The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  The driver warily observes the scene from her oversize rearview mirror. When I look through it I can see Anzalone, but I can’t see Marble, because most passengers have stood up to get a look at who Anzalone’s after.

  I turn around and feel eyes on me, but the only person looking is the little girl, now first in line to exit. She holds on to her mother’s purse straps as her mother holds the overhead strap. The girl’s eyes are big and brown and knowing—as in, she knows something isn’t right.

  At the back, I hear Anzalone say, “Johnny Marble?”

  Then, someone back there says, “This doesn’t look like a mistake to me.”

  “No,” someone else says, “this looks like stop us all and frisk the old black man.”

  “What’d the guy do, huh?” a woman with purple streaks in her hair asks me; I don’t answer because I’m focused on what Marble might do now that Anzalone’s in front of him.

  Anzalone’s face is a mixture of distress and resentment as he stands Marble up, looks over the crowd, finds me, and gives the signal.

  “Will you open the rear doors, please?” I ask the driver.

  As she complies, Anzalone moves behind Marble and steers him to the exit.

  Another passenger in back protests: “A man’s got a right to ride the bus.”

  Another says, “This is the mistake, officer. Treating the poor man this way—”

  Anzalone turns on the top step. “If any of you knew what he did, you’d be thanking me.” Then he helps Marble down the steps and off the bus.

  I lean over, tell the driver, “We’ll get you back on route in just a minute.”

  “Be quick, or I’m gonna need you for crowd control.”

  I grip the handrail on my way down the steps, nerves like blown fuses. I hit the sidewalk and turn and stop because Anzalone is whirling and thrashing around like someone set him on fire. Marble stands behind him, stone. The black plastic bag is on the sidewalk, caught by the neck of the twenty-ounce soda that had been inside.

  I draw my gun.

  “Anzalone?” I try to sound firm as I angle toward them—but not directly, because now they’re both dangerous.

  “Jesus fucking fuck!” he yells. “They’re all over!”

  I get close enough to see a cockroach fall from Marble’s coat and land on its back, immobilized, legs running the last race.

  I move around the men and find my cuffs and when I get behind Marble I say, “I’m here behind you, Johnny, and I’m going to ask you to put your hands up, on your head.”

  Marble doesn’t move.

  “Do you hear me, Johnny?”

  He still doesn’t move. I curl a cuff around his wrist, lock it, and raise his hand, deadweight, behind his head. When I do, another cockroach falls from his coat. I jump back, a stupid move, but Marble’s hand remains where I left it, cuffs swinging.

  “Fucking roaches,” Anzalone says.

  “Fucking roaches,” Marble says. And then he starts to laugh.

  I remember the roaches. And I remember the laugh. Not methodical; mechanical. Not meaningful. Unaffected.

  “He’s infested,” Anzalone tells me.

  I lower my gun and walk around to face Marble. He doesn’t see me; he doesn’t look. He just stands there, arm still held behind his head. There is drool on his lips and his beard is caked with spit. His laughter is unemotional, warped and flattened.

  I say, “Johnny Marble.”

  I don’t think he even registers my voice, though the roach who peeks out from his shirtsleeve seems to look at me, its antennae twitching.

  I ask, “Do you know why we pulled you off the bus?” He sets his eyes on me, empty as his laughter, and then I realize questions are pointless, because his ability to tell me the truth, however intentioned, will be no better than his mother’s.

  I cuff his other hand and then Anzalone finally approaches. He says, “Johnny Marble. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

  Marble stops laughing. Says, flat, “Fucking roaches.”

  13

  I follow Anzalone to Area Central. Even though he works out of the First District and we arrested Marble in Fourteen, I convinced him we should process Marble where they know the case. And where they know me.

  It didn’t take much to convince him—I think what did it, actually, was the cockroach that leapt from Marble’s hair to Anzalone’s shirt after the arrest. When I offered to transport Marble along with his bugs in my car, Anzalone was quick to agree.

  I only want to accompany them so I can tell the part about how we came to find Marble and I only want to tell that part so Walter doesn’t get involved. I told Anzalone I’d give them the story up until I asked for his help. I said he could tell the rest. I imagine he’ll skip our rocky beginning, and stop short of telling anybody how scared shitless he is of cockroaches.

  Anyway. Now. Driving. Marble in the backseat: my chance.

  “Johnny.”

  I look in the rearview: he stares at the headrest in front of him.

  “Were you on your way to your mom’s, just now?”

  He looks out the window and the light finds his eyes; I wonder if some part of his brain thinks we’ve arrived at her place. He wipes his mouth, his dirty shirtsleeve.

  “I’m afraid no one told you,” I say, “she’s in the hospital.”

  He closes his eyes.

  “I’m sure you know she’s sick—” I start, but my phone rings and sends Marble into a fit: he tries to cover his ears but he can’t in the cuffs so he screams over the ringing, rocking back and forth so violently I swear I have to right the steering wheel.

  I silence the phone. I don’t care who it is. I’ve got the man who can make this case sitting in the backseat—the guy I made out to be an animal who turns out to be more like a vegetable—and I’m not going to lose him now.

  “Johnny,” I say, soft as any mother, “shhh.”

  I shush him for a while, same as I do with Isabel when she’s upset; with her, too, what started the fit might not be clear to me, but I do what I can with the hope we’ll both be equally relieved after.

  Pretty soon Johnny’s screaming turns to a monotone moan and his rocking becomes rhythmic, self soothing.

  “I’m here with you,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  He stops rocking. He looks in my direction. I think he hears me. I think the kid gloves are working.

  “I’m sorry, Johnny. I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t like it when the phone rings, either—seems like it’s always someone with bad news. The phone won’t ring again.” I show him that I put the phone down on the passenger seat.

  He stops humming. He is listening.

  “Johnny: no more ringing, okay? And listen: I’ve got good news. Do you want to hear it?”

  He doesn’t say yes, but I tell him anyway: “What I was saying, before the phone rang? I was saying that your mom is sick. You know that. What you don’t know is that this time? This is different. Because she can get better. But Johnny? She needs your help.”

  He takes a deep breath. He tries again to cover his ears. He either doesn’t believe me, or he knows something.

  “We’re headed to the police station right now, and that might be scary for you but I promise, Johnny, no one is blaming you. And you aren’t in any trouble. In fact, I know you were in Tinley Park when your mom got hurt. I know you didn’t hurt her. I think, though, that you know who did.”

  He looks at me. Straight at me. His voice sounds programmed when he says, “Gina Simonetti.”

  “Yes, that’s me. You recognize me. I saw you at the hospital a few days ago. You were afraid, and you ran away. I ran after you—you know why I did that? Because I needed your help. And I still do. Could you tell me—yes or no, even?—if you know who hurt your mom?”

  Johnny’s eyes are empty. Black.

  I think of Isabel again: if soft questions don’t work, there’s nothing more efficient than a good lie.

  I take
my foot off the gas. “You know what? I’ll make you a deal. I’ll let you off right here, right now, if you’ll just tell me—”

  “You broke the deal.”

  “I haven’t made it yet.”

  “You broke the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  “Stay away and mama is okay. Stay away, and mama is okay. Stay, away, and mama, is okay—”

  I step on the brakes, middle of the street. “Who made you that deal?”

  A driver behind me honks; I wave the car around. A stream of traffic follows. Ahead of me, Anzalone pulls over to wait.

  “Did someone make you a deal, Johnny?”

  “You broke it.”

  “I’m trying to help you. I just need a name.”

  “Gina Simonetti,” he says again, and I know that’s all I’m going to get.

  I fall in behind Anzalone and drive another few blocks to the arranged spot where we’ll park, out of the way of the station, so nobody with a star gets wise to our cockroach caravan. Anzalone parks and jumps out of the squad and as he comes toward us I say, “We’re here now, Johnny, and you’re going to have to go inside. Unless you can tell me who hurt your mom?”

  Anzalone opens the back door and reaches for Johnny, who catches my eye in the rearview just before he’s yanked outside, and I immediately feel fucking horrible. He didn’t have to say anything to tell me he had no part in what happened to Kay. And if he knows who did—if it’s the same person who made him that deal—he wouldn’t say so, as powerless as he is already.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, though he can’t hear me now.

  As I follow them into the station I wonder if it’s the right move, showing up to take credit for another mistake.

  I follow them, though, because I have to show my face. Let everyone see that I did the job no one else could, and I did it despite the fact that Marble is innocent. I follow them because the story doesn’t really end here, and I’m going to have to finish it.

  * * *

  When we get inside, Anzalone takes Marble to processing and I head up to the sergeant’s office. I don’t know if Iverson’s there, but it shouldn’t matter. If I’m doing the Job I’m not looking for favors; I’m looking to get it done.

  Upstairs, the energy is fresh as the night shift prepares for the street.

  I cross the floor and see guys I haven’t seen since it all went down and guys who probably have no idea what went down but I walk by, tall, a direction, a finish line.

  I know they’re watching, and it’s okay; I’m steady as I go.

  Until I get to the sergeant’s office, and Iverson is at the door. Waiting for me.

  “Simonetti,” she says, and goes inside, like I should follow.

  I do.

  “Close the door.”

  I do. I stand just inside of it. I say, “I can explain.”

  “I don’t want you to say a word.”

  I don’t. She comes toward me and stands in front of me.

  “I—”

  “Shh.” She puts her finger to my lips. “Please. Don’t. Because, Simonetti? This. Is. Fucking. Brilliant.”

  Then she gives me a hug.

  I’m dumbfounded, and I feel about as receptive to her as Anzalone was to the bugs, but I fake it. I hug her back. I smell her perfume, and her sweat. I say, “I just wanted Marble off the street.”

  She steps back, picks up a legal pad from her desk. Her smile is loose, like she came back to the office from the bar. The Job can do that, too; it can buzz you up. But I don’t get it, because—

  “I thought you’d be pissed.”

  “I am. Yes. At the team, and at your partner, and at Weiss especially. But you know what? The vine is already flowering, just for you. It’s beautiful, really. ‘An injured female officer goes rogue to catch the psycho who attacked her—’”

  “Marble isn’t psycho. He’s just sick.”

  “Thank god the story is out of your hands.” She makes herself a note. “The commander’s got a CompStat meeting in the morning. He’s waiting on a statement. How do you feel about dangerous? May I call Marble dangerous?”

  “More like special.”

  Iverson’s smile thins. “I can’t say that.”

  “Why didn’t anybody know he was mentally ill? Didn’t Mike Day look at Marble’s priors when he caught the case?”

  “I don’t know.” She makes another note.

  “What about Duppstadt? Doesn’t a second offense warrant a look at Marble’s file before the case is assigned?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Didn’t anybody do their homework along the way? Why am I the only one who picked up on his condition?”

  She stops writing, looks at me. “When, exactly, did you pick up on it? When he attacked you? Because I don’t remember you saying anything about ‘special’ in that very compelling narrative.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I’m certainly not going to rehash the other details I accidentally left out or intentionally altered.

  Iverson puts the legal pad aside. “Simonetti, our job is not to determine the mental capacity of a felon, or a fugitive. Our job is to find the guy. To get him off the street, as you said. And as you did.”

  “I know that.” I mean, that’s what I was thinking when I walked in here.

  “You also know that the best thing you can do now is the very thing you were supposed to do in the first place: leave it alone. Go home and get better. Let me make it sound good to the bosses. Let Marble be the bad guy. Let Anzalone have his big moment. And let your silence be proof that whatever happened is over.”

  “What about testifying?”

  “If this new sex-assault charge is accepted and the case hits court, we won’t need you or the other vic, either. We’ll have physical evidence. DNA. And we’ll have Pearson.”

  “What happens to Marble?”

  “We’ll keep him for forty-eight, see if Pearson can make the charge stick. If she can’t, we’ll find him a new facility. Either way, I promise he’s going to be locked up somewhere.” Iverson goes around the desk again, finds the flask she’d been nipping from, and toasts me: “Congratulations, Simonetti. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a statement to write.”

  “Thank you,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for. I think I just agreed to lie some more.

  I let myself out. When I see Weiss, I think about letting myself back in. He’s sitting in a folding chair against the wall like he’s waiting to get up.

  Iverson must have called him in; he knows what for. Part of me wants to say ha, ha! but the rest of me isn’t so childish; the rest of me can surely come up with something more caustic.

  He looks up. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, now that Marble is locked up.” Ha, ha.

  “I’m glad,” he says, and though he sounds like he means it, he may as well have told me he’s dying, the way he looks. Like somebody sucked the hot blood right out of him.

  I don’t care. Weiss wanted the arrest? I got it. He was on to something bigger? Something he was going to use me to get? I squashed it. I saved myself.

  I say, “See ya,” and get out of there without another word. Iverson told me to be quiet; I’ll take that cue.

  When I get outside, the western sky is a brilliant orange, caught between day and night. I clear the steps and then I root through my bag for my phone to check the time. I’m hoping I’ll make it home before Isabel goes to bed. If I’m a little late, I’ll let her stay up awhile, tell her the Jezebel version of this story in the dove’s nest; I’ll bring M&Ms and chocolate milk. If I’m way too late, maybe Mari will stick around and let me tell stories.

  I don’t find my phone until I get to my car—I guess I left it on the passenger seat when I followed Anzalone and Marble into the station.

  I have four messages; I play them as I head for home.

  One: “Regina Simonetti, this is Elaine Brille, from the Medical Section. After reviewing your file, I’m calling to in
form you, that I am only able to clear you for active duty, once your physician sends an updated report, issuing clearance.” She sounds automated, her weird phrasing. I think of Walter; I’ll have to tell him the department is a step ahead on his idea to hire robots. Brille says, “If you have medical questions, please contact your physician. For insurance questions, visit the Personnel Concierge at the department website. If I can be of further assistance, you can reach me at the following extension—”

  I delete the message; she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know. Anyway, there’ll be no calling Elaine Brille again. The only way I plan to get through to her now is to take Metzler’s report straight to her office and demand she ink her stamp.

  Message two: “Regina.” It’s Metzler. “I’m calling because my answering service received a call from George, and I haven’t been able to reach him—”

  I stop the message. Something’s happened. Something bad has happened.

  I pull over. The last two messages are from the same random number. I panic. I back out of my voice mail to see Isabel smiling at me from the screensaver. I wonder if this moment is going to be my before, and if pressing PLAY again will lead to an unfathomable after.

  I wonder if I am way too late.

  I press PLAY.

  “Gina: George. It’s Isabel—it was an accident. She fell. I think she’s okay? She threw up, and then she seemed better, but now she won’t stop crying—”

  “Where’s Maricarmen?” I ask over the message.

  “I gave her some medicine I found—”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” I put the car in DRIVE. “What medicine? What happened?”

  “I want to call her doctor, but I can’t find a phone number. Will you call back? I don’t know what else I should do.”

  “Call a fucking ambulance!” I yell. I drive like I’m driving an ambulance.

  I skip to the next message, recorded thirty minutes later. “Gina, George. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. Isabel fell, and she hit her head. Maricarmen is here now and—”

  “Where was she before?”

  “—she thinks I should take her to the hospital. I just—I don’t have her insurance information. Or her birth certificate. I don’t know if I’m even allowed to drive her, I don’t have a car seat? Anyway, call back at this number, okay? It’s Geraldo’s phone. My battery died. And Isabel—well, maybe if she heard your voice—”