This Enemy Town

by Marcia Talley

  I stood at the sink, thoroughly soaping my hands.

  “We’ll have to sit around that freaking courthouse until three,” she complained.

  I twisted the tap, adjusting the water temperature.

  “Goes with the territory, Liz.”

  With the two FBI agents looking on, I rinsed my hands, then dried them carefully on a paper towel. I crumpled the towel into a ball and tossed it into the trash.

  Then I smiled. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

  “What?” Agent Taylor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  Amanda grinned. “Never mind, Liz.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Baltimore, Maryland. My second hometown. Druid Park Zoo, the National Aquarium, the Baltimore Museum of Art. The bliss of Friday nights in August, sitting on a folding chair in Little Italy watching Casablanca or Life Is Beautiful projected on the side of a building. Saturdays can be perfect, too. Strolling through Fells Point, grabbing the latest thriller from Mystery Loves Company and a cup of coffee from the Daily Grind. My sister Georgina lives in Baltimore, too, in Roland Park with her growing family.

  But the feds? I wasn’t sure where they hung out up Baltimore way, but when Agent Taylor made the left turn onto Pratt Street, I recognized the Garmatz Building and the statue of Thurgood Marshall, who’d been gazing out over the Inner Harbor for decades.

  Regular citizens enter the building via a door behind Thurgood. Prisoners go around back, directly into an underground garage.

  As I rode up in the freight elevator between the two agents, I felt strangely detached. Everything had taken on a surreal feeling, something I hadn’t experienced since the last time I’d pulled back-to-back all-nighters at Oberlin or … well, since the last time I’d inhaled and enjoyed it. The Welcome to Baltimore sign where someone had painted in “Hon,” Ravens Stadium, Camden Yards, even the battleship Constellation had looked strangely distorted, as if I were seeing them for the first time, or looking at them through the wrong end of a telescope.

  Agent Crisp had called ahead. When the steel door slid open, two burly marshals were waiting, solid as trees. We were introduced, I feel sure, but if they had names, I’ve forgotten them. The big lug, I called Jesse. The shorter hunk, Arnold.

  Arnold studied the paperwork Amanda Crisp handed him, raised one bushy eyebrow. “Her attorney’s already here, raising hell. Demands to see her right away.”

  Jesse scowled. “Tell him to cool his jets. We haven’t even searched her yet.”

  Her fingers still fastened to my upper arm, Crisp said, “We’ve already done that. She’s clean.”

  Jesse puffed up. “You know the rules.”

  “We’ve already searched her, and she hasn’t been out of custody.” Crisp’s fingers dug more tightly into my arm. A territorial squabble was going on, I was smack dab in the middle of it, and if Amanda Crisp didn’t win, I’d be the loser, big-time. I’d be strip-searched: the ultimate humiliation.

  While Arnold and Jesse conferred, the second hand on the wall clock jerked from five to six to seven. I decided to create my own distraction. “I demand to see my lawyer.”

  Jesse turned icy eyes on me, blinked, then looked at Arnold. “So what about her lawyer?”

  “Some hot shot.” Arnold was unimpressed. “Tell him she’s being processed. Let him wait.”

  There was that word again: processed. I was being “processed” like meat or fish or plastic-wrapped squares of cheese food. But at least we’d moved on, and a strip search seemed to be off the agenda.

  Crisp released my arm and said, “I’ll see you later in court, Mrs. Ives,” before disappearing through the door we’d just come through. As the door slid shut, I stared after her like a lost friend, feeling completely abandoned.

  Arnold took charge. My photo was taken, front and sides like the Unibomber, then transmitted to Washington as data element who-knows-what in the profile being built up on me in JABS.

  Afterward, Jesse escorted me to a holding cell painted the color of mucous, handed me a white cardboard box, and slid the door shut behind me.

  “What’s this?” I asked, indicating the box.

  “Lunch,” he grunted.

  I hadn’t had anything to eat since dinner the previous night, but with acid gnawing at the lining of my stomach, just the thought of food made me want to barf.

  I set the box unopened on the only furniture in the room—a bench molded into the wall—and paced out my temporary home—eight feet by eight feet. Was this miserable cell a preview of coming attractions? Would I spend the rest of my life pacing and pacing, staring at four blank walls? No, I corrected myself: three blank walls and a fourth wall with bars on it.

  I slouched on the bench, with my back against the wall, my feet dangling, not even able to touch the floor.

  I was finally, blessedly alone.

  But instead of relaxing, I started to shake. My teeth chattered. I longed for my coat, but they’d taken that away. No scarves, no belts, no panty hose, either. If I wanted to end it all, my only hope was to roll off the bench and conk my head on the floor.

  Breathe, Hannah, breathe!

  I closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids a tropical island began to materialize: palm trees, frangipani, planter’s punch on shaved ice with a tiny umbrella, waves gently licking a white sand beach.

  Breathe! In through your nose, out through your mouth.

  Warm breezes, sun sparkling on water clear as gin, snorkel and swim fins, a tropical reef with fishes darting in and out and …

  Sharks!

  My eyelids flew open. I’d have to tell Ruth that I tried, but visualized meditation simply didn’t work in a jail cell. My shui was definitely all fenged up.

  For lack of anything better to do, I opened the lunch box and sorted through the contents, laying each item out on the bench next to me. A ham sandwich. A packet of chips. A bottle of water. An apple that looked like it’d lost one too many rounds with a croquet mallet. Who had packed this mess? Prisoners? I leaned my head against the wall, fighting back tears. Would I spend the rest of my life eating crap like this? I had new respect for prisoners of war like Admirals Bill Lawrence and William Stockdale. I was going stir-crazy after only an hour; they’d been locked up and tortured by the North Vietnamese for more than six years.

  “I want my lawyer!” I screamed to deaf walls. “I have a right to talk to my lawyer!”

  It was probably only a coincidence, but several minutes later Arnold appeared. “Mrs. Ives? Your lawyer is here.”

  I could have kissed his scruffy cheek.

  Arnold escorted me to a nearby room, where Murray sat at a table on the opposite side of a glass window. I hadn’t seen Murray Simon since the grandchildren were born and Paul and I had updated our wills. Murray had the same round face, a little less sandy hair, and had switched from aviator glasses to a pair of trendy, narrow European-style frames.

  As usual, Murray zeroed in on what was bothering me most. Before I could even say “Hi,” Murray got right to the point. “Don’t worry, Hannah, we’ll get you out of here.”

  I folded my arms on the table and rested my forehead on them. “Thank God!”

  I took a deep breath and gazed up at my attorney. I’d opened my mouth to ask the next question, but once again Murray was ahead of me. “You’re going to be arraigned sometime after three o’clock. There’s nothing I can do about that. You’ll plead not guilty, of course, and we’ll get you home by dinnertime.”

  “Not guilty to murder, you mean?” My mouth was dry, my throat so tight I could barely get the word out. Murder.

  “No, you’re being charged with manslaughter, Hannah.” Murray paused, waiting for that information to sink in.

  “Manslaughter? But what evidence does the FBI have against me?”

  “Doesn’t look good. They found the murder weapon.”

  I stared at him stupidly.

  “It was a hammer, Hannah. They found it in the Dumpster behind Nimitz Library. And I’m afraid your fing
erprints are all over it.”

  I fell back against the chair. “Of course my fingerprints are all over it, Murray! I was building sets with the damn thing!”

  “It gets worse,” Murray said.

  “How could it possibly get any worse?”

  “The hammer was wrapped in your sweatshirt.”

  I shuddered, suddenly remembering the sweatshirt and hot glue gun I’d left lying on a chair in the Jabberwocky room that night I’d fled from Jennifer Goodall’s loathe-some presence. “Oh, shit.”

  “And of course there was the argument.”

  I nodded. “Can’t bother to deny that.”

  Murray whipped off his glasses and laid them on the table in front of him. He leaned forward, his mouth close to the glass. “Hannah, I need you to think carefully. What were you doing the afternoon Jennifer was murdered?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but I know I went downtown to do some shopping.”

  “Were you hanging around Mahan auditorium at all, say between three and four in the afternoon?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Murray leaned back in his chair. “Then this is a tough one. NCIS has a witness who saw you leaving the auditorium about the time Jennifer was attacked, walking in the direction of the library.”

  “What witness?” My head reeled. I remembered the countless times I’d walked between Mahan and the set shop in Alumni Hall, waving to Nimitz staff as they lounged on the loading dock, smoking. I mentioned this to Murray. “Maybe the witness got the day wrong. I know I was shopping that afternoon. There must be credit card receipts somewhere!”

  “Paul’s looking into it, Hannah. He’s checking your Amex and Visa card statements.”

  “Good.” I relaxed just a fraction. “So, what can I expect?”

  “The marshals will escort you into the courtroom. I’ll be there, of course. You’ll stand with me behind the defense table and listen quietly while they read the charges. You’ll plead not guilty—that goes without saying—then the government will request bail.”

  “How much bail?” I interrupted.

  “About $250,000 is usual in cases like this.”

  I gasped, seeing the door that had opened a crack slam shut behind me. “Where are we going to get that kind of money?”

  “Don’t worry. Paul and I are already making arrangements for a property bond.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said dully, imagining our beautiful old house with a For Sale sign hanging in front of it.

  “We’ll counter with a reduced sum,” Murray continued, “because you’re a model citizen with a spotless record, family ties to the community, not a flight risk etcetera etcetera etcetera.”

  “Okay.”

  “And you’ll have to surrender your passport, I’m afraid.”

  “My passport,” I repeated numbly. Did they think I’d head for some South American country with no extradition treaty with the United States? Spend my life drifting aimlessly from one third world town to another? Visit my grandchildren only by video conferencing, assuming said third world country had broad band Internet access? No, I’d simply be a prisoner of another kind.

  “But what if they find me guilty, Murray? What then?”

  “They won’t.”

  “But what if they do?”

  “The federal sentencing guideline for manslaughter is ten years.”

  “Ten years!” I threw back my head and closed my eyes. Chloe and Jake would be in their teens. Paul would be planning his retirement without me.

  Murray pressed an open palm against his side of the glass, his small way of comforting me. Deeply touched, I raised my hand to his, matching it finger for finger, and began to sob.

  “Murray, please. I want to go home.” The thought of clean towels, clean hair, and clean clothes made me ache with yearning.

  “Hang in there, Hannah.”

  “Damn it!” I said, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I didn’t survive breast cancer just so I could spend the next ten years stamping out license plates!”

  “Trust me, Hannah. You won’t have to.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears, Murray. To God’s most merciful ears.”

  It happened just the way Murray had described. Arnold led me into the courtroom with my hands cuffed in front of me, past the empty jury box, depositing me behind the table with Murray. Agent Crisp was also there, standing at the prosecution table next to a tall dark-haired guy in a navy blue suit.

  Murray leaned over and whispered, “That’s Richard Knowles, the Assistant U.S. Attorney trying your case.”

  I took my time studying Knowles, sizing him up. He must have felt my gaze on him because he looked up, blinked twice, then went back to shuffling through the sheaf of papers he had laid out on the table in front of him. I caught Amanda Crisp’s eye and smiled, but only her eyes smiled back.

  After the judge read the charges and I’d looked him straight in the eye and said “Not guilty” in a strong, clear voice, bail was set at $200,000. Murray had said not to worry about bail. Hah! We were still playing catch-up with Emily’s tuition payments to Bryn Mawr. Paul and I drove previously owned cars. The house needed painting. All that, apparently, was going to have to wait.

  Finally the judge released me. The marshals removed my handcuffs and with Murray by my side, led us down a long hallway, where we checked in with pretrial services. On Murray’s advice, I waived my right to a speedy trial so he’d have time to prepare my case.

  I had every confidence in Murray Simon. The rape charges against a D.C. shock jock? Dismissed. The SEC bigwig charged with insider trading? Acquitted. And when a Naval Academy football player tested positive for cocaine, Murray’d gotten him off scot-free, too. Everybody knew they’d been guilty as hell.

  Maybe there was a chance for me.

  Paul was waiting for us in Murray’s BMW out on Lombard Street. He grabbed me by the shoulders and folded me into his arms, crushing my nose against his chest. He kissed the top of my head, my forehead, my cheek.

  Murray tossed his briefcase onto the backseat of the car. “Take Hannah away for the weekend, Paul.” He handed my husband a set of keys. “These keys go to a cabin on Deep Creek Lake. It belongs to a client of mine. He won’t be using it this weekend.”

  Paul curled his fingers around the keys and held his fist close to his chest, as if he were afraid they might disappear. “You sure?”

  “Positive. He’s doing three to five years for tax evasion at Allenwood.”

  I turned in Paul’s arms to gape at my attorney. “Murray! I thought you’d never lost a case.”

  Murray shrugged. “Everyone thought he’d get ten.”

  Paul tucked the keys into his pocket, then pumped Murray’s hand. “Thanks, Murray. I can’t tell you how much this means to Hannah and me.”

  “Just don’t take her out of the state, Paul, and make sure I know where to reach you.”

  Murray gave us directions to the cabin in the mountains of western Maryland. I gave Murray my cell phone number, and a great, big bear hug, too.

  But it wasn’t Murray who rang through on my cell phone at “Sweet Shelter,” the lakefront cabin that securities fraud had built at the end of a winding dirt road just outside of McHenry, Maryland. It was my daughter, Emily.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mother,” Emily said without preamble.

  “Hello to you, too, sweetheart.”

  “I just saw the Washington Post.”

  I fell back on the pillows that formed a mound between my back and the solid oak headboard. We had known it was only a matter of time before the Post picked up the story, but I’d hoped for at least one, maybe two, days of peace. “What did it say?”

  There was a rustling of paper. Emily cleared her throat. “‘Annapolis Woman Charged with Murder of Naval Officer.’”

  The article was mercifully brief, but the reporter had found out about the hammer, and the sweatshirt, too. “Damn!” I said.

  My daughter’s voice rang with false che
erfulness. “You didn’t do it.”

  “No.”

  In the background I could hear the cartoon channel going full blast. “Mom?” Emily’s voice broke. “Are you okay? Really?”

  “I’m fine. Your father is seeing to that.”

  She sniffed. “There’s something I need to tell you, then. Dante said I shouldn’t bother you with this, but I said you needed a diversion.”

  I could guess what was coming next. I’d heard that tone of voice before, whenever young Emily’s allowance ran out, or she needed $500 for a skiing trip, or just a thousand, please, for a down payment on a car, I’ll pay you back. I plumped up the pillow behind my head, hardened my heart, and said, “Yes?”

  “Dante’s put together enough investors to build his spa.”

  If I hadn’t been firmly wedged on the bed between pillows, I would have fallen to the floor in shock.

  “Emily, that’s terrific news!”

  She laughed. “It’s so storybook, you won’t believe it, Mom. Dante has this client? She’s a widow from McLean? She put up thirty-five percent.”

  “Holy cow!”

  “And you said there was no future in massage.” Emily could never resist a good dig.

  Paul chose that moment to wander in from the soaking tub wearing nothing but a goofy grin. He grabbed a piece of toast from the breakfast tray. “Who’s on the phone?” he asked, munching.

  I flapped a hand at him, urging him to be quiet.

  “And that’s not all,” Emily continued. “Come August, you and Dad are going to be grandparents again.”

  Back in the soaking tub with my husband, nestled together like spoons, I learned that Emily’s pregnancy was news to Paul. The spa, it turned out, wasn’t. We were five percent shareholders.

  “How can we afford—” I began, thinking of all the equity Paul had just tied up to spring me from jail.

  Paul nibbled on my earlobe, cutting me off in mid-whine. “We won’t lose the house,” he said. “You’re not going to skip town, are you?”