Lost Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  "But they will be," Cheryl said. "You understand that, don't you Ms. Reyes?”

  "She understands that the U.S. Attorney is looking into the matter," Josie said. "I have explained what a person of interest is. She is a person of interest, Ms. Harper."

  "Ms. Bates, I would like to hear from Tala," Cheryl Harper said. "Tala, if you are granted asylum — which very well might be the case given that you were abused and held against your will on the Faret Vild—you do understand that you might be immediately charged with murder and incarcerated.”

  "I do," Tala said.

  "I've retained criminal representation for Tala should that happen," Josie said.

  "You won't represent her?" Cheryl raised a brow.

  "As I understand it, the man died outside the three mile limit because of the drift before the ship was anchored. If that's true, Tala will need specialized representation. I have no experience in international or maritime law," Josie said.

  "Wise choice."

  "That doesn't mean I won't be part of her team," Josie said. "Right now, we are only concerned with her asylum claim. She's already been detained for six weeks."

  "And are there complaints?"

  Cheryl gathered up Tala's forms, but kept her eye on the girl. Tala shook her head.

  "Fine, then," Cheryl went on. "Regarding the dead man. I would like to hear from you — not your attorney — the circumstances that resulted in his death."

  Tala looked at Josie for permission to go ahead. Josie nodded knowing that Tala knew to keep the story simple.

  "The first mate asked me to lower the anchor," Tala said. "I went to the room. The man was there. I startled him. He came at me. He hit me and I thought he would rape me. I was the only woman on the ship. He had a knife, so I imagined he would kill me. I fought back."

  "And you were able to take the knife away from him?" Cheryl asked.

  "I pushed him. I was angry, and that gave me strength. He fell backward. The anchor chain was moving fast, his shirt got caught, and then it pulled his arm through the links. He was screaming and trying to get his arm out. The knife fell. I picked it up. I don't remember stabbing him."

  Cheryl referred to another piece of paper.

  "According the coroner's report, the man was stabbed thirty times. His arm was in the anchor chain, he was being pulled forward, and yet you felt such fear that, even with him incapacitated, you had to stab him thirty times?"

  "Yes. I had that fear," Tala said.

  "And anger?"

  "I think we've established her state of mind," Josie interrupted. "I'd like you to refer to the photographs of Ms. Reye's face and body. Those were taken thirty-six hours after her ordeal. Even though she had healed somewhat you can see the brutality of the attack."

  "Yes, I saw the evidence," Cheryl said. "But I am still concerned by her behavior. It takes a lot to stab someone once, much less thirty times."

  "Ms. Harper, this is an asylum interview, not a criminal court," Josie said. "The only matter before you is whether or not Tala has reason to fear for her life if she is returned to the Philippines. We have established that. She was the victim of the death squads through no fault of her own. Her friend died at the hands of criminals. I've provided the statistics on death squad activity in and around Santa Cruz. To send her back would be to open her up to retaliation on so many levels that I can't begin to count them."

  "You're right. I've heard it before. The story is consistent."

  "It is no story," Tala said. "It's the truth."

  "I'll take all of this information under advisement." Cheryl took the application and tapped the sheets of paper on the table to put them in order. "Give me three or four weeks."

  "We were hoping you could expedite the matter," Josie said as she pushed back her chair and stood up.

  "That is expedited," Cheryl Harper laughed, but it was clear that she hadn't even amused herself. "And I wouldn't hang my hat on the date."

  An agent appeared at the door of the interview room to collect Tala. The Mira Loma Detention Center in Lancaster was a secure migrant detention facility, not quite jail but close. Cheryl put her hand out to Tala.

  "You take care," she said.

  Josie smiled at her client and said: "Do you need anything?"

  "I've lived in worse places." Tala hesitated and asked. "How is Billy?"

  "He's doing well. Healing like you. He would like to see you," Josie said.

  "No," she said. "He wouldn't know me."

  "Of course he would."

  "It's different now. It's not just us anymore," Tala said. "It's the way things are."

  Josie gave her a tight-lipped smile, and put her hand on Tala's shoulder.

  "Alright. Maybe later. He'll want to know if you're well."

  "I am well. I'm safe thanks to him. Thanks to all of them," Tala said, and before she went with the guard she thought again. "Even my own family didn't care enough to save me. Tell him I'm grateful that he was my friend and that he is alive. He deserves a good life."

  "So do you," Josie said but Tala was walking away. She had been right to refuse to see Billy. No matter what name she went by, that young woman was destined to travel her hard road alone.

  "You done?" Cheryl asked as she slung her jacket over her shoulder.

  "Yep," Josie said. "Wish I wasn't. I wish there was more that I could do."

  The two women fell in, walking slowly, neither in a hurry to step into the high desert heat.

  "Don't beat yourself up. You've done a lot, especially since there are more fingers in this pie than I can count," Cheryl said.

  Josie opened the front door of the facility and held it for Cheryl. The heat hit them hard. Both put on their sunglasses, lingering outside the facility.

  "What do you think her chances are for asylum?" Josie asked.

  "I think they're good. I'm just trying to weigh the options," Cheryl said. "We release her and maybe the Feds pick her up or the LAPD. If they all think it's a feather in their cap to prosecute, they'll be fighting over her like vultures over a carcass. I'd hate to see her in jail while this drags out."

  "If you release her I'll take custody and keep the wolves at bay as long as I can."

  "I know you would. She knows it too. I'm not sure she's comfortable with that," Cheryl said. "People like her aren't used to having other people step up to bat for them. It makes them nervous because they think the rug's going to get yanked out from under them sooner than later."

  Cheryl pointed toward a blue Chevy. Josie followed her to her car. She unlocked it, tossed her jacket and briefcase inside and followed them in. Once her seatbelt was fastened, she rested her arm on the open window.

  "Off the record, if I recommend asylum be granted the best thing that girl could do would be to disappear."

  Cheryl laughed at Josie's expression.

  "I'm only sort of kidding," Cheryl said. "Think about it. What kind of life will she have if she works her way through the system? She'll live with lawyers. Half of them will want her head; the other half will want to hold her up as some sort of immigrant warrior princess. And if our justice system sends her back to the Philippines, she's toast."

  "She won't have a chance to disappear until we know what your decision is," Josie reminded her.

  "That's what I like about my job. It's Christmas every day."

  "How do you figure?" Josie asked.

  "After I get through with them I know who has been naughty and who has been nice. It's not hard to hand out the coal and the cookies after that."

  Cheryl put her hand out. Josie gave it a quick shake.

  "I guarantee you that this one goes into your nice column, Santa."

  "So you say." Cheryl started her car, but called Josie back once more. "Just out of curiosity, did you know that Rambo Talaningo ran one of the most brutal extra-judicial justice gangs in the Philippines?"

  "Extra-judicial justice? Is that what they call murder over there?" Josie said.

  "Yep. He headed up a death sq
uad that was particularly active," Cheryl said. "He made quite a name for himself in his younger days."

  "Really," Josie said.

  "Yep. Old Rambo ran roughshod over the city of Santa Cruz in his heyday. It was just about the time the real Tala Reyes got killed in Santa Cruz."

  "Do tell," Josie said.

  "Maybe. Or maybe I won't tell. I just thought I'd share. It's funny what a little research can turn up."

  "Definitely curious," Josie answered.

  "Wouldn't it be weird if he was the one who killed the real Tala Reyes?" Cheryl said. "And wouldn't it be funnier still if our Tala followed him onto that ship with the express intent of killing him?"

  "Hilarious," Josie said.

  "Sounds like some sort of vigilante movie, doesn't it?" The edge of Josie's lips tipped up, but before she could say anything Cheryl laughed. "I think I missed my calling. With this imagination I should be working in Hollywood. "

  With that, she rolled up the window and drove away. Josie looked after her. She was sorry she didn't get to answer Cheryl's question. It wouldn't be funny if that's what had happened, it would be epic. It would be astounding. It would still be murder.

  Josie glanced at the setting sun. When she got into her Jeep, Josie was wondering how people survived landlocked, away from the ocean. She pulled on her baseball cap and put the key in the ignition. Whatever happened to Tala now was out of her hands. It was a sad fact that some people in this world got lost in the shuffle, the strong could be extraordinarily evil, and the weak so easily exploited. Maybe Tala did fight back, not just against a man but against a whole system. Maybe she had taken justice into her own hands, and if she did would Josie defend Tala knowing that?

  Josie shook her head. It was a long ride home and she had a lot to think about: Billy, Hannah, Archer and her. Josie wanted to think about whether or not a family was in the future for her and Archer; she wanted to think about the best outcome for Billy and Hannah. The only question not in play was whether she would defend Tala Reyes in a court of law. The answer was simple.

  The answer was yes, she would.

  36

  Bree, 6 Weeks Later

  TGI FRIDAYS

  6:30 P.M.

  Charles Armstrong was in a booth at TGI Fridays so the best he could do when Bree Nelson showed up was push himself up in a faux gentlemanly greeting. Bree waved him down, but she was grinning when she slid in beside him.

  "You’re looking very spiff," he said, giving Bree's dress uniform the once over.

  "Well take a good look because this is the last time you'll see it."

  Before Bree settled, the waitress brought a glass of Burgundy for her and a beer for him.

  "You remembered.” She raised her glass. "Here's mud in your eye."

  "And here's hoping I never hear the name Faret Vild, Billy Zuni, or Rambo whatever again."

  Armstrong put the edge of his mug against her wine glass and the sound it made was that of cheap glasses knocking against one another. Neither of them cared. A drink was a drink and at that moment they could have been sitting at a trough.

  "So, how did it go?" he asked.

  "Well, I'm officially retired," she said. "And they suggested strongly that were I not, there would have been an official inquiry. The higher ups didn't mind that I gave the order, but they weren't happy that one of the crew died during the attempt to disable the Fare—"

  "Please, don't utter those words," Charles said. "And what would the higher ups have done? Did they tell you that?"

  "No. I didn't expect them to. Look, everyones got a little mud on their bums with this one. It's in the record that I was the 'decider', it's not going to affect my pension, and the only way this is going to be a problem is if I ever apply to the guard again which I have no intention of doing."

  "Still, it sucks," Charles said.

  "True, but somebody had to take command."

  "I just feel bad for the guy who got in the way. You going to be okay with that? I mean up there?" Charles tapped her temple with one finger before he ruffled her hair. She gave him a small smile and loosened the top button of her uniform blouse.

  "There's enough blame to go around. That poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The captain ordered the fuel before testing," Bree shrugged. "The ship is still sitting out there because the owners don't care if they get it back or not. Liberian courts — such as they are — aren't going to force anyone to take responsibility for anything. That ship will be scuttled —"

  "But not until every inch of it has been searched," Charles interrupted. "ATF agents found what we couldn't, by the way."

  "And what was it they found?"

  "The cargo that was in the container where Rambo was found? Cosmetics. Our guys inspected the shipment that went to a shop in Hollywood and found nothing. Customs did the same and found nothing. Those jars looked like those infuser things; you know you put something in the oil and it makes a room smell like flowers?"

  "I know what an infuser is," Bree said. "I'd rather have flowers."

  "I could have guessed that about you," he answered. "Anyway, the infuser bottles were full of meth."

  "How did you miss it?"

  "They had manufactured a glass insert that made the bottle walls just look like thick glass when you examined them. We brought in the dogs but the glass and the oil poured around it were non-permeable, and the refrigeration acted to literally stop the permeation rate. One of the agents dropped a bottle and that's how they found the stuff."

  "Whatever works." Bree laughed. "And there were containers headed for Panama too?"

  "Yep. Rambo was setting up a sweet little network. He was working with a Filipino gang over here that's been expanding their territory from Hollywood all the way up to San Francisco and into Arizona. Panama? who knows what was going on there."

  "Why wouldn't any of these folks cook their own?" Bree said.

  "Cost, I guess. Rambo was paying off Bianchi and from what I hear the idiot captain was asking for a pittance. It was pretty much gravy for Rambo. With him being head of the Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency, he wasn't exactly worried about getting caught."

  "Nice work if you can get it," Bree said.

  "Have you heard anything about what's going on with State?" Charles asked.

  "I don't even want to think about what the politicians are doing. I did hear that the coroner released the body, I just don't know who they released it to. I have a feeling this is going to go under that great rug of diplomacy, and never be spoken of again."

  Bree picked up a menu, perused it and set it aside. It was late in the afternoon or early in the evening depending on how she looked at it. She wasn't really hungry, but she wasn't really ready to go home yet. Tomorrow she would be out of uniform, no one would care about her opinion, she wouldn't have a fleet of cutters and cruisers under her command, and that was going to be very odd indeed. She pushed a menu toward Charles and asked:

  "Anyone going to charge those yahoos who went after that woman?" Bree asked.

  "What are you going to charge them with? Soliciting? They weren't prostitutes. Being idiots might be a charge that would stick," Charles said. "And here's the funny thing. It seems Mr. Rambo was probably killed outside our territorial waters. When the anchor didn't lower the way it should, the ship drifted so technically none of this is the U.S's problem."

  “Who doesn't love a good technicality,” Bree drawled.

  "The kid's lawyer does. I don't even think we're going to get Billy Zuni on the assault charges."

  "I forgot about that."

  "So has everyone else. Bottom line? Everybody's got bigger fish to fry and this thing is so frayed around the edges it's ready to fall apart. Homeland has already repatriated the crew. Bianchi is still in the hospital, but they'll send him home soon as he's healed enough."

  "I saw pictures. He looked pretty gruesome. I'm not even sure skin grafts are going to do much good on that face of his," Bree said. "Pity. I saw a picture and he was a
pretty good looking guy before all this."

  "He was a yahoo, too."

  "But you gotta admit, what those people did who went after the woman was pretty awesome," Bree said and clipped his shoulder playfully.

  "What would make four people risk their lives that way?" Charles asked.

  "Love," Bree answered.

  "My, my, my." Charles sat back grinning from ear to ear. "Who would have known that behind that kick-ass exterior lurked a romantic?”

  "I knew,” Bree Nelson said, as she slipped out of her jacket . "Yes, indeed. I knew it."

  37

  Hannah, 6 Weeks Later

  DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES

  8:00 P.M.

  * * *

  Hannah stood on the street looking up at the old building, the one that appeared abandoned, the one in the center of downtown Los Angeles that was going to be her home a while back. The tall windows glowed with a warm light, so she knew Jamal was home.

  Her fingers drilled lightly against her thigh, her skin itched, but this wasn't like the old days. She had no desire to cut herself. What she was feeling wasn't pain, it was the fear of inflicting it that kept her standing on the street.

  "Hannah? Babe?"

  She shook her head and lowered her eyes. Jamal wasn't upstairs in the loft, but down here in the dark calling her inside as he had so often.

  "How did you know I was coming?" she asked.

  "My ancestors always knew when the gazelles were running."

  He walked toward her, the street lights haloing his magnificent hair. She walked toward him, hers falling softly over her shoulders since there wasn't the hint of a breeze.

  "You're from Minnesota," she said.

  "Yeah, but I have a new security camera. I saw you were down here. I just liked the gazelle thing."

  They walked together until Jamal opened the door for her, then Hannah climbed to the third floor ahead of him.

  "You never worried about security before," Hannah said.

  "I never knew the world could be as bad as it is."