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Justice

The rain outside pours mercilessly. Thankfully, I’ve always loved a good thunderstorm.

It wasn’t the noisy banging of the water droplets against the black railing near the open window, or even the cold rain covering my face and now-drenched tank top, that woke me. This, I understand immediately, whether from instinct or fear. I throw the thick cover, now peppered with a layer of tiny droplets, off of me. I dozed off fully clothed with my boots on. I didn’t pay for a night at this dump to sleep. I came here on business–a stakeout, not a vacation.

The putrid stench of the soiled carpet reeks and the mugginess clings to my neck. I peel strands of my thick brown locks off my face and neck and gather them into a loose braid.

“I heard it too,” my younger brother Jule whispers. He sits straight up on the twin-sized bed. I realize now he never even covered himself and that he, too, is fully dressed.

I creep low toward the wall across from me as a ray of lightning illuminates the small room. I reach for my equipped backpack and throw a baggy, hooded sweatshirt over my drenched tee. “Stay low, don’t close the window.”

Jule nods. The grown look on his face reminds me of the fright that used to cover his big brown eyes. Now at fourteen, he thinks of himself as a man–someone to protect me and not cower away. But I need him safe, and this isn’t a job for a young teen trying to prove himself.

“Here,” he whispers in Spanish. “You never know.”

I roll my eyes, but take the pointed, travel-size blade by the ornate hilt. I never carry weapons, but he insists the dangers I face during these outings require it. I guess, somewhere within, I agree. I open the door to our double-bed rented room as gently as I can manage and wriggle my way out. The hotel corridor feels damp and overheated, and I instantly feel sticky under my sweater.

“Nikoletta!” I turn, alerted by the harsh whisper of my brother’s voice.

I’mmomentarily taken aback by his towering stance. It seems just yesterday he was at waist level, and now he’s a foot over my five-foot-three-inch stance.

“If you come to face a danger beyond your kung fu karate knowledge, look in the bag for your birthday gift from me.” He winks and closes the door before I can properly roll my eyes at him. I only manage to snort out loud at the door.

I’m smiling as I run toward the exit that leads to the roof, and I welcome the icy water falling hard. I pull up the hood and fasten my pack.

My birthday. I wince at the thought.

This is, thankfully, the end of my birth date. My best friend Jasmin and my brother Jule forced me to celebrate. They even managed to save up for a damn cake. They both know I dread this day, and although I understand they only mean to cheer me up, all it does is remind me of my parent’s murder.

Seven years ago, days before mybig day, my mom and dad were gunned down by two men, led by a gang leader named Vork.

So, when midnight rolled around, and I’d officially turned twenty-two, I ran off to avoid Jasmin and Jule. I was sure to be rid of them but only found a fucking cake, with twenty-two burning candles, and their gift wrapped in newspaper.

After force-feeding a slice of the too-sweet frosting-filled, cotton candy-flavored cake, Jule and I hurried to the motel in the heart of this fucked up city. An anonymous follower had reached out, letting me know that Vork would be here, only they didn’t give a time, just a date. Sleep took us as we waited for something,anything,to happen.

Shriek-filled cries alert me to the southeastern corner of the block, just two buildings down. I shake my head to clear any thoughts of birthday shenanigans, thankful that this day has finally come to an end, and run onto the puddle-covered roof to get a better view.

Most, if not all, of the beatings, drug trafficking, forced prostitution, and rapes lead to Vork. Shadows pulse in the collected puddles near the dark alleyway behind the butchers. No one in their right mind buys their meat at this location unless they’re desperate, which seems to be just about everyone in my neighborhood. Once again I hear the cry I’m sure woke me, the one my brother Jule heard–the yells of women. Out on the roof and in closer range, I hear more than one victim and surely about three assailants.

I run to the fire escape, almost forgetting to grip the railing tight, the black metal extra slick in the rain. Once my feet hit the ground, I reach into my backpack, dig inside, and smile when I finally find the object I need.

I was grateful, but now I’m over the moon that Jasmin got it for me. The need for a good camera wasn’t lost on me. One that could withstand drops, bear some load, resist water submersion, and still snap decent photos while I was on the run; which was right now.

My hunched shoulders lean even further when I crouch forward. I’m rushing in this awkward posture until a large man comes into view. I slam my back against the brick wall, my breaths come out in dramatic force and rain is furiously drenching my face. The attempt to wipe it dry is useless. Fucking rain is making my work tonight a whole lot more complicated, and I truly have hardcore evidence this time around.

Usually, I get glimpses, long shots, distant and hazy photos. When I’m lucky, I might get a recording of a muffled conversation without truly being able to identify who the people on the other end are. Nothing that could stand in court, not a sliver of evidence deemed competent enough to put away the fucking criminals that rule these streets.

I’ve grown tired of the corrupt system that’s supposed to offer us protection. Just the mere thought of the sorry excuse of a police force could send me into full hysteria. Either that or I’d sit there and wish I could set the station on fire. I would even extend an invitation to the fire department so they could stand behind me, and together we’d watch them die before our eyes. Better them than us. They’re useless.

I flip the switch to my Pentax and hang it around my neck. Then, focusing on the screen, I zoom in and turn the corner. The large man has his back to me with a girl dangling from a chokehold. I push the button to record the images before me, thankful for the streetlamp highlighting their corruption in the way tungsten lighting illuminates a studio set. It’s like my personal beacon of hope, and I’ll take whatever the universe hands me.

“Come on, just get it over with!” someone barks and a young woman squeals. They’re all still hidden from my direct view.

“No! I own these fucking streets; I want to leave our evidence here.” I recognize the voice but can’t quite place it.

A woman writhes in her attacker’s arms and her shouts grow louder, begging for both her life and the other woman’s.

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