“I don’t know what else there is.”
“What did he tell you about him and Kelly going back down there?”
“He didn’t give me much detail. He said that they went back down there, and Kelly was kicking and stomping on her head, and then she held her head under water for five minutes, and then they dragged her in the water. He said when they dragged her in the water, her pants came off.”
“Did he say he was dragging her into the water with Kelly?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said earlier that ‘they’ dragged her in. Is that what he told you?”
“I was in shock. I didn’t believe it, but I was in shock, so I wasn’t really paying close attention to the detailed words like that. I didn’t want to ask him questions about it. I didn’t even want to bring it up.”
“Okay. Reena’s in the Gorge, and now you have Kelly and Warren on the shore. Where do they go from there?”
“He never got to that point. I assume he went home because he called me at quarter after eleven.”
“In your mind, do you see both him and Kelly dragging her into the water or just him?”
“I see him and Kelly. I don’t think Kelly could drag her by herself.”
“And in the same way, do you see Kelly stomping on her head? Or do you see him and Kelly doing it together?”
“When I picture it, I see only Kelly. Then I see them both drag her in. But that could be how I want to picture it.”
“Well, that’s a good point. I know he’s your boyfriend. I know that entails some feelings and whatnot, and sometimes that can cloud the issue. So think about what he told you, and not of him as your boyfriend. Maybe you’ve forgotten something because of your feelings for him. Think about it again. Was he stomping on her too?”
“I think he told me that it was just Kelly who jumped on her head, but that could be because I got mad at him when I heard he kicked her in the head. I’m not sure about dragging her in. I think that was both of them.”
“Can you think of anything else that you’ve been told by Warren that we should know? We don’t want you to have to take any extra baggage back home with you. You’ve been dealt enough this week. He has asked you to keep this secret. He has burdened you with the knowledge of the murder of a young girl. And we want you to be able to leave here with a clear conscience that you’ve done everything in your power to right this wrong.
“And we’re sure you haven’t had a good week. You said you had an upset stomach. I’m thinking that’s probably not from the flu. It’s probably from carrying this around with you. That would be enough to cause anybody to feel nausea for a long time. I think you’ll find that you’ll feel a lot better tomorrow after being here if you can get everything out in the open. I think you’ll have a much better day than you’ve had all last week. Do you want to sit for a minute and think if there’s anything you missed?”
“I’m pretty sure there isn’t.”
“You’re pretty sure, or you’re really positive?”
“I’m really sure.”
“You haven’t subconsciously or purposely forgotten anything because of the relationship you’ve had with him? We can understand if that’s happened. But we just don’t want you to be stuck with this forever. Forever is a long time. You’re a young girl. You’re going to have a hard time forgetting this as it is and getting on, and it will only be harder if you’re carrying some guilt along with you. We don’t think you deserve to have any guilt at all. That’s why you’re in this nice interview room, sitting on this nice couch, instead of in some dingy room that’s too hot. Okay? Because we don’t think you need any guilt. We think that you’re a nice person. You didn’t have anything to do with this. You don’t need to feel guilty about this. Okay? So is there anything that you’ve left out?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. How do you feel now that you’ve told us all about this? Do you feel better or worse?”
“I don’t know,” Syreeta said, softly.
“You’re probably pretty numb, aren’t you, sweetie?” Syreeta’s mom said, and she saw her daughter’s face was full of tears. What Syreeta said next startled every adult in the room.
“I just want to see Warren,” Syreeta wailed, with her voice like Juliet’s.
• • •
“I was just chillin’ with my friends,” Dimitri told the detectives.
“We went down to Shoreline around 7:30. Everyone was just hanging out there ’cause that’s what we usually do. Someone broke a window, and two police officers came and told us to leave. A group of us started to walk down toward the Mac’s. Everyone started to go to underneath the bridge.
“Everyone was just sitting there and talking and then, all of a sudden, people were saying, ‘Grab her! Grab her!’ I saw what was going on. There was this girl. She was trying to get away from these other girls. I didn’t know what was going on.
“Down by the bridge, they just started punching her. There was a whole bunch of other girls—they didn’t have anything to do with this. They were all like, ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’ I took them all up the hill and told them to just stay there so they didn’t have to be involved. I told my girlfriend to stay where she was. My buddy Warren, he was down there. He was just looking and seeing what was going on. I went down and grabbed him. I said, ‘Don’t worry about it, man. Don’t get involved. It’s not your fight.’ They just kept beating on her. I don’t even know what it was about. I’m pretty sure most of the girls didn’t even have anything to do with it. They rolled her into the Gorge. Well, not into the Gorge, but onto a muddy patch. They took her smokes and her bag and went to the Comfort Inn. I heard they grabbed her Polo Sport and then chucked her bag into the Gorge, and then just left, just split up. Everyone just split up and went their own way. I left at that point. I took my girlfriend. I don’t know where Warren went after. He left. I didn’t know where he went.”
“Did you see this girl again after the beating?” a detective asked Dimitri.
“I did see her get up and start walking away. Over the bridge.”
• • •
In the cells, the girls stood in blue paper gowns, for their clothes had been taken away. Ink remained, darkening their fingerprints. They pressed their faces to the small glass panes, desperate to catch sight of their friends. They had been arrested for murder, and yet they had killed no one. “Willow,” Maya screamed, and she began to sob as she heard no answer from her childhood friend.
Mothers woke to their morning coffee; they fed their other, unarrested, children. Mothers read their newspapers and saw no story about the murder or a missing girl. Perhaps she had been found after all. Their daughters would be released. Their daughters would leave the cells and return to their bedrooms, messy with piles of jeans and jackets, fragrant with perfume, full of photographs and diaries and homework. Please let the girl be found alive, they prayed.
Lawyers arrived at the Saanich police department. The lawyers were all men, the men chosen to represent the girls. “The Shoreline Six,” the girls who had been under the bridge would soon be called, as though they were renegade terrorists, a band of outlaws, rather than underage schoolgirls.
The lawyers advised the girls they would today go before the justice of the peace and most likely be remanded to custody until a formal arraignment before a judge on Monday. “Does that mean I’m going to jail?” Eve asked, and she pleaded with her lawyer—that she had never been in trouble and she surely had not killed a girl whose name she did not even know. The lawyers conferred among themselves. What were the cops up to? Arresting these girls for murder when they didn’t even have a body! The lawyers returned to their Saturday activities. Laila’s lawyer jammed with his band, playing Pearl Jam covers and songs by the Pixies. Dusty’s lawyer polished his Harley; Kelly’s lawyer planned his summer trip to the south of France.
Warren was “scared shitless.” He’d been the only one sent t
o the Youth Custody Centre, and on Saturday morning, Bruce Brown came to get him and bring him back to the station for another interrogation, Warren asked if he could call Syreeta. But he was not allowed to call her, and so he called his father in California.
“Dad, I had nothing to do with this.”
“You sure put yourself in a fine fix now.”
“Yeah, I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess my family’s going to disown me now. Everyone is going to disown me.”
“No, they are not going to disown you.”
“I never hit a woman. I wouldn’t do it.”
“I believe you,” his father said. “Let me talk to that Sergeant Brown.”
Sergeant Brown asked Warren’s father for the number of Warren’s mother.
“She’s an alcoholic,” Warren’s father said. “I have no idea where she is. If Warren had reason to hit anyone, it would have been his mother. He had no use for her. He just can’t stand her. If there’s anyone he should have hit, it was her, and he just walked away every time. He put up with her for years and years. He’s never had any problems with the law. He’s a good kid. He’s always gone to school. The only problem he ever had is with his mother, and everybody in the world had trouble with her.”
Warren’s father then asked Sergeant Brown a question. “Is Warren being pinpointed for this?”
“No, we’ve got about eight other individuals in custody. They’re going in front of the judge on Monday. We’re going to detain them all until we get the proper truth out of them. I’ll keep in contact with you and inform you what happens next.”
Warren asked his father, “Can you come here?”
His father thought Warren sounded “very scared.”
“I just got my green card, Warren, and I’m not going to have the proper travel documents for about four months.”
“That’s okay,” Warren said. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about me.”
Warren was unaware of the words John Bond was now reading. Secretaries had been typing and transcribing nonstop, and as he read the girlfriend’s interview (“that cute little girl from the fish and chip shop”), John Bond felt confirmed in his belief that Warren so far had been less than forthcoming.
“I know the script now,” he told Bruce Brown. “Let’s get him in here.”
• • •
Sergeant Poulton drove up the long hill to Seven Oaks and found Josephine at last. She was in the bathroom, drying her hair.
Enthralled by her own reflection, she seemed at first not to notice the man standing there.
“Josephine,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”
“What for?” she said, blithely, looking at him through her eyelashes.
“For the murder of Reena Virk.”
She smiled at him and raised the hairdryer back near her clean blonde hair. He watched her, amazed. She turned to him then, and after she lowered the dryer, she bent forward, letting her blonde hair fall. She ran her fingers through her hair and then tossed her head back dramatically.
“Do I look like a murderer?” she said. She gave him a look of careless disdain. “Josephine Bell does not murder.”
“Well, we can talk about it at the station.”
“Who else did the cops pick up?”
“You’re under arrest,” Sergeant Poulton said. “We can talk at the station.”
“Fine,” she snapped, and she grabbed her Guess bag, and put into it her Nivea cream, her bus pass, her cigarettes, her Maybelline Great Lash mascara, and her Polo Sport perfume.
As they left Seven Oaks, she informed Sergeant Poulton of her wish. “Get me John Gotti’s lawyer,” she demanded.
“I don’t think he’s available,” Sergeant Poulton replied.
• • •
She cried once more when she was told she could not see Warren.
“I don’t think that’s going to be possible,” Syreeta was told.
“How long will it be before I can see him?”
“Well,” the officer said, quite taken aback by the request, “we don’t know that right know. This is as serious as it gets. This is murder.” He realized his tone was too stern for the girl, who was so young, with her braces and ponytail. Her mother too seemed wholly stunned. “We really do appreciate your cooperation,” he said to Syreeta’s mother as he walked Syreeta and her to the door. “We really do know how horrible this is. We have spent these last few days dealing with kids, with teenagers.”
Major Crimes prosecutor Stan Lowe arrived at the Saanich Police Department on Saturday morning. He surveyed the photos of the eight suspects. Warren looked absolutely petrified—his eyes immense, his lips parted as if mouthing a silent apology. Kelly was smirking, the stud still in her nose. Laila’s eyebrows were very thin and arched highly above her slightly defiant gaze. (“She’s a different cat,” Sergeant Poulton told him. “All these girls talk really fast, but Laila talks so fast that when you finish a conversation with her, you have no idea what she was talking about. She’s a kickboxer. She’s like the West Side enforcer. If you’re gonna fight, she’s the one you call. But probably of all of them, she’s the least culpable because she tried to stop the fight.”) He saw Mayas photo and recognized her last name. (“I really like Maya,” Poulton said. “She’s the only one who told us everything.”) Dusty’s nostrils were flared and she looked rather menacing. (“Dusty’s the most upset,” Poulton thought. “She’s the only one of them who really knew Reena.”) Of all the girls, Josephine appeared the least menacing. She looked like she could be advertising Neutrogena soap; she looked like one of those twirling ballerinas on a jewelry box. Her smile was a bit odd. Who smiles in their mug shot? She was smiling, proudly and mockingly.
“They’re quite a group of girls,” Poulton mused. “Definitely tougher and more worldly than they look. They’re all into rap, gangster music. They all want to be Puff Daddy.”
This thought was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder from the chief of police. The members of the Dive Unit had located a pair of underwear and jeans in the waters of the Gorge, not underneath the bridge, but farther away, a few miles out from the old white and historic Craigflower schoolhouse.
Sergeant Krista Hobday confronted Dusty with an adult version of the scene under the bridge.
“You’re all under the bridge. You have Laila, Kelly, Maya, Eve, Josephine, Willow, and Warren. Maya has light red hair and really pretty green eyes. Warren has kinky blondish hair that comes out like a clown’s on top of his head. Josephine butts a cigarette out on Reena’s forehead. You’re basically ticked off because Reena’s been telling stories.”
Dusty nodded, and tears fell to her closed lips.
“The fight is on. Some people under the bridge do nothing. They stand back. They don’t punch her. They don’t hit her. They don’t help her. But you and the others kick her, punch her, pull her to the ground. Kelly grabs her by the hair, looks her straight in the eye, and punches her in the face, over and over and over again. Reena’s nose is bleeding. Her eyes are being swollen shut. At this point, her ribs are probably cracked from the kicks. She is crying: ‘Please stop! Leave me alone! Stop!’ Laila finally says, ‘Enough. Leave her alone. She’s taken a bad enough beating.’ Everybody complies. Everybody leaves. Reena’s laying in the muck. Helpless, bleeding, broken, because she told a story.”
Dusty nodded, and as she opened her lips, her words turned to sobs.
“At any point, did you think to call an ambulance for this girl?” the detective asked. (All the detectives, among themselves, alone, and together, had found this one aspect of the night particularly terrible. “If one of those kids had called 911, we wouldn’t be here,” Sergeant John Bond said. “They wouldn’t have had to give their name. It wouldn’t have even cost them a quarter.”)
“No,” Dusty admitted. “Because I didn’t think she was hurt that bad. She was walking. She was fine. I thought she could make it home. I didn’t know they were going to follow her. She was walking. She was fine
,” Dusty repeated, softly, to herself.
“Dusty, where’s Reena?”
“I don’t know. I heard someone saw her downtown.”
“Do you think after the shit-kicking Reena took that she would be downtown?”
“I don’t know,” Dusty said. “She was walking. She was fine.”
“Do you know of any threats made against Reena?”
Dusty, somewhat startled by the vociferous outrage of the woman before her, finally elaborated:
“Yeah, a long time ago, when we were all in Kiwanis, Josephine said she wanted to beat up Reena. And then, after this happened, I heard that Kelly and Josephine had this all planned out. They had it planned for months.”
“And what was their plan?” Sergeant Hobday asked, aghast that the script was only getting worse.
“To bury her alive.”
• • •
Josephine sat in the detective’s leather chair, toying with the black phone cord.
She thought she’d let the cop call her mother, and then when the cops weren’t looking, she’d hang up and try to call Kelly.
She brushed her hair off her face and dialed her mother’s number. Her blue nail polish was chipped.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Hello.”
“I didn’t do it!” Josephine said.
“You didn’t do what?” she asked Josephine.
“We just beat her up.”
“Beat who up?”
“But I went home, and I was home by curfew so I wasn’t involved in the rest of it.”
“What rest of it?”
“They dumped her body in the Gorge and she died.”
Elaine, in shock, did not reply.
“I know who did it. I’m not gonna tell. What do you think, I’m stupid? My lawyer says I don’t have to say anything, so I’m not going to say anything.” She looked over at the officer and smiled, tauntingly.
“Well, what about remorse?” her mother asked. “What are you feeling?”
Under the Bridge Page 17