A Kind of Justice Read Online Free Page B

prestigious salons. I’m swimming in a bottomless sea of debt and I have just taken on an inhuman degree of responsibility, but as Cecelia predicted, part of me is giddy with the realization of how far I’ve come in the world.
    When we step out onto the street, my springtime moment gives way to a winter storm.
    As we take the LaSalle Street Bridge over the Chicago River, I see Wilkins on the other side of the street. He’s leaning against the bridge structure, staring at us. I can see the sneer on his face from here and I feel the menace of his thick body.
    I point him out to my attorney and convey to him in a private voicea brief history of my run-ins with Wilkins, including the restraining order the city put on him five years ago.
    â€œCan I bring charges against him for this?” I ask quietly. “I’d like to get him off my back.”
    â€œI doubt it.” The lawyer says it regretfully. “I doubt the order is still good, but even if it is, he has a right to be in a public place. Truthfully, I doubt they’d arrest him unless he physically assaulted you. There are just too many hard-core criminals and too little jail space.”
    â€œSo I just have to suck on it?” I ask. Probably not a good analogy for a transwoman to use. Especially not one as perpetually unfulfilled sexually as me.
    The attorney nods.
    But I’m not in a mood to be bullied by a rogue cop or take a contract attorney’s word for what my rights are. My mind drifts back to the last time I was being followed by someone who was a threat to me. That ended in a flash of violence that left a nasty thug permanently retired from the intimidation business. Wilkins isn’t a thug, but he’s a hateful bigot and a threat to my freedom. We’ll see what the DA’s LGBT advocate has to say about his lurking return to my life.

  3  
    M ONDAY , J ULY 7
    I BREEZE INTO the cozy café in Logan Square like I own the place. It’s a queer-friendly neighborhood, but I still draw a few glances. Fewer if I pay no attention.
    That’s easy to do tonight. It has been a brutally long day that followed a short, stress-filled night of little sleep. I’m tired. I’m ravenously hungry. I want a glass of wine so bad I could burst. But more than any of these things, my pulse is pounding in anticipation of meeting the man who invited me to dinner tonight.
    Officer Phil’s call came in the middle of the usual salon mayhem, like a perfect rainbow arching from my most delicious fantasy into the reality of today.
    Phil used to be a beat cop in Boystown and an envoy to the Chicago queer community. He picked me out as a contact in the transgender world. His goal was to reach every segment of the gay, lesbian, and trans communities with the message that the Chicago Police Department cared about them and could be trusted. He did his job very well, though I never bought the proposition that the huge Chicago PD had much institutional interest in the welfare of transgenders. Phil did, though. On top of which, he was a very sexy man. He was the talk of the gay male community and just as alluring to transwomen, at least the ones who were attracted to men.
    Since he got promoted to a cushy job downtown in community relations a while ago, I haven’t seen him much except for his monthly haircut. Then today, like a bolt out of the blue, he calls me at the salon. Can I make dinner tonight? Catch up on things?
    Do bears love honey?
    Officer Phil is seated at a small table, a quiet spot perfectly chosen. A bottle of wine graces the tabletop, two glasses of red at the ready. Even at a distance he still makes my heart beat a little faster.
    He stands as I approach and steps forward to kiss my cheek and exchange hugs. He is tall, an inch taller than I am in two-inch heels. He’s dressed casually, khaki slacks, polo shirt, loafers. His hair is fashionably short, perfectly groomed. A speck or two of pepper gray is