Free Trace of Doubt by Erica Orloff Page B

that night. I had come alone, as she asked me to. She was waiting in a back booth.
    I fitted in at the bar she chose. Not because I was white or most of the bar’s patrons were white, or even because I was Irish, but because I had on jeans and a tank top with a black linen jacket, my hair in a ponytail, no makeup on, sneakers on my feet. I knew I was attractive—but my kind of beauty is simple—long shiny hair, good complexion, nice smile, good body. Kenora, the “new and improved” Kenora, didn’t fit in because she was so extraordinary. She looked like she had just stepped off a tour bus as a music star. When I reached the table, I saw that tonight she had in color contacts that transformed her eyes to an exotic emerald color, and her body-hugging outfit seemed to have been sewn precisely to fit her. I sat down without waiting to be asked.
    “Hi,” I said. I had checked out the place from the parking lot. I hadn’t seen any bodyguard types.
    “Thanks for coming,” she said softly.
    “I’m still not sure why you wanted to meet me.”
    She looked down at the table but didn’t say anything.
    I waited, but still nothing. Finally, I spoke. “Kenora,” I exhaled, trying to gather my thoughts. “I didn’t grow up in the projects. So I don’t know what it’s like to have the deck stacked against me in terms of race and poverty and education. I don’t want to screw up the life you have, no matter how you got it. I believe you were raped.”
    “I was.”
    I nodded. “But Marcus’s blood wasn’t on you. And the stain isn’t your blood, either. And he had an alibi. So here’s the thing, Kenora. I may not have grown up in the projects, but my mother was murdered. The case was never solved. And that deck was stacked against me my whole life. I never got over it. I’m still not over it.”
    She swallowed hard. “How was she killed?”
    “Not sure. She disappeared and they didn’t find her for months.”
    “Did your daddy do it? That happened to a friend of mine. Her boyfriend, Derek, didn’t want to get married when he got her pregnant, so Derek killed her. And there was a girl in the building next to mine whose husband killed her ’cause he found out his baby wasn’t really his.”
    For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t know how to answer the question of my father’s guilt or innocence. “I don’t think my dad had anything to do with it.”
    Kenora looked down at the glass of champagne she had in front of her. The waitress came over and I ordered a cola. After the waitress left, neither I nor Kenora said anything for a few minutes. Finally I decided to take the lead.
    “Marcus didn’t do it, did he?”
    She was very still, but after a long pause, she shook her head.
    “Do you want to tell me who did?”
    “I’m not a bad person.”
    I nodded at her. “You’re here now. Kenora, you can fix this.”
    Her hands shook, and she took a big swig of her drink. “I was raped by Tony Castle.”
    I had to conceal my reaction. Tony Castle was a major NBA player, drafted after his sophomore year in college. He had endorsement deals for sneakers, a car, a soft drink, a sports drink. He was a huge star in the sports world. “Was he from your neighborhood?” I tried to remember his story beyond the ghetto-to-NBA, rags-to-riches inspirational stuff that they always talked about on sports shows or during games.
    “Way back. I mean, way, way back. See—” she took another swig of champagne “—he was from the same projects. But he left. Went to live with his coach. That was his shot, you know?”
    I nodded, urging her with my eyes to go on.
    “He used to come back once in a while, not often, to play b-ball with his old friends. One time he did, he kept flirting with me. Next thing I knew, he went nuts. Said I was a tease and a whore and a gold digger. He raped me.” She wiped at a stray tear. “His friend Curtis watched. Didn’t do anything except occasionally say, ‘Go for it,