Page 3 of Voice to Raise
“Okay, at all supportive—”
She tipped her chin up.
“But we needed to do something. Did you see the press who swarmed?”
“I haven’t watched the footage yet. I only just found out about Malik.”
“What happened?”
“Blossom said the cops broke the chains and hauled him off to jail.”
Again, I pressed my hand to my forehead. I’d been busy dispersing the volunteers who’d helped with the blockade, then making my way back to the office on my bicycle. I’d ignored my phone chirping at me continuously.
Obviously, that’d been a mistake. Perhaps if I’d still been on the bridge, I might’ve resolved the situation without having to involve the police.
“Was this guy on our list?”
Bonnie shook her head. “Nope. Blossom says she invited him this morning, and he leapt at the chance. I just know about the album he released in the spring.”
I blinked. “Album?”
“Yeah, Razor Made’s first mainstream release. They’ve got a few videos up on YouTube. Millions of hits. They parlayed that into a studio album.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Blossom.”
“Of course.” The woman was our social media guru. Very talented with all things internet. Sometimes, though, she needed to be reined in. I sighed. “Where is Malik now?”
“He’s at the cop shop. Blossom’s certain he’s going to be released without charges.”
I wanted to scoff at that, but a few of our other protests had gotten…a little out of hand. Which had resulted in a handful of arrests. A few stern warnings. But as of yet, no actual charges. Not that some of the members of This Land is Ours weren’t willing. I did my best to explain repeatedly that running afoul of the law was not the best way to get our message across. Sure, those arrests might get press coverage. Sometimes, though, bad news was just that—bad.
“Is there someone we should be calling?”
Bonnie squinted. “His parents died tragically about five years ago. I suppose I could try one of his bandmates. Like…” She rolled her eyes upward to stare at the popcorn ceiling of the room.
We were headquartered in an old house from the 1920s—a donation to our organization from a fervent environmentalist who never had kids but wanted to leave a legacy.
We hung a photo of Maude Ransom in the front foyer. Of her up an old-growth tree in 1999. When she was 71 years old. She’d lived another twenty-three years, only giving up the ghost in 2022. Chastity had been running This Land Is Ours back then and had gladly taken the house. Lovely woman, clearly over her head. She hadn’t understood the ramifications of that decision or what would be involved in keeping a house like this on the organization’s books. So when I arrived the next year, the timing was perfect. My legal background fit.
Chastity took off for the Amazon rainforests as soon as she dropped this hot potato into my lap—never to be heard from again.
I wished the authorities in Brazil well—grateful she was someone else’s problem. As I’d dug through the org’s books for the three years she’d been in charge, I’d found hundreds of errors in our accounting entries and with our tax filings. How we hadn’t triggered an audit by the Canada Revenue Agency was beyond me—but we hadn’t. It had taken me six solid months of working with an accountant to get everything resolved. During that time, much of our fundraising had been put on hold, and we hadn’t done many activities.
In an effort to regain momentum, I hired Bonnie, who recruited Blossom, and now we had a guy in jail.
My headache grew in intensity. “You think you can track down someone?”
Bonnie met my gaze. “Well, they’re all on the socials. I can get Blossom—”
“I’d really prefer you do it yourself. You’re here, after all. Blossom’s not.” Whether she would appear was a crapshoot. We weren’t paying her, so she kept her own hours. I was grateful that she mostly—mostly—took the direction I gave her.
“Well, Creed’s got a ton of followers—”
“Creed?”
She glanced up from her screen, her blue eyes wary at my tone. “I don’t think that’s his actual name. He doesn’t have a last name or anything.”
