by Mary Feliz
I shook my head and laughed. “You don’t have to explain. They smell irresistible. Go ahead, take some. I don’t need them all. Not by a long shot.”
Grabbing a fry, the young man chowed down with an audible crunch followed by a moan of delight. “Why do all the things that are bad for us taste so good?”
“Because why else would we eat them?” I answered. “We cannot live by bean sprouts alone.”
We were holding up traffic as the line snaked passed a condiment bar and out onto a spacious patio that was well used even in the coldest and windiest days of winter. I staked out room on the end of a nearly full picnic table, brushed off the surface, unwrapped my burger, and dug in. I was hungrier than I’d thought. And the burger hit the spot.
I was ready for a second bite when Paolo arrived. He stood in the doorway to the patio. I assumed he’d cycled over because he was wearing his bike helmet and Lycra cycling kit. He scanned the crowd and squinted. I waved my hand, and he spotted me quickly. He clomped to the table in his bike shoes without removing his helmet, said hello, and then swung his long legs over the bench on the opposite side and sat down. I passed him a paper-wrapped burger, an old-fashioned cardboard dish of fries, and the white fluted cups I’d filled with ketchup and mustard. He dug in without saying a word, consuming half the burger before removing his helmet.
When he surfaced, I filled him in on everything I’d learned so far and showed him Stephen’s letter. After he’d had a chance to read it, I told him I intended to honor Stephen’s request to not tell the Mountain View Police or Jason what was going on.
“What is he thinking?” Paolo asked. “We could get him out of there right now. He can’t be enjoying being in jail, not with . . . I mean . . .”
“It’s okay, Paolo. I know about his PTSD. He’s one tough marine but looks grim already, and he’s been in there less than forty-eight hours. Once they move him to the county jail? I don’t know.” I shuddered. Santa Clara County Jail was probably better than some in California or elsewhere in the country, but it was overcrowded and a recent investigation suggested it was understaffed and needed improvements in safety, security, and basic health measurements such as the cleanliness of both cells and inmates. It was certainly no place for an innocent man who needed extensive exercise and the company of his dog to manage his mental health.
“But you can’t do anything to get him out. Not yet. He’s asked me not to tell Jason anything for fear they’ll let him go and start concentrating their investigation on Rafi. To protect Rafi, Stephen feels MVPD needs to assume they’ve already got the right man. Surely that means he doesn’t want you or anyone else from Orchard View stepping in to help at this point.”
Paolo shook his head. “We have a mutual cooperation agreement with Mountain View. If anyone finds out how much I know about this, how much I’m keeping from my own department and from MVPD . . . there goes any trust I’ve built up.”
“I feel the same way. It goes against my sense of justice to keep an innocent man in jail when the truth would get him released. But Stephen’s doing this to make sure that Rafi isn’t unfairly accused and has asked me to have faith in him. I’m willing to do that for at least a little while. I’m uncomfortable keeping anything from Jason, but with the communication situation so iffy following the storms, maybe we won’t be able to talk much. I am going to text him tonight to let him know that I found Stephen and Munchkin, but I’ll avoid offering up any of the details.”
I leaned forward and pulled Stephen’s letter toward me, pointing out the names of people he’d said could help. “Forrest Doucett I know. I’ll call him as soon as we’re done here.” Forrest had gone to college with my husband, Max, and had helped out other friends of ours in the past. He had a vast network of other consultants available to provide aid to those navigating the legal system, and I was convinced he’d be a huge help. “Do you recognize any of these other names?”
Paolo frowned at the list. “I don’t know them, but I’m not surprised. I’m not nearly as plugged into the local law enforcement and veteran’s network as Stephen and Jason are, particularly if you veer off into the area of health and human services, child protective services, or immigration.” He leaned back and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Every time I think I’ve got a good handle on being a cop, I find out how much I don’t know.”
I smiled. “It’s like that for all of us, Paolo. Don’t worry, there’s time.” He frowned and looked like he thought I was nuts. But it was a sentiment I wished I could implant in the brain of every teenager and twentysomething. So many of them felt pressure to be at the top of their professions from their first days on the job. And no matter how well they did, they often felt they fell short. But learning is an important part of any job. Employees who strive to consistently learn more are a valuable commodity in any field. “Look, it’s probably good that you don’t know these names and can’t help me. You’re in a tricky position as Jason’s law enforcement partner and as a sworn officer. But would it compromise your ethics to keep me posted on anything you learn about Stephen’s situation? Particularly if they move him to county? I’m all for honoring his request, but if he starts to suffer, I think we need to yank him out of there, no matter what Stephen says he wants. He may feel a loyalty to this Rafi kid, but I don’t.” I frowned. “At least not yet.”
Paolo crumpled up the paper wrappings from his lunch and stood, completing the awkward movements required to extract oneself from a picnic table with attached benches. “I’ve got to get back to work, but I’m with you both so far. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. I’d ask you to keep me informed, too, but I’m not sure how good an idea that is. I don’t like this, Maggie, not at all. I much prefer situations that are cut and dried, black and white, hard and fast—”
I cut Paolo off. He had a wide vocabulary and a tendency when nervous to list synonyms for as long as you’d let him. “Can you come to dinner tonight? To catch up on everything else? No shoptalk? Max and the boys haven’t seen you in ages.”
Paolo blushed and looked down at the crumpled papers in his hand. “I’ve got a meeting after work.” He looked up and smiled. “A date, actually.”
I beamed, which was probably an overreaction, since Paolo took a step back and looked toward the exit. Paolo was shy, but I knew he’d taken an interest in a young woman who worked at a small local farm and I hoped he’d asked her out. I clamped my jaw closed on all the questions I wanted to ask. “Have fun. We’ll do dinner another time soon.”
Paolo left and I gathered up the remains of my own lunch. I tossed my trash in the receptacle, then dashed around the building and back to the parking lot as quickly as I could.
Chapter 5
One best-selling book on decluttering suggests tackling all of one type of item on a single day. I think a tightly focused approach works better for most people. Big organizing projects are scary and exhausting. Breaking them down into manageable pieces helps you overpower them.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Friday, February 17, Afternoon
Halfway home after getting the kids from their respective schools, I realized I’d forgotten to pick up Munchkin. Brian and David put up a token protest when I told them we needed to stop at the vet’s on the way home, but they didn’t seem to mind playing with the adoptable kittens in the waiting room while we waited for the doctor.
“We’re here for Munchkin on behalf of his people, Stephen Laird and Jason Mueller,” I said to the receptionist. “Do you need ID?” I grabbed for my backpack and wallet.
She shook her head. “Dr. Davidson told me you’d be coming in. It breaks my heart that someone would hurt that poor sweet thing.” She talked about Munchkin as if he were a tiny helpless kitten rather than a massive creature who outweighed us both. “Have a seat. The doctor will be out in a minute.”
Dr. Davidson himself came out rather than sending a technician to fetch us. He smiled, greeted me, and introdu
ced himself to the boys. Taking us all back to an exam room, he handed me a white paper bag that rattled with what sounded like plastic pill bottles.
“What are they?” I peered into the bag before handing it to Brian.
“I want him to stay on antibiotics for at least two weeks. Those were nasty wounds. We cleaned them out aggressively while he was under sedation, but please keep a close eye on him. If anything doesn’t look or smell right, phone me right away, day or night. I want to stay ahead of any possible infection. He seems run-down and depressed, which isn’t ever good for healing.”
“He’s missing Stephen and Jason,” I said.
“And they’ll be the best medicine for him. In the meantime, try to keep him quiet and well fed. No tussling with kids or other dogs.” He looked pointedly at the boys. “No running for at least three days. Mastiffs can be inherently lazy, and he’s no puppy, so that shouldn’t be too hard, but I’ve put some light sedatives in there in case you need him to slow down. Use the smallest dose necessary, as infrequently as possible.”
I nodded.
The door behind the doctor opened with a screech as a technician came in with Munchkin on a nylon rope leash. The dog perked up when he saw the boys, who knelt to greet him. His huge tongue licked their faces, nearly covering their heads, and the boys used their hoodies to wipe off the drool. Munchkin lay down with his head on his paws and sighed. The escaping air made his jowls wobble and he looked like the poster dog for depression. I wondered whether being with Belle would cheer him up without revving him up.
“Please call if you need anything or have any questions,” the doctor said. “Normally I’d plan on keeping him here another day or two, but I think he needs to be around his friends. I’m no dog psychologist, but . . .”
We both looked at Munchkin and sighed heavily ourselves. “It’s hard to be cheerful in the company of such a morose dog,” I said, “but we’ll do our best. Does he need one of those collars? The cone of shame?”
The boys patted Munchkin and gently rubbed his ears, avoiding the worst of his wounds. The doctor tilted his head. “You’ve got a golden?”
“Yes, Belle. She was here when I brought Munchkin in.”
“Right. I’d be more concerned about her trying to help her friend by licking his wounds. Munchkin hasn’t shown much interest in them. That may change, but we can skip the cone for now. If Munchkin starts licking or biting them, I’d recommend you bring him back in case they are infected. If your dog pays too much attention to Munchkin’s wounds, you’ll have to keep them separated until he heals.”
He handed me the leash. “You’re all experienced with dogs and know Munchkin well. Do your best, use your judgment, follow the directions on the meds, and let me know if you need help. Any questions?”
I shook my head and thanked him, then we trooped out, taking a few moments to adjust our plan as Brian, David, and Munchkin all tried to go through the door at the same time. The boys deferred to the dog, who led us into the lobby.
The receptionist waved us off, saying that the bill would be worked out later with the owners. We thanked her and left.
Back at the car, Munchkin climbed onto the seat between the boys, with his head bent a bit so he could peer out the window and keep from smashing his skull into the roof every time we hit a bump in the road. I pulled out of the parking lot and onto El Camino Real, which was already congested with rush hour traffic, though it wasn’t yet four o’clock. We waited through several cycles of the light at San Antonio Road. The boys were busy with their phones and Munchkin was asleep.
“Mom, don’t let me forget to give you some papers I need you to sign,” Brian said, derailing my train of thought. “I need to hand them back in on Monday.”
“Me, too,” said David. “I need you to sign for that MEHAP advanced placement class next year.”
“MEHAP?”
“Modern European His—Whoa, dude!”
A panhandler had rushed up to the car and was banging on the rear passenger window.
“Mm—Mm—Mm—” he shouted, stuttering and revealing that he was missing teeth.
David leaned away from the window. Munchkin lunged over David, put his paws on the door handle, and lifted his nose to the partially open window. His wagging tail walloped Brian across the nose.
The light changed. Traffic started to move. The car behind us honked. I swiveled my head between the vehicles in front of us to the man who was now rattling the door handle.
The car behind us honked again.
“David, are you okay? Is the door locked? How close is he? I don’t want to run over his foot.”
David made an unintelligible sound, his face buried in Munchkin’s side as the huge mastiff licked the window, wagging his tail.
The driver behind us leaned on his horn and shouted something I couldn’t hear. Other cars behind him honked. In the rearview mirror, I spotted an SUV pulling out from the line of traffic into the bike line, hoping to pass us all before the light changed.
I hoped the old man was safe and I accelerated slowly through the intersection and away from the conflict and confrontation. But as I pulled away, I thought I heard the man say “Munch,” I saw him step back, his shoulders slumped and his hands held out in a posture that looked like dejection and disbelief.
“What was that about?” I said to no one in particular. “Have you seen him before?” The boys struggled to settle Munchkin, right themselves, and brush wisps of dog hair from their clothes and the upholstery.
“Calm down, Munch,” Brian said, holding the end of the leash. “Lie down. You heard the vet. Who was that guy? Did you know him? He seemed to know you.”
“Munchkin liked him,” said David. “But how do they know each other? We can ask Stephen, I guess, Mom, can’t we? Where is Stephen, anyway? Why did we pick up Munchkin?”
I was still rattled from the encounter with the panhandler, so it took a moment for David’s questions to sink in. He shared my habit of firing off questions so fast it was impossible to know which one to answer first. I realized that in the after-school rush and confusion, I’d told them we were going to make a quick stop at the vet, but I hadn’t yet addressed why we were doing this favor for Stephen. The kids were used to Munchkin by now, of course. And Stephen had helped our family so much in the past that it must have, initially at least, seemed perfectly reasonable for us to be returning the favor by running an errand.
“Mom, what’s going on?” David pressed for an answer. “Who was that guy? How did Munchkin get so roughed up, anyway?”
“Can we talk about this when we get home?” I said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “It’s complicated and I need to focus on the traffic. Can you check your phone and see if there’s an accident somewhere or if there’s a faster way to get home?”
Brian began tapping on the screen of his cell to find out, but I could tell that I was only raising more questions by putting off answering the ones David had asked.
How far did my promise not to tell anyone about Stephen extend? Was I going to keep secrets from my own family? Damage my relationship with my teenaged boys? Expect them to confide in me when I kept secrets from them? I bit my lip and wrinkled my forehead. Family first, I thought. Family first. The kids didn’t need to know everything, but they deserved to know at least part of Stephen’s story. If for no other reason than to keep them from speculating and using their powerful imaginations to create a story that was far worse than what had actually happened. The reality was bad enough.
I took a deep breath, sat up straight, and pushed my back into the cushions of the seat. I signaled for a lane change, checked my blind spot, and turned into the left lane, stopping at yet another red light. I made eye contact with both boys.
“Stephen’s in jail,” I said. “We’ll talk about it when we get home.” I didn’t want to have this conversation without being able to see the boys’ reactions.
When we arrived at the house, Belle seemed to instinctively understand that Munchkin w
asn’t there to play. In place of her normal enthusiastic bouncing greeting, she lay down on the floor and inched forward on her belly, making a sympathetic whine as she sniffed Munchkin’s nose and licked his snout. He returned the greeting.
The boys moved more slowly than usual. They headed straight to the kitchen for a snack, but poured out food for the dogs before attacking tangerines, milk, cookies, and last night’s leftovers.
I made myself coffee and was adding milk to it when I realized both boys and both dogs were seated and looking up at me expectantly.
I sighed and joined the boys at the table. “I’m not sure where to begin,” I said, half hoping Brian or David might have a suggestion. But they were remarkably silent. Belle moved under the table and put her head in my lap. Munchkin curled up by the back door.
“I told you that Stephen’s in jail, and the truth is that I don’t know much more than that, not for certain. The rest is mostly speculation. That and a few things Stephen told me.” I took a long sip of coffee and pulled my sweater around me for comfort.
“Mom, what did he do?” Brian whispered. “It’s a mistake, right?”
“Does Jason know he’s there?” David asked. “He doesn’t, does he? If he did, Stephen wouldn’t be there anymore.”
And then Brian hit on the crux of the matter. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I looked at my boys then, each of them, closely. At thirteen and fifteen they were both maturing at a faster rate than either Max or I could keep up with. But it was a roller coaster. When we were willing to give them more responsibility and freedom, they’d do something or say something that told us that parts of them were still small boys. And when we wanted to hug them closely and protect them as we always had, well, that was when they chose to stretch and launch themselves, often fearlessly and without looking, into the adult world. I looked in their eyes, searching for fear. There was none. What I saw was determination, confidence, and an aching desire for justice and the truth.