Honeymoon for One

by Beth Orsoff

  Chapter 27

  I WOKE UP WITH THE roosters, literally. They must’ve lived nearby because they sounded like they were cock-a-doodle-dooing right outside my window. It was only 5:45 in the morning, but I knew I’d never fall back to sleep. My back was aching and I could hardly turn my neck. Even with two beach towels, my bench wasn’t meant for sleeping. Since I knew it would be hours before my promised lawyer arrived, I decided to make myself useful.

  The cleaning supplies were locked in the bathroom, but I still had water and two towels, so I started with the window. I removed each piece of glass, washed it, dried it, then returned it to the louvered frame. I was about to start on the floor when Sundance began barking. I waited until I heard footsteps and a “down boy” before I yelled for help.

  “He wasn’t kidding,” the officer in the crisp khaki uniform said after he’d opened the storage room door. I guessed he was about my age, with dark hair, dark skin, and a vaguely familiar face.

  “Hi, I’m Lizzie Mancini.” I held out my hand, but it took him a few beats before he shook it. “I’m going to use the restroom, if you don’t mind.”

  Then I ran across the hall to the bathroom before he could object. After I’d washed my face, combed my fingers through my hair, and prayed for a hot shower and a toothbrush (neither of which materialized), I emerged from the bathroom and found the officer still standing where I’d left him in the doorway to my storage room/cell.

  “This place looks really good,” he said.

  “Thanks. You should see what I can do when I’m not a prisoner.”

  He didn’t even crack a smile. That’s when I finally remembered where I’d seen him before—he was the other policeman who showed up with Sergeant Ramos at my hotel room yesterday morning. It was hard to believe that was only twenty-four hours ago.

  “So what’s for breakfast?” I asked. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten and I was starving.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Well what do you usually feed your prisoners?”

  “We don’t normally have prisoners,” he finally smiled, “unless you count Butch and Sundance.”

  At the mention of his name, Sundance started barking again.

  “I should go walk them.” The officer motioned for me to return to the storage room.

  “I could walk them with you.” I was dying to leave the building, even if it was just for a few minutes.

  “I don’t think that’s allowed.”

  “Why not? Even prisoners on death row get to exercise.”

  He shook his head. “I’d better not.”

  The more he said no, the more determined I became. “But I’ll be with you the whole time. You can even handcuff me if you want to.” Sundance moved on to whimpering and jumping back and forth, and even Butch barked twice. “I don’t think they’re gonna last much longer. And I’m not cleaning up that mess.”

  I don’t know if it was my haranguing or the dogs’ incessant barking, but the officer agreed. “You better not try anything,” he warned, as he reached for his handcuffs.

  “I promise,” I said as I held my hands out in front of me.

  No leashes required on Camus Caye. No pooper scooper laws either. Michael had been right—the beach by my hotel was much nicer than on this side of the island. But the view was just as good. The same clear turquoise waters, the same swaying palm trees, and another small island off in the distance. Maybe that was Parrot Caye. If you didn’t notice the handcuffs or Officer Martinez’ badge and gun, you’d think we were just a nice young couple taking their dogs for a walk on the beach.

  When we returned to the station, I sat on the ripped chair, trying to ignore the shards of vinyl digging in to the backs of my legs, while Officer Martinez fed the dogs and started a pot of coffee.

  “Mmmm, food,” I said, sniffing the air and inhaling the scent of bacon.

  “Next door,” Officer Martinez, or Juan as I was now calling him, said. “I eat breakfast there most mornings.”

  “But not today?” I asked, as my stomach rumbled.

  He shook his head. “Today I was more anxious to see what kind of joke Large Sarge was pulling on me.”

  “Large Sarge?”

  “We used to have a third guy here, a skinny little guy named Marcos Cantalleros. That’s what he called the Sergeant.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He transferred out. He and the Sarge didn’t get on so well.”

  If he was calling him Large Sarge behind his back, I could understand why. “And now it’s just the two of you?”

  “Until Belize City sends us a replacement.”

  After Juan’s stomach started rumbling too, I convinced him to go next door and buy us both breakfast. I even offered to pay, but he refused, which was a good thing since I had no idea where my wallet was. The last time I’d seen it, it was in the trunk of Sergeant Ramos’ police car, along with my suitcase.

  After the best bacon and eggs I’d eaten in years, which probably had more to do with my hunger than the quality of the food, Juan helped me move the bench/bed out into the hallway so I could wash the storage room floor, then we sat at Sergeant Ramos’ desk playing gin rummy while we waited for it to dry. I’d just won the third round when Sergeant Ramos walked in. Standing behind him were a man and a woman, both in business suits.

  Juan immediately jumped up. “I was just keeping her out here until the floor dried,” he said. “Lizzie cleaned the whole storage room.”

  Sergeant Ramos inhaled the bleach fumes. “So it seems. Ms. Mancini, your lawyer’s here.”

  The woman standing behind him could’ve been a shampoo model. Her silky blond hair shone in the sunlight and shimmied every time she turned her head. It was her gray pencil skirt and pearls that screamed I take myself seriously. “Hi Lizzie,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Donna Kramer, consul with the U.S. Embassy in Belize City.” She turned to the man standing next to her. “This is your attorney, David Barron.”

  “Pleasure to meet you Ms. Mancini,” he said, and offered his hand. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”

  The British accent startled me. I knew Belize had once been a crown colony, but David’s was the first English accent I’d heard since I’d arrived. Otherwise he seemed like any other lawyer—expensive suit, leather briefcase, and receding hairline.

  “I want you to know that the Embassy normally doesn’t bring attorneys when our citizens find themselves in trouble,” Ms. Kramer said, “but your friend Jane was quite insistent.”

  “Yes,” I said. “She can be.” Thank God.

  “I’d like to speak with my client,” my new lawyer told Sergeant Ramos. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

  “Her cell,” he replied.

  “Right,” David Barron said, “then perhaps you can excuse us.”

  Juan moved the bench back into the storage room so David would have someplace to sit, and I stretched my legs out in front of me on the newly clean floor.

  “This isn’t bad really,” David said as he glanced around the storage room.

  “It’s not?”

  “Be thankful you weren’t arrested in Belize City,” he said, as he popped open his briefcase and removed a long yellow pad and an expensive looking pen. “You’d have two or three people in here with you.”

  “Forgive me for not feeling lucky, Mr. Barron.”

  “Please, call me David. And start at the beginning.”

  Chapter 28

  I DIDN’T START AT the beginning, but I managed to tell him the whole story anyway. All I wanted to know was, “when can I get out of here?”

  “First we have to get you in front of a magistrate,” David said. “If I can’t get the case dismissed, which to be honest at this point I probably can’t, I’ll at least get you out on bail. How much cash can you access?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure of the limits on my credit cards.”

  “Lizzie, I don’t mean a few thousand dollars
. Bail will likely be somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty to one-hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “Do you own a house you can stake as collateral? We have bail bondsmen here in Belize. It’s more complicated with an international transaction, but it can be accomplished for a fee.”

  “No, I still rent.” And I could barely afford that. He obviously had no idea how little freelance journalists were paid.

  “Parents?” he asked.

  “Yes, but they think I’m still on vacation. My dad’s sick and I don’t want them worrying about this too.”

  “Is there anyone else you can ask for help? A sibling or a friend?”

  “Maybe,” I said. I never wanted to borrow money from Jane, although she’d offered many times. But she did have a trust fund and this was an emergency. “You get the money back, right?”

  “Yes, at the end of your trial, or sooner if we can get a favorable plea deal.”

  “What would a favorable plea deal be?”

  “If all they ultimately charge you with is possession and intent to export antiquities, I could likely get it down to a small fine. It’s hardly a crime in most of Central America. I’m more concerned that they’re using this as a ruse to keep you here until they gather enough evidence to charge you with Michael’s murder.”

  “Can they do that?”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I’m afraid so.”

  “But I didn’t kill him, I swear. I didn’t even have a motive.”

  “Lizzie, you need to understand that the Belizean police aren’t known for their diligence. If not the obvious suspect, at the moment you’re the only suspect. In the meantime,” he pulled two sheets of paper from his briefcase and handed them to me, “my retainer agreement. And I’ll need an initial deposit of five thousand dollars, preferably by the end of the day.”

  At least my lawyer accepted credit cards.

  David arranged for a hearing in front of a magistrate judge that afternoon. He told me the smaller Cayes like Camus all shared a traveling magistrate, but he wasn’t scheduled to arrive here until next week. The only way to speed up the process was to travel to an island with its own magistrate, and the closest was Parrot Caye.

  “The remaining hurdle,” David said, “is transportation. Sergeant Ramos, might I impose upon you to point me in the direction of the nearest boat charter?”

  “Why don’t we just take your boat, Sarge?” Juan piped in.

  Sergeant Ramos glared at him. “I don’t think Mr. Barron would want to use my boat. It’s barely seaworthy.”

  “Sarg, your boat is dope.”

  Someone had been watching American T.V.

  “We would, of course, pay you,” David said, “assuming it’s not a departmental vehicle.”

  “No,” Sergeant Ramos replied. “It’s not.”

  “Then I’d be happy to write you a check for whatever the going rate is.”

  Sergeant Ramos nodded and picked up the phone.

  Whatever I was paying David, he was worth every penny. He’d convinced Sergeant Ramos that I shouldn’t be forced to appear before the magistrate in my unwashed state. Since the police station didn’t have a shower, Sergeant Ramos grudgingly agreed to let David rent me a room in a nearby hotel, so long as Juan came along to guard me. We were all happy with that arrangement. I got a hot shower and a real bed to nap in, and Juan got to feel like a hot shot cop for half a day.

  David even retrieved my clothes from my luggage (Sergeant Ramos insisted on keeping the suitcase as evidence) so I could change into something more appropriate for court. He chose my black linen dress and high-heeled sandals, and Consul Donna Kramer let me borrow her strand of pearls so I’d look like I was going to the office instead of out on a date.

  David, Donna, Juan, and I met Sergeant Ramos at the dock at one o’clock. And for the record, his boat was dope.

  Chapter 29

  “NICE RIDE,” I SAID, climbing aboard the speed boat.

  Sergeant Ramos merely grunted. It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t large, but there was enough room to comfortably seat four passengers, and we were only three. Sergeant Ramos had ordered Juan back to the station to “keep an eye on things.” Juan looked disappointed, but he didn’t voice his complaint.

  I almost forgot I was a prisoner during the half hour ride to Parrot Caye. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, and since Sergeant Ramos was within earshot, Donna, David and I kept our conversation to the two of them and how they came to live on Belize.

  Donna told me she’d graduated from Georgetown with a degree in international relations and was working her way up the diplomatic ranks. David was third generation British Belizian. His parents had shipped him off to boarding school in England when he was only nine, but he moved back to Belize permanently a few years after he’d graduated law school. I got the impression the pair might be more than just friends, but if so, they weren’t telling.

  Parrot Caye looked a lot like Camus Caye, only larger. Same brightly painted wooden buildings, same palm trees, a few more cars on the street but plenty of golf carts and bicycles too. We walked the five blocks from the dock to the town hall, where the magistrate judge resided. The two-story white building with the columns out front was the stateliest building on the island according to Sergeant Ramos. But it still didn’t have central air-conditioning.

  After Donna and I visited the town hall’s ladies room to wash the sweat off our faces and detangle our hair, we joined David on a bench outside the magistrate’s office and waited for my name to be called. Sergeant Ramos sat across from us, chatting with another officer whose prisoner was stuck in coveralls and handcuffs.

  I glanced over at David, thankful that I had the best representation Visa could buy. “Do they have much crime on the islands?”

  “Not compared to Belize City,” David said. “Why?”

  Before I could reply a pretty dark-haired woman holding a clipboard called out my name. She ushered us into the office of the Honorable Walter Wallace, according to the plaque on his door. The man behind the desk had freckled skin, thinning white hair, and a tan shirt whose buttons looked like they were about to give up the fight trying to hold back his ample belly.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, in the same clipped British accent as David, but without the charm. “We haven’t got all day.”

  David motioned for me to sit in one of the two straight-backed arm chairs in front of Judge Wallace’s massive desk. He and Donna stood behind me, and Sergeant Ramos stood at attention behind the other.

  The judge donned his wire-framed glasses and scanned the thin manila file his secretary had handed him. “I’m missing your statement Sergeant…?”

  “Ramos,” he said. “I apologize, your honor. Due to the speed of these proceedings, I didn’t have time to file it. But I have it with me.” He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper folded into a neat square.

  “Fine, fine,” the judge said. “Hand it over.”

  “Your honor, I must object. The defense was not provided with a copy of this document.”

  The judge waived his hand at David. “Settle down, Mr.?”

  “David Barron.” He stepped forward. “I’m Ms. Mancini’s counsel, and this is Ms. Donna Kramer, consular officer for the U.S. Embassy. Pursuant to Article 6.2 of—”

  “I’m familiar with Article 6.2., Mr. Barron. Please dispense with the recitation.”

  “Yes your honor,” David said and returned to his post behind my chair.

  The Judge read Sergeant Ramos’ statement, but stopped half way through. “What’s this word here?” he asked, pointing to the handwritten sheet of paper.

  Sergeant Ramos leaned over and squinted. “Pre-Columbian.”

  The judge nodded and continued reading. When he finished, he set his glasses on the desk and handed the sheet of paper to David.

  “What do you have to say young lady?” the judge asked, directing his attention to me. “Did you
steal these pieces?”

  All I managed was a “no,” before David squeezed my shoulder. At least he was subtler than Jeremy. “Your honor, let me—”

  “Not now, Mr. Barron. Just tell me how your client pleads.”

  “Not guilty, your honor.”

  Judge Wallace nodded and returned his glasses to his nose. “Sergeant Ramos,” the Judge asked, without looking up from the form he’d begun to fill in, “do you intend to offer Ms. Mancini a plea?”

  “No, your honor.”

  Judge Wallace stopped writing and peered up at him. “Why not?”

  “We believe this case warrants a trial,” Sergeant Ramos answered, still standing at attention and staring straight ahead. He must’ve been a soldier at some point in his life.

  “Who’s we?” the Judge asked.

  “The people of Camus Caye,” Sergeant Ramos replied.

  I hoped he wasn’t going to be my jury too.

  The judge set his glasses on his desk again and began rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “Your honor, I must object.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up. “You’re objecting to a trial, Mr. Barron?”

  “Yes, your honor. I believe the police are only prosecuting this ridiculous case to give them more time to charge my client with another crime.”

  “Is that true Sergeant Ramos?”

  “What’s true is that Ms. Mancini is the key witness in another crime. A murder, your honor.”

  I wanted to yell out that I didn’t witness any murder and I’d already told the police everything I knew, but David spoke for me, and more eloquently than I could’ve myself. The judge allowed David and Sergeant Ramos to argue back and forth while he consulted his calendar. He ended their debate with, “The trial is set for the 27th.”

  “Bail your honor?” David asked.

  The judge turned to Sergeant Ramos.

  “We oppose bail your honor. Ms. Mancini is a flight risk.”

  “Then I’ll keep her passport until the trial,” the judge said.

  “But that won’t stop her from leaving the country illegally,” Sergeant Ramos replied.