1 Forget Me Knot

by Mary Marks

  When Lucy was diagnosed with breast cancer, I took care of her every day during her chemo and recuperation so Ray could go back to work. Quincy was away at college by then, and only Lucy’s youngest son, Joey, still lived at home. Birdie did all the cooking. I helped Lucy pee and eat and shower and throw up. Medical marijuana, a powerful anti-nausea drug, would have saved her from the puke bucket, but weed was still illegal back then.

  Yes, Lucy would rescue me from jail. I could count on her.

  Around ten, a different patrolman opened the door to my cell. I glanced at his name tag. Officer Yoder looked to be in his early twenties and spoke almost deferentially. “Okay, Mrs. Rose. We’re going over to Van Nuys now. Please turn around.”

  “What for?”

  “Handcuffs, ma’am.”

  “Don’t make them too tight.” I used as much maternal authority as I could muster.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We took Vanowen Street east to Van Nuys. This patrol car smelled strongly of urine and body odor. A spit screen made of stainless steel mesh and crusted with dried phlegm separated the front and back seats and obscured my view out the front window. This was definitely not Lucy’s Caddy.

  My skin crawled at the thought of the bugs and lice that might be burrowing into my hair and clothes as I sat there. I thought about my fastidious grandmother, who scrubbed and cleaned until you could eat off the floor. Bubbie would die all over again if she saw me now. I leaned forward in the seat, trying to minimize contact with the interior surfaces of the squad car.

  I was glad for the darkness of night. With the exception of the earlier scene in front of my house, few people would be able to witness my disgrace. How many times had I passed a police car with a prisoner in the backseat and tried to get a glimpse of who he/she was?

  We parked behind the Van Nuys precinct and my heart began to pound again. I saw what Officer Cheng meant. The building was at least fifty years old, and the windows were still barred. We took the elevator to booking, on the second floor. The walls were painted an industrial tan and the fluorescent light was relentless. Unlike the new station in West Valley, this place smelled. Bad.

  “I don’t belong here. Release me at once!”

  Officer Yoder walked me over to a wooden bench and unlocked the handcuffs. “Please sit down, ma’am.”

  I looked him straight in the eye. “I demand to speak to your supervisor.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pressed down on my shoulder, forcing me to sit. Then he cuffed my right hand to a steel ring in the bench. He took a sheaf of papers to the desk, handed them over, and pointed in my direction. “Rose, Martha. She’s the older lady sitting there.”

  Older lady my foot! Just because I didn’t dye my hair or work out. Everyone in LA had an opinion.

  Something cylindrical rolled under my right foot. I looked down. A small disposable syringe with an orange plastic plunger—probably a piece of evidence someone managed to get rid of.

  Oh God, I’m in hell.

  In front of me was a row of clerical stations, almost like the teller windows in an old-fashioned bank. Railings separated each station, and the detainees walking to the windows to get booked reminded me of cattle walking down chutes to the slaughter.

  I stared straight ahead, trying not to make eye contact with the other people sitting on the bench. There didn’t appear to be any white collar criminals in Van Nuys that night. Most of the men wore tattoos and one of them spat at another one, causing an outbreak of swearing and threats. What was it with men and their mucous?

  The women looked no more wholesome than the men. I assumed most of them were hookers, by the way they were dressed. Why else did women get arrested? Oh, that’s right. For stealing laptop computers.

  “What’re you in for, bitch?”

  I looked into the watery bloodshot eyes of a woman high on something. She sat to my right and could have been fifty, could have been twenty. It was hard to tell. The skin on her face was an unhealthy color of gray and covered with sores. She grinned, and there were gaps where her teeth should have been.

  I was fed up with people being rude to me. I didn’t like being called bad names. I looked her in the eye. “You should consider seeing a dentist.”

  “Forget you,” the woman said with her one front tooth.

  Around midnight a voice called out, “Rose, Martha?”

  I looked at an officer coming toward the bench. “Here.”

  He released me from the bench, and I got up stiffly. I limped unsteadily for a couple of steps. The officer took my elbow and walked me down one of the cattle chutes. I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. Did cows feel this way? I made a mental note to stop eating meat. Except maybe for the brisket on Rosh Hashanah.

  I was fingerprinted, photographed, and sent to women’s detention where I was greeted by a female sheriff’s deputy who looked fresh out of the academy. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a French braid.

  She took me into a small room. “Take off your clothes.”

  I almost fainted when she put on a pair of latex gloves. In another couple of minutes, after the body cavity search, my humiliation would be complete.

  Afterward, I demanded to know, “When do I get my phone call?”

  “Right now if you want.” The guard peeled off the latex gloves and dropped them in a red plastic biohazard container. She took me to a phone bolted to the wall.

  My hands shook as I frantically punched in Lucy’s number. The phone rang six times and switched to an answering machine.

  “Lucy, it’s Martha. I’m sorry for calling you so late, but I’ve been arrested for taking Claire’s laptop. I’m in the Van Nuys jail. Please, can you get me out of here? Lucy? Ray? Please, someone pick up the phone.” I waited a little longer, but nothing happened. My stomach slowly turned over as I realized I was actually going to have to spend the night here. I hung up the phone and slumped against the wall.

  The guard asked, “Done?”

  I nodded. She led me to the woman’s dormitory, a cell with a row of double decker steel-framed military bunks. A webbing of springs supported soiled mattresses no thicker than two inches. The jailer reached into a cardboard box and handed me an old gray wool blanket that smelled like vomit.

  I looked at her. “This place could definitely use a few quilts.”

  The other women were already sleeping on cots. Most of them took the top bunks. I leaned toward the guard and asked in a low voice, “Do you have private accommodations?”

  She just put her hand on my shoulder, shoved me inside, and closed the steel door.

  I slept fitfully that night. Two of the women snored, and one had a hacking cough. The toothless drug addict talked earnestly with God, who apparently sat at the foot of her bed. I wondered how many more hours would pass before Lucy could get me out of here.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 18

  About six the next morning, a guard distributed a paper bag of food to each of us. I threw off the scratchy blanket and sat up. My eyes stung from lack of sleep. Inside the bag was an eight-ounce serving of two percent milk. A sandwich was entombed in plastic wrap. When I pulled apart the slices of white bread, I saw there were a couple of pieces of mystery meat. No lettuce, no tomato, no mayo. Not even a soupçon of mustard. I drank the milk straight out of the carton and put the sandwich back inside the bag.

  A voice next to me asked, “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

  I looked over. God’s handmaiden pointed to my bag.

  “You’d actually eat this?”

  “Heck yeah.” She reached over and grabbed the repulsive package. “You never know where you’re going to be at lunchtime. Sometimes this crap takes all day.”

  “You’ve been through this before then?”

  She threw back her head and laughed. I could see what was left of her rotten brown teeth. “What are you, some kind of diva? What’d you do, anyway?”

  The hair bristled on the back of my neck as I realize
d I was now the center of attention. One of the other inmates, a tough-looking blonde with a tattoo of barbed wire around her neck watched me with a predatory interest. I looked around but couldn’t see the guard. I frantically tried to think what I could use to defend myself. I only had the clothes on my back and an empty paper bag. Now I understood why they didn’t include any plastic cutlery with our meal.

  I took a deep breath for courage. “They claim I stole a laptop computer and interfered with a police investigation, but this is all a misunderstanding. I had permission to take the computer.”

  Someone mused, “A computer can score enough crank for a couple of days.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t do drugs.”

  The blonde walked over, shoved me on my collarbone, and sneered. “You too good for jail? You think you’re better ’n us?”

  I looked around but the guard was still nowhere in sight. I looked the blonde straight in the eyes, hoping my mouth wouldn’t start quivering. “No way. This is my second arrest.”

  Blondie looked unconvinced. “Yeah? What was the first one for?”

  “Antiwar protest. Back in the seventies.”

  “Well, la dee dah.” She flapped her hand. “What did they give you? Community service?” She looked at the other women, who now stood in a circle around us, probably waiting for a fight to start.

  “Worse. I took home the booby prize.” I paused for effect until I had their full attention. “My ex. Jail is where I met my ex-husband.”

  After a beat, they all exploded into laughter.

  Blondie slapped me on the back. “You got that right.” She smiled.

  Ten minutes later everyone was handcuffed and moved from the jail to the courthouse. We were put in a holding cell, a cage made out of steel mesh—like the spit screen in the patrol car. There were no windows, just white fluorescent lights sucking the color out of everything.

  I started to sweat at the thought of having to sit there for hours. Male inmates in a neighboring cell shouted profanities and threats at each other. Guards barked at them to be quiet but were largely ignored. The air was stale and the stench of unwashed bodies was overpowering. I surreptitiously sniffed my armpits. It was official: I was a bona fide member of the “great unwashed.”

  What if Lucy didn’t get my message? Nobody knew I was here. I might lose it if I were forced to stay another night. Already my clothes smelled sour from the blanket, and my body smelled worse. I looked at the blonde. “What happens now?”

  “They call us one by one into court, and we have to plead. Then they set a court date. We post bail and we’re outta here.”

  I needed someone to arrange for the bail. I prayed Lucy would be in the courtroom when my turn came. Just then a guard called, “Martha Rose?”

  I jumped at the mention of my name. “That’s me.” I turned around and looked into the face of a young body builder dressed in a crisp brown sheriff’s uniform with a neck that looked like a size thirty and shirt sleeves that strained over bulging biceps.

  “Come with me.”

  The blonde looked him up and down. “You must be a rookie. I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Ooo, papi! I’d party with you for free,” someone else piped up.

  The women hooted and made kissing sounds. The young deputy’s ears turned crimson as he led me down the hall. I looked back over my shoulder at my cell mates, smiled, winked, and wiggled my hips. They started to clap and Blondie gave me a thumbs-up.

  The guard led me to an empty interview room with a small metal table and four metal chairs. He took off my cuffs and left. I collapsed into one of the chairs, feeling sticky and oily. I closed my eyes and imagined standing in a hot shower with a bar of lilac-scented soap in my hands.

  A minute later the door opened. Arlo Beavers wore blue jeans, a blue and white striped cowboy shirt with pearl snaps, and boots. His thick gray hair was neatly combed, his moustache freshly trimmed, and he smelled fresh and clean like I wish I did.

  As soon as I saw him I jumped up and yelled, “You bully! How dare you have me arrested. I’m going to sue you for kidnapping and false imprisonment. Just wait until I see the judge. Someone is going to pay. I want my computer back!”

  Beavers held a paper cup of hot water with the tag end of a Lipton teabag dangling over the side. He put the cup on the table. “It’s the best I could come up with on short notice. I remembered you take both of these.” He placed two packets of sugar and a thumb-sized plastic container of fake cream next to the cup.

  Tears of anger blurred my vision as I sat down. I tore open the packets and doctored the bitter tea, trying not to cry as I sipped the comforting hot liquid. Beavers took a seat across from me.

  When I could speak again, I looked at him. “Why’d you do this?”

  He held up his hands, palms forward. “I had no idea Kaplan was coming after you.”

  “You must have told him the computer was at my house. How else would he have known?”

  “That’s true. I left a message on his cell phone.”

  I wiped the tears from my eyes. “Didn’t Siobhan tell you she gave me permission to take Claire’s computer?”

  “Yeah, but Kaplan’s cell phone must’ve cut off in the middle of my message. He says he never got to hear that part.”

  I glared at Beavers. “I was humiliated in front of my neighbors and thrown in a filthy dungeon.” With each word, my voice rose another notch. “And for what? Because Detective Kaplan didn’t get his facts straight?”

  Beavers spoke calmly. “If you remember, Ms. Rose, I cautioned you several times to leave the investigation to the police. I also warned you could be arrested if you went too far. Kaplan was only doing his job.”

  “Baloney!” I jumped up again and waved my arms. “As soon as I get out of here, I’m getting a lawyer.”

  “That’s your prerogative, but a good attorney will probably advise you, given the facts as he knew them, that Kaplan had probable cause to arrest you. False arrest cases are hard to prove because there’s a lot of room for reasonable doubt.” He paused. “Especially with someone who has priors, like yourself.”

  “Priors? What are you talking about?”

  “I know about the Federal Building.” There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Seems you’ve been a menace to society more than once in your life.”

  “Very funny. Besides, that was ages ago.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, as soon as I found out Kaplan arrested you, I went straight to the DA’s office to get the charges dropped. Then I hurried over to get you released.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “At about oh six hundred hours, Mrs. Mondello picked up your message and then called me. I told her I’d fix this, even though today’s my day off.”

  “So I’m free to go? Is Lucy here to drive me home?”

  “I promised Mrs. Mondello I’d see you safely back to your house.” Beavers stood. “Are you ready?”

  “You can’t get me home fast enough. I need to take a shower and wash off all these cooties. Oh, by the way? The breakfast here sucks!”

  On the way back to Encino, he interrogated me about finding the baby quilt and about my meeting with Jerry Bell. Fifteen minutes later we pulled into my driveway.

  “Oh my God.” I suddenly realized that last night I was forced to leave without my purse. “How am I going to get inside my house?”

  Beavers reached into his pocket and pulled out my keys. “Detective Kaplan took this from your hall table yesterday to make sure your house was secured. They were logged into the property room last night. I retrieved them right before I came to get you. Your laptop computer has been logged in as evidence. Getting your computer back to you will take a while longer, but I’m working on it.”

  I grabbed the keys from his hands and got out of the car. Beavers followed me up onto the porch. I turned to him and growled, “Now what?” I just wanted him to go away.

  “I made a promise to deliver you safely.”


  I turned my back to him and opened the front door. The moment I walked into the living room, I stopped. The sofa and chair cushions were on the floor. As my eyes traveled farther back to the kitchen, I saw that every cupboard and drawer hung open. I knew Kaplan had quickly found the laptop computers last night and left the house as neat as he found it. I remembered seeing him leave at the same time I did.

  Every opening scene I ever watched on Law and Order came flooding into my head. I turned toward Beavers. “Kaplan didn’t do this. Someone else has trashed my place.”

  Beavers stepped in front of me and pulled a small handgun out of the top of his boot. He put one finger to his lips and then gestured for me to go back out the front door. He watched me until I was safely outside and then disappeared farther into the house, holding the gun with two hands.

  Five minutes later he came to the door. “You’re lucky you weren’t here last night.”

  “What do you mean?” I pushed past him into the living room. “Where’s Bumper? Where’s my cat?”

  “Didn’t see him. Listen, someone really doesn’t want you to be messing around in the Claire Terry case.”

  At the mention of Claire’s name, I remembered the quilts. I hurried past him and ran to the laundry room. The drying rack was still shoved against the wall, concealing the baby quilt underneath the tablecloth. The clothes hamper was knocked over and some of the dirty laundry was on the floor, but the other quilts were undisturbed in their pillowcases, safely at the bottom.

  I heaved a sigh of relief as Beavers walked up behind me. “They’re still here.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “In your bedroom. Come with me but don’t touch anything.”

  I thought that under other circumstances, an invitation to accompany Detective Arlo Beavers to the bedroom might not be such a terrible thing.

  Looking down the hall, my stomach flipped over at the thought of what could be waiting for me in there. A bloody horse’s head on the sheets? Oh, please don’t let it be Bumper . . .