Even before the terrorist attacks of 9/11, cars had been banned from the block in front of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue – heavy, steel crowd-control barricades and strategically-placed concrete bollards made sure of that. I was busy positioning Wasula next to one of the bollards and as far as possible from a row of ripening porta-potties, when the anti-protestors made their move. Whooping like back lot Indians in a Grade B western, they began to taunt the marchers by twirling ‘scalps’ in the air. One of the scalps – a long, blond fright wig no doubt dug out of a Halloween costume box – brushed Julie’s face. Julie started, touched her cheek in surprise, then lunged in the jerk’s direction.
I gasped. Before I could let go of the wheelchair and sprint after her, Nick grabbed Julie from behind by both arms and drew her back out of harm’s way.
As the youngsters rejoined us, I mouthed a silent thank you. At least someone in this crazy family group was level-headed.
‘Is the president in residence?’ Mai asked, shouting over the counterfeit war cries intensifying behind us.
‘It’s Saturday,’ her brother snorted. ‘What do you think?’
A woman standing next to Nick and holding a miniature helium-filled Trump Baby balloon by a string had apparently overheard. ‘He’s at one of his goddamn golf clubs, don’t you think? Attending to urgent business.’
‘Hah!’ Wasula muttered.
Soon, the anti-protestors’ taunts were drowned out by native drums and rhythmic chanting as half a dozen Lakota teens, dressed in shirts and trousers decorated, not with feathers, but fringe, began swaying from side to side in time to the beat.
‘Grass dance,’ Wasula explained.
‘It celebrates our relationship with Mother Earth,’ Mai added.
The anti-protesters were still whooping it up, but they were soon outnumbered by a group of Japanese tourists, iPhones held aloft to capture the dancers or fastened at the end of selfie sticks in order to put themselves in the scene.
‘God, it’s hot,’ Mai said. ‘You’d think Mother Earth could send us a breeze.’
‘Water?’ I dug a few bottles out of the compact cooler stowed under Wasula’s wheelchair and offered them around.
I untied the lightweight jacket I hadn’t needed from around my waist, spread it out on the warm pavement and sat down, cross-legged, to sip my water. Protected by Wasula on one side and a wall of marchers on the other, I closed my eyes, hypnotized by the warmth of the sun and the rhythmic pulsing of the drums.
I was dozing, blissed-out, when a familiar chant muscled its way in, so out of place that my eyes flew open. ‘Hell no, we won’t go!’ it began, transporting me instantly back to my Oberlin days and to campus demonstrations against the war in Vietnam.
‘Hell no, we won’t go!’ echoed down the corridor of years. ‘Hell no, we won’t go!’
We’d made life hell for the Army recruiters visiting campus. In the excitement of that moment, I’d helped overturn one of their cars. With the guy still in it.
But, why were they chanting it here, and now?
Sweat dripped down my neck and trickled between my breasts. I took a generous swig of water, shook my head in an attempt to clear my vision. Wasula’s wheelchair was gone.
I struggled to my feet and looked around. I seemed to have lost my family. The crowd roared and surged forward, moving closer to the iron fence that separated us from the White House grounds.
‘Hell no, we won’t go!’
Sirens pierced the air. An ambulance, I wondered? Had someone been injured?
More sirens. The Park Police who had been standing off, closed in, wearing helmets and carrying batons.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked the woman holding the Trump Baby balloon.
‘They’re ordering us to disperse!’ she shouted.
Two policemen appeared in front of us. ‘Move along, now,’ one of them said. ‘Time to go.’
Move along? Our next stop, according to Nick, was the US Department of the Interior, just two blocks further west. I aimed myself in that direction and, to my great relief, caught sight of Julie less than ten feet ahead, walking backwards, waving her arms to attract my attention.
‘Here,’ the balloon lady said, thrusting her arm in my direction. ‘Hold this for me a minute, would you, while I text my husband?’
I grabbed the string and followed after Julie with Trump Baby bobbing over my head.
‘MAGA, MAGA, MAGA,’ somebody hissed in my ear. I turned to see who it was. A gap-toothed anti-protestor wearing a red Make America Great Again ball cap had infiltrated our ranks. He snarled and made a grab for the balloon. Instinctively, I jerked my arm away and watched in dismay as Trump Baby floated off, drifting over the bronze, outstretched arm of Major General Comte Jean de Rochambeau.
‘Sonofabitch!’ Balloon Lady yelled, looking directly at me. ‘I paid twelve bucks for that!’
I shrugged and pointed an I’m-not-guilty finger at Mr Make America Great Again who was doubled over, laughing like a demented hyena. Balloon Lady got the picture immediately. She balled up her fist and let the guy have it.
‘Bitch!’ he yelled, clutching his upper arm.
She grabbed his MAGA cap by the bill, cocked her arm and sent the hat sailing, like a Frisbee, into the park. ‘Now we’re even!’
He lunged, sandwiching me between them as they flailed away. I dropped to my knees in self-defense, covering my head with my arms. A boot missed its intended mark and landed hard against my thigh. I’d have a world-class bruise there in the morning.
Seconds later, when I dared to look up, I was relieved to see a Park Police officer looming over me. Before I could thank her for breaking up the fight, she said, ‘Stand up. You’re under arrest. You have the right …’
As she rattled off the familiar litany, I glanced around in bewilderment. Balloon Lady and Mr MAGA Hat had vanished.
‘But …’ I started to protest, but then wisely clammed up.
Rules, remember the rules. Don’t argue with the police, we’d been instructed. Do exactly as you are told.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said as I staggered to my feet, rubbing the sore spot on my thigh. ‘May I ask with what I’m being charged?’
My impeccable grammar didn’t impress her in the least. ‘Failure to obey,’ she grumped as she secured my hands behind my back with plastic zip-tie cuffs. With a gentle but firm hand grasping my upper arm, she began to lead me away.
Piercing in its urgency over the roar of the crowd was Julie’s voice, ‘Hey! Hey! Where are you taking her?’
EIGHTEEN
‘Where’ turned out to be a white police minibus parked on 15th Street near the Willard Hotel. The arresting officer escorted me to the door and after the driver opened up, waited until I climbed inside. ‘Sit anywhere,’ she said rather pleasantly.
I slid into a window seat behind the driver and struggled to get comfortable, an impossible task with hands tied behind your back. Meanwhile, my cell phone vibrated frantically in my back pocket. When I didn’t answer after three attempts, it began to ping. Once I got my hands on it again, I knew I’d find a zillion frantic text messages from Julie.
I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes. I could still hear the distant chanting and the drums as the protestors moved on without me. Where were Julie, Nick, Mai and Wasula now?
When I opened my eyes again, the minibus – which I estimated could accommodate sixteen people – was nearly full. I was impressed with my fellow passengers – seven women and five men, so far – a veritable United Nations of gender, race and ethnic diversity that, unlike a great many things these days, made me proud to be an American.
Moments before the door was shut and secured, a fair-skinned woman, her dark blond dreadlocks semi-contained by a bandana, plopped down in the seat next to me.
‘Hey,’ she said.
‘Where are they taking us?’ I whispered.
She grinned. ‘First time?’
Not counting the terrifying weekend I once spent
in Baltimore as a guest of the US Marshalls, I said, ‘Yes.’
The woman, who I took to be in her mid-thirties, twisted in her seat. Her lips moved in what I guessed was a silent head count. When she turned back around she said, ‘Good thing we’re fourteen.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘If it was just you and me, less than ten or eleven anyway, they’d take us to the Central Cell Block for processing.’ I felt her shiver. ‘That hellhole ought to be on the black list of Amnesty International.’
‘Good to know,’ I said. ‘I’m Hannah, by the way.’
‘Katherine Emily Tuckerman hyphen Dutton,’ she said, ‘but you can call me Kit.’
Kit’s last name rang a bell. ‘Tuckerman-Dutton, as in Tuckerman-Dutton Development Corporation?’
‘My grandfather,’ she said.
Tuckerman-Dutton had been responsible for the revitalization of countless Baltimore neighborhoods following the deadly race riots of 1968. I whistled softly. ‘I’m impressed.’
Kit shrugged a richly-tattooed shoulder. ‘I’m somewhat of a disappointment to my family, as you probably guessed.’
‘So, where are we going?’ I asked after a bit.
‘It’s the DC police motor pool. A big parking garage, anyway. Down in southwest.’
‘You sound like you’ve done this before?’
She nodded. ‘Three times, maybe four.’
‘So, why should I be glad I’m not going to get intimately familiar with the inside of the Central District Cell Block?’ I asked.
‘Ever been to the pound?’ Kit asked.
‘Stray dogs, you mean?’
‘Like that. Stainless steel cages, inside and out, so you can hose them out, I suppose. Can in the middle …’
‘Can?’ I cut in.
‘Toilet.’
‘Ah.’
‘Last time I had to stay overnight. Didn’t sleep a wink. Spent the whole night stomping roaches.’
Now it was my turn to shiver. ‘Gross.’
‘Tell me about it! And the bologna sandwiches …’ She imitated a cat coughing up a hairball.
I had to laugh.
Twenty minutes later I was relieved to see that Kit had been correct about our destination. According to the street signs I read through my window, we were somewhere in southwest DC – K and Half Streets, SW, I would learn later, at the Capitol Police’s Vehicle Maintenance facility, directly across the street from DC’s Motor Vehicle Inspection Station.
The minibus idled for several minutes on Half Street waiting for an intimidating black garage door to roll up. Once the bus was safely secured inside the building, we were invited to disembark. Still handicapped by handcuffs, we followed one of the officers, like obedient ducklings, into a large, empty room where we were ordered to line up against a stark white wall.
Despite Kit’s nonchalance, I began to hyperventilate. Breathe in, Hannah. Breathe out. In … and … out.
‘Feels like a firing squad, doesn’t it?’ Kit quipped.
I exhaled, shook the tension out of my shoulders and said, ‘Maybe the white paint makes it easier to clean the blood off the walls?’
‘Ha!’ Kit said. Then quickly added, ‘It usually doesn’t take too long, unless somebody’s cranky.’
After cooling our heels for ten minutes or so, I was beginning to worry that Captain McCrankypants was definitely in charge when two officers showed up to relieve us of our handcuffs.
Shortly thereafter, a woman in uniform appeared, identified herself as Sergeant Susan Wilson and read aloud from a laminated card. We were, all of us, being charged under 18DCMR 2000.2 with Failure to Obey a Lawful Order, a misdemeanor. Apparently we hadn’t moved along quickly enough when ordered to do so by the police.
I wanted to wave my hand and shout, not guilty! If a lawful order had been given, I surely hadn’t heard it, but then I’d been caught in the middle of a feral squabble over a Trump Baby balloon and a MAGA hat and hadn’t been paying proper attention. Recently uploaded YouTube videos with Japanese subtitles might even acquit me in a court of law.
‘You will be booked, fingerprinted, photographed and searched,’ Sergeant Wilson continued.
I sucked in breath, let it out slowly. Not for the first time, I flashed back to the nightmare of being arrested by the FBI for the murder of Jennifer Goodall. The charges had been dismissed, of course, but yet I worried. Were my fingerprints still in the database? When they fingerprinted me here today, would lights flash and an alarm whoop-whoop-whoop until burly, grim-faced officers charged in to cart me away?
When I tuned in again, Sergeant Wilson was explaining how I could end my case immediately – hallelujah! – by paying a $100 fine. Should I decide to take the ‘Post and Forfeit’ option, she said, in two years’ time if I kept my nose clean, the arrest would be sealed.
‘If you want to go to court …’ Wilson continued.
I glanced sideways at Kit, who frowned and shook her head.
I relaxed, grateful for the advice. My lawyer’s phone number was inked on my forearm, but I was glad I wouldn’t have to use it. Murray had already earned enough gray hairs – and money – on my account.
‘Why go to the trouble of arresting us in the first place?’ I whispered to Kit after Sergeant Wilson finished addressing the troops.
‘Gets us off the street, I guess, not to mention lining the government’s pockets with cash.’ She waved an arm, taking us all in. ‘This sting is worth thirteen-hundred dollars. Imagine how much they netted after the march against the Trump administration’s immigration policy.’
I’d followed that particular protest with interest. According to the Washington Post, over five hundred protestors had been arrested that day. I did the math. ‘I see what you mean,’ I said. ‘Enough to buy a new police cruiser, you think?’
Kit nodded, her dreadlocks bobbing. ‘Post and forfeit. It’s the only way to go.’
Take my advice: always listen to a pro.
A massive bit of paperwork and two crisp fifty-dollar bills later, I was released to the corner of Half Street and K with only vague instructions on how to find my own way home to Annapolis.
Although I certainly hadn’t planned it that way, according to Google Maps, I was only six blocks from the Navy Yard-Ballpark Metro station on the Green Line. If I caught the Metro, it would take about thirty-five minutes to be reunited with my Volvo.
But first, I’d need to check in with Julie.
I began scrolling through her messages:
OMG! Where are you? They won’t tell us ANYTHING!!
Who do you want me to call? I won’t call anyone UNLESS YOU TELL ME TO!
Don’t worry, it’s OK. I’m going home with Nick and Mai!
I sighed with relief and had started to text back, ‘Stay put. I’ll pick you up soon,’ when the phone began to ring. ‘Julie?’ I said.
‘Not Julie. It’s Nick. Where are you?’
‘I’ll explain when I see you, but the short story is I paid a fine and the police let me go. I should be able to pick up Julie in about an hour.’
‘Didn’t she text you? Julie’s not here.’
I swallowed my rising panic. ‘But Julie said …’
‘Oh, she was here,’ Nick said, ‘but she got an upsetting call from her mother, so we put her in an Uber and sent her home.’
‘Upsetting? In what way upsetting?’
‘She seemed worried, is all. And since we didn’t know how long you’d be in police custody, we thought it best to get her home.’
‘Thank you, Nick. That was exactly the right call. How much do I owe you for the Uber? That ride must have been expensive.’
‘Forget about it,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
Was I? Loitering on a street corner, in an unfamiliar light-industrial neighborhood, in southwest DC, across from a vehicle inspection station and a post office? ‘The Metro’s nearby,’ I reassured him. ‘I’m heading there now.’
‘Call us if you need anything,’ Nick sa
id, sounding sincere.
‘How much longer will you be in town?’ I asked. ‘I’m hoping to introduce you to more of the family.’
‘A while. Until we get the air-con fixed, anyway. We’ll stay in touch, right?’
‘You can count on it, Nick.’
NINETEEN
At first, I thought I’d reached a wrong number. All I heard was heavy breathing.’
‘Julie?’
Her response was breathless, garbled.
‘Slow down, Julie. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’
Julie gulped. ‘Dad didn’t come home last night!’
Last night seemed an entire lifetime ago. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m confused. I thought you said you saw him this morning.’
‘No,’ Julie whimpered. ‘I left home around seven. Dad was still asleep, or so I thought.’
‘What does your mother have to say? Surely she would have missed your father before this morning.’
‘Colin was being a little asshole yesterday.’ Julie sniffed, her voice steadied.
I was about to ask what Colin’s behavior had to do with Scott going missing, when Julie continued, ‘He bought a thousand dollars’ worth of virtual coins on TikTok. Said it was by accident. Mom called to get the money refunded, and Apple was being shitty about it. He is sooo grounded.’
Confiscating Colin’s cell phone would be one solution, I thought, and docking his allowance, maybe forever, but it didn’t seem like a good time to offer pro tips on parenting. ‘Yikes,’ I said.
‘Mom ended up with a migraine,’ Julie rattled on breathlessly. ‘She took some Imitrex and crashed early, so I made chicken fingers for dinner.’
Georgina had been plagued by migraines since her late teens. For the past several years she’d been seeing a chronic migraine specialist. Medication and a diet regime had dramatically reduced the number and frequency of her headaches, but the pills, I knew, could knock Georgina out cold. Zoned out on Imitrex, she could sleep through the Zombie Apocalypse.
‘When was the last time anyone saw your father, Julie?’
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