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haven’t turned on the television, no newspaper. Nothing.”
    Herman nodded in approval, “You’re one in a million.” Demonstrably true. And he wasn’t kidding about the Rambo thing. The headline:
    RAINBOW RAMBO — F REEWAY CH I P S C HIPPY B ANGS B ANGER.
    The item slanted her way, with bits about what a cocksucker the late and lamented Ricardo Montoya was. Doubtless some of the local Spanish papers were calling him a choirboy. But as it turned out the recently deceased Montoya was part of the VHG gang, the Varrio Hawaiian Gardens gang; a slew of them recently arrested by the Feds for targeting blacks, trying to “eliminate” persons of the African American persuasion from the Hawaiian Gardens suburb in Southeastern LA. As Cheryl and Jane Doe were both “persons of color”—albeit coffee and cream—some wretched bloggers were calling Jane Doe the Hindu Princess . In any case, Sweet Jane wasn’t lily white—so this whole incident could be tagged on to the U.S. Attorney’s spectacular indictment of sixty or so of Varrio’s “Hate Gang” members.
    Herman played with his cottage cheese. “This hearing is just for show so the undocumented community can wave the La Raza flag and go back home for another taco and trim. So, testify. Let the panel rumble a little. This isn’t going anywhere . You got a house, you got a mortgage. You’re a citizen.”
    â€œThat’s my problem,” Chippy told him, and for a few long moments Rachel’s sullen eyes in the bathroom mirror crept back into her head. The deeper message on Rachel’s face as Cheryl’s one-and-only came to the inescapable conclusion that she’d bit off more than she could swallow, much more than she bargained for, and a lot less than she could hope to salvage. Sure, if it meant honor and vows Rachel would fight thigh to thigh with her, but that single devastating look told of a thousand days of doubt, a thousand mute nights and morning regrets in the makeup mirror.
    The worst of them, that standing thigh to thigh wasn’t Rachel’s first choice. Just mopping up the trail of mud Chippy had tracked inside their house, the litigation, the depositions, the liens, the writs and appeals—which were fine for somebody else—but God, you wouldn’t want them on your own living room Bokhara. No cop’s salary could possibly clean that rug up.
    Cheryl came back to the delicatessen table and Herman’s cottage cheese wondering if she’d been talking to herself in public.
    â€œThat’s my problem,” she repeated, leaving out what she’d been thinking. “Things that aren’t going anywhere.” And nevertheless finding the bottom line, “But this might just take everything, Herman. I killed a kid. The family of the bereaved served me. He was a worthless, macho slice-and-dice artist and now he’s dead. His mamacita’s crying and his name was on my bullet. I’m thinking of moving back east.” She took a breath. “Besides, my father was Italian. I’m half an octomaroon or something.”
    â€œNo you’re a complete maroon if you don’t do that hearing; the union can represent or co-represent on the civil suit.” Herman sighed, but hardheaded cops were his specialty. “Like you have a choice. Look, if you were a cookie or a seventeenth-century gentlewoman, I’d name you Lorna Doone. You stood up. You did your job. And you’re married to a lawyer, for crying out loud. The little crap-hat would have killed you stone cold if he could have and then bragged about it later. You know you’re going to testify. Even if you move, you’ll want another job. You’ll need a recommendation from the department. You’ll have to be cleared. Capping a perp out in LA won’t look so bad back east either.”
    â€œI know, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
    Herman