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needs a kidney transplant. You gotta help her.”
    The detectives ignored her and proceeded to question them. “My name’s Detective Goldson,” the white cop said before motioning toward the tall, dark-skinned guy, “and this is Detective Bettis. We’re with Narcotics.”
    Pulling a chair out from the table, Goldson sat down directly across from Gigi’s grandma while his partner remained standing.
    “You smoke?” he asked, removing a pack from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
    Grandma nodded.
    The detective handed her a cigarette, held out a lighter, and flicked the flame. Grandma leaned forward and lit up; taking a long drag, she sat back.
    He offered a cigarette to Gigi, but she refused. Lighting up a smoke of his own, the detective eyed the older woman sitting in front of him. “So who you selling crack for?” Detective Goldson asked,leaning in toward the table. “We know somebody’s supplying you. Tell us who you work for, and we’ll go easy on you.”
    Gigi opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, her grandma said, “The drugs no Gigi’s, and the drugs no mine.”
    “According to our source, your grandson and granddaughter are selling,” the detective stated matter-of-factly, moving closer to the table. “But word is … they’re selling for you.”
    Grandma raised her shaky hands palms up. “You can’t believe half of what you hear.”
    “This has the Diaz brothers stamped all over it,” the black detective responded, crossing his muscular arms. “Give them up, and we’ll cut you and your family slack.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grandma lied.
    Both cops just stared at her for a moment. Finally one of them spoke up. “You sure that’s all you wanna tell us?”
    Tapping her cigarette ash into the ashtray, Grandma nodded. Lola Lewis was not your typical grandmother. Fifty-five years old, she loved rocking the latest fashions, and she did whatever she needed to do to make sure her grandkids had the best that money could buy.
    After questioning the older woman, the detectives left the room. Gigi started to speak, but her grandma quickly shook her head, indicating she should be quiet. She knew the cops kept the recorder running in the interrogation room in hopes of catching some idiot slipping.
    Gigi sat there in silence, not believing how her grandma was taking up for her and Andrew. When she saw the other womanlean over on the table, trying to catch her breath, Gigi panicked again.
    “Are you okay?” she asked.
    Grandma didn’t say a word.
    “Help,” Gigi yelled, running to the door and pounding on it. When the detectives finally returned a few minutes later, they noticed Ms. Lewis’s condition and had her escorted out of the room by another cop.
    “Where you taking her?” Gigi asked, tears streaming down her face.
    Neither detective bothered to respond as they led her back to the metal table in the center of the small room. Gigi stared out the window, which faced the street.
    “So tell me, who does the crack belong to … your grandmother … Chico?” the white detective asked, his blue eyes searching her from the feet up.
    Turning her attention to him, Gigi readjusted herself in the metal folding chair and then said, “What are you talking about? Grandma doesn’t sell drugs … and I didn’t know there was any in the house. I was just spending the night.”
    The detective’s hardened eyes locked with hers. Undeterred, Gigi didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking away. Her stare only grew firmer.
    “You’re lying. You live in that apartment. We’ve been watching you come and go for months. We’ve been watching your grandma, too. Word on the street is Grandma’s making crazy dough.”
    “Fuck what the street say. I know that shit ain’t Grandma’s. First of all, she’s not stupid enough to sell drugs. If she knew drugs were in the house, she would’ve thrown them out. Second,she’s too old. With her bad kidneys, she