Act of Betrayal (24 page)

Florida allows homeowners to use reasonable force in defense of life and property. Reasonable is the operative word. My sole concern was that more than a single blow had been struck, indicating intent to harm. If one can actually form intent when confused, in the dark, roused from a sound sleep. I wasn't sure how sympathetic the prosecutor was in this case.

Hal was not required to testify, but chose to do so. The prosecutor asked him to tell the court what happened.

“I was asleep,” he said, “alone in the house. I woke up, thought I was dreaming, heard something in the next room. I grabbed the phone but there was no dial tone.”

“Who did you intend to call?”

“The police. I had had three burglaries in the past six months, all when I wasn't home. Now I thought they were back, in the house.”

“What did you do then?”

“I had taken the ax from my camping gear and put it under my bed for protection after the last one. I reached down to find it. It was still there. Then I went to the bedroom door. I couldn't see anything. Then I heard a noise, like a drawer opening in the dining room and I yelled, ‘Who's there!'

“The guy said something I couldn't make out and ran right at me. He knocked me back up against the wall and we grappled in the dark. I pulled away and swung the ax.”

“How many blows did you strike?”

“Three, maybe four. Then I heard a door slam, and I ran out to try to stop whoever it was. He jumped in a car. I was yelling at him to stop. The car started to move and I swung the ax at the window. The glass broke and the guy took off.

“I went back inside and turned on the lights. I saw Mr. … Mr. Mumper on the floor. I found that they had taken the phone off the hook in the kitchen. I got a dial tone and called nine-one-one for the police and an ambulance.”

“Was Mr. Mumper still alive?”

“He wasn't moving, or saying anything.”

“Did you try to give him assistance? First aid?”

Hal shook his head, face white. “I was shaking, in shock. I just sat there and waited for the police. It seemed like forever but they said later that they got there in four minutes.”

They played the 911 tape. Hal's voice, breathing hard.

“There's a burglar in my living room! I think he's dead.”

The woman with the gray hair had buried her face in her hands during Hal's testimony.

The prosecutor entered Mumper's rap sheet into the record and the date of his recent early release from prison.

The judge asked if Hal had any record of violence.

“Nothing, your honor,” the prosecutor answered. “Violent or otherwise.”

“Is that all you have?” The judge looked around the courtroom. “Is there anybody else present who would like to speak in this matter?”

The woman in the third row raised her hand, then got to her feet, trembling.

I braced for the worst.

“I am the mother, sir. Ricky Mumper was my son.” My heart sank. “I just want everybody to know I'm sorry. I did everything I could. He wasn't the man I tried to raise him to be. He's in God's hands now. I don't hate anybody.”

She sat down again, heavily.

I almost wished she had ranted and raved and threatened to sue instead of exposing her broken heart and breaking ours.

Hal pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. I took his hand.

“The finding of this court is that the death of Ricky Mumper was justifiable homicide during commission of a crime and that there is no cause for criminal charges in this matter.”

Outside the courtroom, Mrs. Mumper hugged Hal. “I'm sorry,” she said, weeping. “You did what you had to do.”

Did he? I wondered. He could have run out the door or climbed out a window. He could have barricaded himself in his bedroom while Ricky stole everything he owned. I knew Hal was asking himself the same questions. When is it right to draw the line and take a stand?

“I've got to call my folks,” Hal said, clearing his throat and turning away so I wouldn't see his lip quiver. He groped in his pockets for a quarter.

As I opened my purse for change, a high-pitched scream echoed from a courtroom down the hall, turning all heads in the crowded corridor. Some miscreant just slapped with a stiff sentence, I thought. In this building, screams are not unusual. Gunfire is. The sound of two shots in rapid succession was unmistakable. Pandemonium erupted. People were fleeing courtroom 4-2 in a panic. Lawyers, witnesses, and clerks stumbled and shoved each other out of the way. The crowded corridor turned into a mindless stampede as the panic became contagious. Somebody fell on the escalator, knocking others down like tenpins. Handcuffed defendants seized the opportunity to run. Cops drew their guns. People dove for cover, scrambling in all directions.

“She shot him!” screamed a ponytailed court reporter who had run from the courtroom. “She shot him!”

My first thought was that a judge had been hit. I grabbed her hands as she kept screaming. “Who?” I asked her. “Who was shot?”

“Stosh Gorski, the lawyer. He's shod” She jerked away and ran for the escalator. Her words resounded up and down the hall.

The Polish Prince. Lottie and I exchanged looks. “Oh, my God,” she said.

We ran toward the courtroom.

“Wait, wait! Somebody in there has a gun!” Hal shouted. “Don't go in there!” He reached for me, too late.

As we burst into the courtroom, I saw Lottie's face, intent, focused.

Oh, no. Poor Lottie, I thought.

The scene inside was chaos. The judge cowered behind the bench. Half a dozen cops and bailiffs were scuffling with a woman they had wrestled to the floor. She still clutched the gun but it was twisted from her Angers as she shrieked and struggled.

On the floor in a puddle of blood in front of the bench, the Polish Prince whimpered and thrashed like a wounded animal. “She shot me!” he howled. The front of his expensive trousers was bloodstained. Clutching his upper thigh, he rocked in pain.

He looked up, eyes wild. “Lottie!” he cried pitifully.

She ran toward him—and began shooting his picture from all angles.

The bullet wound did not appear life-threatening. The shooter, disarmed and handcuffed, was his client, LaFontana Pierre, the lucky-bath burn victim.

While paramedics worked on the Polish Prince, cutting his exquisitely tailored trousers to expose the wound, she waded about how “he promised me…”

The judge appeared on all fours, crawling out from behind the bench. “How the hell did she get that pistol in here past the metal detectors?” he demanded.

Nobody was killed but it was still a big story, exposing the fact that the high-tech, expensive, and sophisticated security system at the Justice Budding could not deter anyone truly intent on smuggling in a weapon.

“These are great,” the photo editor said later, examining Lottie's pictures.

“Yeah, ain't they,” she said.

Thank God for small favors, I thought. She's really over him.

Ryan winced as he scrutinized a print of Stosh as the medics worked on him. “Was he circumcised before the shooting?”

Lottie didn't say a word. She just rolled her eyes.

Hal understood that the shooting story, with a sidebar on Justice Building security, forced postponement of our evening. He kissed me good-bye and left to help his parents, who had panicked about the storm and were bringing their boat up the Miami River to safe harbor.

“They want to do it before boat traffic jams up waiting for bridge openings, and land traffic gets crazy because of people trying to evacuate,” he said, shrugging.

Some Miamians' idea of storm preparation is to throw their most valuable possessions in their cars and speed north, inland, or across state. Problem is, you can't outrun Mother Nature. No place to hide. Hurricanes are so erratic and unpredictable that not even the scientists who track them from their inception can precisely predict exactly when and where they will make landfall.

This one, still for to the south, in the Caribbean, was not even a threat to South Florida at the moment. But as José Marri wrote, “Man needs to suffer. When he does not have real griefs, he creates them.”

I had not read Martf since I was a schoolgirl, yet his words came back to me now. Perhaps I am more Cuban than I thought. More likely it was because of my thoughts of my father and the feet that the storm might be headed for Cuba.

I worked the shooting story, learning that Stosh had apparently caused LaFontana Pierre grief, both personally and professionally. She seemed to believe they were engaged at one point, but had caught him with another woman. He had stopped returning her calls, but she knew where to find him. She had shown up packing a pistol as he represented another of her cousins, held on robbery charges. When she whipped out the gun, the defendant had leaped eagerly to his feet in the belief that she had come to break him out of there. Much to his disappointment, she gunned down his lawyer instead.

When I returned home, to the delicious luxury of my efficient new air conditioner, Mr. Goldstein and Seth were lugging out the hurricane shutters, numbered aluminum panels for each window and door. The young boy was already an inch or two taller than his granddad, and his back was certainly a lot straighter.

“Hey, Britt, we gonna have a hurricane party?” Seth was obviously thrilled by the idea.

According to the latest advisories, the huge storm had nicked the southern tip of the Dominican Republic's Barahoma Peninsula. There were reports of flash Hooding in hillside barrios, crops and fishing boats had been destroyed, and airports were closed. Hurricanes are rated on a scale of one to five, with five the most fierce. This was a three, with winds of 111 to 130 miles an hour, but reports were that the storm was picking up speed over open water south of Jamaica and had veered to the northwest, toward Cuba.

“Hate to tell you this,” I said, “but last I heard, the storm may hit Cuba. That should slow it down and then, most likely, it will die in the Gulf.”

Seth looked crushed at the prospect.

“You can't be too careful, Britt,” Mr. Goldstein said, a screwdriver in his hand. “There's nothing like being prepared.” He mopped his forehead with an oversized handkerchief, his expression concerned. “I've been wondering if we should send Seth back home early.”

“No way!” his grandson cried. “I've never seen a hurricane! I want to write a first-person account for the
Gazette.
I'll be the first staffer on my school paper to do an eyewitness account of a killer storm!”

They were still debating as I took Bitsy out for a walk.

By morning the storm had escalated to a four, with winds of between 131 and 155 miles an hour, and slammed into the Isle of Pines, off Cuba's southwest coast, site of the prison my father had once escaped. The hurricane had hit the mainland's narrow neck at La Habana Province and was roaring north toward Havana leaving widespread destruction in its wake.

Reports out of the country were sketchy with communications down, but the damage was apparently severe, with casualties high. Havana, where most houses and buildings are old and in poor condition, was sure to be hard hit. The mountains of eastern Cuba, where there is much more land to cross, will destroy a hurricane but this storm had struck at the narrow neck to the west.

A note on my word processor directed me to see Fred, the city editor, in his office. “Sit down,” he said, looking grave.

Uh-oh, I thought. Something had caught up to me. The U.S. 1 caper with Bravo?

I smiled, mind racing, and tried to look innocent.

“Britt,” he said reluctantly. “This is a sensitive matter.” He arose, stepped outside, spoke quietly to his secretary then returned, closing the door behind him, another bad sign. “Normally we wouldn't ask you something like this,” he said, settling in his chair, “but we've had a complaint…”

My stomach churned.

“About me?” I said, quick on the defensive.

“No.” He looked startled, as though wondering why I would think such a thing. “The, eh, spouse of one of our staffers has made allegations, stating that they have experienced marital difficulties,” he paused—clearly uncomfortable—” because of a situation here in the newsroom.”

“A love triangle?” I said.

He nodded. “It's said that you might know something about it.”

“Me? How?” Possibilities bashed through my mind. Had Lottie told someone?

“Evidently the aggrieved spouse suspected there was a late-night assignation here in the building last Wednesday and was outside, somewhere, watching. Claims she saw them leave together but that shortly before they emerged, you and Lottie Dane arrived, then left. The two individuals deny the allegations and claim both were here in the newsroom working late on individual projects. I might add that the couple involved is seeking counseling in an effort to repair the marriage, but the spouse appears to want some sort of disciplinary action on our part. These are valued employees, this could factor into their futures. Careers are involved here.” He looked up at me expectantly.

I stared back, hating to be caught up in this. He misread my expression.

“What adults do should be their own business,” he conceded. “Normally that's the way it is, but you know the old man. He has always adhered to high moral standards and insists that we do the same. After all, we are in the daily business of scrutinizing and reporting the behavior and the ethics of others and, I might add, this aggrieved party has called him a number of times demanding action.”

“You've talked to the two people?”

He nodded.

“These are valued employees, and you don't believe them?”

“We want to cover all bases. Did you observe anything out of the ordinary Wednesday night?”

“People could lose their jobs?” I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs, and smiled wickedly at the thought.

“Now, Britt,” he warned, “I know you and one of the individuals involved may have experienced some difficulties in the past, but I expect you to be absolutely candid with me.”

I sighed. “Okay. I was here that night, with Lottie. I came in to check out an arrest, and she had film to bring in.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“Yes,” I said casually.

“And?”

“I didn't see anything that looked unusual to me.”

The “individuals involved” were fools to do it in the newsroom, but it's not that unusual, I reasoned. I know two cops who claim to have done it on the fifty-yard line at the empty Orange Bowl after dark. Lottie has confided about a steamy encounter in a hot air balloon, and though any sexcapades of mine probably pale by comparison, I thought that it was really gross for him to spy on employees' sex lives for the executive editor. Had their positions—professional positions—been reversed, if a male editor had indulged in sex with a female reporter, would there be prurient corporate interest? I thought not. I'd have to warn Lottie.

As though reading my mind, Fred said, “Ah, here she is now.”

I glanced up and saw Lottie approaching, apparently summoned from the photo department.

“Thanks, Britt,” he said, motioning her in as I left.

I tried to give her a subtle high sign as we exchanged looks in passing. It would not be cool if our stories didn't match.

Ron was nowhere in sight, but Gretchen was at the city desk and watched me return to my terminal. She had to be aware. First me, then Lottie called in for questioning. This is like the Kremlin, I thought. She looked sick. I could have given her a reassuring smile, but, hell, I'm not that nice.

Glancing back at Fred's glass-enclosed office, all I could see was Lottie's profile, lips slightly parted, eyes wide in an expression of studied innocence.

She emerged a short time later and walked past my desk. “Coffee?” she asked brightly.

“Sure,” I said. We did not speak again until the elevator doors closed behind us. I punched three for the cafeteria.

“You see anything?” she said, leaning casually against the back wall, arms folded.

“Nothing unusual,” I answered.

“Me neither.”

“Good,” I said with relief. “I hoped you'd say that.”

“I saw that old fish eye you gave me as you left Fred's office. Don't it suck that they're investigating private lives?”

“You see Gretchen's face?” I said, as we stepped off. “She's worried.”

“Good.” Lottie grinned fiendishly and grabbed a tray. I poured a cup of coffee while she ran boding water over a tea bag.

“Wish I'd finished putting Bahama shutters on my house,” she said, as we settled at a corner table. “They're so expensive that I've just been adding a couple a year. Still have four windows to go. Sure hope that storm don't head our way. If it don't, that's what I'll spend my slot-machine money on, afore the next one stirs up out there. It's only a matter of time before we get hit.”

“Hey, we always manage to dodge the bullet,” I said confidently. “It's over the west end of Cuba right now.”

“Nice if it just blew Mr. Castro the hell outta there.” She sipped her tea. “Ain't the delicate balance a nature amazing? A little butterfly flaps his wings somewhere in Australia and that teeny tiny waft of air snowballs, somersaults, and spins around until three weeks later we got us a hurricane boiling up the Caribbean.”

I blinked at the image.

“I don't think that's exactly how the meteorologists would describe it. Although, to tell you the truth, that makes more sense to me than some of the jargon in their forecasts.”

I tried to call the detectives in the Armando Gutierrez case, but when somebody finally did answer I was told they were out. Farmer from the FBI was out of his office, too. What the hell was going on here? A little storm hundreds of miles away and everybody disappears.

My Aunt Odalys did not sound great but insisted she was okay. “Britt,
mi hijita.
Listen to my words,” she muttered weakly. “The spirits are with you always. But remember, one can never escape
la mala hora.”

The bad hour of ones life.

“Okay,” I chirped cheerfully. “Just wanted to be sure you're all right and that if the hurricane does come this way you have somebody to help you.”

“
Si
,” she whispered. “Beware
la mala hora.”

On that sunny note, I called my mother.

“Britt! Do you still have that little London Fog trench coat I got you at a discount? It will be perfect if the storm comes. Will you be coming to my place?”

I smiled. The last real hurricane to slam South Florida came when I was a toddler. I remembered us huddled together in her small apartment, wind howling around us. The power was out for a week.

“I'll be working, Mom. If the storm comes, I'll be covering it. I need to ask you something.”

“Yes,” she said guardedly.

“Winslow, from back in Dad's days, remember him? He was CIA. Do you recall him ever saying where he was from, or where he planned to retire to?” I asked, pencil poised over a blank page in my notebook. “You wouldn't happen to know his exact age, would you?”

She hung up.

I stood, fuming, and reached for my car keys as Ryan, working the weather story on the phone at the desk behind me, yelled to the city desk, “Hey, we may get id It battered the hell outta Cuba, now it's standing still in the Straits, hasn't moved in three hours, but it could head northeast for the Keys.”

The National Hurricane Center in West Dade, a big gray brick shoebox built like Fort Knox, with ten-inch-thick walls, rooftop satellites, wind gauges, and rooms crammed with radar and tracking equipment, was on red alert.

Oh swell, I thought, and stalked out of the newsroom. I knew what my reception would be, but didn't care. Fueled by anger, I stormed out to my car. Enough was enough-How dare she hang up on me? I have endured a lifetime of her fashion crap, her embarrassing attempts at matchmaking for me, her moods, lousy temper, cigarette smoke, secrecy, and evasiveness. But never once did I hang up on her.

I rapped once and she threw open the door, a garment bag over her shoulder. A suitcase beside her on the floor.

Her mouth opened in surprise. For a moment she said nothing. “I thought you were the doorman.”

“Where are you going?”

“Emma, from the office, invited me to stay with her. She lives on high ground, in the Grove. So I'm evacuating early.”

“This building is perfectly safe, Mom. It's only a hurricane watch.” Was she running out on me or the coming storm? “Weren't you even going to let me know where you were?”

“I planned to call you.”

She was lying. I closed the door behind me and stood with my back to it. “Mom, I can't believe you hung up on me.”

She watched me warily.

“You've got to help me. Don't you realize that the more evasive you are, the more I want to know about my father?”

“I told you everything,” she said, indignantly, “the last time we talked.”