Kill Alex Cross

Sampson that night.
    My best friend, John Sampson, and his wife, Billie, were on the steering committee for a much-needed charter school they were trying to get going in our neighborhood in Southeast DC. Tonight’s event was supposed to be an informational meeting, but people around the neighborhood had already started lining up on either side of the issue.
    So I brought reinforcements with me — my “ninety-something” grandmother, Nana Mama; and my wife, Bree, who works as a detective with the MPD’s Violent Crimes Branch and was also just crazy enough to marry me a few months earlier.
    The three of us showed up early at the community center to help set up. I was trying to keep Ethan and Zoe Coyle off my mind.
    “Thanks for doing this, sugar. I owe you,” Sampson said. He was running sound cable while I pulled folding chairs off a big rack. “It’s probably going to get a little ugly in here tonight.”
    “Can’t be helped, John. You were just born that way,” I said, and he started for me. Sampson and I bring out the smart-ass kid in each other — ever since we were smartass kids growing up in this same neighborhood.
    “And we’re focusing .” Billie came whizzing by with a handful of flyers for us to give out at the door. She was excited, but also nervous, I could tell. A lot of misinformation had been spread around the neighborhood, and the opposition to the charter school was mounting.
    I thought the rain might keep people away, but by seven o’clock the room was completely full. John and Billie got things started, talking about a small-community approach, double periods of math and reading, parental involvement — everything that had them jazzed. Just listening to them, I was getting excited myself. My youngest, Ali, might go to this school one day.
    But this is Washington, where nobody lets a good idea stand in the way of the status quo, and things started to go downhill in a hurry.
    “We’ve heard all this before,” a woman in a housedress and sneakers without laces said from the mike in the aisle. I recognized her from church. “The last thing we need is another charter around here drawing down our public school budget.”
    There was a mix of half applause, half boos, and some unpleasant shouting around the room.
    “That’s right!”
    “Come on, get real!”
    “What’s the point?”
    “ The point ,” Billie cut in, “is that not nearly enough kids from our neighborhood go on to college. If we can get them started on the right foot from day one —”
    “Yeah, that and a dollar won’t even get you a cup of coffee anymore,” Housedress Lady said. “We should be getting some of our closed schools reopened, not trying to start up new ones.”
    “I hear that!”
    “Sit down!”
    “ You sit down.”
    The whole thing was kind of depressing, really. Made my head hurt. I’d already taken two turns at the mike and gotten nowhere in a hurry. Sampson looked like he wanted to hit somebody. Billie looked like she wanted to cry.
    Then I got a hard nudge in the ribs. It was from Nana. “Help me up, Alex. I’ve got something to say.”

“ WELL, DOESN’T THIS feel familiar?” Nana stood at her seat and launched in. “Or is it just me?” She already had everyone’s attention, and apparently she didn’t even need a microphone. Just about everybody here knew her.
    “Last I checked, this wasn’t the House of Representatives, and it wasn’t the floor of the Senate,” she said. “This was a neighborhood meeting, where we can speak with more than two voices, have different ideas, listen occasionally, and who knows, maybe even get something accomplished every once in a while.”
    The woman had a forty-year teaching career in the day, and it wasn’t hard for me to imagine her lecturing a roomful of disobedient students. A few people around me were nodding their heads. A few looked like they didn’t know what to think about this fierce old lady yet.
    “I suppose some of this is understandable,” she went on, tapping her cane as she spoke. “We all know how cheap a promise can be in Washington, and as you said, ma’am, you’ve heard it all before. So if some of you are feeling a little frustrated, or burned out, or what have you, let me be the first to say I understand. I feel the same way most days.”
    “But,” I whispered in Bree’s ear.
    “ But ,” Nana said, poking a finger in the air, “with all due respect, we’re not here to talk about you.”
    Bree squeezed my