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.
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