No Way Out

by David Kessler

  “Okay I’ll call you right back as soon as I’ve spoken to her. Are you on this number?”

  “Yes. I’ll be waiting.”

  Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18:40

  Andi was driving north along Drumm Street in the direction of Sacramento Street. On the dashboard in front of her was a note in an unfamiliar handwriting that said: “Golden Gate Bridge, sunset. The truth shall set you free.”

  At Washington Street she turned right, glancing at the green wall of the outdoor tennis courts to her left. The street was divided by a stretch of grass with three or four trees. The sun was setting, but she still had about an hour before it dropped below the horizon and maybe an hour of twilight after that.

  There was no particular urgency to the way she was driving, but a barrage of thoughts was racing through her mind. Anger, guilt, vengeance. On the from passenger seat was the vodka bottle. But she wasn’t driving erratically. Still… maybe she’d get pulled over by the cops. Maybe she wouldn’t. To tell the truth she didn’t care.

  She was headed east on Washington towards the Embarcadero intersection. There seemed like a mass of traffic headed south. She remembered that today was a baseball day. The Giants were at home today playing the Dodgers.

  Old rivalries. They could bring out people’s anger more than politics… more than religion.

  Who was it who said: “Baseball isn’t a matter of life and death: it’s much more important than that.” She vaguely remembered that it was originally said of soccer by some British team manager.

  Funny… people’s values. When they couldn’t find something to fight over, they invented something. As if there wasn’t enough pain and suffering in the world. Maybe that was precisely because most people had it too easy. They could afford to fight over the most trivial things in life. Only sexual envy could bring out greater aggression in people. But that was rare and only affected some of the people some of the time.

  The one thing that ought to bring people out onto the streets and get them to storm the barricades was injustice. But that rarely happened these days. America’s anger with itself had burnt itself out in Andi’s infancy. It wasn’t that America was now at peace with itself. It had merely succumbed to complacency.

  And there was no room in all this for some one who had a passion for justice.

  She had reached the intersection just as the light turned from green to yellow. As she pulled out on the yellow, the light turned to red. But a grey pickup truck behind her tried to beat the lights and shot out into the intersection close on her tail. Maybe if Andi had been quicker across the intersection, things would have been different. But the alcohol and pills had clouded her judgment and she expressed this, not in driving with speed and aggression, but slowly and passively – oblivious to the danger.

  Meanwhile the traffic headed south on Embarcadero towards the ball park was taking no prisoners. And when their light turned green, they went for it. So it was no surprise that a bus, headed straight across the intersection, slammed into the pickup truck. Meanwhile another car on Washington took it into his head to do a risky right turn on red. But when the bus ploughed into the pickup truck, the pickup truck was sent careening sideways till it skidded to a halt, thus making it too a perfect target for the stream of southbound traffic on Embarcadero.

  For a second the air hung still. Then Andi – who had caught only some of this with a quick side-glance – heard an almighty crash. As she completed her left turn into Embarcadero, she heard the sound of other cars crashing into the ones that blocked the intersection and turned again to see an almighty multiple pile-up across the entire intersection.

  Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18:45

  Martine was sitting on the bed in her bathrobe, drying her hair, and she barely heard the knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” she shouted, moving the dryer away from her hair but not switching it off.

  A muffled voice came at her and all she heard was “iss”. She switched off the hair dryer.

  “Pardon?”

  “Room Service!”

  “I didn’t order anything!”

  “I’ll leave the tray out here!”

  She heard the feint sound of receding footsteps.

  “No, you didn’t hear me! I said I didn’t order anything!”

  She waited for a response. But heard nothing.

  What kind of a moron was that?

  She walked over to the door and peered out through the spy hole. There was no one there. But to the side of the door, she could clearly see a tray on the floor with some sort of a covered plate together with a coffee pot and a cup. Angrily, she opened the door to take a proper look. Realizing that the food tray was probably intended for some one else, she turned her head left and right, but saw no sign of the waiter. There was another corridor, branching off, and for a split-second, she thought she sensed a human presence there, movement of a shadow or maybe the sound of breathing.

  But before she had time to think about it, her phone rang – not the phone in the room, but her cell phone on the dressing table. Realizing that the erroneous delivery would have to wait she turned and went back into the room. But before the door closed behind her, there was a flurry of movement from the branching corridor and Martine found herself hurled into the room and thrown onto the bed.

  When she spun round, in preparation to spring back to her feet and fight, she saw the door shutting behind Louis Manning who stood there with a menacing smile on his face.

  Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18:50

  Claymore was stuck in the log jam in Washington Street. Something had happened just ahead at the intersection with Embarcadero, but he didn’t know what. He wished he had gone the other way, via Broadway. But it was too late now. He would have liked to turn back and go that way even now. But with the traffic clogged up all the way up his tail, there was no possibility of that. He was stuck here until something gave – and he didn’t know how long that would be.

  In his mind he kept thing about Andi. He couldn’t get the thought of her out of his mind. He wasn’t worried about Gene. She was too strong to worry about. Whatever weakness she had shown in court had been short-lived. She had the kind of inner strength that enabled her to come bouncing back.

  But not Andi. Andi was too fragile for that. He had seen that over the two and half weeks of the trial. And after Gene had told him, he knew how thoroughly he was responsible for that fragility.

  Nietzsche had said: “That which does not kill me makes me stronger.” But this wasn’t true of everyone. It’s like bullying in childhood. It toughens up the first son, but turns his younger brother into a wimp. And Andi may have put on a dazzling display in the courtroom, but every time she did that, it was followed by an internal collapse. He had seen that after the voir dire, when she came back looking crushed after Alex had spoken to her. He had seen how she cried after she’d taken Bethel Newton apart on the witness stand. He had even caught a glimpse of it after she had finished cross-examining Albert Carter. And he had no doubt that she was feeling guilty beyond belief at what she had done to her lover on the witness stand.

  But it was actually Gene’s words that were haunting him right now.

  “She sat next to you the whole trial and she didn’t even remember that twenty five years ago you were the one who raped her,” Gene had said.

  She had been bottling it all up, just as Gene had. But Gene had now opened the bottle. Had she opened it for both of them?

  He had to know... because he was responsible. But right now he was powerless as he sat here, snarled in traffic that wasn’t going anywhere.

  He whipped out his cell phone and tried to call the number that had sent him the text message in the hope of reasoning with the person at the other end.

  But there was no answer.

  Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 18:55

  Alex was calling Gene. She answered almost immediately.

  “Hi Gene it’s Alex. Listen. I’ve tried calling Martine several ti
mes but she’s not answering.”

  “You think we should call the cops?”

  “And tell them what. That we think Louis Manning might try and attack her but we’re not sure and we’re not even sure where she is.”

  “We can tell ‘em that we can’t contact her and that we’re worried about her.”

  “And you think they’ll do anything?”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  There was no question in Gene’s mind that Alex would want to do something.

  “Well I’ll keep trying to call her, but I think I’ll have to go there myself.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in my office… in San Francisco… the Embarcadero Center.”

  “And is she in San Francisco?”

  “No, she’s in Oakland. She’s staying at the Waterfront Hotel.”

  “That means you’re gonna have to drive across the Bay Bridge… like… now.”

  It was commuter time: the worst time to be traveling and the worst time to be crossing the Bay Bridge. The fact that the Giants were playing the Dodgers made it even worse.

  “I’ve got no alternative.”

  “I’m also in San Fran. But I’m right by the Bridge. And I can ride a motorbike. That makes me a bit more mobile than you.”

  “Have you got a motorbike?”

  “Not yet. But I can get one.”

  “You can’t buy one at such short notice.”

  “Who said anything about buying.”

  “No wait listen! Don’t do anything illeg–”

  The line went dead. He knew that he was going to have to go there himself – even though there was no doubt in his mind that Gene would get there first.

  Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19:00

  The fear Martine had felt when Manning tried to rape her in the multi-storey parking structure was nothing compared to the terror she felt now secured her to the bed using the handcuffs he had taken from the cop. For this was the terror of uncertainty. Then she was in a public place and his options were limited. Here they were away from public view and he had scope for a far greater range of actions and much more available time.

  The phone had rung a couple of times since Manning had forced his way into the room, and she suspected that it might be Alex. But she wasn’t sure. And anyway, he had no way of knowing that anything was up. She might be out, or in the shower. In fact before when she was in the shower, she had thought at one point that the phone was ringing.

  For a brief moment she had considered putting up some resistance. It had after all been her courage in the parking structure that had saved her from being raped and helped the police to catch him. But this time it had been a whole different ball game. For a start, she no longer had the element of surprise. He was alert to any sudden show of resistance that might come from her. Secondly, even if she managed to make a break, she would still have had to open the door and get out of the room. That would have cost her precious extra seconds. But the third and most important factor, was that this time Manning had a gun.

  That last one was the clincher. She knew that this time, she didn’t dare resist. And he knew it too. But just to make sure, he was quick to handcuff her wrists together in front, after ordering her to remove the bathrobe, before he forced her to lay face down on the bed. This, she realized, gave some indication of what he planned to do next.

  Words could hardly describe how vulnerable she felt. And yet in some way, once she accepted the reality, it was strangely liberating. She knew that her only chance – if indeed it was a chance – was to reason with him, to open up the lines of communication.

  “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Did I tell you to talk bitch!”

  For a second she was filled with an even deeper terror and thought that perhaps she had misjudged the situation and misread Manning. But then she realized that he too was not completely free of fear and that notwithstanding the fact that he had the upper hand, much of what he was doing was still an act and not an expression of any real belief in his own invincibility. She decided to put her strategy back on track and tried to sound nonchalant, without being contemptuous.

  “Oh come on, you don’t have to impress me with that macho performance. You’ve got me right where you want me. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t talk.”

  He was so taken aback by her response that he actually smiled for a second.

  “You’re right there.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. The tacit acknowledgement of his power – “you’ve got me right where you want me” – had assuaged his anger. But she waited for him to speak again, not wanting to sound too eager.

  “So what is it you don’t understand?”

  “Well… you raped Bethel Newton… then you tried to rape me when I was covering the case. So I was just wondering if that was a coincidence?”

  “Not really. I mean raping Bethel Newton was something I did on the spur of the moment. God knows why, she’d probably have slept with me anyway. Or maybe that is why.”

  “Oh… you mean power.”

  “What else. Life is just one big power game, from the submissive wife who walks four paces behind her husband to the man with his finger on the nuclear trigger.”

  “Yeah okay… but what about…”

  “What about you? That’s easy. I knew all about you and Sedaka.”

  “How?”

  “I was paying close attention to the Bethel Newton rape… for obvious reasons. After Claymore was arrested the first time, I saw a story on the news about it. They said Sedaka was his lawyer as well as his friend and that he was supposed to be a good lawyer. Anyway, I was a bit curious, so one time when he left the jail, I followed him around and I saw him pick you up and take you to a restaurant.”

  “You were playing a dangerous game... it’s like going back to the scene of the crime.”

  “Maybe. I have this thing about finding it hard to let go. It’s like, I have this urge to go back to where things started… you know… retracing my roots... like that fish that swims upstream to where it was born.”

  She looked surprised.

  “Salmon.”

  “Yeh.”

  She was looking at him, unsure of what to say.

  “And you thought I was just an ignorant nigger.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Oh I know you never said that. That’s ‘cause you’re a cultured, educated Chinese-American. Now if you were an Alabama redneck, you would have said it. But then again, if you were an Alabama redneck you wouldn’t know about the mating habits of fish.”

  A gleaming smile came to his face and he put on a high-pitched southern “yassir” accent to taunt her.

  “But I saw that flicker of surprise in your eyes when I said that about swimmin’ upstream. And I gahts to tell you ma’am, thaz the fahst time in mah life ahhhz ever bin compared to a salmon!”

  He held the smile a while longer, before his face hardened.

  “I think I’d better gag you too,” he continued, his voice deepening. It’s not like you’re gonna say anything that I can’t already figure out.” The parody accent came back. “Nothin’ personal ma’am, but you is kind of pre-dictable.”

  Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19:05

  Claymore was sitting at the end of Washington Street in the his rented car, desperately trying to figure a way out of this logjam. But at the back of his mind he was replaying his conversation with Gene over and over again.

  “Alex is a bastard figuratively speaking. He’s a bit of rapist himself. At least he knows how to use coercion of one kind or another to force other people who conform to his will.”

  This was remarkably similar to what Andi had said after the trial.

  “I was raped again – this time by a colleague. Not literally raped, but figuratively speaking. My hands were tied and I was forced to conform to his will. Only this is the last time it’s going to happen”

  There were signs of something
happening ahead and Claymore breathed again. But it wasn’t clear what. Then he remembered the text message that he had received. He had tried the number but got no answer. So he called the one person who might be able to help him.

  “Alex Sedaka.”

  “Hi Alex. It’s Elias.”

  “Elias Hi, listen don’t take this personally, but I’m kind of busy right now. Something’s come up.”

  “Something to do with Andi by any chance?”

  “No. With Mart– look you’re not still worried about her are you? I’m sure she’s all right.”

  “Okay, but just tell me one thing, does the name Lannosea mean anything to you?”

  There were a few seconds of silence on the other of the line.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I had a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. It said it was from Lannosea. I presume you do recognize the name.”

  “Okay, look save that message. It might help us later.”

  “Help you how?”

  “Lannosea is the name of the person who’s been sending threatening messages and insulting messages to Andi. We think that it was the same person who tampered with the jury selection software and hacked into the database – and who tried to frame Andi for hacking into the database. We think it may be another woman that you…”

  Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. In the end it was up to Claymore to break the silence.

  “But you don’t know who it is.”

  It had the finality of a statement.

  “No. Although my son and Andi were going to pool their expertise to try and find out. Why, do you have any idea?”

  Now it was Claymore’s turn to hesitate. Alex had said that something had come up. And he sounded like he was driving. He wasn’t in any position to handle more pressure.

  “No… not really,” said Claymore, as the traffic ahead of him finally started to move.

  Wednesday, 2 September 2009 – 19:10