by Pat Capponi
“I don’t blame her. Can’t she get a transfer? To some other place?”
“She doesn’t want to leave them. She feels, I don’t know, kinda responsible for them, like they’re family or something. What do you think, what can we do?”
He’s smitten, I realize. Michael’s in love. “Did you have something in mind?”
“Nothing, except beating the crap out of him, but she doesn’t want me to get in trouble. You’re smart, Dana, you can think of something, can’t you?”
He looks so vulnerable, what choice do I have? I write down the address of the boarding house, and the name of the owner. I can check both out with Pete next time I’m at the drop-in.
“I’ll try, Michael. When do I get to meet Janet?”
With a huge smile, he says, “How about now? She’s waiting downstairs, I’ll go get her.”
As his feet pound down the three flights, I wrestle the drawer back into place, and repack it with the clothes that have tumbled out, except for a couple of oversize T-shirts and the sweatshirt I was searching for. It’s perma-stained and thin at the elbows, but it keeps in the warmth. I hear Michael and his damsel-in-distress making their way up. I really want to like her, for his sake. He’s had a lot of bad breaks in his life, starting with a father who beat him mercilessly, forcing him out on the streets and occasionally into other people’s homes to steal food and whatever else he could carry. He’s been trying to turn himself around, and mostly succeeding, but there are times when I worry for him.
“Dana, this is Janet.”
She’s lovely. I can see right away why he’s fallen for her. Thin but not skinny, with long, lustrous dark hair, her eyes large and slate grey, quite pale and nervous as she stands hand in hand with Michael in the doorway. She’s wearing tights and a long sweater under her open ski jacket, accented with a pretty, patterned silk scarf, all in good condition.
“Hi, Janet, come in. It’s nice to meet you.” Michael guides her to the couch, helps her off with her jacket, and sits very close to her. “What a beautiful scarf.”
“Thank you, it was an anniversary gift from Michael. I told him it’s only two weeks, but he insisted. He’s so romantic.” I glance at him in time to see him flush brilliant red, and I know why. It’s so hard to keep him honest; he’s a generous soul with a lethal combination of empty pockets and skilful fingers. We had to make a rule here, after he tried to give Diamond a going-back-to-school gift of an expensive fountain pen, that we can only accept gifts accompanied by a sales receipt. Oblivious to the byplay between Michael and me, Janet continues.
“I hate to impose, I know you’re very busy on a case.” Her voice is clear and melodious, and she looks me in the eye as she speaks. “But I don’t know where else to turn. No one is listening.” I nod encouragingly. “My mother died six months ago, of breast cancer. I was very sad, and my dad worried a lot about me. He sent me to a doctor, who put me on antidepressants. They didn’t help, and I, well—I did something foolish, and was sent to hospital.” There is a scar on her wrist, jagged and long; I don’t have to ask her what the foolish thing was.
“I wanted to go back home, but they said it would be better to go to this boarding home, where I am now, so that I could rest and recover, without having to worry about meals or anything. Or my father hovering over me. It’s terrible, she’s terrible, the owner, I mean. And her son’s worse. How he treats people. It’s unbelievable. Everyone’s scared of him, including me.”
Michael drapes a reassuring arm around her shoulder. She leans into him, sighing. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I encouraged one of the ladies there to tell her case manager what was going on, how he’d groped her in the shower, but instead of doing anything about it, the worker sent her back to the hospital. I went to see her worker, to try and get this lady out, and he told me that she had fantasies, it was part of her illness. Her medication needed adjusting. I almost lost it right there, but I knew they’d lock me up too, so I just left.”
Tears of frustration are falling from her eyes, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she takes a deep breath and continues. “Richard—he’s the son—he rules the place like it’s his kingdom, he makes his own laws, and if you break them, like some of the men do when they drink too much, he beats them, using his fists or a stick or whatever’s handy. I hear it from my room, the shouts and the screaming, and I’m just so powerless to do anything!”
Some people might find this to be an unbelievable story. I’m not one of them. Working at the drop-in, talking to Pete, I’ve learned how often this kind of thing happens when vulnerable people are left to the mercies of rapacious landlords.
“You’ve done the right thing coming to us, Janet. We’ll do our best to help.”
“See, I told you, Janet. Isn’t she great? Dana will figure something out, and now you can stop worrying yourself sick!”
With that vote of confidence, Michael bundles her back into her jacket, and they both solemnly shake my hand before heading out. In their wake, I decide, since I can’t do anything about Mrs. Preston this afternoon, I might as well concentrate on Janet. What she needs is a witness to the abuse happening in the house, someone who can’t be dismissed as crazy, someone who will force the authorities to act. Where’s the media when you need them, I ask myself, remembering all the headlines and demands for change that arose after we’d invaded Mallick’s house of horrors.
An idea is percolating in the back of my brain. I stop rocking, and the chair stops creaking, as do the floorboards. It’s audacious, it’s doable. All I need is the right reporter, and a little luck. I try to remember the names of some of those faces that stood in the bright lights, cameras rolling as they shouted their questions, refusing to budge until we gave in and spoke to them. We don’t have a television here, the owner never replaced the one that used to sit in the common room until an agitated tenant kicked in the screen, so the only time I see the news is when it’s on at the drop-in. Karen always has a paper for me, either that day’s or the one before—I find the newspaper a quieter, more thoughtful way to learn what’s happening in the city, and the wider world.
There was one reporter, I can see him even now. He had a perfect head of hair he kept checking, one hand patting at the sides and the top as he pushed through the others to jam a microphone under my chin, eyes almost pleading with me to say a few words, to give him what he needed for the six o’clock news. He was from Star, I remember now, one of the many new channels, and his name was some combination of initials…what was it? J.R., no, J.D., I almost have it—yes, it’s T.J.! He was especially annoying in those days, following us, pestering us for information on the women involved, asking for one-on-one studio interviews, all of which we turned down.
I start the chair up again, the slow creaking a counterpoint to the agitation I’m feeling now that I have a target. I’ll have to find out if there are any vacancies in the boarding home, but I don’t think that will be a problem. Some places, with greedy owners always on the lookout for a fast buck, even bed people down temporarily in bathtubs and basements until a room comes free. Not that they tell this to the social workers who refer the tenants to them, not that the workers particularly care. Their caseloads are ridiculously high, and they are under constant pressure to move people out of the costly and crowded hospital wards. Medicated and fearful, their clients go where they are told, and mostly suffer in silence.
Too restless to stay in my room, I grab my jacket and head to Karen’s for breakfast. While I’m there I’ll use her phone.
“Are you Dana Leoni? Hi, I’m Margaret, the production assistant for the show. T.J. asked me to apologize for him and to let you know he’ll be tied up for at least an hour. He’s had to fill in for one of our presenters, who’s called in sick. I can put you in the green room—it’s quite comfortable and there are refreshments available.”
I’m a bit annoyed at this. T.J. was so enthusiastic on the phone, so gung-ho. He begged me to come down to the station right away. “Take a cab, keep the receipt
. This sounds like just what I’m looking for.” Now it’s a case of hurry up and wait. Ah well.
“Would those refreshments include coffee?”
“They would indeed.” Margaret smiles. She seems relieved that I’m not going to make a fuss. “Follow me.” A little bundle of energy, she sets a fast pace through what quickly becomes a labyrinth of corridors decorated with framed photographs of various celebrities, some local, others more widely known. Hugging her clipboard with its sheaf of papers to her chest as if it’s the most precious thing in her universe, she finally leads me into the green room, which is not actually green at all but exposed brick. A few couches and chairs, a good rug and a coat rack, and a table filled with muffins, danishes—and most importantly, a large coffee maker.
“I’ll never find my way back,” I confess.
She giggles. “Don’t worry, T.J. or I will come and get you.”
There’s a television dangling from the ceiling. It’s off. I consider myself lucky.
The danishes are fresh, and the coffee smells heavenly. I’m just sitting down with my second breakfast when a woman rushes in, divests herself of her coat and boots, and, with one wary eye on me, fishes high heels out of a bag and slips them on.
“Are you on as well?” she asks abruptly.
For a moment I’m thinking, on what? But thankfully I recover quickly, and shake my head and introduce myself. She’s clearly lost interest: if I’m not on, I’m nobody. Fine by me. My production assistant pokes her head through the doorway just long enough to say to her, “I’ll be back to bring you to makeup as soon as they’re ready.”
The lady deigns to nod. I can’t think what more makeup will do to a face that’s already sculpted from the tip of her hairline to the bottom of her jaw. She looks, in style and temperament, a bit like a representative from Real Women, right down to the string of pearls around her neck. Her mouth has a downward turn, as if she’s perpetually tasting something sour. I shake myself, aware that I’m being mean. She’s done nothing to me except be dismissive. I smile across at her; her eyes skitter away from me. Shrugging mentally, I go back to savouring my danish. Her voice comes as such a surprise, I almost spill my coffee.
“Joan, it’s me. I just arrived at the studio. I should be back on the road in about an hour. Did the forms come in? Good. Now listen carefully. I want no mistakes with this. And no excuses. Do you hear me? Yes, well, you said that last time, didn’t you? I want work on them begun immediately, we have a deadline and we’re already behind. Get Tim to help you. I don’t care what he’s doing, this is our priority right now. Make it clear to him. Fine. Goodbye.”
Wow. She talks just like she looks. Mean. Her eyes are small and narrow, her face tight. I shiver a little, glad I don’t have to deal with her. Voices in the hall, Margaret’s and someone male, perhaps they’ll be kind enough to take her away. When a uniformed police officer comes in, I’m a little taken aback.
“You’ll remind me to wipe this off before I go? Otherwise, I’ll never hear the end of it.” He’s joking with Margaret, a pleasant fellow, a little overweight, short black hair, carrying his hat.
Now he turns to me. “Hi, I’m Superintendent Paully.”
“Hi, back, I’m Dana.”
He’s more reserved with the dragon lady. “Mrs. James, nice to see you again.”
Not a lot of warmth there; he’s a good judge of character.
“Superintendent.”
Margaret takes Mrs. James away, much to the relief of the two of us left behind.
As he’s preparing his coffee, he glances over at me, forehead wrinkled. “You look very familiar.”
“I think I must resemble a lot of people, Superintendent. I’m always getting that. You’re on with Mrs. James?” I put just the right degree of sympathy into the question to let him know he has an ally, and hopefully to distract him from quizzing me further.
“Yes. Again. I’m afraid Mrs. James is under the impression that the police are not doing their jobs.” He sighs deeply. “It’s these home invasions. Her husband was a victim of one a few years ago. He was beaten up pretty badly, though he survived. We never found the perpetrators, never recovered the property that she lost. And she’s never stopped blaming us. Her and that watchdog group she started, Victims First. Dana. Dana. Wait a minute, aren’t you the lady in Parkdale that pulled off that rescue? Sure you are!” He’s smiling at me, beaming actually, as he gets up and comes over to shake my hand. “You are one courageous woman, Dana.”
I feel a deep blush work its way up from my neck to my forehead. “Thanks. I had a lot of help.”
More footsteps along the hall, and Margaret leads the dragon lady back in. “Let me turn this on for you,” she says, fiddling with the television, “so you can watch the show. I’ll come for you two in about three minutes, all right?”
The dragon lady perches on the edge of her chair, pulling her cell phone out again and stabbing at the keys. No one answers—they must have Caller ID. Giving up for the moment, she turns to the officer.
“Still nothing, I suppose? No arrests, no descriptions?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, Mrs. James. As you know, the task force put together by the chief—”
“A public relations exercise, we both know that.”
“That’s not true. The chief takes this very seriously, he’s appointed his best investigators—”
“Who haven’t turned up a single suspect.” Mrs. James is one bitter woman. The cop shrugs, takes off his cap and runs one hand through his hair. Theme music, a little dramatic, comes from the television in a sudden blast of sound. Then T.J. is on the screen, smiling out at us, his viewers, as if we’re his very best friends.
“Good morning. On today’s show, we’re asking: How safe do you feel? With brutal home invasions on the rise in our city, what can the average person do to ensure they won’t fall victim to this frightening crime? We want to hear from you. You can call us at the number on your screen. We’ll be right back, after the news.”
Margaret’s at the door, beckoning to her two star players, and they follow her out. Mrs. James even walks angrily, I notice, while the superintendent looks like he’s heading to the electric chair.
“Dana, if you like, you can come with us to the studio. It might be more interesting for you.”
Not really, I think, not wanting to abandon my coffee, but she adds: “Bring your cup with you.” Once again, in the hallways, a left, a right, a left again, and again, a right—I give up, and just follow meekly. Margaret opens a heavy door, her two charges head in, and she points out a corner where I should stay out of the way; there’s even a chair so I don’t have to stand. It is more interesting than the green room, she’s right. Having seen the set on the television screen, looking solid and oddly dynamic, it’s a bit disillusioning, seeing it in real life. Cheesy, even. A small island of furniture, surrounded by lights hanging precariously from the bare ceiling struts, or the floor models sending their glare directly at the guests, who are now being fiddled over by a man wearing large earphones and some kind of cartridge belt.
Mrs. James snaps at him: “I’ll do it, just hand it to me. I don’t like being mauled, thank you very much.”
T.J., who has been examining himself in what I take to be his monitor, snaps his head around to her. “Is everything all right?”
“It will be,” she says primly, working the microphone wire through her blouse.
T.J. is sitting with Mrs. James to his immediate left, and the superintendent next to her. He looks a little nervous. I’m wondering if he’s done this before, and if he’s quite ready to deal with dragons. He looks even younger than I remember. Have I picked the wrong guy?
Someone is counting down, the place gets absolutely silent. Then:
“Toronto has now experienced the trauma of eight brutal home invasions in less than two months. Two people remain in hospital at this time, both victims of severe beatings while in their own homes. Is this city losing its battle against crim
e? Mrs. Roland James?”
“Yes, I believe we are losing the battle. When a family can’t be safe in their own home, what does that say about security and the ability of the police to keep us from harm?”
“Superintendent?”
“As you know, T.J., the chief of police has struck a special task force, staffing it with his best investigative officers, to go after the perpetrators of these vicious crimes. While I understand that people are justifiably apprehensive, the reality is, violent crime is down in our city. We will find these criminals and arrest them. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Cold comfort for the grandmother who’s in her hospital bed as we speak, trying to breathe through a shattered face!” spits Mrs. James.
I feel for the grandmother, and for the super, who is taking his own beating. Poor Ed, it doesn’t look like his recent reassignment is going to end any time soon. I wonder if he’ll run into the redoubtable Mrs. James.
“It’s hard for us to imagine what it must be like to have strangers break into your home, assault and threaten you. Mrs. James, you were a victim of this kind of crime, can you tell us something about that?”
“I was at the opera. My husband hadn’t been feeling well, he’d decided to stay home that evening. Around 9 p.m., a knock came at the door and, not thinking about the consequences—we lived in a very safe area, good homes all around us, we knew our neighbours—he opened the door. They were inside the house in seconds, throwing him to the floor, kicking him. They tied his hands behind his back, and demanded all our jewellery and other valuables. He was terrified. He had chest pains. He’s a chartered accountant, my husband, and getting on in years. Not that that stopped them. We worked for decades, he and I, to achieve all that we have, nobody gave it to us. My diamonds, the earrings and brooches he’d bought for me over the years, the wonderful pieces I’d inherited from my mother, they took it all. As if they were somehow entitled to it!”
She’s working herself up into a real lather. I can’t blame her, I suppose it must have been horrible for them, though I suspect she’s more upset about the diamonds than her poor husband’s fate.