Contents Under Pressure (30 page)

Hesitating an instant to catch my breath and bearings, I broke for the barricades, only a short distance away. But as I ran and my eyes began to focus, I became disoriented, overwhelmed. Tears stung my eyes. The barricades, the perimeter was gone. They had moved out again, pulled back, without me. This was no man’s land now, abandoned to the mob, no cops in sight.

I had no idea how far they had withdrawn, or in which direction. A glance over my shoulder accelerated my heartbeat. Alvarez, running powerfully, was gaining, his gold-plated gun in his hand. A stitch stabbed my side, but the pain was nothing, I thought, compared to what would happen if he caught me. I forced myself to keep up the pace.

Skidding up to the corner, I looked wildly up and down, not knowing which way to run. No sign of cops or barricades or help, only smoky streets. I thought I was going crazy, because I smelled blood and the faint odor of tear gas.

I saw the source of the blood, a butcher shop on the far corner, ransacked, windows broken, raw meat littering the street. The distant sound of grinding metal, a car crash, drew my eyes to the west and a glimpse of the golden sun, setting serenely on a horizon that glowed purple and red. Panicked and almost sobbing at the sound of Alvarez’s footsteps pounding behind me, I ducked into a liquor store.

The alarm rang maddeningly. Smashed bottles lay in glittery heaps amid golden puddles tracked with crimson. Would-be looters, perhaps some of them barefoot or in flipflops, must have cut themselves on broken glass trying to salvage intact bottles from the mess. I hid behind the counter, scrabbling about, searching for a weapon. Most liquor store operators keep a gun, but this one must have taken his with him; either that or a looter owned it now. I thought bitterly about my revolver, in the glove box of my car, parked safely back at the newspaper.

A shadow fell over the sparkling diamonds of debris: Alvarez, breathing hard in the doorway. He stepped inside cautiously, like a man crossing thin ice, the gun in his hand, barrel pointed at the ceiling.

If I die, I thought, my mother will believe she was right. I should have sold dresses. I thought of McDonald. Where was he? Cops are never around when you need them. I pictured my father’s face. He would never surrender; he never did.

“Britt! Come out, now.” The commanding voice was one accustomed to obedience. No telling how many shots in that automatic, probably fifteen or eighteen, I thought. He only got one, maybe two, off at the store. He probably had another clip. Whatever, there was little chance he would run out of ammo.

A door hung ajar at the far end of the counter, possibly to the stockroom or a bathroom. It might lead to a back door or a window, or trap me at a dead end. I tried to remember the outside of the building. It was freestanding, with a small parking lot at the rear. Whatever, I had to try for it, or else stay here to be shot like a fish in a barrel. Alvarez seemed to be checking the aisles from a command position near the front door. At any moment now he would look or vault over the counter. Thanks to the sounding burglar alarm, I could crawl toward the mystery door without him hearing my progress, if I was careful.

Broken glass shredded my slacks and ground into my knees and the palms of my hands. I’d reached the door and was inching it open a little wider when I heard him cry out and rush toward me. Staggering painfully to my feet, I dove through the door and slammed it behind me. There was a simple bolt; I knew it wouldn’t hold. A short hallway ended at the back door. There was a windowless stockroom on one side, a bathroom with a small, shuttered window at the other. I threw myself against the back door, made of steel and dead-bolted, as Alvarez kicked the door between us. It almost gave. Another kick would do it. The steel door wouldn’t open; it needed a key.

I scrambled into the bathroom, slammed the door; and locked it, another simple throw bolt. The wooden shutter creaked open easily, but the window had long been painted shut with many coats. I snatched up the small round waste can, stood on the toilet, and broke the glass, just as I heard the outside door crash open. The bathroom door rattled. I took off my sweater, wrapped it around my arm, cleared the frame of the sharp remaining shards of glass, and hoisted myself up and out. I dropped six feet to the ground as Alvarez shot the lock off the bathroom door.

My ankle and knees hurt when I got up, but I pulled my sweater back over my head and started to run across the parking lot. I glanced back at the window: nothing. Then I saw him charge around the side of the building. He’d run back through the store and out the front door rather than try to squeeze his bulk through that small window.

He had a clear shot at me now. I tried to weave from side to side, stumbling, as I ran. Several people emerged through the smoke. Men and youths, shouting, armed with clubs, pieces of broken furniture, and pipes. “Help me!” I cried, waving my arms, handcuffs catching the light.

Alvarez still came, focused on me. Other figures loomed behind him.

“There’s one of them! Get ‘em! Get ‘em!” somebody shouted. “Pig, motherfucker!” Cries went up. “Hey, look what we got here!” one man shouted. “A policeman! A goddamn policeman!” I stood, frozen, as the mob surged forward, then past me. Alvarez, gun in hand, boldly began to shove his way through, and reached for my arm. I yanked it away.

“She’s my prisoner…” he said, as a man hit him from behind. Another lunged for his gun. The gold-plated automatic went flying, scooped up in somebody’s hand. I backed away.

Alvarez went down on one knee, his eyes still on me as they swarmed over him. I ran. I looked back once, but all I saw was flailing elbows, knees, and feet. One man was kneeling, stabbing with what looked like a screwdriver, over and over and over. Then I heard gunfire: the gold-plated automatic.

Blindly I ran, running forever, stumbling, lungs in spasms, until I thought I heard my name. A patrol car, flasher spinning, screeched to a stop ten feet away. I kept running, thinking somehow that Alvarez had come back to life to kill me.

The officer jumped out, clumsy in bulky riot gear, wearing a visored helmet with a Plexiglas face protector, and a gas mask strapped to her leg: the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

“Oh Francie, Francie,” I gasped in relief. “Thank God!”

“Britt! How the hell did you get out here?” She reached for me. “Are you okay?”

“He tried to kill me,” I sobbed, slumping against her and her car. “He tried to kill me.”

“Who?” She stepped away and looked around, hand on her holstered gun.

I lifted my left arm, handcuffs dangling. “Major Alvarez. He’s dead. I’m sure he’s dead. The mob got him. He did it, Francie! He put out the false BOLO. He went to the hospital and killed D. Wayne Hudson!”

Her blue eyes widened. “You sure you’re okay?”

I knew I sounded hysterical. “Come on,” she said gently, then scanned the streets around us. “This is a war zone, they’re burning down the whole damn town. We have to get out of here—until the Guard comes in to back us up. The perimeter has been pulled back again.”

Shots, crashes, and breaking glass resounded from the next block. A bonfire roared in the street, rippling heat waves rising into the darkening sky. Francie looked and sounded exhausted, her pale face streaked with perspiration.

“This gear is as hot as hell,” she said. “It weighs more than I do. My T-shirt is soaked.”

“Have you seen Lottie?” I said. “I’ve gotta get back to the paper.” Shots sounded close by.

“Get in the car.” She reached for my arm. “It’s too dangerous for us to…” Her hands flew to her throat.

“Francie? What is it?” Spurts of bright red arterial blood suddenly pumped from between her fingers. I watched in horror as she crumpled to the pavement.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” I cried. I knelt beside her, looked up, and saw another bright flash from a building across the street. A bullet ricocheted off the bumper of her patrol car. “Oh my God! Francie.” She moved her lips, trying to say something, but made only terrible sounds. Blood bubbled and was everywhere. I unfastened her helmet strap, pushed it back, and tried to stop the flow. But the hole was too big, and if I applied pressure to her throat, she would choke. She was already choking, drowning in her own blood. I pulled her into my arms and cradled her, weeping, not knowing what to do. “You’ll be all right. You’ll be all right,” I repeated, over and over. Her body began to convulse, arms and legs jerking. I held her until the shaking stopped.

When a car horn blared, I looked up. A yellow taxi cab, a black man at the wheel, skidded to a stop. “Come on, come on!” he yelled. “You the lady reporter, right?”

“Yes.” I felt foggy, about to wake from a bad dream.

“Come on, get in. We’ll get outta here.”

It took a moment to begin to compute, then I stood up and tried to drag Francie toward the cab, my hands under her armpits. My fingers kept slipping in the blood. Her heels dragged in the dust.

Something bounced by me and rolled to a stop under her patrol car. A bottle. A Molotov cocktail. It ignited in a whoosh, bathing the undercarriage of the cruiser in flames.

“Sheeet,” the cabbie said. “Come on! Come on! Leave her be.” He looked around wildly, one foot out, his door half-open. “Leave her here. She’s dead. She’s gone.”

“No,” I whimpered, well aware that he was right.

He swung the back door open. “Come on, come on. I can try to get you out of here.”

I let go of Francie and went to the cab, my hand on the door. “No, wait!” I cried.

“Sheeet!” he yelled, as I turned and ran back to the patrol car. The door handle was hot to the touch and flames crept up around the chassis.

“It’s gonna blow!” he yelled. “Git away from it!”

I yanked it open, scorching my palm. She was crouched on the floorboard in the front.

I reached out and Bitsy crept into my arms. I ran back to the cab and scrambled inside. He took the corner squealing, on two wheels, as I heard the muffled blast behind us.

“Get down. Stay down,” he said. I fell to the floor, my cheek pressed against the carpet, sure I would never get up again.

“Where you want to go?” he asked after a time.

“The newspaper.”

“You sure you want to go there?”

The question surprised me. Where else would I go?

They tried to send me home, but I stayed, washed up as best I could in the ladies’ room, changed to the clothes in my locker, and worked through the night on the riot coverage. My clearest recollection was a moment I wish I could forget.

As we pieced together the stories of destruction, terror, and confusion, the managing editor emerged from his carpeted office in shirtsleeves, smiled at me, nodded and said, “Good work, Britt.”

I sat there numb as he walked away. But his words stayed with me. Exhaustion, deadlines, and breaking stories suppressed my conflicting emotions and feeling of guilt for a time. My landlady, Mrs. Goldstein, took care of Bitsy, while Lottie and I camped out at Onnie’s place the following night. Police had imposed a curfew, and there was no other way for reporters to have access to the riot zone after dark. While there, of course, I had to keep up a good front for Darryl.

Not until the third day, after the National Guard had restored order, did the full impact hit. McDonald arrived at my door, also exhausted, still wearing a uniform that smelled of smoke and tear gas, after forty-eight hours on duty. We fell into each other’s arms. He held me and listened to everything that had happened. Spilling the story to him was little comfort. Bruised body and soul, sore and sick, I had trouble sleeping. Neither sleep nor sex nor long hot baths restored me. That’s when I made up my mind and told him I was quitting. I called the city desk to make it formal, but McDonald reached past me and hung up the phone.

“Don’t do it,” he said. “You would only regret it the rest of your life. I know exactly how you feel, but this is no time to make a major decision.”

“You don’t know how I feel! How could you possibly?” I said irritably, pulling my bathrobe tightly around me and hugging my scabbed knees, which were drawn up to my chest.

His face worked, as though summoning up secret thoughts, unpleasant ones. “You know I killed a man once?”

I nodded. “Justifiably.”

“Sure, he was armed and loco and dangerous. He tried to kill me, but I managed to get him first. That doesn’t make taking a life any less traumatic. It was a numbing, shattering experience.” His eyes clouded in recollection. “But when I got back to the station, I was congratulated and backslapped, and told by everybody from the chief to the guys in the locker room what a great job I had done.

“I shook their hands and accepted their congratulations. But I knew that what had happened was not something to be congratulated for. It was a tragedy, something painful that I had had to do. I went home and bawled like a baby.”

I leaned against him, he put his arm around me and stroked my hair. “That’s something else we have in common, Britt. Our jobs are a lot alike. We’re going to hurt people, and they’re going to hurt us. Sometimes they’re strangers, sometimes they’re the people we work for. That’s sad, but that’s what happens in this business. Lord knows my life would be easier if you chose some other line of work. But we both care about our jobs, do them the best we know how, and go on in spite of it when these things happen. We’re not quitters.”

He was right.

Francie will always be alive in my heart. Not a day passes that I don’t think of her. How could she be gone? Not Francie. I still have not come close to accepting it. Her nearest relative, a cousin from Tampa, wasn’t interested in taking Bitsy. After seeing what a good dog she was, Mrs. Goldstein agreed to let me keep her until I found a suitable home. “If Billy Boots can deal with it, so can I,” she said. I didn’t want a dog. They are so much more needy than cats. But I guess I have one. How could I give up Bitsy, already uprooted and bewildered, to a stranger?

As soon as the riot coverage ended and the city was under control, I began putting together my story about the truth, what really happened. I worked hard on it, for two days. It explained everything. It was never published.

After I turned in the story, there was a solemn meeting among editors, lawyers, the mayor, the city manager, the police chief, and black leaders.

“They believe you,” Fred Douglas told me, when he called me into his office later. “We believe you. But there is no sure way to prove Alvarez was guilty. No way a dead man can defend himself against allegations.”

“But we have to expose the truth about what happened.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “The public has a right to know.”

“Britt, you know as well as I do, the black community would never believe that those officers who were acquitted did not kill D. Wayne Hudson.”

“They didn’t”

“But they did commit a crime. They beat him, and then tried to cover it up. The chief has agreed to tighten supervision on the midnight shift and investigate the practices that led to some of the bad cops being there in the first place. The people who run this city and this newspaper agree it’s time to put this case to rest. More accusations, stirring up more controversy, won’t solve a thing.”

I understood what he was saying. The city had already been through a terrible trauma. Its image, along with that of the police department, had been cruelly wounded. The quicker the healing process and rebuilding began, the better for all of us who lived here. My story would bring no one to justice and would only further polarize a divided community. For those reasons, the most important story I ever wrote was never read.

The final toll was fourteen civilians and two police officers dead, hundreds of people injured, and millions of dollars in damage. McDonald was right: I love my job, and the city, and want to be part of the recovery process. But it isn’t easy.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the reforms, the police department was colder and more paranoid than ever after the riot. When I called for simple information on a homicide, I was told that the chief had issued an order. Any officer I contacted for information was instructed to refer me to the PIO, and then write a memo on when and why I called. Cops hate paperwork, so relations with many of my sources were effectively chilled.

The department was making it tough on both me and McDonald. That became more clear than ever when he showed up unexpectedly at my door one night with Chinese food, a bottle of Dom Perignon, and a need to talk.

He wore a handsome new sports jacket, a shirt the color of his eyes, and the silk briefs I had given him for Valentine’s Day. He had good news and bad news. He had scored among the top ten on the lieutenant’s test and was elated. I thought I knew what was coming. “There is one thing that would reduce my chances right now to less than zero,” he said. “You know what it is?”

I nodded and put down my champagne glass, sorry now that I had lit the candles for atmosphere.

“If we should be seen together,” he said.

“Well, we’re not exactly gamboling naked up Flagler Street,” I said. “Where would anyone see us?”

“If I was just spotted coming out of here…”

“So now they are spying on the private lives of would-be lieutenants?”

He shrugged, slightly sheepish. “You never know what IA and those guys assigned to background checks will do. This means a lot to me. And I know you don’t like sneaking around like this.”

“Oh, so this is for my benefit?” I didn’t like the sound of my own voice, but I said it anyway: “Ambition can be overpowering.”

He looked pained. “Things change, everything is cyclical.” He reached out across the table and chucked my chin. “We just have to cool it for awhile, Britt. It’s not forever. The brass changes, things blow over. Better times will come.”

He wanted to stay longer, but I saw him to the door and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “It’s been real,” he said softly.

“Very real,” I said miserably.

There was one plus. I ripped the damn cuckoo clock off the wall and let Billy Boots and Bitsy have at it until they killed the cuckoo and the Tyroleans. Then I gave it to Goodwill Industries.

With all the truly important and tragic events in life, I refused to let myself be too bummed by a busted romance. After all, I told myself, I am sick of buying my dating clothes in the lingerie department. It would be nice to someday actually date a man who was unconcerned about taking me out in public, who might even be proud to be seen with me. It would be nice someday, though I wasn’t quite ready yet.

Work, as always, was my solace. If I stayed busy enough, there was no time to think. There were rewards from communicating with vast numbers of readers, even if you couldn’t communicate well one on one, up close and personal.

And things did change. Working late one night, finishing a story about a snorkler attacked by a shark, my phone rang. A wail from the jail: Pete Zalewski, as gloomy as ever. “I’m worried about my mother,” he began.

“Well Pete, all of us lucky enough to still have them worry about our mothers. I worry about my mom too. Nobody ever gets any younger…”

“The SWAT team has her trailer surrounded.”

“What?”

“She just shot my stepdaddy with a shotgun, blasted him right out the screen door.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, just talked to my cousin Frankie,” he whined. “I’m afraid the cops are gonna shoot her, Britt.”

“Hold on.”

I grabbed Ryan’s phone and called Miami PIO. He was right. Pete’s mother had been holding off SWAT for four hours. They hadn’t even been able to get close enough to drag her dead husband off the doorstep.

“You’re right, Pete. What should we do?”

“If I could just talk to her. She must be off her medication again, or drinking. Booze don’t mix with it. I could always communicate with her better than anybody in the family. I’ve always been her favorite, Britt.”

I wondered darkly what her least favorite child was like.

“Does she have a phone?”

“No, just a pay phone at the manager’s office.”

“Okay, give me that number. I’ll try to get hold of the cops at the scene.”

I called and asked for the homicide sergeant in charge.

He got on the phone. I told him who I was.

“Call PIO,” he said, and hung up.

I dialed back. He snatched up the phone. “Goddamn it, stop tying up this line and call PIO,” he said.

“Look,” I said tersely. “I didn’t call to ask you anything. I called to tell you something. Something you may find helpful.”

“I’m listening. I got to write a goddamn memo now anyhow.”

“The woman under siege in the trailer, I have her son, her favorite son, on the other line. He can probably talk her out of there without anybody else getting hurt.”

“How quick can he get here?”

“Well, sergeant, that’s the problem…”

Lottie and I were in a hurry to get out to the trailer park. The infernal newsroom elevator took forever. “What we really need,” she said, jabbing the button viciously, “is to have ‘em install a fire pole so we could just slide right down to our cars in the parking lot.” Sounded good to me.

We arrived at the SWAT scene just a few minutes before a squad car pulled up with Pete. He was happy to see us, happy for a break in his dull jail routine, and happy to see his mama, even under the circumstances.

The cops wouldn’t let him enter the trailer, for fear they’d have two murder suspects holed up. But when she heard Pete was outside, she quickly agreed to drop the shotgun and came out, stumbling over her late husband, still sprawled on the doorstep, in her haste.

The mother-son reunion was sweet. Lottie got great pictures. The cops were so touched they let the two of them ride back to jail in the same patrol car, so they could catch up on family news.

Danny Menendez was there. He was on call, and would be writing the press release. He looked friendly for a change. “Nice work, Britt. Homicide told me how you helped them out. Changed your mind about cops, huh?”

“Do you hear that?” I muttered to Lottie as we climbed into the car. “Cops!”

“To them, you’re either for ‘em, or against ‘em,” she said, “no middle road there.”

“It’s like they’ve never heard of such a thing as objective reporting.”

On the way back to the office, we talked about my love life, or lack of it. The split with McDonald, I tried to convince myself and Lottie, was actually a blessing. “Neither of us is likely to change jobs. He was right about that.”

“Maybe it only tasted so sweet because it was forbidden fruit,” she said.

“You may be right. If we had been free to see each other in public and talk openly about everything, including our work, maybe there would have been no magic.”

“I know you’ve been burned,” Lottie began carefully. “But I do have good news. Don’t ask me why, but Steve and Larry are still interested. They want to take us to the opera, the opening night of
Carmen,
at Gusman Hall. With Marilyn Home!” She whistled under her breath. “You know how hard it is to get opening-night seats? People actually leave them in their wills. They stay in families for generations. Opera patrons sit in the same seats their mamas and daddies sat in years ago.”

“How did Larry and Steve ever get tickets?”

“Some client of Larry’s is going to Houston for heart surgery and owes him a big one. Can’t you just see us now, all gussied up and in high cotton, mingling with everybody who’s anybody?”

“I really don’t think so…”

“Look, it’s high time somebody took you out and showed you off in public. This is big time, the place to see and be seen.”

“Damn straight,” I said, suddenly buoyed by the idea. “Okay, let’s go.” Maybe it was the euphoria, the exclusive story and pictures we had just aced, thanks to Pete. “Sure, I’m game. Larry is a nice guy”

“Hallelujah! And remember, this is it. Our last chance. World War III can break out, but nothing is gonna make us cancel. We don’t show up this time, and we can forget these guys.”

“You’re right,” I said, warming up to the idea. “They have been pretty understanding. Let’s be there with bells on!”

We spent the rest of the ride back to the office conspiring about what to wear.

Larry was in black tie when he picked me up on the big night. He looked pretty spiffy, except for the pale blue cummerbund. Steve was waiting in the car. As he drove his BMW, Larry squeezed my hand and explained the difference between term and whole-life insurance so well that, for the first time, I actually understood it. I may have been too enthusiastic, because he continued on into annuities.