Authors: David Ellis
“Who shot him?” she asked. She felt a fire inside her.
“I don’t know. I just know it wasn’t Alex.”
“How do you know Alex?”
“He’s my guy, y’know.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s my source, lady. Dig?” He licked his lips. He was a junkie, no doubt. “Lady—I want to help Alex, you know—but these guys are lookin’ for me.”
Alex was
this
guy’s supplier?
“The police are looking for you?” she asked.
“Yeah, lady, what the fuck I been sayin’? Guy like me, I ain’t got no protection. Ain’t nobody gonna care if I go disappearin’ and shit.”
“What police? What are their names?”
“Lady—I need help. I need you to hide me.”
“I can’t hide you,” she said, feeling the tone of her voice soften. What could Shelly do for this boy? He couldn’t stay with her. She didn’t have the cash to put him up, and even if she did, for how long? Until trial? If this boy was being straight with her, he wouldn’t last that long. She would need to get him held as a material witness.
Jerod Romero, the federal prosecutor. That was the person she needed to call.
“I can get you protection,” she said. “But probably not until tomorrow.”
“Damn.” He wasn’t responding to her. The boy was shivering—could be his nerves, or it could be because he was in his underwear on a cold night.
“I have a gun,” she repeated. “Remember that?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
She threw out the sweatshirt and pants to Manuel. “Put those on,” she said. “You can come in for a minute.” She couldn’t very well send this boy back on the streets.
Her alarms were going off—this was everything she told her students in self-defense
not
to do.
She opened the door and let Manuel pass her as she clutched
the door, looking down the staircase. She closed the door again and directed the boy to the couch. He looked silly in a baggy sweatshirt and pants that didn’t even reach his ankles. He looked the part of a junkie, skinny frame, drawn face, eyes and mouth wet and red, his hair mussed and greasy, prominent body odor. He looked around Shelly’s apartment with some fascination. This was how normal people lived.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Man, I don’t know.”
“You’re safe here.”
“Lady, you don’t know what you’re messin’ with here. Cops can go anywhere, see. They can do any fuckin’ thing they want.”
“I’m going to talk to someone who can help you,” she said. “Protect you.”
“When?” he asked, still standing, moving on the balls of his feet. “Now?”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “You can—I suppose you can stay here tonight.”
“Nah, man.” He looked around. “Not tonight, lady.”
“Why not tonight?” she asked. “You think they’ve followed you?”
“Man, you’re helpin’ Alex, right? You don’t think they’re watchin’
you
?”
Dread filled Shelly, an enveloping poison. She went to the front window and looked out but saw nothing.
“Nah, I’m comin’ back later.”
“No,” said Shelly. “I need your help. At least let’s talk awhile.”
“Man, I gotta stay mo-bile.” The boy walked in circles. “I gotta get lost.”
“Manuel, I guarantee I’ll get you protection. I guarantee it.”
“Tomorrow,” he said weakly.
“Tonight,
I’ll
protect you.”
Manuel sighed and laughed. “No thanks. Tomorrow.”
“Please.” Shelly moved in front of him. She could not be sure she would ever see him again.
He brushed her aside and went to the door. “Sorry, lady.”
“You’ll come back tomorrow, though,” she said.
He smiled at her without enthusiasm. He seemed to be telling her there would be no tomorrow.
She went to the door and took his arm. “I swear I’ll protect
you. Stay alive tonight and find me tomorrow. Wait.” She went to the kitchen, ripped off a piece of a notepad, and scribbled her cell phone number. She stuffed it into his hand. “Take this. Call me anytime. Wherever I am, I’ll come find you.” Shelly unlocked the chain and started to turn the knob, but kept the door partially closed. “You trusted me enough to come here. Trust me—”
It hit Shelly the moment she felt the outside force on the door, a barreling weight pushing her backward. They had used the boy to gain access without breaking and entering. They knew enough to know that, from her view above, the awning obscured them next to the outside door. They’d been here before, probably stood by the door, measured the angles of viewpoint. They’d known exactly where to stand to avoid detection.
They didn’t take the stairs with the boy initially, because Shelly would have seen them. The plan was to get the boy inside her place, at which time they would sneak up the stairs and wait for the door to open again, as the boy was leaving. She hadn’t looked through the peephole, but had she done so, ten-to-one they were just outside its range as well. They were waiting to pounce the moment they heard the chain open, the moment the door opened even an inch.
They had given this boy enough information to bullshit his way in. He knew Alex, knew the cop. But he hadn’t provided any detail whatsoever. They had busted the junkie and made him help them, probably in exchange for a walk.
She’d been smart but not smart enough, not sufficiently careful. She was living the one lesson she never told her students, because there was no point in doing so: No matter how careful you are, if someone wants at you bad enough, he’ll probably get there.
The impact threw Shelly against the wall but she managed to keep her feet. Two men stormed in, wearing black ski masks and long coats, rubber gloves. The first man came at her, his hands raised. She gave a short kick into his crotch. He doubled over; she grabbed at the back of his coat and used his momentum to propel him forward, past her to the carpet.
The second man held a revolver with a silencer poised at her face. He shook his head slowly. He was in the doorway, with a foot jammed against the door to keep it open. She looked at his feet, then measured the distance. She was off balance against
the wall, too far from the man for a kick, and she couldn’t close the door on him even if she could reach it. She ignored the sounds behind her, the painful grunt of the first intruder. She measured the distance again.
“You’ll be dead before you take a step,” said the man. His voice carried well through the mask. “And so will Alex.”
She heard the man behind her get to his feet. A moment later, a weapon was pressed against her temple.
Alex,
he’d said. This guy knew the name of her client. As a juvenile, his identity had been kept confidential. Not reported in the press.
In the space of no more than ten seconds, they had entered and subdued her. And made virtually no noise doing it. They were either hard-boiled crooks or cops.
Or both.
The one in the doorway looked behind him to be sure the junkie had high-tailed it. Then, with his revolver still trained on her, he closed the door and locked the chain. He approached her with the gun aimed at her face. There were now two guns within inches of her nose.
“Open wide,” he said.
She locked her jaw, grit her teeth, but he pushed the silencer hard against her mouth until she had no choice. If she resisted, it could go off.
“Here’s the good news,” he whispered. His eyes—the only part of his face exposed—were a dark brown, narrowed into slits. “I’m not going to kill you.”
Shelly had already figured as much. If they wanted her dead, they would have killed her by now. They’d shown too much skill to be sloppy on this point.
“This gun here”—he pushed the weapon deeper into her mouth, almost gagging Shelly—“this is my insurance against you trying any more of that judo shit. Won’t be my fault the gun goes off.” He grunted, or laughed, it was hard to differentiate. The tough part was over, now he was confident. “Oh, yeah, lady lawyer, we know all about you.”
Shelly was frozen. Her mind instinctively turned to her myriad of options, body locations for kicks and knee thrusts and punches. If it were a fair fight, she was sure she could handle
them together. But there was nothing she could do with a gun in her mouth.
They had done their homework. They would deliver their message and get out.
The second man whispered into her ear. “You sure are a nice piece of ass, you know that, Shelly?”
Shelly shut her eyes, gasped for air with a mouthful of gun.
“You wearing a bra under there, Shelly?” The man touched her breast, fondled it, one then the other. “No, of course not. You were asleep. Yeah, it’s too bad we don’t have more time tonight. Maybe you could put on a little show for us.”
Shelly squeezed her eyes shut but kept still. She thought the words with a calm that surprised her.
Not again.
They would have to kill her first.
“Aw, she’d probably put up a fight,” said the one behind her. “Just for show. Before long, she’d have her legs wide apart. Isn’t that right, Shelly?”
“Maybe next time,” said the one in front. “Maybe, things don’t work out here, we’ll bring back three or four others. We’ll take turns on little Shelly.”
“Yeah, but you know what happens then.”
They both laughed.
The second man moved his face next to Shelly’s. “She’ll cry rape again.”
Shelly felt faint, could hardly keep her balance. They were telling her they were cops, had pulled her file, knew all about her. They wanted her to know.
The man in front moved even closer, so that his mask almost touched Shelly’s nose. “If we hear a single bad word about Ray Miroballi, you both die. We’ll find Baniewicz, in or out of jail. And we’ll find you. We’ll make it hurt, Counselor. You know how the Cans do it, right?”
She did know. The Columbus Street Cannibals killed rival gang members by cutting off a limb and letting them bleed to death.
“You keep your mouth shut about this visit, and Baniewicz pleads guilty.” The gun moved against the base of her throat. “Or there’s nowhere either of you can hide.”
The gun at her temple moved against her ear, then around to the back of her neck, never leaving her skull. Then she felt
hands on her shirt, her hair, and she was turned violently and hurled across the room. She could fight, yes, but she was small, maybe a hundred and ten pounds at best, and the force sent her face-first into the carpet.
She did a quick inventory, with her chin dug into the carpet. No broken bones, maybe a scrape or two at most. If they came at her from this position, she had several options, most of them below the belt. Some would maim. Some would hurt like hell.
But they weren’t coming at her. They were done.
“Yeah, really not a bad piece of ass,” one said to the other.
She heard laughter, then movement, a door closing gently behind her. She tried to scream but, once again, she couldn’t.
I
T WOULD HAVE
been a terrible day, anyway. The nineteenth of February. A day off for Shelly usually, every year. A
personal day.
She hadn’t slept after the visit from the intruders. She had called the police and spoken with officers when they arrived, saying nothing of her very real suspicion that it was police officers who had paid her a visit. Her point had simply been to show them—if they were still watching—that she wasn’t afraid to call the authorities. If the burglars were cops, they would be checking the report that was filed. She wanted them to know.
She had to see Alex, as she had every day, first thing in the morning before going to work. She didn’t want to shower, didn’t want to move her eyes off the front door. So she had bathed in the kitchen, taking a bar of soap and running it over her underarms and chest, drying with a towel. She hadn’t washed her hair but pulled it back sharply and pinned it. She could only imagine the impression she made.
She watched the clock as it hit seven-thirty. She inhaled and closed her eyes. On her kitchen table, she lit the sole candle and stared into its flame. She did the same thing she did every year on this day, asked for forgiveness and redemption.
God, of all days.
She drove to the detention center and raced to the check-in. “Michelle Trotter,” she said, “here to see my client, Alex Baniewicz.” She looked at the clock. It was three minutes past eight
in the morning. She felt dizzy from sleep deprivation but charged with adrenaline.
“He has a visitor,” said the man behind the glass window.
“Who?” Not having enjoyed her own most recent visitors, her mind raced as to who might be paying a call on Alex.
“Ronald Masters.”
Oh. Okay. Ronnie.
She took a seat and felt exhaustion set in. Lack of sleep, tension, and grief had wiped her out, and her day had hardly started. But she felt some measure of relief being here, even if she hadn’t seen Alex yet.
Time moved slowly as she sat in the waiting room with two other women, each of them younger than she. Each of them African American. Neither of them appeared to be filled with hope or enthusiasm. This was not a happy place. If she were her mother, she would be bouncing off the walls right now. She remembered when her mother’s father—Shelly’s grandfather—had passed, and her mother continued to cook the scrambled eggs after receiving the phone call, because she
needed to do something.
Shelly didn’t mourn that way. She let it swallow her whole, maybe so it would go away more quickly.
Ronnie Masters emerged from a door. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, which struck Shelly as insufficient for the cold weather; his long, dark hair was hanging all over his face. He saw her and nodded. Shelly greeted him, gave him some empty pleasantries.
“Didn’t know you were gonna be here,” he said, as if there were something meaningful about that. He gave her another look. “Have a rough night?”
“Something like that.”
Ronnie kissed Shelly’s cheek. He probably wanted to beg Shelly to save Alex, to spare him from the consequences of his actions. Whether Ronnie was in denial, Shelly did not know. What a “brother” would feel in such a situation was unfathomable. Little escaped Ronnie, and his presence had nothing to do with Alex’s guilt or innocence.