Ingo stood, and walked over to me. He put a hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and asked, “You okay?”
“No,” I said, and took a seat on the nearest pew. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again.”
“It’s over,” he said, trying to reassure me. “We did it.”
I was glad to be alive, but it wasn’t over. Christina was still out there, and somehow she knew I was going to double-cross her. My stomach churned, my ears rang, and the adrenaline rush had me shaking all over. I wanted to puke.
At that moment, an explosion behind us blasted open the doors of the church. Terrified, I dove onto the floor as debris flew over and around me. I saw Ingo do the same across the aisle. Luis, on the other hand, decided he was too old to dive onto the hard marble floor, and just stood there, shielding his eyes from the dust and debris. Miami SWAT officers stormed in through the smoke, with masks on and guns at the ready. As they barreled in, Luis foolishly turned in their direction, his gun still in his hand.
“Gun!” one of them shouted, and dropped Luis with several precise shots to the chest. He fell to the floor, dead, and blood spread out from underneath him across the polished marble.
Ingo and I remained flat against the floor, our fingers already interlaced behind our heads. Cops all around us shouted at us not to move. We were way ahead of them. An officer pinned me down and roughly zip tied my wrists together. It was the third time I’d been arrested this year, and never had I been more excited about it.
Chapter 92
Nine o’clock came and went, and by nine-fifteen, the honorable Judge Charles Keever had run out of patience. “Where is your client, Counselor?” he asked.
William stood and addressed the court. “I’m honestly not sure, Your Honor. It’s, um, possible my client is deceased.”
“Your think your client is dead?”
“Yes, Your Honor, it’s very possible.”
“Is this some kind of ruse, Mr. Alter?”
“No, Your Honor. Did you read about the shootout at the church in Miami yesterday?”
“I saw something about it, yes. Are you telling me your client was involved?”
“I believe so, yes, Your Honor.”
“And you think he may have been shot and/or killed?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Honor.”
Judge Keever pulled on his reading glasses and flipped through the pages of the case file that lay open on his bench. “Your client is Dr. Simon Spero, correct?” he asked, still looking down.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“An optometrist.”
“That is correct.”
“And he was involved in a shooting at a church down in Miami?” he said with skepticism.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Without looking up, the judge said, “Mr. Alter, would you mind explaining what your client, a Jewish optometrist from Boca, was doing in a Catholic church in downtown Miami at the time of the shooting?”
“He was attending a funeral, Your Honor.”
“I see,” Judge Keever said. He removed his reading glasses, pinched his fingers between his eyes, and let out frustrated sigh. “Alright, Mr. Alter. You have twenty-four hours to produce either your client or a death certificate. After that, I will be rescinding your client’s bail and issuing a warrant for his immediate arrest.” With that, he banged the gavel sharply on its block and stood.
Barry Poole, who had been sitting in the back of the courtroom, also stood. Enraged, he thundered out through the double doors, muttering profanities under his breath. He had no intention of waiting twenty-four hours.
Chapter 93
I never imagined when I chose to become an optometrist that I would ever spend this much time being incarcerated. But I had just spent a night in jail for the fourth time this year, though I was still unsure why. Ingo said there was no way for SWAT to make heads or tails of what happened at the church. They had no choice but to arrest us. It could take days or even weeks for them to sort it all out.
Great, I thought.
We were taken into custody just after noon on Sunday, and had arrived at the jail around twelve-thirty. Miami’s Pre-Trial Detention Center is a booking facility which processes and houses all classifications of inmates, ranging from traffic offenders to capital offenders. It was about fifteen minutes west of the church, Miami traffic permitting. We were booked and processed and we donned the orange jumpsuits. It was evening before we were placed in a cell, but at least we were together.
Ingo got to make his phone call first. He called his attorney. He was gone about fifteen minutes. When he came back, I didn’t like the look on his face.
“So, here’s the story,” he began. “My lawyer will be here first thing tomorrow morning. The good news is, he said he’d be happy to represent you at your bail hearing.”
“That’s great,” I said.
“Yeah. He’s pretty confident I will be released on a reasonable bond.”
“Good,” I replied. “And the, uh, bad news…?” I said, not liking where this was going.
“He said you’re probably not going anywhere. You’ve been arrested again while out on bail. Which means you will forfeit the bail money that was put up, and there’s not a sitting judge that will grant bail again.”
“Shit,” I said, and hung my head.
“Sorry, mate.”
“Not your fault. None of this is your fault. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. So thanks.”
“No worries. You know I’m always up for a good fight,” he said with a wink.
I sat there trying to process what he said. Tomorrow he’d be released on bail and I’d be alone. My legal troubles had gotten worse and there was no one that could help me. I looked up at him and asked what I couldn’t help thinking. “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in jail, aren’t I?” A tear wound down my face.
He didn’t have an answer. Not one I would like, anyway. He sat down next to me and we both stared at the gray concrete wall. After a minute, he asked, “Who you gonna call?”
I hadn’t really thought about how I would use my phone call. I only got one, so I had to make it count. I could call Sara, but she might not even answer. And if she did, what would I tell her? That I’d been arrested, again? That I shot someone, again? There was nothing she could do for me anyway. I wasn’t about to call William. As tempted as I was to have him drag his ass down here, I didn’t feel like paying him to pretend like he cared or like he would get me out. I toyed with the idea of calling the FBI. I didn’t really know why, but I felt like they owed me. But who could I trust?
I was just about out of ideas when it hit me. I knew exactly who to call. But would he answer? And could he do it? Would he do it? There was only one way to find out.
Night came, and Ingo slept. He snored like a freight train, but he slept. I, on the other hand, was up all night, nervous, scared, and depressed. My trial had begun that morning and I hadn’t been there. God only knew what William told the judge. He’d probably changed my plea to guilty and the two of them had a good laugh as I was sentenced to five years in prison. That was just for the one count of involuntary manslaughter. Wait until they tacked on whatever charges stemmed from Callie Ann’s pseudo-assault or yesterday’s shooting at the church.
There was nothing I could do about it anyway. I was already in jail and probably not leaving anytime soon. Get used to it, I told myself. The gray walls, the tiny cell, the orange jumpsuit… This might be my life from now on.
Ingo woke and was promptly called for his bail hearing. We shook hands and wished each other luck. He did not return. When his attorney, Richard Dans, came back for me, he told me Ingo had been released on five thousand dollars bail. It was his first arrest and the prosecutor admitted they could not yet prove any wrongdoing on his part. I was relieved. Even though I wanted him with me, I was glad he was going
home. The last thing I wanted was for him to be in trouble because of me.
Then Richard told me the bad news. After signing Ingo’s release, the judge said, “Mr. Dans, it is my understanding that you also intend to represent Simon Spero in this matter. Well, let me save you the trouble. Bail is denied. Your client has violated the terms of his release and will remain in custody until such time as the investigation into the events at the Gesù church is complete and his level of involvement can be determined.”
How long would that take? I wondered. Days? Weeks? Months? I questioned my decision not to call Sara. She needed to know what was going on. She wouldn’t know if I was alive or dead. And at this point, I didn’t know if she was alive or dead. I really needed to hear her voice. But the call I made was the one call that could make a difference. I didn’t know if it would, but I had to try. Richard apologized for not being able to do more, we said our goodbyes, and he left.
Now all I could do was wait.
Chapter 94
I sat in my cell with nothing to do but think. Being alone with my thoughts was not a good thing. I thought about how I got here, how all this started. About the shooting at the movie theater near my house. About my decision to buy a gun so I could protect my family. About all the training I went through. About being confronted and threatened by Enrique and Gustavo. About that day in the bank. And about every day since, including yesterday at the church. I thought about all the mistakes I made along the way, all the things I could have done differently, and everything that had been stacked against me.
Since the very beginning, I’d been set on a path that led me here—lost, defeated, imprisoned. The twins were dead, James was gone, and I was no closer to being free of this than I was a year ago. Christina was still out there, the case against me was still alive and well, and Sara was, at best, still a prisoner in our home. At worst, I didn’t want to think about. I dwelled on it all until I couldn’t have felt any lower. I laid on the cold concrete floor and stared at the ceiling. It was about as comfortable as the bed anyway. I wanted to sleep, but I was too anxious, and too depressed.
Afternoon slowly turned to evening. It’s incredible how time inches by when you have absolutely nothing to do. I paced in my cell, counting my steps. In the small cell, I could only take a few steps before I had to turn back around. I was approaching a thousand steps when a loud buzzing sound startled me. A guard approached my cell, yanked open the door, and said, “Okay, Spero, let’s go.”
I swallowed hard and stepped nervously out of the cell. He closed the door behind me with a loud bang and I jumped. “This way,” he said. I didn’t know what was happening or where he was taking me, but I was terrified. I’d seen too many prison movies and my imagination was running wild. Some of the other inmates stared at me through the bars of their cells, and I wondered if they knew what was about to happen to me. We walked the length of the row, then stopped at a locked gate, and waited for it to be opened.
I mustered up my courage, cleared my throat, and said, “Do you mind if I ask where we’re going?”
The guard turned to me and said, “You’re being processed out.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means you’re going home.”
My heart skipped a beat when I heard the words. I couldn’t believe it. There must be some kind of mistake. This morning, the judge had ruled that bail was denied and I was remanded to custody for an undisclosed length of time. Now I was being released. How was that possible?
And then I remembered. The phone call. He did it. Holy shit, he did it. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t care, but he did it. I was being released.
We stopped in an office where I took off my orange jumpsuit and traded it in for my own clothes and other personal belongings. I signed a few forms, and was then escorted through a convoluted series of doors and gates. When the final door was unlocked, it opened to the outside and the warm night air hit me. I stepped slowly across the threshold and, even after I was outside, I wasn’t sure if this was one big prank. I turned to look back at the guard, and the door slammed closed in my face.
I was free.
I couldn’t believe it. I took a deep breath and exhaled. A huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I tilted my head back and looked up at the sky, wanting desperately to enjoy this moment. Something had finally gone my way. But not without a price. This, too, would cost me. Later, I thought.
We had taken Ingo’s car down to the Gesù church yesterday, so he must have collected it from the parking lot, and drove it home. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and, surprisingly, it still had power. I tapped the Uber app and ordered a ride. Less than ten minutes later, I was in the backseat of a silver Toyota Prius cruising north and headed home.
I leaned my head back and smiled. I couldn’t believe where I was. I called Sara and she answered on the first ring, excited to hear from me. I told her I was on my way home and that I would explain everything when I got there. She said she and the boys were excited and would be waiting for me. I had a lot of explaining to do. We hung up, and I put my head back and closed my eyes. I couldn’t wait to see them.
An hour later, the Prius pulled up in front of my house. I thanked the driver, gave him a tip, and watched him drive off. I stood at the end of the driveway, looked up at my house, and smiled. So much had happened, I couldn’t remember the last time I was here. I was glad to be home. I started to walk up the driveway when I was knocked off my feet by a blow to my head. I toppled onto my back and groaned as the world around me spun in circles. Someone kicked me hard in the ribs, and I howled in pain. Instinctively, I assumed the fetal position and waited for the next blow.
“What did I tell you, Doc?” said the angry voice. “What did I tell you?”
I tried to roll over, but my ribs were on fire and my head was spinning. I felt like I’d been hit by a sledgehammer. I managed to flop onto my back and fought to maintain consciousness. Struggling with each breath, I propped myself up on my elbows. My ribs screamed with each movement. I blinked my eyes until my vision started to clear. Barry Poole stood over me wearing brass knuckles on his right fist that were now red with my blood. Once I saw it, the warm wet sensation of blood running down my face registered.
“What did I tell you?” he asked again. He removed the brass knuckles and put them in his back pocket. When he brought his hand back around, he was wielding a very scary looking knife, and he took a step toward me.
“Wait!” I shouted, my head pounding. I fell onto my side and held up a hand in his direction. “Wait! I have the money!”
Spending the day in jail gave me time to think about a lot of things. Even things I’d forgotten about, like the hundred thousand dollars James made appear in my account. The money was meant to make me look guilty, and, until now, I hadn’t touched it because of how it might look to the prosecuting attorney. But with my life on the line, I didn’t care how it looked. Barry was getting his fifty grand back.
“I have the money!” I said again. “Let’s go inside. I’ll write you a check right now!”
Barry stared down at me with rage in his eyes. “No fucking checks! Cash! Now!”
“I don’t have cash,” I said, and he took another step toward me. “But I can get it!” I shouted, aggravating the pounding in my head and causing my eyes to water. “First thing in the morning! You can even come with me to the bank!”
He stood over me, the knife still in his hand. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about my offer or where to stab me first.
“What time does your bank open?” he asked.
“Nine a.m.!” I said, excited he was considering my offer. “We can get there right when they open and I’ll get you your money!”
He leaned down and stuck his knife in my face. “I’ll be back here tomorrow morning. Eight forty-five. You better be here or this little thumping will seem like a sweet dream.” He gripped
the brass knuckles on his right hand for emphasis. “And your house will be mine. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes! Crystal! I’ll be here! I promise!”
“Your promises aren’t worth shit, doc. Just be here. Or else.”
He straightened up, removed and pocketed the brass knuckles, and walked away. When he was gone, I collapsed onto my back, breathing heavily and grimacing in pain.
My homecoming was off to a shitty start.
Chapter 95
I wasn’t sure how long I laid on my front lawn, but when I finally found the strength to stand, everything hurt. My ribs were on fire, my head pounded, and my legs wobbled beneath me. In agonizing fashion, I stumbled my way to the front door. When I reached the front porch, something occurred to me. The guards were gone—the two men who’d been hanging around the house at Christina’s behest. I looked around and didn’t see them anywhere. I wanted to believe they would have intervened when they saw Barry kicking my ass, but that was probably wishful thinking.
Where were they? Had Christina called them off now that Enrique and Gustavo were dead? Was she satisfied? Or was there something else going on?
On the car ride home, I started to wonder when she would come after me. No loose ends. Suddenly I got nervous. Had she already come for Sara and the boys? Is that why her men were gone? I put my hand on the door handle and pressed down. It opened. Sara never left the door unlocked. My heart pounded out of my chest as I started to imagine all kinds of terrible things. I eased the door open, trying to make as little sound as possible in case someone was still in the house.
I moved slowly, mainly because I was in pain, but also because I didn’t want to alert anyone to my presence. Someone heard me anyway. I heard the footsteps coming rapidly toward me and I got low. Mandy came flying down the hallway and launched herself at me. I caught her in midair. Her tail wagged a thousand miles an hour as she licked my face and chirped with glee that I was home. If anyone else was in the house, they would know I was here. A few seconds later, Sara and the boys came around the corner and my heart leapt. I was relieved they were okay and thrilled to see them.
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