Keeper

by Greg Rucka

  They left, and Felice went back to her briefcase, and I sat on the couch, because there was only so much securing of the command post I could do. After a while, she gave up on her papers and went to the television, turning it on and then sitting beside me on the couch. We still had an hour before she and Selby were to speak, and the difficulty of the wait showed in her posture and manner. I had left the door open to the other room, and occasionally the noise filtered in suddenly louder, and Felice would turn first in the direction of the noise, then to me.

  “I’m nervous,” she said softly, as if making confession. “I don’t know what worries me more. Speaking in front of all these people, or ... I mean it’s silly, isn’t it? I should be more terrified of dying than of having to talk in front of a crowd, but I’m not.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I said.

  CNN carried a story on Katie’s death. Various political figures were seen decrying the violence, and two sound bites were played, one of the president, who broadly condemned the action, and another of a southern senator who admitted it was a tragedy, but then went on to say that abortion was the issue that needed to be addressed, and implied that the horror in Katie’s murder lay there rather than with the person who had fired the rifle. Footage followed of a protest outside the Women’s LifeCare Clinic. The reporter closed by mentioning Common Ground, and said there would be more information later in the hour.

  We watched the report in silence, and then Felice said, “We’ll be burying her in Westchester, have a small service at the graveside. There’s a plot there, my husband’s family. She will love a green place, I think.”

  “A lot of people will want to attend,” I said.

  “I don’t want that. Just the people that knew her. That’s the most important thing,” she said. “I’d like you and the others to be there.”

  “We’ll be there, Felice. You’ve got us until you say otherwise. Certainly through tomorrow.”

  “And after that?”

  I shifted on the couch, trying to keep the base of my radio from digging into my hip. “The purpose of the threats was to keep you from coming here today,” I said. “To keep Common Ground from happening.”

  “So tomorrow, I’m no longer worth killing?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I hope so,” Felice said, softly. “I really do hope so.” She smoothed her skirt with both hands, playing with one of the pleats. “You know what frightens me more than anything? That I won’t say the right things. That nothing will change after all this, that it will all just continue as before . . . that my daughter will have died for nothing.”

  Fowler came in with Lozano, and we talked briefly. Neither had any good news.

  “Still waiting on the prints,” Fowler told me. “We should have them by the end of the day.”

  “After the conference,” I said.

  “Well, you heard the briefing. The description’s been given out to everyone here. It’s the best we can do until we have a name on this guy.”

  “Let’s hope it’s enough.”

  Lozano said, “Nobody’s seen Barry, Rich, or Crowell. Not outside, not inside.”

  “Crowell’s supposed to speak,” I said.

  “One o’clock panel. About the limits of legal protest,” Fowler said. “I can’t wait.”

  “He hasn’t canceled?” I asked.

  “Not as far as I know,” Lozano said. “I’ll check again with Selby.”

  From the couch, Dr. Romero said, “He won’t cancel.

  It’s a performance like any other for that man. He’ll arrive at the last minute, as if he’s doing us all a favor. The boycott is just to emphasize his contempt for all of us here. Just wait. He’ll show.”

  Roughly a half hour before Romero and Selby were to deliver the opening address, Natalie radioed me. “I’m sending Rubin up to cover you. I need you down at registration. ”

  “Got it.”

  Rubin came into the CP about three minutes after that, saying, “It’s a clusterfuck down there.”

  Dr. Romero looked over at me as I got up and put my suit coat back on. “I’ll be right back,” I told her, then went out and took the stairs down to the lobby, straightening my tie as I went.

  Natalie was arguing with SAIC Carter by the metal detector. Her father stood beside her, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.

  The detector had been set up in the open area outside the Imperial Ballroom, with ropes running from either side of it to the walls to keep people from bypassing the checkpoint. The registration desk was beyond the detector, and several people were already entering the ballroom, wearing red, white, and blue convention tags on their jackets or shirts.

  On the other side of the detector, leading into the lobby, people were crammed wall-to-wall, and getting impatient.

  “Change the goddamn setting,” the Special Agent in Charge was saying.

  “It wasn’t me who only brought in one metal detector,” Natalie responded, and cast a pointed look at her father.

  “It’s broken,” Trent said. “We’re bringing people over with hand-helds.”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked Natalie.

  “The problem is that the head Fed here wants us to change the setting,” she told me. Her eyes were blazing.

  “It’s going off at everything,” Carter said. “Take it down a quarter turn, you’ll still catch anything coming through.”

  I checked the dial on the side of the metal detector. It was cranked all the way to the right.

  “It doesn’t take a whole hell of a lot of metal to make a bomb,” Natalie insisted. “Guns aren’t the only things we’re worried about.”

  “It’s going off on goddamn bobby pins,” Carter said. “And right now we’re filling the lobby with people who can’t get where they are going. You listen to me, there’s as great a risk in the fucking lobby as in the fucking ballroom at this point. A bomb will do as much damage in both places. All of these people are potential victims, and the longer they wait the more at risk they become.”

  “How long until the hand-helds get here?” I asked Trent.

  “Fifteen minutes at the most,” he said. “We’ve got two here already, we can hand-scan some of these people.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Natalie said.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Carter said. “What do you want, to cavity-search them, too?”

  “If it’ll catch a weapon,” Natalie said. “You bet your ass.

  “It’ll catch a weapon, damnit,” Carter said. “It’s catching on fillings.” He appealed to me. “Turn it down.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said.

  “Turn the fucking thing down,” he said. He reached around the side of the detector and turned the knob down a notch. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it, honey?” he said to Natalie.

  “Pompous son of a—” Natalie started.

  I grabbed her, turning to Trent and saying, “We’ll work with it. Make sure that everyone gets at least one pass with either the detector or the hand-helds.”

  Natalie pulled herself away from me, and I pointed her over to a comer, away from Carter. As we did that, I heard Trent call two Sentinel uniforms down to give him a hand at the detector. They began processing people through again.

  “They’re fucking our security,” she said to me.

  “I know,” I told her.

  She brushed her hair back over her right ear with an angry hand, nearly yanking her earpiece free. She turned her head to look back at the SAIC, who was now clearly king of his domain, then looked at me again. “I hate that guy,” she said. “Asshole feeb.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “It makes our job harder, Atticus.” She took a couple more deep breaths, then said, “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve dealt with sexist assholes before, why should he be any different?”

  “No reason.”

  “Exactly,” Natalie said. “No reason.” She looked at where
the crowd was now flowing toward registration. “Son of a bitch.” '

  “Give me twenty minutes or so,” I said. “Radio when it’s clear to bring her down.”

  “Understood.” She turned back to me and said, “It’s just tension, I know. You know and I know, just tension. I’m fine now. Just had to blow off some steam.”

  “Made your father’s day.”

  “Think I embarrassed him enough?”

  “Close, maybe.”

  “See you soon,” she said, and with a bitter little smile headed back to the metal detector.

  I sat beside Romero on the raised platform at the south end of the Imperial Ballroom, trying to look inconspicuous. Also on the platform were Veronica Selby, a city councilman, a pastor from a church in Buffalo, a doctor from Mount Zion, and a nun.

  The room was packed for the opening, faces and faces and faces, each with a pair of hands, always moving. Dale was on the door to the west, scanning the crowd and ready to secure our escape if it came to that, while Rubin stood by the entrance, watching everyone as they came in. Between Rubin and myself, we had a full view of the room. Natalie was outside, floating, and I could hear her commentary in my ear.

  “No sign SOS ... no sign Crowell . . . Rubin, black jacket, baseball cap, watch him . . . nothing at registration . . . crowd’s stable out front. ...”

  When Selby went to speak, she parked her wheelchair just in front of the podium, and the nun handed her the microphone. She was greeted with applause, and began by thanking people for coming.

  That was the last clear thing I heard her say before her voice turned into a background noise against Natalie’s commentary. I kept my eyes moving over the crowd, listening to Natalie’s hot wash of information, and wished I could stand up, roam, move, instead of needing to pretend I was a panelist.

  In my ear, I heard Rubin say, “Baseball cap, hands clear. ”

  Dale said, “Third row, fifth from center, bouquet of flowers. ”

  “A lot of people carrying flowers,” Rubin said.

  A man with light brown hair moved a red backpack onto his lap in the second row.

  “Second row, third from left, backpack on lap,” I said softly.

  Rubin took six steps, saying, “Looking . . . looks like a program. ”

  The backpack returned to the floor.

  A lot of applause filled my ears, and Selby was rolling back to her place on the podium.

  ‘Togo’s up,” I said.

  Dr. Romero rose and her right hand brushed my shoulder as she went to the podium.

  “Confirmed, ” Natalie said.

  “Movement on the aisle, eighth row,” Dale said. “Camera,” Rubin said.

  “Fucking reporters. ”

  “Another one,” Rubin said.

  “News crew in the lobby,” Natalie said. “I’ll hold them. ”

  There were several flashes as pictures were taken.

  “. . . compelled to be doctors, lawyers, police officers, or bodyguards,” Romero was saying. “We make a choice, and we make it with the same joy, trepidation, and fear as we make all the other choices in our lives. . . .”

  “Eleventh row, red skirt getting up, ” Dale said.

  “Moving. . . heading your way,” Rubin said.

  I heard a woman ask Dale directions to the bathroom. He directed her out past Rubin, then said, “I’m clear.”

  “Clear,” Rubin agreed.

  “. . . disagree? Witness Drs. Britton and Gunn,” Romero said. “Witness the women shot while working in a clinic in Boston, or the individual who is confined to a wheelchair for simply managing a clinic in Springfield. Witness my daughter, whose only crime was that I was her mother. ...”

  “All units, we have an altercation at the west entrance, ” the dispatcher said in my ear. “NYPD responding, all other posts hold steady. ”

  “Confirmed,” I said softly.

  “I’ve got a visual on that,” Natalie said. “Three women, NYPD on scene. They’re breaking it up. ”

  “Bald man, last row, west side aisle, reaching for something,” Rubin said. “Wrapped in cloth, whatever it is....”

  I tried to figure the fastest way to take Romero down to the floor. I couldn’t see the person Rubin was referring to, and tried to shift in my seat without making too much of a distraction.

  “I see him,” Dale said. “Can’t get a make on what’s in his hands, moving. ”

  “. . . result of cooperation, of two very different ideologies finding a common ground for discussion, and through that, for hope. . . .”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “. . . can’t see,” Rubin said. . . unwrapping . . . , well, fuck. It’s a sweater. ”

  “Confirmed. He’s putting on a sweater,” Dale said.

  I started breathing again.

  “Air conditioner’s on too high,” Rubin said.

  “. . . if one of us can, then we all will profit. No one need change sides. ...”

  “She’s wrapping up,” I said.

  “Understood,” Rubin said.

  “Coming back,” Natalie said.

  “. . . instead, agree on how we will fight one another, if fighting is what we must do. But let us remember the white flag of truce. Let us remember that flag is flying here, now. Thank you very much for coming,” Dr. Romero said. She took a step back as the crowd began to applaud, then stopped as the ovation turned standing. “They’re going to their feet,” Dale said.

  I rose as the crowd did, and they continued to applaud. Felice Romero looked around some more, stunned more than anything else, and I moved forward to her. The crowd rising was nice for her, but it made my job hell. “Natalie, get in here,” I said. “All others, stay on post.”

  “Confirmed,” Natalie said.

  “Confirmed, ” Rubin said, then Dale.

  From the front row four women came to the platform, offering Romero a bouquet of flowers. Felice started to reach for them, then looked over at me. I nodded and she took them. In her ear I said, “Hand them to me.”

  She nodded and handed me the bouquet, and I set it on my chair.

  “The flowers are for Pogo,” I said to my lapel.

  “Understood.”

  Natalie emerged from the surging crowd, below the platform and in front of Felice. Dr. Romero handed me another bouquet, this one with an attached card. More people were coming forward, offering flowers or envelopes, though one held up a box covered in wrapping paper. I stepped forward for that and took it.

  “I’ll make sure she gets this,” I told the man. He was old and gray and smelled of patchouli. The box felt light for its size, and nothing shifted as I put it on the chair. The man smiled and nodded at me, then backed into the crowd.

  The flowers kept coming.

  Felice sat on the couch in the command post. The lunch room service had brought sat untouched on the cart in front of her, as she read yet another card and tried to stop crying. Dozens of flowers were in the room, standing in glasses of water and lying on the table and bed. Roses, daisies, carnations, and even some lilies. Most were white, though some of the flowers were pale pink or yellow.

  We had screened all the sealed envelopes and the one box for explosives and metal and had come up negative. Felice had held the first envelope without opening it, and I knew she was afraid of what they might call her this time.

  But she had opened the envelope anyway and found not a threat or condemnation, but a condolence card.

  Dear Doctor Romero:

  Please accept our sincerest sympathies for the loss of your daughter. Our prayers are with you at this time, and although we know your pain will never go away entirely, we wish you memories of joy.

  Sincerely,

  Christian Mothers for Life

  Over twenty-five signatures were on the card in different color inks.

  Every card was a variation on the first, some longer, some shorter, but all offering support for Dr. Romero’s loss from both the pro-life and pro-choice sides. Additionally, s
ome praised her courage with words of admiration that made her blush when she read them. She opened the box to find a white scarf that had been hand-knitted, embroidered with the words “Common Ground.” His card had said, simply, “May this warm you when you are cold.” The scarf smelled of patchouli, too.

  Felice read the last card and set it carefully with the others, saying, “I’d forgotten, you know?” She wiped her eyes with a napkin from the cart, removing her glasses first. Then she blew her nose. “I absolutely did not expect this.”

  “This’ll probably happen again at your panel and at your talk,” I said. “When they bring you gifts, hand them directly to me. If it isn’t wrapped, if it’s anything they want you to open then and there, let me handle it.”

  “I will,” she said.

  Natalie said in my ear, “We’re ready in the Imperial. ”

  “Crowell shown up?”

  “That’s a negative,” she said. “No sign of him. Don’t think he’s coming. ”

  “We’re going to take a few minutes to get down there,” I said.

  “All right. Then I’ll check three. ”

  I grinned. It was our code for using the bathroom. That way if anyone was listening, they wouldn’t know we were suddenly short one person on our detail. “Confirmed,” I said.

  “The panel?” Felice asked me.

  “It’s time.”

  She wiped her eyes again, then put her glasses back on. I helped her into her blazer, and she took my hand when she slipped into it, turning to face me. She said, “Thank you, Atticus.”

  “It’s not over yet,” I said.

  “I know. But I haven’t ever thanked you, I don’t think. And I want you to know.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “You’re doing fine.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. Katie would be proud.”

  Natalie came back on, saying, “I’m check four. ”

  “Confirmed. Pogo is on the move.”

  The panel was titled, “Abortion and Reproductive Rights: Means of Family Planning.” Six people were on the panel, and it was moderated by none other than Madeline, whose last name turned out to be Schramm. It also turned out that she was a full professor of Ethics at NYU. The table on the dais was long, set five feet back from the edge of the platform, with the panelists all seated facing the room. Each person had a microphone, a pad of paper, a pencil, and a glass of water. A full pitcher was placed on either side of the moderator for refills. Dr. Romero sat second in from the left, beside the director of Planned Parenthood for Manhattan on one side, and a man from Social Services on the other. On the other side of Madeline sat Veronica Selby, a professor of religion from some seminary upstate, and an author from Vermont.