Page 25 of Punishing Penelope
You fucked the Wilder bitch. Did she ride you hard? Is her cunt as steely as her mouth?
The press is the enemy. The public I swore to protect hates us more often than not. There’s the rare occurrence someone’s actually grateful, but most of the time, we’re one flick of a lighter away from exploding.
The crap press conference they, for some fucking reason, wanted me to attend is finally over. I itch to get back to work, to get back out there to make the difference I can. When I became a cop, I thought I’d save people. We do but, some years in, I’ve learned most things we do is put out fires someone already lit. We don’t prevent shit. The only reward is nailing the perps and getting justice for the victims.
Justice little Savannah Wilder never got.
It’s not a small thing, though, getting that closure. What happens behind the scenes, what the public—Penelope—never sees or bothers to look for, is our dedication to what we do. I’m proud of our work, and for someone to spend their career shitting on that—for her, of all people, to hate me. I’d risk my life for her’s and everyone’s safety, and do I get a fucking thank you? Ever? No.
At that moment, I turn my head, and our eyes meet. All the old emotions, all the years of suppressing the crushing end to all of our youths, rush to the surface.
She glares at me. If looks could kill, I’d be heading to the morgue instead of to the precinct. I scowl as dark thoughts, and sadistic, perverted images replace the brief bout of self-pity.
If I could get her alone, get her on her knees, stripped, vulnerable, and afraid.
I’d punish Penelope Wilder for all those articles.
Hard.
For her articles and for fucking leaving me without a word. She’s so good at talking, she never stops, so why didn’t she talk to me?
Chapter Six
Penelope
Dry, hot winds make the dust whirl, settle, then whirl again. Tiny dust devils chase each other along the street. I swallow against my parched throat and reach for the bottle of water in my bag, taking a few eager gulps. The sun makes everything so bright, it almost as if the landscape is bleached.
Mayra, her husband, Giordanna, and four other children live in a tiny house in a suburb on the outskirts of L.A., far from the glamour and wealth. The roads are poorly maintained. There are a couple box stores, a hairdresser slash nail salon, a few clothing stores, car dealers, and a few diners. Broken glass, used needles, and condoms adorn the narrower side streets. Crumpled pieces of paper and old leaves chase each other across the open space. The freeway runs close, cutting through the neighborhood, making the air dense and filled with a persistent, vibrating, rumbling noise.
I parked my car, met up with Mike, my regular camera, and we’re doing a lap through the neighborhood.
“This.” I point. “That. This.”
I want the mood of the place. Most of these pictures won't end up in the feature in the printed edition, but I’ll use a few in a collage online.
I don’t want to be a cynic, but I’m becoming one. No matter if I fight it, when I walk through the neighborhood, taking in the glaring differences between those with power and those without, excitement rises in me. This is good stuff, and I’ll make hearts bleed.
A pink flyer by my feet catches my attention. There are dirty footprints, a pattern that could match boots, across the text. It looks as if it’s been lying there a while. I toe it and turn it so I can read what it says. Something about the grand opening of a clothing store, Chantelle’s. I glance up at the graffiti-tagged sign on the façade, the same pink, the h, a, and n missing, so it says C telle’s. The windows are boarded up, and the rolling security shutter in the doorway is stuck two-thirds of the way down. A dirty sleeping bag and one shoe lie in the little space on the landing in front of the door. A hiding space for someone at some point, but it looks abandoned.
“This,” I tell Mike. “And over there.”
His camera clicks almost nonstop. Our gazes meet briefly, and I see it in his eyes, too. We both feel that shiver down our spines.
We’re getting amazing material, and we’ve only just started. There’s a story here, and it’s going to get juicy.
Giordanna is small for a fourteen-year-old. Tucked up in her bed, pale beneath a white sheet, she doesn’t look older than ten. Her eyes are huge and dark, the pain in them too great for such a young girl. Her long dark hair is braided to perfection, not a single strand out of place.
Mayra, a short, dark, chubby woman with tired eyes, hurries to open a window. “There’s a smell… from the bag.”
“I didn’t smell it. You have a beautiful home,” I say. I
t’s in perfect order, with a homey feel despite the depressing exterior.
I can tell I hit gold with my praise. Mayra beams at me, stroking the sheet to smooth out a few wrinkles. She exchanges a glance with her daughter, then looks up at me. There’s hope in her eyes, hope her story will be told. I can’t promise I’ll change everything, but I’ll do something to give these people a voice they don’t have.
Mike and I introduce ourselves to the girl, our voices hushed as if we’ve stepped onto sacred ground. She whispers a soft ‘hi.’
Mother and an older brother—a gangly older teen with dark blond hair in a crew cut and new pimples competing for space between the craters of old ones on his cheeks—help Giordanna out of bed into a wheelchair that must be decades old. Her brother wraps her legs in a throw blanket.