The Shining Girls

Kirby ^{19 NOVEMBER 1992}

Division 1 is the oldest part of the Cook County correctional facility, which is currently expanding with two new buildings to house the overflow of prisoners. Al Capone enjoyed a stay at the county’s expense here back when there was direct access from the street. Now maximum security means that it’s barricaded behind three layers of fences; you have to pass through one gate at a time, twirls of barbed wire double-stacked on top. The grass between the fences is patchy and yellow. The facade with its gothic lettering and lion heads and narrow rows of windows is dingy and discolored.

The historic building hasn’t been afforded the same care and attention as the Field Museum or the Art Institute, although the prison has similar rules for visitors. No eating, no touching.

Kirby wasn’t counting on having to take off her boots to go through the X-ray machine. It takes her five minutes on either side to undo them and lace them up again afterwards.

She is more freaked out than she wants to admit. It’s culture shock. Because it’s just like the movies, only tenser and smellier. There’s a fug of sweat and anger in here, and the dull noise of too many people cooped up together diffusing through the thick walls. The paint on the security gate is scuffed and scratched, especially around the lock, which makes a heavy kerlunk as the guard opens it to let her through.

Jamel Pelletier is already waiting for her at one of the tables in the visitors’ room. He looks worse than the photographs of him in the Sun-Times clips Chet pulled for her. The cornrows are gone and his hair is short and neat, but his skin is greasy. He has a scattering of fine pimples across his forehead above wide eyes with thick lashes and scruffy eyebrows which make him look painfully young, even if he’s in his mid-twenties now. Older than her. The tan prison uniform hangs on him like a sack, the number printed in bold letters down his chest. It’s an automatic civility, moving to shake his hand, but he scrunches up his face with an amused huff and shakes his head.

‘Crap. Already I’m breaking the rules,’ she says. ‘Thanks for meeting with me.’

‘You look different than I thought,’ he says. ‘You bring any chocolate?’ His voice has a husky rasp. She guesses hanging yourself from the bars by your own pants and crushing your larynx will do that to you. The thought of another eight years in here would make that a conceivable option.

‘Sorry. I should have thought of that.’

‘You gon’ help me?’

‘I’m gonna try.’

‘My lawyer said I shouldn’t talk to you. She’s plenty mad.’

‘Because I lied to her?’

‘Yeah. Those people do that professionally. You don’t try to out-bullshit a lawyer, man.’

‘It seemed like the best way to find out about the case. I’m sorry.’

‘You sorted it out with her?’

‘I’ve left messages.’ Kirby sighs.

‘Well, if it’s not okay with her, then it’s not with me neither,’ he says, getting up to go. He jerks his head at the guard, who looks annoyed, and starts to move toward him, reaching for the handcuffs at his belt.

‘Wait. Don’t you want to hear me out?’

‘Your letter spelled it out pretty clear. You think it was some psycho killer did the same to you.’ But he hesitates all the same.

‘Pelletier,’ the guard barks. ‘You coming or going?’

‘Staying for a bit. Sorry, Mo. You know what bitches are like.’ He gives her a smug leer.

‘Not cool,’ Kirby says, keeping her voice level.

‘I give a fuck,’ he snarls. But he momentarily drops his front. Still young, still scared as hell, Kirby thinks. She has that T-shirt.

‘Did you do it?’

‘You serious? Anyone in here going to say different if you ask them that? I tell you what. You figure out what you’re gonna do for me and I’ll help you.’

‘I’ll do a story on you.’

He stares at her and then breaks into a grin so wide it could swallow you up. ‘Shit. You for real? You already tried that one.’

‘You play sports? I’ll cover it.’ That would be a great piece, actually. Prison basketball. Harrison might even go for it.

‘Nah. I do weights.’

‘All right. A profile interview on you. Your side of the story. Maybe for a magazine.’ She doesn’t know how much currency he’ll put in Screamin’, but she’s desperate.

‘Huh,’ he says, like he’s still not buying it. But Kirby knows the truth is everybody wants someone to hear them out. ‘What you want to know?’

‘Where were you at the time of the murder?’

‘With Shante. Banging that fine girl’s ass up against the wall.’ He flaps his hand so that his fingers make a sloppy smacking sex sound against his palm. It sounds uncannily like the real thing. ‘You know it, baby.’

‘I can just as easily leave.’

‘Ooooh. Did I offend you?’

‘It offends me when psychos get away with slashing up girls, jerkwad. I’m trying to find the killer. Do you want to help me or not?’

‘Relax, girl. I’m messing with you. I was with Shante, but she didn’t want to testify ’cos she on parole and hanging with my ass is a violation ’cos of my priors, right? Better I go to jail than the mother of my child. We didn’t think it was gonna stick anyhow. The charges were bullshit.’

‘I know.’

‘Stolen car, sure. Rest of it? Nah.’

‘But you were riding around the same day Julia was killed. Did you see anyone?’

‘You gonna have to be more explicit. We saw a lot of people. Lot of people saw us was the problem. Should have stayed by the lakefront, no one woulda thought nothing of it. But we had to go north up Sheridan.’ He thinks about it. ‘We did stop for a piss near the woods. Probably right round there. Saw a guy. Acting funny.’

Kirby’s stomach flips. ‘Did he have a limp?’

‘Sure,’ Jamel says, rubbing at the cracked skin on his lips. ‘Sure. Yeah.

I remember that. He had a limp. That guy was a limping motherfucker.

Kinda twitchy too. Kept looking all round.’

‘How close were you?’ Her chest is tight. Finally. Fucking finally.

‘Close enough. Across the road. I guess we didn’t think much of it at the time. But he was limping. You could see that.’

‘What was he wearing?’ she says, suddenly careful. You can want something to be true…

‘One of those black puffy jackets and jeans. I remember because it was hot and it seemed odd. Guess he musta been wearing it to hide the blood – am I right?’

‘Black guy? Really dark?’ Also known as leading the witness.

‘As night.’

‘You asshole.’ she says, furious with him. And herself for spoon-feeding him everything she wanted to hear. ‘You’re making this up.’

‘You like it,’ he shoots back. ‘You think if I’d seen some suspicious motherfucker I wouldn’t have told the polis?’

‘Maybe they wouldn’t have believed you. They already had you wrapped up for it.’

‘You’re the one doing the wrapping. Hey, you know, maybe you can do a story on me.’

‘That’s not on the table any more.’

‘Shit. You tell a bitch what she wants to hear and she gets all up in your face. You know what I really want?’ He leans forward and makes a little grabbing motion with his hand to get her to come closer so they won’t be overheard. After a second’s hesitation she does, even though she knows he’s going to come out with some disgusting proposition. He gets his mouth right up against her ear. ‘You take care of my baby. Lily. She’s eight years old now, going on nine. Got diabetes. You get her medicine and make sure her momma doesn’t sell it for crack.’

‘I—’ Kirby rocks back as Jamel starts laughing.

‘You like that? We got a sob story going or what? You can do some of them heartbreak photos with my shorty with her fingers through the fence. Maybe one tear rolling down her chubby little cheek, her hair all done up in pigtails. All those different-colored hairbands. Get a petition going. Protestors outside the prison with them signs and everything. Get me an appeal in no time, right?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Kirby says. She is so unprepared for his animosity, for the miserable fucked-upness of this place.

‘You’re sorry,’ he says flatly.

She pushes away from the table, taking the guard unawares. ‘You still got eight minutes,’ he says, glancing at the clock.

‘I’m done. I’m sorry. I have to go.’ She shoulders her bag and the guard unlocks the door and jerks down the handle to let her out.

‘Sorry don’t mean shit!’ Jamel calls after her. ‘Bring me chocolate next time you come. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups! And a pardon! You hear?’