Chapter 24
“Leon, are you okay?” I sat frozen, all eight-months pregnant of me curled up in a ball, after I'd crawled behind the massive register stand on the far side of his bakery. Four minutes had passed since I'd dialed 911 on my cell phone. I could hear sirens wailing in the distance. Maybe that's what had triggered my memories of New Year's Day.
“Don't worry about me,” Leon crawled over to join me. “Are you okay?”
A sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan escaped my lips. These were the four longest minutes of my life as I waited to see if the shots would resume, if someone would then enter, if a red laser beam would find us in our temporary barricade behind the register.
As Leon nursed some wounds on his arms from the shattered glass, I counted at least eleven shell casings scattered about the bakery shop floor.
“Don't touch anything,” Leon mumbled as he wrapped a dishcloth around his lower arm. “Evidence.”
Evidence.
How many times had I heard that word over the past few months? This time it applied to us, to our circumstances.
We could have been killed.
A shooter aimed indiscriminately at us from the outside of Leon's bakery, and we could have been killed.
But why?
The threats up to now had been media-related, privacy issues. Though I'd had my worries, my doubts, my fears, I never imagined that I'd be cowering behind a metal register stand, my face pushed into Leon's side. I never imagined that he would be bleeding. I pressed my entire body closer to him, aware that every limb on me was shaking.
“It's okay, Sienna,” Leon assured me, though I noted the tautness in his own body. One of his arms held me, the other was extended, gun pointed toward the broken front windows, his old police training and instincts at work.
The front window was almost completely gone and the striped curtains that covered the storefront had gaping holes, were shred to pieces. From what I could see, a small crowd had gathered on the periphery. I could hear their mumbles, their expressions of disbelief. That gave me a slight comfort, a small sense of safety. If people felt safe enough to begin gathering outside the shop, then maybe the danger was gone, the shooter moved on.
But did the shooter think we were dead? If that was the intention, then we were nowhere near safe.
I thought of Roman, wanted him close to me. Wished we had finally spoken and cleared the heavy air between us.
“Leon.” My voice came out in a mournful whisper, matching the wail of the sirens that sounded seconds away.
His arm around me tightened and he planted his lips on my forehead for a quick kiss. “It's okay, baby. I am not going to let anything happen to you, to either of you.”
My God, the baby.
I rubbed a hand over my belly and felt a fear and an anger that I'd never felt in my life. What if something had happened to my baby? What kind of animal targets a pregnant woman?
I thought of Amber and knew that my question was already too late. Her belly was obviously full with child and it had not stopped her killer from taking both her and her unborn baby's lives.
But that had been a drug-induced attack, and the alleged perpetrator, Delmon Frank, was behind bars awaiting the completion of his trial.
“That first rock came through the window at five-eleven, the same time that was on that broken pocket watch. Leon, all of this . . . This has to involve Sweet Violet, right?”
He didn't answer immediately. The seconds before he spoke seemed like an eternity, but he was just thinking, considering my question, I realized.
“The time doesn't tell me that Sweet Violet is involved, Sienna,” he finally spoke. “It's probably just a coincidence. I think someone is watching you, watching us. Maybe because of the trial, maybe because of something else. I don't know.”
Police cars skidded to a stop in front of the shop. I heard heavy boots, shouts, orders. “Move back, move back.” Guns raised, glass crunching. I realized that I'd never mentioned the $5.11 that had been left on Roman after the assault. Did he know? My voice was locked in my throat as my heart tried to calm down.
“I wish you had never gotten involved with any of this, Sienna. This is exactly why.” His voice was low, not fussing, but the point was taken.
As what looked like a SWAT team stormed into the bakery, Leon nudged me, beckoned me to raise my arms. He let his gun drop to the floor beside us and we both emerged slowly from behind the register; careful movements, so as not to spook any of the armed and shielded officers. When we both had fully come from behind the register, arms still raised, the officers rushed us, one grabbing Leon, another grabbing me.
“Ma'am, are you okay? We got a report of a hostage situation here. Is this man harming you?”
“Leon, be still,” I shouted over to my husband, noticing for the first time the rough nature of the officers and Leon's natural reaction to shield himself. The way he moved his arms and twisted his legs, in these fast blurred moments, his actions could be misinterpreted as resistance, I realized.
These guys think Leon is the culprit here.
“No, no, no,” I spoke quickly as I realized they were not letting Leon get in a word as they frisked him, turned him over, attempted to handcuff him. “Please, stop. That's my husband. This is his shop. I never said it was a hostage situation. I don't know where you got that report. Please, this is my husband, Leon Sanderson. We were celebrating our anniversary and someone shot through the front windows.”
Too many people in the room.
Too much action.
Too much going on.
Confusion.
My words seemed to evaporate into the air before touching the eardrums of anyone present. Seemed like the only word heard by the tactical team was “shot.”
“Here's a gun.” I heard someone say as the swarm of officers grew and took over the tiny shop. One of them had picked up the gun Leon had dropped to the floor.
“I'm a former officer with the Baltimore Police Department. My name is Leon Sanderson and this is my place of business,” Leon managed to get out as handcuffs tightened over his wrist. “I don't know where you got information that this is a hostage situation. That's simply not true. Someone shot at me and my wife. We were here celebrating our first anniversary.”
“Ma'am.” Another officer disregarded Leon's words. “Although we'll be taking him with us, it's probably in your best interest to seek a restraining order against your husband. Someone from our domestic violence unit can help you. There's no need for you to try to protect him. If he was bold enough to fire multiple bullets at you, he's bold enough to face the charges.”
“That is not what happened here at all!” I screamed, a new level of panic settling over my entire body. “This is my husband! He didn't do anything. Someone shot at us from outside the windows. At five-eleven! This homeless ladyâ” I realized my words were falling on deaf ears as adrenaline, weapons, and more officers flooded the bakery, some picking up and bagging evidence, others pointing at bullet holes in the walls and furniture.
The place was a ragged mess.
“Is this even a registered gun?” I heard another officer inquire. Leon, though just across the room from me, felt like he was miles away.
“I told you. I'm a former cop. Let me get my ID.”
“Do you even have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”
“I'm on the grounds of my business, and I'm protecting my wife. If you give me a chance . . .” His words began slurring together in my ears as the room collapsed on top of me. I felt like I was inside of a bubble, dizzy, everything looking distorted, air squeezing out of my lungs. I had to tell myself to breathe as another officer forced me down into a seat, seeming to care about my physical wellbeing, telling someone to call an ambulance; something about me going into shock.
“Sienna, it's okay!” Leon stared at me through the sea of officers, the concern on his face telling me that he was more concerned about me than what was going on in his corner of the room with several officers thinking he was a criminal, weapons drawn, pointing at him. “Breathe, baby. It will all work out. Sienna, breathe, baby. I need you and my baby to be okay. Breathe.” His was a calm, soothing voice in the midst of the chaos.
I felt my lungs expand under his command. Lightheadedness, dizziness took over me.
“Push her head between her knees,” I heard someone say as I felt myself blacking out. I felt heavy hands on my head pushing me inward, but something was in the way. That's right, my stomach. I became aware of a volley of flutters and kicks coming from my abdomen. “Jesus, help us,” were the only words I could get out as the room began rotating faster around me.
Then darkness.
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Stretcher. Flashing lights.
I felt myself being holstered into the back of an ambulance as I came back to consciousness. How long had I been out? I was outside, in front of the bakery. Pratt Street was closed in both directions. “Wait!” I pushed myself up from the stretcher, slid to the edge. “I don't need the hospital. I need my husband.”
“Ma'am, please lie down. You're safe. Your husband is in custody.” A woman's voice. Uniform. Bright red hair. Arm full of tattoos. Blurry images. I realized tears were blocking my vision.
“No, no, no. Will someone please listen? My husband and I were eating cake for our anniversary and someone started shooting through the window! They are still out there. They are trying to kill us. Please help! Please listen!” I struggled against the paramedic who was trying to keep me flat on the stretcher. “Don't you know who I am?” I hated to go that route, but was desperate to try anything to make somebody listen. “I've been on all the television stations lately. The terrorist attack last year? The Delmon Frank trial?”
“Ma'am, we all are aware that you are Sienna St. James and I'm sure as a public figure it's embarrassing to have your family business aired. However, it is our job to keep you safe. Your husband was shooting at you. Because a gun was involved, your permission is not needed to press charges.”
“Leon absolutely was not shooting at me!”
“No need to keep up the act, Ms. St. James. My understanding is that a reliable eyewitness informed us of the hostage situation and called it in. You can let it go, ma'am.”
An eyewitness? Who on earth called the police and said Leon was holding me hostage?
“I'm not going to the hospital, miss. Everything is wrong. You can't force me. I'm fine. I just need to figure out what's going on.” I jumped off the stretcher, hopped out of the open door of the ambulance. The paramedic didn't pursue me, just shook her head. I saw pity in her eyes.
But fear was in mine.
Someone just tried to kill me and my husband, and, when that didn't succeed, they framed Leon as an abusive hostage-taker. My husband was in custody, his business and reputation in shambles, and I was a victim of misdirected pity.
An eyewitness? Who? Why?
I didn't know the answers. I didn't even know if I was safe. What I did know was that a rock came crashing through the window at 5:11 p.m. and then all hell broke loose.
Maybe it had nothing to do with Sweet Violet. Maybe it had everything to do with Sweet Violet. I had no idea why we were targeted.
Was Delmon Frank some type of gang member? Did he have ties to the streets and the stop snitching code culture that kept most of the city's crime-solving abilities in gridlock? Was my testimony stepping on too many wrong toes?
My biggest fear before today was that the media would ruin my life, taping every detail of it, releasing every word, every statement.
Today, my family members, those who I loved dearly, were attacked. The lawyer who represented me was dead. Of course all of this was tied to the case, but what of Sweet Violet?
I considered these things as I stepped away from the scene, the confusion. I turned toward the Inner Harbor.
Hot summer evening.
The crowds would hide me while I figured out my next move.
Get to Leon.
Get answers.
Get to safety.
The baby kicked in me. Maybe I should have gone to the hospital just for her or his sake. No. Not until I knew better what was going on. My gut told me the baby was fine and that I had to get some answers for all of our sakes.
I changed my direction, hurried my pace to get to the Charles Street Metro Station to catch the next subway train. Using a map feature on my phone, I planned out my route. I didn't want to drive my car in case I was being followed. For some reason, the idea of public transportation appealed to me.
Safety in numbers?
I decided that I'd catch the next train to Mondawmin Mall then transfer to the number fifty-two. Yvette, along with her husband, had purchased her first home not long ago. She'd left her longtime row home in Park Heights and moved into a five-bedroom single family home in the Ashburton neighborhood.
She was a branch manager of a dollar store. Demari's landscaping business had grown exponentially since he began, like Leon, taking young people on as mentees and employees. Yvette and Demari were both tasting the fruits of their successes.
And they both were familiar with the sour tastes of the streets.
I needed a seat at their table, to fellowship, to commune, to figure out what to do from here.
As I stepped onto the escalator that would drop me down into the belly of the Charles Street Station, a black sedan with tinted windows that had been sitting at a red light suddenly sped off. I thought about the car that had zoomed out of the parking garage at the hospital.