Falsely Accused (21 page)

So they did. Marlene met most of the thirty or so women in residence, and heard their hard-luck stories and met and admired their children (almost all the women had children) and, where appropriate, examined their wounds: Donna with the wired jaw, Maria with the separated shoulder, Maureen's broken nose, and Vickie, whose husband had set his pit bull on her, mangling her knee. Toward the end of the tour, Marlene was feeling more like St. Catherine of Sienna licking her way through the
lazaretto
than she liked, and had decided that massively viewing misery was not her line of work.

Lunch was served in one of the apartments of the former tenement, which had been fitted out as a common area, the remaining apartments being used as dormitory space. The kitchen had been enlarged and the interior walls knocked down to form a dining room. The rest of the floor was devoted to a playroom for the children. Duran led Marlene there to gather her daughter for the communal meal.

Marlene's heart sank when she entered. It was a tawdry place, and it smelled strongly of the little accidents of childhood and strong disinfectant. The children, who ranged in age from toddler to preteen, fussed with the few, dirty playthings, and quarreled and cried, while the moms on playroom duty struggled to keep some order and prevent injury. In fairness, she thought a moment later, although it was dreadful as a playroom, it was not half bad as a prison, which is what it really was. The thirty-eight children resident in the shelter could not go outside to a playground or to school for fear of their fathers or their mother's boyfriends. The playroom was also a lot better than being dead, or motherless.

Marlene looked around for Lucy and couldn't find her. After the usual stomach-roiling burst of panic, she waited until the place had emptied out for lunch and then crossed to a refrigerator carton that had been laid on its side and converted into a playhouse, with painted walls and flower pots and cut-out windows. She knelt and peeked in one of these.

Her daughter was sitting on a cushion declaiming the story of Cinderella to two older children, a girl of about fourteen and a boy who looked twelve. These two had covered themselves with a ratty pink blanket, and were clearly riveted by the tale. So sweet was the picture that Marlene was reluctant to interrupt, but Lucy noticed her face peering through the window and stopped.

“We're playing house,” said Lucy. “I'm being the mommy.”

“That's nice, dear,” said Marlene, “but we're going to have lunch now.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here. In the room next door.”

“Can I eat with Isabella and Hector?”

“Of course. Come on along.” Marlene smiled at the two children. To her surprise, the girl gave a start and pulled the blanket over her head. Lucy and Hector both began talking to her and gently tugging the blanket. After a few minutes of this, the girl emerged and followed the other two out of the carton.

Later, when the three children were sitting at a card table, eating vegetable soup and bread, Duran leaned over to Marlene and said, “You know, that's amazing. This is the first time Isabella has eaten in the lunchroom. Usually, she grabs food from the kitchen and runs to eat it in that carton.”

“Yes, I think Lucy's made a conquest. It's not the first time either. The kid is clearly destined to sell insurance big-time. Is she all right, though? Isabella? I mean, mentally?”

“I have no idea,” said Duran. “She's obviously scared shitless of everything and everybody. Except Hector, of course, and now your kid. Understands Spanish and English but won't talk at all. It looks like traumatic shock of some kind to me. I see a lot of it. It's a shame too, a pretty kid like that.”

“What does her mother say about it?”

“Oh, her mother isn't here. Somebody dumped her on our front steps last spring.”

“Literally?”

“Oh, yeah. There was a knock, and the night duty woman heard a car burning rubber down the street and there she was, soaking wet, curled into a ball. Somebody'd raped her, naturally. So we took her in and she's been here ever since.”

“You didn't call the cops?” asked Marlene.

Duran gave her a pitying look. “Please! The cops leave us alone, and we return the favor. Same with the state social workers. Child Welfare's got enough problems of their own. They know I'm up to code, and that's all they care about. I don't take any government money and I don't want any. Because of that, I get women who won't come to any other shelter.”

“You mean illegals.”

“Them,” Duran agreed, “and others.” She did not elaborate and her tone did not welcome additional prying.

“What about Hector?” Marlene asked, looking over at the children's table. Lucy was talking a blue streak and making faces. Hector was giggling; Isabella had a peculiar strained expression on her face, as if she were trying to remember how to smile. Duran followed Marlene's look and said, “Damn, I ought to rent that kid from you. I actually think Isabella's about to crack a grin. Oh, Hector—he's another drifter. Doesn't live here. Shows up a couple times a week for lunch and a talk with Isabella. He says she's his sister.”

“Is she?”

“Search me, Jack. She could be. On the other hand, Hector's a bit of a slippery character himself.”

“But can't you find out where he's from, his family … ?”

“See, you're still thinking like a social worker. Look, you want to hear my take on them? Illegals, pretty sure, but from someplace bad. Salvador or Nicaragua. See that little shawl she's got? That's from somewhere down there, the embroidery. The white dress too. It's the only thing she'll wear and it's falling apart. The boy's accent is Central American or south Mexico, Chiapas or around there. Anyway, say they came to the big city with Mom and Dad, illegal as hell, live in a shithole, take some kind of sweatshop work. One day Mom and Dad are gone, who knows where. The
migra
got 'em. Or it could be worse, they were mules and they tried to skim some of the product, or maybe somebody just thought they tried to, or the drug people did it themselves and laid it on the dumb
campechanos.
So the kids come home one day and there's cops all around and they run. They know not to talk to cops. Or they were there when it went down, the dealer sent a couple of
choteros
around, and either they did them right there or took them away someplace, cut them up a little to see what happened to the powder. The kids're hiding under the bed. Either way, the kids are on the street, don't know nobody, don't trust nobody. God knows what happened to the girl—I don't want to think about it.”

“And there's no clue about where they came from?”

A tired wave of the hand. “No, and I asked around the neighborhood. Nobody knows them or who their parents could've been. Either people don't know or someone's got them really scared.”

“So who dropped her off?”

“Who knows? I figure he grabbed her off the street, raped her a couple of times and got scared, and he was too chicken to kill her and drop her in a dumpster like they usually do. A Good Samaritan. You're shocked? Honey, we get them dropped off here like that all the time.”

“I'm not shocked, Mattie, just reliving. I used to run the Rape Bureau at the New York D.A.'s.”

Duran nodded. “Yeah, I remember from the article. You got out and now you're back in it. With a kid too.”

“And another on the way.”

“Hunh!” Duran's eyes widened and then she smiled. “It can't be displaced maternal instincts, like me. So why? You got money, you're a lawyer …”

“I'll introduce you to my husband, the pair of you can bat it around,” said Marlene impatiently. “Why don't we leave it that it's just something I need to do just now?”

Duran stared at her for a long moment, a flat, penetrating Indian look, while an amused smile flickered on her lips. Then she muttered, “
A lo dodo no se le busca lado.
”

“Excuse me?”

“Just an expression,” said Duran. “Gift horses. The thing of it is, I could use your help. Let's get the meal cleared away, and we'll take some coffee into my office and have a talk.”

Lucy had to be dragged away from the shelter, with many a promise that she could visit Isabella and Hector again very soon. Marlene reflected as they walked to the car how remarkable it was for a seven-year-old to have formed so close and so dominant a relationship with two much older children. It was as if Lucy knew instinctively that both of them were not what they physically appeared to be, that Isabella was deep in some traumatic regression, and that Hector had been severed from his childhood by overwhelming events. In treating them as she would her contemporaries, she was apparently giving them just what they required.

Back at the loft, they found Karp sprawled amid strewn newspaper, watching a football game on television. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with the arms torn off and ragged chinos; moreover, he was unshaven and was actually drinking a beer, probably his third or fourth for the calendar year. It was a rare thuggish look, and Marlene found it erotic. She came over to the sofa and gave him a friendly nuzzle.

“I was getting worried,” he said.

“Well, we're safe,” said Marlene. “Your family has survived another day on the killing streets.”

“A long church? Lots of sins to confess?”

Lucy came dashing over, after dutifully hanging her church-going camel hair on its special peg, and jumped on her father's lap.

“We went to the shelter,” she cried, “and I played with Isabella and Hector. They're my new best friends and they're really old too and they have a playhouse and we had lunch, and you know what?”

“What?”

“Ladies could stay there when bad men want to hurt them, and we could stay there too!”

Karp glanced meaningfully at his wife. To his daughter he said, “What if bad men want to tickle them?” and suited action to word, until she shrieked, after which they had some boxing practice until Marlene ordered an instant change out of good clothes.

“What was that about?” Karp asked after Lucy had run off to her room.

“Oh, just curiosity. I stopped off at the East Village Women's Shelter and met Mattie Duran. She runs quite an operation, actually. I think we can work with them: referrals, temporary shelter for our clients, like that. And there's stuff I can do for them too.”

“Like?”

“Oh, summonses, tracking down deadbeats,” offered Marlene casually. Mattie Duran had suggested a set of other activities, under the general heading of “taking the bastards out,” but Marlene did not care to broach these with her husband just now. If ever.

Nor did Karp seem eager to pry. “You had a load of calls,” he said.

“On Sunday?”

“Vigilantes never have a day off,” he replied and went back to watching the game.

Marlene changed into comfortable clothes and went into her office. The machine tape had a dozen or so blank messages, probably from women who had called and been directed by the outgoing message tape to her new answering service. The others were from Ariadne Stupenagel (six) and from Harry Bello (one).

She called Harry first.

“Where were you?” he asked without preamble when she identified herself.

“In church, Harry. It's Sunday.”

Grunt. “We got court tomorrow on Pruitt. I'll pick you up.”

“I have it down, Harry. By the way, I made an interesting contact today.” She gave him a summary of her visit to the women's shelter, and of the cases Mattie Duran wanted her to work.

“This is what? Like the Pruitt and the other guy?”

“Only if necessary. We'll try reasoning with them, explain the situation. Make sure they understand that we're watching, that if they violate an order or try a break-in or an assault, they're looking at consequences. One or two, Mattie thinks they're beyond that already, in which case—”

A pause on the line. “You need a gun.”

Marlene laughed. “Oh, yeah, that and a divorce.
You're
the gunslinger, Harry.”

“We'll talk tomorrow,” said Harry, and hung up.

Ariadne was at home and clearly waiting for a call. She picked up on the first ring.

“Where have you been?” Stupenagel demanded.

“I've been having my nipples gilded.”

“On Sunday?”

“What can I do for you, Stupe?”

“I need a favor. Do you know anybody, like a friend, in the medical examiner's office?”

“Yeah, I know some people. Why?”

“Because this thing with the Latinos who died in jail is heating up. Paul Jackson and another cop are definitely shaking down gypsy cabbies, and they're not gentle about it either.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I gypsy-cabbed in drag a couple of nights and I got shaken down and slapped around.”

“Jesus, Stupe!”

“Then I hung around the Two-Five and ID'd Jackson. He's hard to miss—the guy's a moose. The funny thing is, I had a feeling I'd seen him someplace before, but I can't recall where.”

“Didn't Roland take you around to the Two-Five?”

“Yeah, it must have been then, but there was something else about it too. I'll think of it. Anyway, I went to see Tommy Devlin at Internal Affairs, and he sort of hems and haws and says he can't do anything directly because the shakedowns are part of a separate investigation, being run out of the D.A.'s squad. That's possible, isn't it?”

“Sure. The D.A. squad does a lot of official corruption stuff, but that's usually politicians and bureaucrats. It gets dicey when it's just cops, like God forbid anybody should suggest that the P.D. isn't competent to police itself.”

“Yeah, that's what he said. The hack bureau's involved and the licensing division and the medical examiner.”

“The M.E. too? How?”