The Crime Writer Read Online Free PDF Page A

chamber of gray walls came the clinking of leg restraints and disembodied voices, strong and cracked, black and white, most of them complaining. Singing their inmate tunes.
    Wudn’t me.
    Some motherfucker framed me.
    I’m innocent. I was just minding my own bidness when…
    Up in that cold box, far from the levers of power, it seemed wise not to add my voice to the chorus. But I knew I hadn’t done it. I knew that I could not have murdered Genevieve, even as I grew terrified that I had.
     
    Chic had come first, of course, as soon as they allowed it.
    I was led down a harshly lit corridor that smelled of ammonia into a private interview room used for prisoners kept out of general pop for their own protection. Battle-scarred wooden chair, Plexiglas shield, obscenities finger-smudged on the metal desktop—high school all over again.
    The guard pronounced his name incorrectly, like the French appraisal of a hairdo, though Chic is anything but. He was dressed as he always was, as if he’d just gone shopping for the first time without his mother. Denim shorts that stretched below the knee. Oversize silk shirt, olive green, buttoned across his vast chest. A bling chain necklace matched the chunk of gold on the left-hand ring finger.
    He shifted his big frame around, trying to get comfortable on a chair not designed for professional athletes. Seeing him made my eyes well at the ways in which my life had unraveled since the last time I’d seen him. A week? Eight days?
    Chic placed a surprisingly white palm on the Plexiglas. I matched it with my own—it felt surreal to mimic the gesture I knew only from movies.
    “What do you need?” he asked.
    My voice, little used, sounded as hoarse as those that floated up the walls. “I didn’t do this.”
    He gave me a calming gesture, hands spread, head tilted and slightly lowered. “Don’t you cry, Drew-Drew,” he said softly. “Not in here. Don’t give ’em that.”
    I wiped my eyes with the hem of my prison-issue shirt. “I know. I’m not.”
    Chic looked like he wanted to break through the glass and fight a few fights for me to make sure the bullies gave me wide berth. “What can I do?”
    “Just being here.”
    He bridled a bit, indicating, I guessed, his desire for a task, for some better way to help. Philly born, Chic is East Coast loyal and likes to prove it. I would find out later that he’d waited downstairs for four and a half hours to get in and see me.
    His powerful hands clenched. “This is like one of your books. Except worse.”
    “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
    My fingers were at my head again, riding the rosary beads of the secondary suture scars. I noticed Chic watching me and lowered my hand.
    He looked concerned. “How you holding up?”
    I stared up at the ceiling until my vision got less watery. “Scared shitless.” A rush of panic constricted my throat, reminding me why it was better not to tackle the fear head-on.
    He seemed to be considering his next words. “I been in jail, but nothing like this. Your shadow must be’ fraid of its shadow.”
    I rubbed my eyelids until my heartbeat no longer sounded like a scaffold drumroll. Then I said, “Make sure April’s okay. She hasn’t visited me. Not in the hospital, not here.”
    “You haven’t been together so long.”
    “I suppose it is a lot to handle.”
    Chic raised his eyebrows as if to say, Ya think?
    I couldn’t talk about losing April while maintaining a stiff upper lip, so I asked, “What news from the front?”
    “Usual shit. CourtTV, three-minute segments on Five, five-minute segments on Three. Reporters feeling good ’ bout themselves because they remember to say ‘allegedly.’”
    I already knew that the prosecutor’s version had infected the media’s take, and vice versa. The victim had been photogenic, and the public had hooked into her the way it liked and into me the way it required. The story had taken on a life of its own, and I’d been cast in the nastiest