The Trials of Nikki Hill by Dick Lochte, Christopher Darden Page A

closing costs and interest rates. Nikki didn’t feel like changing that status just because a newspaper article had turned her into a semipublic figure.
    “Prosecuting may be a nasty job,” she said, trying to keep it light. “But somebody’s got to do it.”
    “C’mon now, girl. I’m bein’ serious. Why’s prosecutin’ people turn you on?” Esther demanded.
    Nikki had never been a fan of introspection, mainly because her brief attempts at it had been too painful. Even as a little girl, she’d wanted to pursue a career in law enforcement. Behind the surface reasons—a belief in the justice system, a desire to aid in the war against crime—was a stronger, very personal motivation involving her feelings toward her father, which her innate sense of self-protection warned her not to confront. She surely was not going to poke around inside her psyche just to satisfy the curiosity of some pushy acquaintance.
    “You have the opportunity,” Esther said, “to become a leader of the African-American community—”
    “Don’t tell me about my opportunities.” Though Nikki unleashed just a small part of her anger, it was enough to quiet the room. The other Mavens had stopped eating and were staring at her.
    “The culture needs some strong black female leadership,” Esther said.
    Nikki teetered on the edge of giving Esther the same suggestion she’d offered Sister Mumphrey. Instead, she said, “You’re right. The culture doesn’t give a damn for women and even less for black women. So, sure, having black women in positions of power is an important thing. But that’s not the role I picked for myself. I just ain’t that grand, baby. If I can make this city one killer or rapist or child molester safer, that’s good enough for me. Hell, Esther, maybe I just like putting folks in jail.”
    Before the real estate agent could press her further, she stood up and carried her plate into the kitchen. She stayed there, chatting with Juanita and Victoria Allard, until they were interrupted by the club treasurer, Lois Needham, a tiny woman with a squeaky voice who had been called “Mousie” most of her thirty-five years. She slapped the leather-case notepad she was carrying and said, “C’mon, ladies. Time to talk money.”
    It was a typical session, beginning with Mousie’s report, which, owing to the market’s upturn, was good news. This was followed by discussions of weight gain and loss, a new pill for clearer thought, and men, none of which had anything to do with their portfolio. Four of the Mavens had serious suggestions about stocks they’d been watching and these were voted on quickly and efficiently in between more talk about men, problems with offspring, job complaints, and current movies.
    The meeting broke up at a little after ten.
    “You got an edge to you tonight, girl,” Loreen said to Nikki as they left Juanita’s building. “What’s up?”
    “People shaking my tree. Esther telling me how to lead my life.”
    “She should talk. Missy No-Money-Down.”
    “Sister Mumphrey feels she has to stick her big nose into my family situation.”
    “That’s Sister’s way,” Loreen said as they arrived at her aqua BMW. “She’s got no life of her own. She’d love to think she’d been on your mind all evening.”
    “Not her. My father.”
    “Honey,” her friend said, taking her hands, “I got a shooting pain in my heart over what you been through. Never knowing your mama. Having your daddy turn his back on you, like it was some fault of yours she died, instead of God’s will. With all that, it made you a stronger woman than you might have been.”
    “Whatever doesn’t drive you crazy or put you under makes you a better person,” Nikki said, “that the idea?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I think you been spending too much time under the hair dryer.”
    “You talking about Phil the hair dryer, or ’Toine the hair dryer?”
    Nikki shook her head and smiled. “You’re impossible.” Then she hugged