Witness to Death

by Dave White

  That was his standard greeting. He never asked how she was, never wondered what was going on at work. It was always about what she wanted. She guessed that’s how things worked throughout his career, so he treated everyone that way. Usually it annoyed her, but tonight she actually wanted something.

  “John’s in trouble.”

  Robert Sandler’s face broke a little bit, his eyes widening, his mouth curving into a frown.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Michelle. Come in.”

  She stepped through the doorway, pushing past her father and heading into the sitting room. The faint smell of cigar hung in the air, and she could tell her father was doing his best Hugh Hefner impression. Minus the women, of course. As far as Michelle knew, there’d been only one woman since her mom left, and that woman was long gone too. Instead, her father buried himself in business, drank scotch, smoked, and sat around at night listening to sports on the radio.

  When she was a kid, she was awed by this room. It was set up to look like a library. Tall bookshelves on all four walls, a long carpet, two big chairs with a round table between them. Near the exit was a bar with three glasses, two bottles of scotch, and a radio. On the bookshelves, however, weren’t books, but files. All her father’s clients, foreign nations, and the arms deals they made. He said looking through the files was like looking through history. He found it relaxing.

  Sitting in the chair that faced the entrance, she waited for her dad to catch up. Robert Sandler never hurried. He moved at his own pace and everyone waited for him. He sauntered into the room, sat in the thick leather chair, took a long sip of scotch, and let a sigh escape his lips. The whole process seemed to take minutes.

  “Now,” he said, his voice sounding like an NPR announcer. “What’s the problem?”

  She told her father about the picture of John at the Ferry Station.

  “We’re talking about your ex, John, right? I can’t believe this, Michelle. He couldn’t kill someone. I don’t even know how he’s able to discipline his students.”

  He took another pull of the scotch, this time finishing the glass. He got up, took a few leisurely steps toward the bar, and poured another.

  “Anyway, I assume you want my help. But how?”

  “With all the people you know, you can’t call someone? Find out what’s going on. Maybe we can track him down. I’m sure there’s a mistake.”

  Robert Sandler smiled. “I’ll make some phone calls. Have you heard from him?”

  “No. I tried calling him, but he won’t answer his phone. He called me earlier in the evening, but that was just after dinner. He seemed fine. Maybe you can see if there’s anything the police haven’t let out to the press now.”

  “I don’t know sweetheart, I can try. I know some police officers, some state cops, but most of my work deals with people outside the country.”

  Michelle took a deep breath and smelled the leather of her father’s chair. She remembered being a kid and sitting on the chair while her dad flipped through the newspaper. She would listen to him read the articles aloud and wonder if he was reading them for her benefit. She now thought he just liked to hear his own voice.

  “Have they said anything else?”

  Michelle shook her head. “Just that five people are dead from the shooting. Where would John even get a gun?”

  “Could he have someone with him?”

  Michelle hugged herself, rubbing her upper arms as if she were cold. Her father had to have the heat turned up to at least seventy-five, however.

  “Ashley broke up with him tonight. He said he just wanted to be alone. I wouldn’t expect him to be with anyone.”

  “Ashley, broke—” He took a long sip of scotch. “I hope that doesn’t affect her work. Why would he be in Jersey City, then?”

  “I don’t know, dad. I was hoping you could help.”

  Robert Sandler held up his hands, palms out, as if he were surrendering. “Okay. Okay. Before I do though, are you all right?”

  Michelle nodded. “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine. I’m just worried, and I can’t get in touch with anyone.”

  Her father said, “You always were brave. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  He left the room. Michelle stood there looking around the library. It felt empty. The files and binders were her father’s work. That had changed since she was a child, when books, classics, always surrounded her.

  When did it all change? When her mother left?

  Michelle closed her eyes and tried to remember. High school graduation, taking pictures in her cap and gown in front of all the books. Packing for college that summer, just down the Parkway at Rutgers, but moving away nonetheless. The books were still there. She even took a few with her, to impress all the other scholars. All the scholars who didn’t care when she showed the books off, but cared a whole lot more when she broke out the bottle of scotch she’d packed.

  No, the books disappeared about when she graduated college five years later. When her mom had finished moving to an apartment in Mawah. After that, her father barely hugged her. Dived into his work. Didn’t care about her own teaching job. The one she got without any of his help, without any of his contacts. Just through her own diligence, her own resume, her own portfolio. And a damn good demonstration lesson on Longfellow.

  The books were gone. And after that, so was a part of her father. Which was why her face flushed when he left the room. He wanted to help.

  Part of his soul still remained.

  Robert Sandler came back into the room—his glass full again—shaking his head.

  “No one knows anything. I called four different cops. Jersey City police are all going crazy trying to find this guy. Weehawken cops. He got to Manhattan via the ferry, and he might disappear there, for all I know. I let them know to call me back. Hopefully we’ll hear something soon. Why don’t you stay here until then?”

  “No. I’m fine. I’m going to go home.”

  “I’d really feel better if you stayed. Just tonight. You have your cell phone. If anything happens, they’ll call you. If we need to get a lawyer, we’ll get one. It’ll be easier.”

  Michelle took a deep breath.

  “I’m not a kid anymore,” she said.

  “I know, but I’m still your father.”

  John sat on the PATH train at 33rd, hands shaking. The conductor walked up the metal platform, stepped into John’s car, gave the passengers a quick glance. John had only seen them stop someone once, a passed out drunk guy who must have been riding the train back and forth for hours. The conductor turned his key and hung out the window and said, “Journal Square Train, 23rd street next.” The DING-DONG sound, and then the doors closed. The train started to roll, picking up speed and finally enveloped by the tunnel.

  What the hell was Frank? Where’d he learn how to fight like that?

  John slammed his fists into his thighs.

  Stop shaking, damn it!

  Frank was a gangster. That was it. Someone who’d seen fights before, who’d been involved with gunfire. He was so calm, so damned calm, as if nothing had happened earlier in the evening. Maybe a terrorist. Didn’t the newspaper just print an article saying that Al Qaeda was trying to recruit terrorist who weren’t Muslim?

  John’s knees knocked together and his teeth chattered. The images of the dead guys on the dock came rushing back. John covered his face with his hands. He could see the first guy Frank shot take a bullet to the neck and fall backward, his legs bending underneath him. The red cloud swirling above him. Followed by an explosion of light and thunder from the guns around them.

  And Frank just dealt with it. Like dealing with a pissed off kid at school. John would tell Ashley about those kids like it was nothing, and Ashley would freak out about it, asking where he worked. Frank was the same way shooting the trenchcoats. Just part of the job.

  He’d seen Frank like that before. Michelle and Frank met up with Ashley and John for drinks one night. Just as the cover band was finishing up their set, a guy with bulges t
he size of coconuts in his sleeves stepped in between John and Ashley. He started talking to her. She made eye contact and nodded once or twice, taking a step forward as if to step around him. The guy slipped into her path again. John couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  John turned toward Frank and Michelle and smiled.

  “Another ‘roid head,” he said and turned back toward Ashley and the guy.

  He tapped the guy on the shoulder. The guy shrugged his shoulders, but didn’t turn. John rolled his head and cracked his neck, took a deep breath, and placed his hand on ‘Roid’s shoulder. Tugged, just a little bit.

  Without hesitating the guy whirled, put the flat of his hand on John’s chest. He said, “Fuck off,” and pushed. John landed flat on his butt, his beer bottle skittering to the floor.

  By the time John looked back up, Frank had stepped in and grabbed the guy by the wrist and twisted. There was a quick snap, followed by the guy screaming. Before the sound even finished there was a blur of flesh, as Frank snapped his palm into the guy’s throat, and the rest of the scream was cut off. ‘Roid reached up and clutched his windpipe, staggering backward.

  John looked at Ashley who was watching the guy topple backward. He then looked toward Frank, whose back was to him. Finally, he made eye contact with Michelle and widened his eyes.

  The PATH train slowed and stopped. John looked out the window and saw they were at Christopher Street. He’d missed three stops already. He took another deep breath. Two more until he could get off. Two more until he could go to the police and explain what happened.

  He shouldn’t have been out there. John should have never followed Frank. What the hell was he thinking?

  Tremors ran up his wrists. It felt like the lead ball that’d been resting in his stomach all night was trying to make its way up his esophagus and out of his mouth. John held his breath.

  None of this would have happened if he hadn’t danced with Michelle at that wedding. He’d still be with Ashley. She wouldn’t have dumped him. He could still be going along pretending everything was fine. Ashley wouldn’t have started to act weird.

  Tucking his hand under his armpits and squeezing, he tried to stop the shaking. No luck.

  The wedding was when everything started to go wrong, wasn’t it? One of Michelle and John’s work friends was getting married. The groom dressed in a kilt, the bride had a plaid trailer. Bagpipes played as she walked down the aisle. Frank was off working again, backing out of a date with Michelle at the last minute. She went anyway, riding with John and Ashley, and making third wheel jokes the entire night.

  At one point Ashley went to the bathroom, and “You Are So Beautiful” started up. The dance floor filled with couples as John and Michelle sat there. John asked her to dance, and Michelle said she didn’t know if she should. Ashley would be back any minute.

  On the train, John gritted his teeth. You’re so stupid.

  “Come on,” he’d said. “We’re friends. It’s fine. We’re not dating anymore. You set me up with her. I don’t want you to go the whole night without one dance.”

  Michelle nodded, and John thought about Ashley. Her brown hair falling around her shoulders. Her bright smile. The late night conversations. The way she listened and never told him he was lost while driving. The smell of tulips on her long neck. And for most of the night, he could picture exactly what she’d look like in a long, white, strapless wedding dress.

  But, as he held Michelle, swaying to the slow rhythm of the song, he remembered the smoothness of her skin. The hint of strawberry in her lipstick when he’d kissed her. The wry crooked smile when he made a corny joke.

  The memory must have been plastered all over his face. Ashley came back from the bathroom, made eye contact with him and froze. A week later, she didn’t pick up when he called. She didn’t call back as much. They only hung out once a week, instead of three or four times.

  When he would ask what was wrong, she’d tell him not to worry. She was just busy at work. A new assignment.

  And now, he sat on a PATH train pulling into the Pavonia/Newport station, hands trembling like a Parkinson’s victim. With images of men lying in puddles of their own blood flashing before his eyes.

  The doors of the PATH opened and John got off. He stepped on the first escalator he saw.

  The escalator to the surface was moving slowly, and the people riding in front of him were quietly opening their bags. It reminded John of waiting in line at an airport. These people were waiting to be searched.

  The escalator crested and he saw two uniforms sorting through bags. Behind them, standing against the glass doors two cops scanned the crowd. Between them sat a brown dog. They all looked very patient, almost bored. John couldn’t wait to talk to them. He started to step past the people who were standing. Taking the steps two at a time.

  “Officer,” John said. “Officer, I need to talk to you. My name’s John Brighton and I—”

  One of the cops made eye contact with him.

  The dog must have sensed something as well, because it stood up and started barking. The two cops against the wall stepped forward, pulling their weapons. Their quickness surprised John, and he nearly fell backwards down the escalator, but managed to steady himself against the railing again. Some people in the crowd in front of him screamed and some hit the deck.

  “Freeze!” the cops yelled, and John did as he was told, pretty much. He instinctively raised his hands above his head and stepped on to solid ground at the end of the stairs.

  The two cops who were previously searching the bags, pulled his arms down behind him and cuffed him.

  “John Brighton, you are under arrest.”

  Arrest?

  “I just need to talk. I need to tell you what happened tonight.” John said.

  He heard the thunder of blood pumping through his ears.

  The other cop said, “Do you think he’s waiving his right to remain silent?”

  They read him his rights, stuffed him in the back of the car, and took him to the Jersey City police station.

  He wasn’t going to get out tonight. He was pretty sure of that. The judges were all asleep in their beds, so he couldn’t be arraigned or whatever they called it. And if they weren’t going to come down tonight, they wouldn’t be coming in for the rest of the weekend. He was going to have to sit here with the drunks and druggies waiting until Monday morning.

  They did, at least, give him one phone call.

  He called Michelle, after fighting the urge to dial Ashley. No matter what had happened to him tonight, his mind still flashed to Ashley.

  “Are you all right? Where are you?” Michelle asked.

  “I’m in the Jersey City Police Station.”

  “What happened?”

  “Coming out of the PATH train. I went to the police for help and they arrested me.”

  “You went right to the police? John, your face is all over the news. They have a picture of you.”

  That damn cell phone camera. John’s hand squeezed tighter around the receiver.

  “I haven’t seen a judge yet. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to see a judge. The only thing I know about being arrested is that whole ‘right to remain silent’ stuff. There were, there were dead people everywhere. Blood and—and—Fff—”

  “I know, I know,” she said, cutting him off. “Okay. I’m going to talk to my dad again. We’ll get you a good lawyer, and be down there as soon as possible. You need a lawyer. If my dad doesn’t help, Frank will. He knows people too. Sit tight.”

  “Wait,” he said, his shoulders tightening at the mention of Frank’s name. Frank was there. It was all him. He killed them all.”

  No response. She’d hung up. As soon as he finished talking, he heard the dialtone.

  John put the phone down and let the officer cuff him once more and direct him to a door.

  ****

  They dragged him into a room with only a table, two chairs, and a streaked mirror. The room smelled like rancid coffee. One of
the uniformed cops pulled out the chair facing the mirror and pushed John into it. As he sat, he had to angle his arms backward so he didn’t sit on the handcuffs.

  A tall cop with almond skin and a shaved head entered. His badge was clipped to his belt, and his tie was loosened. He didn’t have a gun on him, but he held a cup of coffee that smelled fresher than the room. In his other hand was a legal notepad.

  He reminded John of one of the sixth grade teachers at work, Mr. Travers who’d stand in the hallway and yell at the kids no matter what they did. He would gesture with his coffee and yell things like “Stay to the right!” and “This is not a locker period.” The talk in the teacher’s room centered around the Master’s Degree he held in education or how many times he brought a kid down the principal’s office in a day. John would try to ask what Travers was teaching that day only to get ignored.