Then in 1999, I got the call. “Susan, come home. Dad had a heart attack.” Good-bye Brooklyn. Hello Catskills.
“Susan, you listening?” Mom grumbled, breaking into my flashback.
I wasn’t. Didn’t matter—I knew what she wanted. “I’ll give your two cents some thought,” I said, keeping my sarcasm in check. But I knew that I would, once again, do the complete opposite of what she wanted.
I KNOCKED on my bedroom door. I wondered if Thomas knew about the Calvin Barnes fiasco. Who around here didn’t?
“Come in,” Thomas shouted over the music.
I handed him my card. “If things go south here, or you want to chat about a school project, feel free to call me.”
He took my card and jammed it into his back pocket. “Appreciate that.”
I closed the door but remained planted in front of it. Should I go back in and get a read on the situation or let it go? Understand where he stands on the matter. Understand where his sympathies lie: With Calvin, unarmed teenager, shot by a cop? With me, injured in the line of duty, trying to get drugs off the street? The decision was made for me when I heard glass shatter downstairs, followed by a flurry of curse words. Clearly, this was a sign. I turned and headed toward the kitchen to deal with another one of Mom’s mishaps.
Trudy
Trudy sat in the cafeteria waiting for her Coke. “Maxine?” she yelled to the young woman sitting a couple of tables away. “Maxine?” she repeated. “It’s me.”
The woman smiled politely and nodded her head.
Trudy stood and approached the woman. “Hi Maxine!”
To Trudy, Maxine was a real friend. Her only real friend. Someone she could tell her secrets to. Someone who wouldn’t blab all over town. Maxine had her own fair share of trauma and bad luck. That’s how you bond with a person—shared experiences that others dismiss as trivial . . . or tell you to just get over.
“Hi . . .” The woman glanced at Trudy’s hospital bracelet. “Ummm . . . Ms. Solomon?”
Trudy blinked, then laughed. “So formal. La tee da.”
“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else. Maxine, you say?”
“Don't be silly.” Trudy crouched down and whispered, “The plan is in place.”
“The plan?”
“Right. We shouldn’t talk about it here.” Trudy glanced around, then sat down. She leaned in close to the young woman. “I’m a bit nervous.”
“No need to be nervous,” the young woman said, patting Trudy’s hand. “I’m sure whatever it is will turn out just fine.”
“I can always count on you, dear friend, to make me feel better.”
5
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
ELDRIDGE GAVE me the go-ahead this morning. He framed it to his superiors as an under-the-radar assignment, keeping me out of public view while the Barnes controversy settled down. Said the higher-ups had great respect for my good old dad, William Ford, and approved his role as consultant. We were given two months and a small travel budget to figure this out. That gave us until New Year’s Eve—a ridiculously tight deadline for a cold case with a tepid lead. Dad was certainly up for the challenge. Me, I was still a bit uneasy about digging around in the past when my present was kind of a mess right now.
“What’s your plan of attack?” Ray asked, tossing three hamburgers and buns on the grill. Two for him, one for me.
“I thought you weren’t interested.”
“I wasn’t. But now that you’re actually doing this, I am.”
I leaned against the deck railing, weighing the pros and cons of involving Ray.
“Y’know, Eldridge doesn’t want me dragging you and your pals into this. He doesn’t want his detectives distracted by this investigation.”
“Well then pretend I’m just your boyfriend and you’re bouncing ideas off of me. Besides, I broke this case. It would be pretty cruel shoes to leave me in the dark.”
Cruel shoes. Ray started using this expression a few years ago after reading Cruel Shoes, a collection of short stories by Steve Martin. (“It’s the greatest work of literature I’ve ever read,” he insisted.) I told him I’d think about it, that I’d make my decision after dinner. I went back into the house and headed to the fridge to get salad fixings. My rear pocket vibrated. I glanced at my phone and let it go to voice mail. But it would have been cruel shoes to ignore the message, so I immediately texted Dad to let him know I was eating dinner and would call back later. Now that we had gotten the green light, he was champing at the bit to get started. Me, I preferred a day or two to process this. I needed to steel myself, psyche myself up. To make sure I was ready to embark on this wild-goose chase, which could bring relief or misery, or both.
Besides, I planned to see Rhonda tomorrow. She called me out of the blue, although I had a feeling Natalie instigated it. Before the twins were born, Natalie attended Black Lives Matter weekend meetings at the Episcopal church and worked with the group to organize marches and raise money for black candidates running for office. The death of Natalie's best friend spurred her to activism, she claimed.
Her friend, Autumn Sanders, drove to Georgia two years ago for a job interview. Two weeks later she was dead. The cops said she was weaving through traffic and changed lanes without signaling. When they asked her to get out of the car, they claimed she was uncooperative and had to use minimal force to get her to comply. She was tossed into a jail cell. That minimal force resulted in a few broken ribs, causing internal bleeding. No one checked on her throughout the night. By morning she was dead in her cell. But the dash cam told a different story. Autumn changed lanes to presumably let the cop car go by. She wasn’t weaving in and out of traffic. In fact, there wasn’t another car in sight. When she moved over, the patrol car moved over behind her and turned on the lights and siren. There was no sound on the recording, but you see Autumn get out of the car after some back-and-forth conversation with the officer. When she stepped out, the cop grabbed her hair and slammed her to the ground with zero provocation. Zero. His partner exited the squad car, and in full view of the lens, spit on her. Then he kicked her repeatedly in the gut, and once in the back for good measure. Did these guys not realize their vest cams were activated? Or did they not care, because they’d done it before and were never called to task? What they didn’t know was that Autumn’s father worked in the New York State Attorney General’s office as one of the lead prosecutors. When you know the right people . . . justice tips back in your favor. One cop was now rotting in jail. The other got off with a reprimand—but later lost his job when a hacker exposed his Facebook page full of racist, misogynistic, anti-Semitic, and homophobic tirades. Seems he was an equal-opportunity hater.
I opened the slider to let Ray back in with the platter of burgers. “Dad just called. I have a feeling he’s going to be calling me a lot. I’m going to have to put up some guardrails.”
“Knowing Will, he’ll be bugging the hell out of you. You sure you want to do this?”
“I’ve already said I would. I’m not going back on my word.”
“Roger that.”
“And, I’m not starting until Thursday. So, don’t ask me what I plan to do until then. I need a couple of days to gather up the old files. And besides, I’m having lunch with Rhonda tomorrow. I’m hoping she can help me with my prob . . . the shooting incident. Maybe tamp down some of the animosity.” I laced my fingers together and cracked my knuckles. “But I haven’t spoken to her since this happened. I’m not even sure Rhonda is on my side.”
“But she’s agreed to see you. Do you think she’s meeting with you to ream you out? I doubt that. She knows you would never purposely shoot someone based on their race. You were on those police reform committees. You attended BLM meetings, for God’s sake.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“I don’t know, seems pretty simple to me. You saw the flash of a gun, and in that split moment you had good reason to believe it was Barnes who shot you. The whole thing stinks.”
6
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
RHONDA WAVED at me from a booth near the back of the diner. I was just five minutes late, but her near-empty glass of iced tea told me she’d been sitting there for some time. She shut her computer lid as I settled into the seat across from her. We engaged in small talk about the twins, my dad, her son. I ordered an egg-salad sandwich; she got the turkey club. As luck would have it, we ran out of small talk just as the waitress arrived with our plates.
“Half the group is willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.” Rhonda stabbed one of the sweet potato fries with her fork and sighed. “They think it’s important to show that the Black Lives Matter movement can recognize the difference between unjustified and justified police action, that not every incident is racially motivated, and we are a reasonably minded movement. They believe that if Calvin was white, the outcome would have been the same. However, the other half are spitting mad. It’s happened yet again, and this time in their own backyard. They just don’t believe what the cops are saying, how things went down. I’ve heard the word cover-up a few times.”
“Which half do you stand with?”
She took two bites of her sandwich before answering. “It doesn’t matter where I stand, Susan. Even if I was on your side, I can’t go to bat for you, at least not publicly.” She stabbed another fry and took a sip of iced tea. “But I think there are some in the group who would go public to defend you, if that’s what you’re hoping. Your daughter intimated as much. Folks really respect Natalie—her free counseling for kids at risk has been a godsend, and I think many see this as a way to pay it forward.”
“I don’t want to pit the members of the group against each other. I was hoping that you, as the head of this chapter, would be willing—”
Rhonda held up her left hand, palm facing out, fingers spread. “I have to stop you right there. The last thing I need is a splintered group, with me as the axe. Why do you think I suggested we have lunch here in Middletown, where no one will see us together? But if it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure if you fired your weapon, you had good reason to.”
“I appreciate that. I wish I could convince others I had no choice.”
“I didn’t know Calvin Barnes, but I know people who knew him. They said he was a good kid under the influence of his not-so-good brother.”
“I know he’s being portrayed as this straight-A student who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s bullshit,” I snapped. The waitress glanced over at us, her facial expression a mixture of curiosity and alarm at my rising voice. I inhaled sharply and slowly exhaled. “He was a good student up until a year ago. That’s when he decided dealing drugs was more important than homework. He wasn’t some innocent kid caught in the crossfire. He was there setting up a buy. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“You’ve seen his parents on TV? They claim he was tagging along with his older brother Melvin and had no idea he was going to pick up a few bags of weed. His brother said you shot him when he was just standing there with his hands up.”
“Yet, that’s not what happened. Calvin was clearly in charge. His brother Melvin and the guy who shot me, Wayne Railman, were there for his protection.” As I spoke Rhonda gazed down at my clenched fists, then back at me. I relaxed them slightly, forming misshapen donut holes. “And it wasn’t just a few bags of weed. There was easily four ounces on that table. Not to mention quite a few sandwich bags full of Oxy. Intent to sell is a Class D felony.”
“The problem people have is the cops say one thing and the victim’s relatives say another, and—”
“Whoa Rhonda, victim? Really?” I squeezed my fists tight again, my fingernails dug into my moist palms. “Victim connotes that he is innocent in all this. He’s not.” I unclenched and stared at the little half-moon indentations.
“I’m just telling you what other people think. What you’re up against. Too bad the department didn’t get the funding yet for the body cams. I think that would have helped your case. But without it, it’s hard for these folks to just take your word for what went down.”
I knew Rhonda had limited options here. A difficult balancing act. She couldn’t go all in for me but she wasn't about to leave me stranded by the roadside. I relaxed my shoulders, which had inched up toward my ears. “That’s why I was hoping for your support on this. You’ve known me for, what, three years now? Have I ever given you any reason to believe I would shoot someone out of some kind of animus, consciously or subconsciously?”
“It’s not that—”
I leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve gotten a couple threatening notes tucked under my windshield wipers. A few heavy-breather calls to my home phone in the middle of the night.”
Rhonda bowed her head and clasped her hands, as if she was praying. She shook her head, then asked, “Threatening in what way?”
“Watch your back kind of thing.”
“Jeez. Tell you what, let me think about it. Okay?”
We sat silently for a few minutes. The waitress must have sensed we had run out of things to talk about and appeared at our table. “Anything else, ladies?”
“Just the check,” I said. “My treat. I really appreciate you making the time to talk to me.”
“I appreciate the generous offer, but I think we should split the bill.”
I got Rhonda’s drift. She didn’t want this to look like a bribe. Even if it was just eighteen dollars.
“Look, I know you want my support. Let me think about my next move. I’ll get back to you by the end of next week. It’s the best I can do,” Rhonda said, clearly intent on putting an end to this discussion. “So I hear that you’re resurrecting the Trudy Solomon case.”
“You know about that?”
“Uh-oh. Am I getting Natalie in trouble here? She mentioned it to me yesterday.”
“No worries. I’m sure it’ll be all over town soon enough. Yeah, I’m looking into it. With her turning up alive we might have a better chance of finding out what happened to her. Plus we have a lot more technology at our disposal for sleuthing.”
“Did you know my mother was assigned to the doctor Trudy was supposed to see the day she went missing?” Rhonda said.
I looked up from signing my half of the bill. “Interesting. I had no idea your mom worked at Monticello Hospital.”
“Yeah. My mother was a student nurse there around the time Trudy disappeared. She even has a scrapbook with newspaper clippings about it.”
“Did the police interview her back then?”
“I don’t know. I would imagine so. Maybe your dad would remember. My mom’s name is Clara Cole. She works at Horizon Meadows now, caring for Alzheimer’s patients. Isn’t your dad a resident there?”
“He is. Level one, independent living.” I tapped the side of my forehead. “Still has all his marbles.”
I made a mental note to add Clara Cole to the list of potential witnesses we needed to interview, currently a list of one: Ben Solomon. It was quite possible that everyone else associated with this case was dead, living elsewhere, or memory-impaired. What in the world had I gotten myself into?
7
Thursday, November 1, 2018
DAD’S PICKUP truck had been rear-ended earlier in the week, leaving him stranded and making me his glorified chauffeur. When I pulled up to the entrance of Horizon Meadows, I spotted him—head tipped and sitting slightly slouched on a concrete bench. A human question mark. At his feet were two bankers boxes full of forest-green file folders. The first time I saw those folders was in 1978. The last time was in 1999, about two months after graduating from the police academy, when I couldn’t help but take a sneak peek at them.
I raised the rear hatch of my Prius and hoisted the boxes into the cargo area. I hadn’t seen the contents of these boxes in nineteen years, but I remembered Dad’s organizational system. Each file folder was labeled with a color-coded sticker. Blue for witnesses. Green for suspects. Purple for friends. Yellow for theories. Orang
e for leads. Within each file were manila folders containing witness interview notes, suspect statements and alibis, potential motives, and biographical info extracted from Trudy’s friends and acquaintances.
No one could ever accuse Dad of not being organized. It was clearly one of the many reasons he parted ways with my disorganized, messy mother. If cleanliness was next to godliness, he was in the orchestra section, front row, and she was up in the balcony, last row. He lived a clutter-free and tidy life even before he got wind of Marie Kondo. But when his buddies bought him The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up (as a gag gift for his seventy-seventh birthday), he ratcheted up his obsession to the next level. The nurses told me he was going apartment to apartment trying to convince his neighbors to embrace the KonMari movement. Maybe this explained his desire to get Mom’s life in order.
“Are these all the case files?” I asked as we simultaneously buckled in.
“That’s everything. Eldridge brought them by yesterday.”
“You hungry? Want to stop somewhere first?
“I’ve been waiting four decades to dig back into this case and you think I want to stop and get something to eat? Susan, I’m an old man. I ain’t got time to spare. Let’s just get to it.”
I headed west on Route 17B toward Bethel. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at my house. The gravel crackling under my tires aroused Moxie from her favorite resting spot on the porch. Moxie’s mother was a black Labrador Retriever. Her father, unknown. That mysterious breed produced tufts of light-brown patches on her sides and belly. But her boxy build and curious face were clearly in the Lab camp. She lazily lifted her head as if to decide whether it was worth getting up. It was; she stood when I stepped out of the car. She could only go so far on her twenty-foot tie-out and arthritic hind legs, but she managed to limp down the three steps with her tail in full swing.
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 4