The Execution of Noa P. Singleton (18 page)

“All right, if that’s what you want.”

Officer Woodstock then stood up from his chair and left me alone in the room. It was another five hours before he returned.

I waited.

I waited patiently.

I waited for my attorney to arrive—any attorney—state appointed, dollar-store ilk, high-rise firm.

I waited to make my one call, which I eventually used on my mother.

I waited for her to arrive that night, as well, but it took her nearly a week to buy a plane ticket to see me. She was terrified of flying. She was sure a cross-country flight would be hijacked. It had been over a year at that point since 9/11 and my mother refused to fly cross-country, having traveled only in the air from Burbank to Ontario for a shampoo commercial audition.

And, of course, I waited for both Bobby and the guy from Lorenzo’s, who I later learned refused to acknowledge me from that point until the trial. Bobby learned about what happened first and commiserated with the guy from Lorenzo’s over beer and free pizza. I didn’t even know that they knew about each other at the time. I guess I underestimated Bobby. I guess I underestimated his colleagues on the police force, too. I guess I overestimated the quid pro quo from Lorenzo’s.

The second hand of the clock in the interrogation room ticked along so slowly, I could count each stroke. My arms shuddered, bruising the skin ever so delicately under the cuffs. I thought of my little brother. I thought of my mother. I thought of Sarah and her last glance at me as she refused that cup of tea.

Footsteps filled the hallway outside my room. At times, I heard the white noise of gossip. It terrified me. My bladder burst, spilling liquid panic down my legs. I hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. My underwear reeked from nitrous-rich moisture. The water they had given me five hours earlier abruptly made its way down my urethra from my bladder and onto the seat upon which I was sitting. Some of it even dripped onto the floor below.

By the time Officer Woodstock returned, it had nearly dried, but the stench still remained. And another officer was with him.

“This is Sergeant Egan. For the record, I’m Officer Woodstock. It’s five in the morning and I’m going to read you your rights. Do you understand?”

It looked like four men were standing to my side. There couldn’t have been more than three feet by three feet of space. Suffocation of inordinate discomfort spilled over me.

Sergeant Egan pulled out a laminated card from his pocket. He was practically my age. You would think that perhaps we went to the same high school until he started speaking.

“You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions.” He said the word “right,” with a small-town country twang.
You have the raaght to remayn sahhlent
. It made me lose my concentration. “Do you understand?”

I nodded. Yes.

“Speak up. We need this on the record.”

My throat tickled as I cleared it.

“Yes.”

“Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

Again, I nodded yes.

“Was that a yes?”

I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?”

Yes, yes, I understand.

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand?”

Fuck yes, of course yes.

“If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. Do you understand?”

Yes, yes, yes. I fucking know my fucking rights. I read newspapers. I don’t rely on television to know my rights.

According to the video transcript played later at my trial, I said yes to almost everything, handing over my rights with a glazed look and virginal shock. According to the video, I relinquished my rights. I didn’t ask for an attorney. I didn’t ask to stop speaking. I didn’t
do anything. Suddenly, it was like that first interview with Officer Woodstock never existed. As if Officer Woodstock never came in on his own to ask me whether I wanted an attorney present and as if I wasn’t completely ignored when I said, yes. Yes, I want an attorney present. Yes, I want to stop talking. Yes, I fucking know my fucking rights. But nobody ever heard those. It’s strange, isn’t it? How things can go so differently in your head than the way they appear to others.

Officer Woodstock informed me that I was sitting in that room for upwards of five hours before he’d returned to me. Later at my trial, he said on the stand that the reason was because they were transporting the body to the morgue and properly preserving the crime scene. They had a few other people to question first, as well, and didn’t want to backtrack.

“Your name is Noa Singleton?” Sergeant Egan asked.

“Noa P. Singleton,” I corrected.

“What does the P. stand for?”

“P.”

“Don’t play games with us.”

“P,” I repeated.

He kicked the front left leg of my chair, causing it to skid on the floor.

“We can find out in five minutes. Just make it easier on us.”

“Then find out in five minutes,” I said. “Do your research.”

They looked at each other. I knew they wouldn’t follow up. Nobody ever did.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because there was a break-in at Sarah Dixon’s apartment.”

“A break-in?”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re here. I called the police. There was a break-in. I heard shots. Sarah was hit. I was hit. And you didn’t get there in time.”

“Let’s talk about Sarah,” Officer Woodstock continued.

“Did you see Sarah get shot?” Sergeant Egan asked.

I nodded.

“Did you see Sarah get shot, Noa?”

I nodded again, refusing to speak.

“We need a vocal response for the record. Yes or no.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Did you see Sarah get shot?”

“Yes.”

“Did you shoot her?”

I shook my head. “No.”

They continued asking questions without pause.

“Let’s talk about what happened. Can you talk about it?”

“I can talk about it.”

“What was the first thing you remember doing yesterday morning?”

“I woke up, brushed my teeth, called my brother to wish him a happy new year.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Los Angeles.”

“California?”

“Yes, Los Angeles, California. What other Los Angeles would it be?”

“Did you reach him?” They didn’t skip a beat.

“No.”

“Did you leave a message for him?”

“No.”

“Does he know that you tried to reach him?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him that. Or subpoena the damn phone records.”

A little red light started blinking on the black bulb in the ceiling.

“What did you do next?”

“I showered, ate some fruit and cereal for breakfast, and left.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went to a drugstore.”

“What drugstore?”

“Just a drugstore.”

Woodstock and Egan shared a glance.

“Noa, again, we can find out all of this information within five minutes. Just make it easy on us and it will be easier for you.”

“What do you want me to say? An apothecary? A fucking drugstore, okay.”

Egan scribbled something down in his pad.

“Are we talking a small local pharmacy or are we talking CVS, Duane Reade, Rite Aid?”

“It was a CVS,” I decided to tell them.

“What did you buy at CVS?” Woodstock continued.

“Some tea. Sleeping pills. Apple juice.”

“Tea?”

I nodded.

“Ms. Singleton, for the record …” Egan nodded again to the black lightbulb.

“Yes,” I said, nodding again.

“… I bought tea. It calms me after a night out, like New Year’s Eve, for example. Okay?”

“What did you end up doing on New Year’s Eve, then?”

“Nothing,” I said, after a long enough pause.

“Okay. What kind of tea did you buy then on New Year’s Day?”

“Lemon Zinger. It’s the only thing I ever drink.”

“Anything else?”

“Huh?”

“Did you buy anything else?”

“That was it.”

“Were you by yourself?”

“As far as I know.”

“Were you followed at all?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

He leaned back in his chair.

“That’s why I’m asking you. Were you alone? Followed?”

I shrugged. “I. Don’t. Know.”

“Okay,” he said, moving on. “How did you pay?”

“What?”

“How did you pay for the tea and juice? Check? Credit? Cash?”

“Cash.”

“What did you do next?”

I looked back to the red blinking light. My fingers tapped along with it, counting out loud. One blink. Two blinks. Three blinks. Four.

“I left. I just walked around the parade.”

“Did you see anyone you knew?”

“No.”

Woodstock and Egan exchanged another glance. This was becoming both menacing and annoying at the same time.

“Look, my arm is really hurting me,” I said. “I need to get to a hospital, or don’t you care about human rights?”

“Ms. Singleton …”

“You think I’m kidding?”

“A woman is dead. We are not joking,” Woodstock said.

“Does it look like I’m joking? I was shot, too.”

Woodstock and Egan looked to each other and then to the two-way mirror.

I tried to lift my arm to show them that blood was still seeping through the gauze wrapped around it, but was unsuccessful. It was the same dressing from hours earlier, placed by the same medic who carried Sarah out of her apartment on a gurney with a blanket covering her face. Now the white gauze was burnt dark with dried blood, waves of color peeking through the porous wrapping, materializing on my shirt in various geometric shapes.

“Your arm was barely grazed,” Woodstock said.

“And don’t I have the right to get medical attention for that?” I said, pointing to the new spots.

“You’ve had medical attention.”

Egan used this moment to take the reins.

“Ms. Singleton, let’s talk about what happened after the parade. We know what happened. We just want to give you a chance to help
yourself here. That’s all this is. A chance to come clean. Get yourself right with God.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked him, cupping my hand around the flesh wound on my shoulder. “You’re actually sitting there bringing God into this?”

“Well, this is a capital offense.”

In that instant, the red light in the bulb seemed to freeze. The mechanics of the camera twisted, an extended hand crunching into a fist. A director was inside searching for my close-up. And he was getting it in a way that would be replayed at my trial over and over and over again, regardless of my lawyers’ running objection.

“Capital?”

“She was pregnant. That’s a capital offense. Two deaths,” Officer Woodstock said to me.

“You also broke into Sarah’s home,” Sergeant Egan added. “Burglary is a felony. And Sarah was killed in the process of that burglary. Felony murder. Either way you look at it, capital offense.”

The red light struck my eye like a dart.

“Noa,” Officer Woodstock said to me. “You’re only hurting yourself here. You’re in trouble. You messed up. Just fess up, and we can see what sort of punishment we can get for you.”

“I didn’t break in. It was a mummer. There was a burglar.”

“We know you didn’t live there. A person named Marlene Dixon owns the place and only Sarah Dixon is on the papers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t mess up.”

“Sarah’s dead, Noa. You killed her. We know you killed her. You might as well fess up now.”

My throat swelled like I was swallowing sawdust. My arms started shaking, and I could see nothing but the red blinking light of the camera expanding in girth, wider and wider, like a mutating starburst, until all that remained were red splashes of light, covering my eyes in miniature gunshots. Blood rushed from my face, my limbs, and fingertips to the lights of the camera.

Red bursts of bullets.

I dropped to the ground where my face rubbed against the urine rich floor. My eyes rolled behind my head. In the corner of my eyes I saw the silver wrapper of the Three Musketeers bar resting so peacefully on the floor.

Vomit was rushing up my body. I wanted to run to the bathroom but was shackled to the table, which was nailed to the floor. I was stuck. My body bent in half, heaving air for up to thirty seconds. After the dryness closed my throat, ribbons of chocolate and remnants of cinnamon bread from the night before traveled up the canal until they joined the puddle on the floor.

“She’s faking it,” Woodstock whined, as my body shook on the floor. “She’s faking it.”

“We’ve got to stop now,” Sergeant Egan said. “She’s bleeding. Get her to the hospital.”

“For a bullet graze?”

My pulse raced along with my pounding temples.

“She’s faking, Don. Just let her come to, and then we’ll continue.”

“Take her back to the holding cell,” Officer Woodstock ordered. “And call the medic.”

And then …

 … and then …

I can’t remember.

In all honesty, I can’t remember how the interrogation ended.

The first thing I remembered after that was knocking on the linoleum floor. Incessant, irritating, brain-curling knocking. High-heeled shoes, tight black ones with the toe peeking out, running into the jail, sprinting, despite a faulty gait. A voice accompanied it, just as excruciating, just as memorializing.

“Is it true? Tell me it’s not true. Tell me it’s not true!”

It was Marlene. Her speech was slovenly and drenched. She was hysterical. Her fists banged against the door of the interrogation room as I was transported out.

“You didn’t do this, Noa. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t!”

Although her words were muffled, she was angry. And she was terrified and emotional for once in her life in a way that other people could witness.

“Where is she, Noa? Why did you do this? Why? Why?” she cried, the words dribbling down her chin along with her foamy spittle. “Why, Noa?” A few officers crowded around her, drawing her away. “Why?”