newly lit candles on the table with the others, the speakers crossed the stage and sat in the chairs that had been provided for them.

Some of the grieving relatives addressed the listeners extemporaneously, while others read their statements hesitantly, the words barely audible through the loudspeakers. Several of the latter were so desperately nervous that their notes crackled in the microphone, rustling like dead leaves in the wind. Their lit candles trembled visibly in their hands.

Joanna could imagine how reluctantly most of those poor folks had been drawn into the fray, yet here they stood—or sat—united both in their grief and in their determination to put a stop to the killing. Listening to the speeches, Joanna was jolted by a shock of self-recognition. These people were just like her. The survivors were all ordinary folk who had been thrust unwillingly into the spotlight and into roles they had never asked for or wanted, compelled by circumstance into doing something about the central tragedy of their lives
.
And the men and women of MAVEN—the people who cared enough to start and run the Maricopa Anti-Violence Empowerment Network—had given those bereaved people a public forum from which to air their hurt, grief, and rage.

By the time Matilda Hirales-Steinowitz read the fifteenth name, that of Serena Duffy Grijalva, Joanna’s pain was so much in tune with that of the people sitting on the stage that she could barely stand to listen. Had she come to the vigil by herself, she might have left right then, without hearing any more. But Joanna had come with Leann Jessup, whose major interest in being there was the last of the sixteen victims—Rhonda Weaver Norton.

And so, instead of walking out, Joanna waited aIong with the silent crowd while a gaunt old man and a young child—a girl—took the stage. At first Joanna thought the man must be terribly elderly. He walked slowly, with frail, babylike steps. It was only when they turned at the podium to face the audience that Joanna could see he wasn’t nearly as old as she had thought. He was ill. While he stood still, gasping for breath, the girl parked a small, portable oxygen cart next to him on the stage.

“My name’s Jefferson Davis Duffy,” he wheezed finally, in a voice that was barely audible. “My friends call me Joe. Serena was my daughter—the purtiest li’l thing growin’ up you ever did see. Not always the best child, mind you. Not always the smartest or the best behaved, but the purtiest by far. When Miz Steinowitz over there asked us here tonight, when they asked us to speak and say somethin’ about our daughter, the wife and I didn’t know what to do or say. Neither one of us ever done nothin’ like this before.”

He paused long enough to take a series of gasping breaths. “The missus and I was about to say no, when our granddaughter here—Serena’s daughter, Cecilia—speaks up. Ceci said she’d do it, that she had somethin’ she wanted to tell people about what happened to her mama.”

With a series of loud clicks and pops, he managed to pull the microphone loose from its mooring. Bending over, he held the mike to his granddaughter’s lips. “You ready, Ceci, honey?” he asked.

Cecelia Grijalva nodded, her eyes wide open like those of a frightened horse, her knees knocking together under her skirt. Joanna closed her own eyes. How could the people from MAVEN justify exploiting a child that way, using her personal tragedy to make what was ultimately a political statement? On the other hand, Joanna had to admit no one seemed to be forcing the frightened little girl to appear on the stage.

“I have a little brother,” Cecelia whispered, while people in the audience held their breath in an effort to hear her. “Pablo’s only six—a baby really. Pepe keeps asking me how come our mom went away to wash clothes and didn’t come back. At night sometimes, when it’s time for him to go to to sleep, he cries because he’s afraid I’ll go away, too. I tell him I won’t, that I’ll be there in the morning when he wakes up, but he cries anyway, and I can’t him make stop. That’s all.”

Ceci’s simple eloquence, her careful concentration as she lit her candle, wrung Joanna’s heart right along with everyone else’s. When will this be over? she wondered. How much more can the people in this audience take?

While Joe Duffy and his granddaughter limped slowly across the stage to two of the last three unoccupied seats in the row of chairs reserved for family members, Matilda Hirales-Steinowitz stepped to the microphone once again. “The latest victim, number sixteen, is Rhonda Weaver Norton, thirty, who died sometime last week.”