Vengeance. Zachary Lazar

upstairs, he heard the first gunshot and turned back.

      king: He was on his knees, with his hands in the air. Pleading. Begging for his life.

      lagarde: And then the other shots came.

      king: He slumped down after that. I mean, he was out.

      lagarde: And what did you do at that point?

      king: I was just standing there. I was in shock. I was looking at Damien and Lawrence says, “Move, move. What you standing around for?” He opened the door. He went busting out through the door and I followed him.

      lagarde: And what happened when you saw Antoinette?

      king: Lawrence told her what happened. He said, “I shot Damien.” Antoinette, she said, “What? Why you shot Damien?” He said, “’Cause he seen my face.”

      lagarde: Okay.

      king: Lawrence, he sat down, it was like he was in shock. You know what I mean? He was like fuck it, I shot him. And Antoinette, she was scared. We was both scared, nervous. I just drove them where they wanted to go. They went inside his auntie’s house. (Sobbing.) He took him a bath. And I left. And I came back later. Later that night.

      lagarde: When the police were there?

      king: Yeah. About six thirty.

      lagarde: To the scene of the crime.

      king: Yeah.

      He was having trouble talking now, his speech broken by low moans. When the tape finished, the deputy explained that in an interrogation room the microphone is often affixed to the wall almost at the level of the table, much lower than you would expect, because when a suspect confesses, he’s often bent over, speaking almost inaudibly. This was how Kendrick sounded toward the end of his interrogation. There were four tapes altogether, the last two very short. By the end, we’d been in the room with the deputy for about forty minutes, and Deborah and I still hadn’t really talked.

      lagarde: Okay. Is everything you’ve told me true and correct to the best of your knowledge?

      king: Yes, sir.

      lagarde: Okay. And how do you feel you’ve been treated by me tonight, Kendrick?

      king: Fairly. Fair.

      lagarde: Let me ask you one last question. Why did you want to participate in a crime like this?

      king: I was sick. I needed to get high. We was going to hit a lick.

      lagarde: Hit a lick?

      king: Hoping to find drugs, money, whatever. I needed to get high. It’s why I come back later that evening, because I still needed to get high.

      From my reading of his case file, I knew a lot more about Kendrick’s past than Deborah did. She had simply heard the four taped statements we’d just listened to. His defense at his trial was that the last three tapes were just a series of lies he’d recited under coercion from the police. I looked over at Deborah now and saw that she was focused not on what we’d just heard but on one of the photographs of Damien Martin. It was the one of Martin with his two daughters sitting on his knee, smiling at the person taking the picture—perhaps their mother, Jodi—in their matching sweatshirts with the giraffes on them. I looked at the picture and realized, again, how my focus on Kendrick had distorted my view of what had happened. It made me hesitant to ask Deborah what I had brought her there to ask her.

      “He was desperate,” she said, when I finally did.

      I had believed he had nothing to do with the murder at all. When he first told me his story, I’d formed an impression of Kafkaesque randomness—why had the police even considered him a suspect?—and this impression had affected everything about my conversation with Sonia, I saw now. I didn’t want to believe what I’d just heard Kendrick say on the last three tapes, but it didn’t “sound” coerced, or like a lie. It hadn’t sounded that way to Deborah, either. But what he’d said amounted to a confession of second-degree murder—in legal terms, in Louisiana, where just being present made him a participant—whether I agreed with that or not.

      I tried to contact Kendrick’s lawyer a few days later. I tried to contact the detective Ray Lagarde, who had interrogated him, and who no longer worked for the Jefferson Parish Sherriff’s Office. I called and e-mailed them both, but as I expected, neither would talk to me.

      I saw within myself a kind of ignorance that grew deeper the more I looked at it. I kept trying to understand what had happened in Kendrick’s life. I kept trying to imagine it. All this started more than four years ago.

      5

      A Monday in August, 2003. He pushes at the edge of the blackout curtain and sees how bright it is outside—kids’ bikes, a plastic folding chair—all the trailer houses under the weed trees, the cars at random angles on the gravel shoulder. It’s morning, he has time to follow through on the help-wanted ads, but he can hardly see now that he’s looked out the window at the sunlight. He hears on the TV McDonald’s celebrating Pixar’s Finding Nemo with a new triple-thick shake you’ll find sweet. Aysha’s blocks are all over the floor. There are crayons and toys scattered over the plastic play mat. Dishes in the sink—sippy cups and plastic bowls and a million tiny colored spoons. Janelle’s at work, Aysha at day care, he’s alone. He thinks he can surprise them, put everything in its place, find a way to do that, it’s Janelle’s birthday, Happy Birthday, that’s something he can do. Caring. Discipline. Passion. Become a professional chauffeur with Envoy Limousine. Provide exceptional customer service while having fun.

      He tries to enter into the room’s soft darkness, but something familiar and inclusive about the TV reminds him that he’s only here because he has no money, no car, no one has called. Five days back after ten days in the parish jail, then the court appearance last Friday, waiting all morning with a can of Coke so they could schedule another hearing, more waiting. But then there was yesterday, that moment at the Oakwood mall outside Footaction when Janelle told him to wipe Aysha’s face, Clean up her face, Kendrick, and he took the wipe and bent down over her in the stroller and saw her cheeks, her nose, so intricate and small she seemed to have been shaped from a mold, and that was good, his baby girl, he couldn’t believe how it made him feel, even while some small part of him hung back, thinking how it looked. Aysha, Janelle—his girls. Going to the Oakwood mall with Aysha in his arms, her hair in pig tails and beads, Janelle trying on those shoes, suede straps latticed over her ankles. Clean up her face, Kendrick: it was not just bossing, it was a sign that he was welcome, that she felt comfortable enough to play it like everything was normal. He could make a few phone calls, then think about starting on the dishes, stop laughing at the the help-wanted ads. Chauffeurs must be 24 or older, hold a valid Chauffeur’s License or CDL with a “P” Endorsement, have a clean driving history, and excellent customer service skills.