“So how’s your mother?” she asked.
Norman smirked. The bitch — Agent Camry — kept asking him the same shit over and over again. They both knew damn well that his mother was just fine. No stroke as it turned out. Hadn’t even got admitted to the hospital. When he went to see the old lady at her place, she refused to let him in. So he had wasted the whole trip. And worse, the feds were fucking with him. Big deal, he skipped the state, a parole violation. He’d had a damn good excuse. So why were they feeding him all this shit?
“Turned out to be a false alarm,” Norman said, not caring if he sounded sheepish. Sounding sheepish would be natural, wouldn’t it?
“So you get a call. You figure you have to be in Detroit. You spend the night in your car?” Now tell me again why you would sleep in that ratty station wagon when you could have stayed at your mother’s place?”
Norman resented the sarcastic tone. What right did she have to call Connie’s car “ratty”? The Ford wagon was rusty inside and out. There was a hole in the front floorboard big enough for Tina to fall through. He’d fix it up as soon as the money came though. Norman sat rigidly upright and repeated his mantra. The same one he’d taught his fellow inmates: Don’t let them get inside your head. Stay calm. Look innocent.
“That’s pretty much it. I was embarrassed that my own mother wouldn’t let me in. Old lady said she was ashamed of me for having a criminal record. So I just hung out in the wagon. You know, to keep up appearances.”
“Appearances? Give me a break. What am I missing here?”
“It’s the truth,” Norman said lowering his eyes modestly. He figured that the feds would have his prison file. They’d know he’d been a model prisoner. That he was like a religious leader in the joint. Almost as good as a chaplain. The cons even called him “Reverend.”
“How old is your daughter?” Agent Camry leaned into Norman’s face. He was particular not to let anyone in “his space” but this time he’d have to suck it up.
“She just turned eleven, ma’am.”
“Eleven years old. Do you remember what she looked like when she was nine months old?”
The obnoxious bitch pulled a pack of color photos out of a folder. He hadn’t seen those pictures since the day he was sentenced. Why were they putting him through all this? All Norman could do was shield his eyes as Agent Camry painstakingly pointed out the limp, twisted arm of his baby girl; the bandaged head after doctors drained blood from inside the skull; the red, peeling feet and legs all the way to her waist; and the cigarette burns. With a twitch he remembered his anguish when he’d recently discovered that Tina still had scars on her arms and legs.
“You did that?” Camry’s face was just inches from Norman’s. He could smell the shampoo in her short brown hair. “Look at this,” she shouted. “Look at what you are capable of doing. You despicable bastard.”
Norman glanced at Agent Streeter who sat, staring at him. He didn’t know how to react. He wanted to slug the woman. He struggled to recite his mantra — stay calm, breathe deep — but those photos were getting to him. Yes, he’d done that. Tina was born premature. She cried all the time. Connie couldn’t make her stop. Connie quit her job, and he’d had to work as a night watchman. He wasn’t getting any sleep so started to take speed. The drug had a terrible effect on him, an adverse reaction, he now knew. Amphetamines made him so horribly angry. He took more drugs. Uppers. Downers. Then cocaine and heroin. His brain was fucked up. He had never meant to hurt his baby girl. His mind had been messed up trying to support his family.
“Stop it,” Norman said after a glance at the heinous photos. “Take these away.”
Before Camry could react, the door to the interrogation room opened a burly, pasty-faced male agent entered, a wad of clothing in his big hands. “Sir, we found these in a plastic bag under the back panel of the suspect’s station wagon. Kid’s clothing.”
“Why were these in your car?” Agent Camry grabbed the garments, inspecting them.
Norman came close to shoving her back, but held back. “Can’t say,” he said. “Must belong to my daughter, Tina. Yeah, she musta put them in there.”
“Hidden behind a panel?” Agent Streeter reached for the girl’s clothing, examined each garment, and handed them to Camry.
“I didn’t know they were there. Connie must have stored them in there.”
“You bastard,” Streeter shoved back his chair. On his feet, he towered over Norman, grabbed a hank of his hair and jerked him to a standing position. “You tell me now. Where are the Monroe girls?”
Norman Watkins slumped forward and faked an epileptic seizure.
CHAPTER 11
Thousands Protest amid Call for Annulment of
Iran Presidential Election.
— International News, Tuesday, June 14
Jackie had never been in a TV studio. She’d heard the adults talking about doing the TV show at the studio or doing it at the FBI. She was sure glad they decided to leave that horrible FBI Building. It scared her. People looked mean and some of them even had guns. The only ones she liked were Agents Camry and Streeter. They were nice and really cared about her, too. But so far they had not been able to find Alex and Sammie and that was making her more and more scared.
When they’d first gotten to the television building, she’d been excited, but when they put her in a room and left her alone, she started to cry. Not out loud, just sniffles. She was very, very scared. Maybe whoever took her sisters would come to get her, too? That was worrying her more and more. That must be why Mom made her stay with her all the time.
She was sitting, staring straight ahead at nothing when her dad came into the room and knelt down in front of her chair. He had a serious look on his face.
“Jackie, the FBI wants you to go on television with Mom and me. Sure that’s okay?”
Before she could say, “Yes, that was okay,” he said, “You don’t have to talk. Just let the camera take your picture with us. But if you don’t want to —”
“I want to, Dad.” Being in there with Mom and Dad would be better than sitting out here.
“It won’t take long. Come along. I think Mom will want to brush your hair.”
Jackie didn’t care how long it took. Afterward they had to go back to the FBI. She’d have to listen to more grown-up talk about finding her sisters. They didn’t think she could understand because she was just a kid, but what they said made her stomach hurt. Last night she threw up two times, but didn’t tell her parents.
Jackie was surprised how hot it was in the studio, and she was embarrassed when a lady in a pink suit offered her a lollipop. She was nine years old, not a baby. When the taping was over, they returned to the FBI building. As they walked through the cool lobby, Jackie noticed a girl a couple of years older than her sitting next to Agent Camry. Jackie slowed to smile at the girl, but she looked aside as if she were shy.
“Come along, Jackie,” Mom said.
“Can I wait out here?” Jackie asked, reaching into her backpack for the set of crossword puzzles and mazes that Agent Camry had given her. Maybe she could share the puzzles with the other girl.
Agent Camry said, “I’ll be happy to look after Jackie, Dr. Monroe.” She got up and held her hand out to Jackie for an adult-like handshake.
“She’ll be fine, Katie,” her dad said, patting her on the back, making her feel like a nine-year-old rather than a baby.
Her mom did not argue, and bent to kiss her on the top of her head.
“Thanks, Mom,” Jackie said, squeezing her eyes shut so she would not cry. Whenever her mother left, she always kissed all three of them like that.
Agent Camry led Jackie to the chair next to the girl. She was very thin with long black hair and white skin with freckles. That was the one thing Jackie always noticed, the color of people’s skin. She always compared it to hers. She considered her skin “medium.” Halfway between her Mom’s and her Mom’s relatives and her Dad’s and his relatives. She and Alex liked this
halfway color. It made them feel comfortable with white people and black people. Lots of people had their color; people who were half black and half white like them, people from Mexico and lots of other places, like Vietnam and Korea and China. But Sammie was different. She always wanted to have darker skin, like Mom’s. She told everybody that she was African American. She disobeyed Mom and even lied about it when Mom made them put on sunscreen. “I want to be black,” she always said. “The best athletes are black.” Jackie always worried that Dad would feel bad, since he was white, but he just laughed and said in his loud voice, “All my daughters will be good athletes, no matter what color they are.”
As soon as Jackie sat down, she reached into her pack and pulled out a book of mazes. She loved mazes and word games, could do them faster than any of her sisters.
“Want to work at this?” Jackie handed a booklet to the girl. Then she pulled out two pencils.
The girl nodded and took one.
“What’s your name?” Jackie asked.
“Tina Watkins,” the girl said.
“I’m Jackie Monroe. Are your mom and dad in there?” Jackie pointed to the door her parents had passed through.
Tina nodded and asked, “Did your mom or dad get arrested?”
“What?” Jackie stared at her. “Arrested? Why would they arrest my mom and dad?”
“Don’t worry,” Agent Camry broke into their conversation.
“Don’t make my dad go back to jail,” Tina said.
“Your dad was in jail?” Jackie was curious. She’d never known anyone who’d been in jail. “What did he do?”
Tina looked away, but said, “A long time ago, he did some things. I was just a baby.”
Then Tina turned to Agent Camry. “Why did you FBI people take him? He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a Christian just like me and my mom. Why are you people all so mean?”
“Tina, I can’t talk about that,” Agent Camry said. Jackie didn’t think she sounded mean, but she could understand why Tina would be upset.
Jackie couldn’t help wonder what bad things Tina’s dad had done. And that made her think about bad things happening to Alex and Sammie. She’d heard that expert man on television say that if they didn’t find kids in the first two days, something bad had happened and they might never find them. What if Sam and Alex never came home? Would her parents still love her?
Jackie had always been sure that that her parents loved her and her sisters very much. But she knew that, if they had to make a list of who they loved the most, that Alex, always so sweet and obedient, would come first. That would only be fair. Sammie would come in last because she was so bratty. That left Jackie in the middle. Fine with her. She’d never been jealous of Alex, and she did not feel sorry for Sammie. Now everything in her world had changed. She wasn’t so sure anymore. She did know one thing: it was all because of her that Sammie and Alex had been taken. She should have just gone with them to the stupid museum movie. But if she had, would the bad person have taken her, too?
Connie Watkins had arrived while the Monroes were taping their plea for the safe return of Sammie and Alex at the television station. Waiting to be recognized at the bureau reception desk, she’d shivered in her tank top and adjusted her floral print stretch pants, wishing she’d grabbed a sweater. Why was it that federal buildings always cranked up the air-conditioning to near freezing? Shy by nature, easily intimidated by authority figures, Connie, in awe of her own boldness, had marched up to the imposing desk, her twelve-year-old daughter, Tina, in tow. “I want to see my husband,” she’d announced.
A man in a suit had been engrossed in reading a file. When he looked up, Connie’s voice faltered, her course in assertiveness training failing her. “You arrested him an hour ago at my sister’s house on Outer Drive. Neighbors saw you take him out in handcuffs.”
“Make them send my dad back home,” Tina said, obstinate, challenging. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” She stood, shoulders slumped, so frail she looked like a waif with straight black hair, parted in the center, her pale skin in stark contrast.
“Whoa, ladies.” The man looked back and forth at mother and daughter, standing shoulder to shoulder. Both five foot two; both in tank tops with matching flip-flops; the older in maroon; the younger in canary yellow. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about. Name?”
“Norman Watkins,” said Connie. “I’m his wife, and this is our daughter, Tina.”
Connie observed the deskman’s eyebrows rise. He was very young. An agent? A male secretary? Did it matter? Then she noted his name tag. Agent, somebody, a long Polish or Slavic name she couldn’t pronounce.
Without a word the agent picked up the phone and buzzed a number. “Tell Streeter that the Watkins woman’s here. With her daughter.”
“Turns out you’re saving the taxpayers gas money,” he said. “They were going to bring you in. And here you are —”
“I’m here to see my husband.” Connie tried to sound polite, which she was by nature. But she was so scared for Norman. She had to get him out of here. She knew how the cops treated ex-cons. She’d tried to help some of Norman’s buddies when they’d gotten out of the joint. She’d seen how they’d been slapped around. Cops were all alike. Didn’t matter if it was Florida or Michigan or local or the FBI. At least she knew a good lawyer. Had his phone number in her jeans’ pocket. But he was in Florida. This was Michigan. But certainly Norman wouldn’t need one. There had to be some horrible mistake.
Tina now squeezed Connie’s hand and she’d started to sob. Sweet Jesus, not after she and Norman had worked so long and hard to make it up to Tina. All they wanted for their daughter was a normal life with two parents in their little house. No more weekly visits to jail separated by a bulletproof wall, with only a phone line, like an umbilical cord, connecting Tina with her father.
Tina was considered by social workers as an “at risk” kid. Poor academic skills, an attitude problem, the school counselor had complained, using words like “antisocial” and “apathetic.” But Connie was convinced that all Tina needed was her dad, and now that Norman was home, she would be just fine.
“Why do you have him here?” Connie asked, afraid of the answer, yet not knowing why.
“Ma’am, he’s violated his parole, so …” the desk agent was cut off as a tall man in a suit approached.
“Mrs. Watkins?” The man extended his hand to her. “Agent Streeter. I have questions for you. First off, does your husband suffer from a seizure disorder? Is he taking epilepsy medication?”
“No.” Connie’s hand flew to her throat. Or was he? And she didn’t even know? “Uh, maybe they put him on something when he was away?”
“Not in the record,” Streeter said. “We need to take your statement.” He shifted his gaze to Tina and seemed to hesitate. “They took your husband to the hospital.”
Connie drew Tina closer to her.
“Mom, what’s wrong with Dad?”
“I don’t understand,” Connie said. “I have to see him.”
“Not now, ma’am. Your husband violated his parole. At the very least, he’s going back inside once the doctors get though with him.”
Connie slumped, propping herself against the desk with one hand, letting Tina’s hand drop from her other. “He’s done nothing wrong,” she gasped. “His mother —”
“Come with me,” Streeter said. “Best your daughter wait in reception.”
What could she do? Should she leave Tina by herself in this hostile place? But if she took her with her and they started delving into Norman’s past with Tina? Yes, Tina had been told that her father had “hurt” her when she was a baby; she knew that he hadn’t meant to; that he’d been on drugs that blurred his judgment. Indeed, she had used this story to scare her daughter away from drugs. She and Norman hadn’t started on drugs until their last year in high school, but now even sixth graders were exposed to drugs at school. Norman was always after her to keep their daughter drug-free. So far she thought she�
��d been successful.
“I want to go with you.” Tina said, trying to be brave, trying to hold back tears.
“No, you wait out here. You’ll be okay.” Connie opted for the safer option, or so she figured. She could not count on an iota of sensitivity from these hard-core government types. Turning toward Streeter, Connie asked, “You sure she’ll be all right?”
“Agent Camry will stay with her,” Streeter promised. “She’ll be close, in case we need to question her, too.”
Agent Camry asked Tina to come with her as Connie followed Streeter into a small square conference room dominated by a round table. The only décor an American flag on a pole in one corner. Connie sat when he indicated a chair. Streeter turned on a tape recorder and started asking questions. He didn’t sound friendly, but he didn’t sound angry, either. What had Norman done?
“When did you leave Florida?”
“Saturday. Early morning,” Connie drew the words out, her mind frantically trying to figure out why they had her husband.
Questions kept coming. She told Streeter about the call Norman got about his mother. That he’d been upset. His mother was very ill, and he wanted to see her before she died. Show her that he had changed. Let her see Tina, her granddaughter. Connie explained that she had a sister living in Detroit’s east side. That Norman wanted her to stay with her sister until he’d made the first contact with his mother. But Connie knew that she’d faltered when Streeter kept insisting on exact times. Who talked to whom when, from where? Connie asked for a drink.
Streeter paused the tape recorder and got up to pour her a glass of water. While up, he made a call. He asked only, “Are they back yet?”
Connie began to sweat and the water was warm, not refreshing. Streeter kept hammering her on timing. Where had he been since he dropped her at her sister’s? Who would Norman stay with in Detroit? Connie started to smell her own sweat. Had she forgotten her deodorant? She was tempted to sniff under her arms just to check, but she didn’t. Streeter continued to badger her. Was Norman a vindictive man? Did she know of any plans he had for retribution, having to do with Dr. Monroe?
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