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“Better,” Marshall answers as he drives out of the West Entrance.
“Was he having a hard time after meeting with Sergeant Trawley?”
“Maybe.”
“Were you there with him at the police station?”
“No.”
“But you drove him back to the club?”
“Yes.”
I’m tempted to ask him if he’s able to respond with two or more words.
“Did he say anything to you about it?” I ask.
“Nope.”
Guess not.
“How long have you been working for Darren?”
“Four years.”
Okay, that’s two words.
“Do you like working for him?”
“Yes.”
“Would you be more talkative if I offered to bring you more fried chicken?”
I see a hint of smile from Marshall.
“My job is to drive you back to the city safely,” he says.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t have a conversation,” I reply.
He doesn’t have a response.
“I guess I’m just trying to see where Darren’s at,” I continue. “He had seemed so composed about the shooting until yesterday. I want to be there for him in the right way.”
Marshall is still quiet as we head toward the Bay Bridge. The commute traffic on the other side of the freeway is stop-and-go. Another reason I like public transportation.
“How are you doing with what happened?” I ask.
My question seems to startle him.
“And don’t say okay,” I add. “I don’t see how anyone can come away without being affected.”
He nods and surprises me with his candor. “It feels like shit.”
I don’t say anything in case he has more. He does.
“It’s my job to keep Darren and the club safe,” he says. “I failed.”
My eyes widen. “You couldn’t have known something like that was going to happen! We were at the wrong place at the wrong time, and there’s nothing you could have done about it.”
He doesn’t seem convinced.
“Seriously,” I insist. “There’s no rhyme or reason to why it happened. I just hope the police find the guy and get him off the streets, then maybe we’ll all sleep better.”
Marshall is about to say something but closes his mouth. I wait to see if he speaks, but he’s back to being taciturn the rest of the drive.
