It started with a pickle jar, half-filled with pocket change and a few dollar bills. The girl came into my office. She set the jar on my desk and sat down in the chair across from me. Her feet barely touched the ground.
Her name was Tanisha Walker.
“How old are you?” I asked.
She sat up a little straighter. “Eight and a half.”
“Got a daughter about that age, little older.” I leaned over and picked up the jar, examining it. On one side somebody had written in big block letters with black marker: CUSS JAR.
“Your mama know you took this jar?”
Tanisha shrugged. The beads in her hair clicked. “Ain’t my mama’s jar.” She thought about it for a moment, biting a nail, and then elaborated. “It’s my granny’s, an’ she won’t mind … least don’t think she would. Why should she? Ain’t doing nothin’ ‘cept sitting there, and so she -“
I held up my hand, cutting off the nervous ramble. “Maybe.” I put the jar back down on my desk. “Guess that depends on what you plan on doing with the money.”
“Gonna hire you with it.” She was serious. “Like they do on TV.”
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