As my eyelids close, I begin to worry…will Father Sal’s victim testify? And what if she doesn’t?
FIFTY-NINE
Monday morning arrives before I’m ready. The plans are in place and the funeral went as Jamal would have liked it—not according to plan. I took liberty to let Joanna know that Jamal is laughing in Heaven at the nuances. Nothing ever bothered him. He preferred, or so it seemed, to be on the fly. Improv.
This past weekend, I’ve had time to reflect on Jamal. Telling stories with his family. Fond memories. Pranks we did that couldn’t be shared until a time like now—some jaws drop and I could tell that select family members were appalled.
Hundreds came to pay respect to my friend. Family and friends from out of town arrived through the weekend, overrunning Joanna’s place and mine—incorporating Marisa as early as Friday afternoon. It was around three when we got home from work. It made for a fantastic weekend.
Marisa pats my leg. We watch the pouring rain out the windows along the opposite side of the spacious ballroom. Dozens still remain, lingering, unsure where to go from here. The feeling is no one wants to leave—because to leave means it’s over. A life ended, but goodbye just isn’t enough. This is not like leaving Jamal’s home; it’s not temporary. It feels final and heavy and painful.
“Are you ready to go, babe?” Marisa asks me.
Natalie is next to Marisa, holding onto Joanna, Jamal’s tiny offspring in her arms, awake and kicking, the occasional coo from her happiness. With each little gurgle, kick, and giggle, we’re reminded that in a way, Jamal lives on. Delana is oblivious of what’s taking place today and for that, I can only be grateful she is so small.
I manage a nod. “We can go,” I say, but it feels wrong—a sense of abandonment.
She stands and holds my hand, and I rise to my feet. It occurs to me that I’ve yet to tell the news of the expected child—but I hold my tongue, as it’s Marisa’s news to share. And I know better than to think she’s ready.
I thought Marisa might share over the weekend, as Joanna, Marisa, and Natalie have put aside differences and bonded. But when I think more on the relationship between the three women, it’s always been Marisa as the holdout. Memories of the abortion always settled in and she saw Natalie and Joanna as judgmental of that history. This past weekend, the friendships that kindled between the three of them made me proud of her.
Now, Marisa is pregnant again, under good circumstances, and she’s refocused on new life to come, instead of dwelling on the hurtful past.
Marisa lingers in embrace with the ladies; they sob together. I make a quick round of goodbyes with a few old friends, but save the best for last: Kwame Laake, Jamal’s father.
“It’s been too long,” I say to him, clutched in his arms.
“It has,” Kwame says. “We decided to move back to the valley,” he announces to me, garnering emotion out of me. Right now, words aren’t enough. The move is not far, just sixty miles from Prescott, but it feels like across the globe. He and I will have time later on to talk, for real. I’m his adopted son, after all—his only child left.
Marisa finishes with the ladies, finishing with Leilani. We drive away and I feel unfinished—but then, I never will be.
Jamal was a brother. And I won’t forget him.
“Are you planning to work today?” Marisa says.
I stare at the road ahead, the car as quiet as a tomb. “I’ll try from home. At least a little bit. My hours are going up.”
“How so?”
“Well…things have changed at work. I have more responsibility now and…I don’t have the support I’m used to.”
“What’s different?”
What can she gain from knowing the truth? Christel’s help to me needs to remain a secret. “Just—things have changed a little with more assets and accounts, more regulatory processes.”
“That must be why they just hired another analyst, assigned to you,” Marisa says.
“I didn’t know that. What’s his name? Not that I can’t find out tomorrow.”
“Her name is Chris. You had a meeting this morning but postponed it, obviously, so you’ll need to reschedule it.”
I pause a moment and a smirk forms on my face. Marisa takes notice. “Chris?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with a girl named Chris?” she says.
I sigh and laugh a little at the irony. “She just might be a devil. You never know.”
Marisa hits my arm. “Stop. I interviewed her and I like her. I think she’s going to be great for you. Never know, she might be like your ace in the hole.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe I’ll like her, too.”
SIXTY
One Month Later
It’s been empty without Jamal and while I miss him, his vacancy was palpable at my wedding last weekend. Christel hasn’t spoken nor revealed anything to me since we last met at the Thai place—I can only presume she’s moved on by choice, just like me. Work’s been murder—close to eighty hours a week since my crystal ball skipped town. But I have greater appreciation for what I do now. And the lady Chris, who Marisa hired just for me—is the gem that I needed. Right on time.
Jackson sits across from me at his favorite pub in Phoenix and orders pretzel bread with a beer cheese dip and it feels like I’m out with Jamal again. The crowd is drinking and watching the NBA play-offs, screaming at the players on TV as if it makes a difference. Jackson finds the drunken fiends entertaining.
“You know, I never thought in a million years Sal would have a meeting with anyone about what he does. For real does, I mean,” Jackson says.
“Why not?”
Jackson shoots me a perplexed look, and then laughs a little to himself. “What you don’t know won’t kill you, Wyle.”
“Ignorance can be good, I suppose. When the truth is so disturbing, in the interest of preservation, we need to shield ourselves.” I take a drink from my glass. “Tell me what you got.”
Jackson pulls out a small black tape recorder and sets it on the table and presses play. The recording is Jackson’s interview with “Tracy.”
I hold a hand up to him. “I don’t need to know.”
His face screws up. “Really? After all this, you’re not even curious?”
I shake my head. “I only want to know that she’s safe and that you’ve got what you need.”
Jackson is disappointed, but not greatly. “Sort of.”
He goes on to explain the details of her escape and where she was held, which is easy to identify by the homicide about fifty yards away; thought to be gang related according to the report in the newspaper, which Jackson slides on the table to me, to give a visual.
I stare at it a moment before I can’t bear it any longer. “So…she’s living in fear?”
He nods. “She was tied to a fucking chain-link fence at one point so she could be raped. Sal said what they did to her…he’s seen better treatment in prisons. She’s afraid for her life and terrified the cops will pin the murder on her. The problem is she took the thug’s gun after she killed him, so his weapon, which probably killed other people, was in her possession.”
“Yuck.”
My phone vibrates, and it’s Marisa calling, a picture from the wedding on display. I text her that I’ll call her later.
Jackson continues, “It gets better. She’s got the gun, you see, and she’s fatigued, not had much sleep—if any—in days, probably dehydrated—you get the picture. She’s not thinking straight. So she tries to get a lift to head east and the guy who picks her up gets scared, since she looks crazy and armed, so he boots her and she realizes she’s on her own.” Jackson pauses a moment to drink. “So she hikes barefoot God knows how many miles along this Godforsaken highway in the dark before stumbling at a gas station, wanting water. The clerk sees her armed and panics. He pulls a gun on her and she points the gun at him…it’s a mess.” He shakes his head and takes a big gulp.
“And this ends well? I’m all ears.”
“This is s
o much better if you listen to the recording. So, we’re at a heist situation in the middle of nowhere California and some stranger shows up—no gun, just a guy who knows the clerk and talks him down. Tracy, who’s wearing jean shorts and a ratty tank top, covered with blood and barefoot, carrying a pistol, isn’t setting a great example, so Mister Hero—she never got the guy’s name—buys her a new change of clothes, flip-flops, and water at this little gas station shack. So our girl Tracy goes from unintentionally heisting the place to being a customer.”
I nod and start eating the pretzels with cheese dip.
“This chick, now armed and fabulous, gets a ride to a motel where he fixes her up with a room and bus fare to get her home and then disappears.”
I stare at Jackson in disbelief.
“Sorry, I meant to say he drove away. She watched the guy drive away. I forget you’ve…had your issues,” Jackson says.
“I believe you. Keep going.”
He shrugs. “That’s the gist of her story of how she got out, but it also spells the problems in this case—the witnesses are criminals by the time they’re free. To gain freedom, they have to be willing to cause some damage and in so doing, they jeopardize their own future. This girl, Tracy, as I’m calling her, got a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, a decent meal, and a bus ticket home from a stranger. Without those things, without his help, she’d be God knows where. Coming from California, Phoenix was a stop on her way because someone on the bus told her to meet with Father Sal. She thought she knew where her family lives and turns out, they’re not there anymore. She said she tried by phone for friends and they didn’t have an address for where the family moved to, so it’s my job to help this victim find her husband and kids. That was the criteria used for Father Sal to introduce me.”
Jackson guzzles the rest of his beer and orders another. I resume eating, while pondering this woman’s story.
“So, how does this work for helping the case? If she’s killed people to get her freedom, don’t the police see it that way? Self-defense?”
“And they may, but it’s a huge risk. It’s easy for police to conclude this woman was voluntary in her work as a prostitute, especially considering it was over a year.”
“I thought you said it was more like two years,” I say.
He rubs his nose and laughs a little. “With the kind of drugs they give or make available to the girls, it’s a wonder they remember anything at all and that’s part of the point. Most of them forget about family, kids, boyfriend, whatever they left behind. They stop talking to Mom and Dad and cut off any ties to the old life. Or in Tracy’s case, those cuts were made for her.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He groans. “That’s the hard part. If I turn her in to the police, they may just prosecute her as a criminal and nothing comes of the ring. She would solve at least one murder case, maybe a couple, so I’d be making a detective’s day. No solution, just another victim put in jail. If I help her find the family and they are reunited, she may want to bury the past and never speak of it again—destroying my chances of a testimony. Now, they can subpoena her, of course, but if she lies to protect herself, it does little good, which is what’s happened in the past.”
“And choice C is what?” I ask.
Jackson smiles, fiendishly. “That’s where this recording comes in,” he says, holding up the device as if it’s a new favorite toy. “She’s going to remain my anonymous source with only a recording of her voice and by the time I turn this in to the feds, she will be long gone.”
“I thought you had to help her find her family?”
He nods. “That’s between you and me and Father Sal. Of course I know who she is and I’ll get her home, but my contact at the FBI will be so tickled to have the recording, leading them to several key arrests in the syndicate, they’ll get over not having her around. She’s not credible as a witness, so that’s as good as it gets.”
“Just like that?”
“Well…not just like that. I’m sure they’ll bitch for a while about her being gone and needing to be identified and properly questioned, detained, and blah, blah, blah but at the end of the day, all they want on this mess is progress. And that’s what Tracy is going to give them.”
“I can’t see them letting you off that easy,” I say.
“They won’t let me off easy, but I have to use discretion here since my witness is in a tough spot and if she’s charged with a crime, which she would be, then the testimony is useless. I have to play this properly for it to work.”
“So what’s this all have to do with me?”
“The feds went through your deposition, the questioning with you, Mike, and Mayra and so they know the truth that the sheriff’s report was false. And do you know what the agent said to me?”
I shake my head.
“He’d have done the same damn thing.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have many people to thank for some much needed help and encouragement with Discretion. First and foremost, thanks to Jesus for saving me, for calling me to such a task. Thanks to my wife Nicki, and my boys, who've sacrificed considerable time through the last few years— as this project changed titles, premise and magnitude. It's been a long and bumpy road. Thanks for standing at my side and cheering me up. Thanks to my parents for not telling me I'm crazy to do this. (I know that already) Thanks to my beta readers, in no particular order, Brian Derrick, Stacy Szugye, Ed MacCannon, Greg Huber, Jennifer Braun. Thanks to Mike Kilroy for the police/ procedural info—the mistakes here are my own. You were a huge help when I needed it. A special thanks to Elizabeth Krall-for finding little errors and posing the big questions, changing the scope of this manuscript. Thanks to RJ Cavender, my editor, for going above and beyond. Faith Williams, thanks for making me look good. (As if I understand proper grammar and punctuation.) Thanks to Melissa Foster, Emily Suess, Erin Albert Brooks, for helping out with the summary at a critical stage—you all helped more than you realize. And last but not least, thank you dear reader for letting me entertain you. Without you there's no point to my work.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Balzarini has worked as a financial advisor since 2006. He lives in suburbia Phoenix with his wife and two sons. This is his first novel.
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