The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door

by Preston Pairo

  “Snowbird season,” Olin said, “he’d be there every night—even school nights. Off-season, when it’s only dead men walking…” A reference to the time of year when Florida seemed occupied mainly by its aged retirees. “…he still pulled five, six nights. He also did some work on charter boats. Kid was never in any trouble. Better than average student too. No record. Then, one night, this guy named Jimmy Garatollo, a/k/a Jimmy G, a/k/a Jimmy the Garrote—and, yeah, I know, not the most original of names—decided Miles was making the end-of-night bank run and had the bar cash under his shirt. So he tried to rob the kid about a block from the restaurant.

  “Unbeknown to Jimmy, Miles didn’t just teach karate on Saturday mornings, he’d won tournaments. So with about three strikes he dropped Jimmy to the ground. One of those strikes, according to the coroner, collapsed Jimmy’s windpipe, which—boo-hoo-hoo—caused the SOB to die in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. An ambulance Miles Peterson called for, by the way.”

  “So clearly self-defense,” Vance said.

  “As glass. Clear as glass,” Olin clarified, in case his reference wasn’t.

  “So why did the case end up before a grand jury?”

  “Because the then and now-former State’s Attorney who ran the district in which I used to work was dumb as a rock. He got a case in the lap of his Sansabelt slacks that involved a kid who killed someone and equated that with name-your-latest school shooting. Figuring he’s not going to be the one to say it was justified, he put it before a grand jury that didn’t have the common sense to realize they were not a rubber stamp for indictments. That they were actually supposed to consider the evidence and perhaps for a second think they were only hearing one side of the story. Which in this case ended up claiming that Miles went too far. That even if Jimmy G only had a baseball bat—and did you hear my sarcasm stressing the word, only?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because apparently only a baseball bat can’t hurt you as it is a piece of equipment used in a game that grown men are paid millions of dollars to play. So once Miles got the bat out of Jimmy G’s hands, there was supposedly no need for the kick that ended up with Miles’ foot in Jimmy G’s throat. This despite the fact Jimmy G had done time for aggravated assault in Dade County for using a length of two-by-four to beat the pulp out of someone who owed money to Jimmy’s boss.”

  “So the guy was an enforcer.”

  “Among his many talents. Rap sheet long as a mid-summer Florida heat wave—which I used to think was brutal until I moved to Phoenix. Must’ve been the tequila.” Olin’s comment referred to his decision to relocate to the desert southwest.

  Vance said, “And I took you for a whiskey man.”

  “So did both of my ex-wives.”

  She could hear Olin chuckle as he said it, enjoying that aspect of his personality.

  “Of course,” Olin continued, quite the talker now, “nothing about Jimmy G’s criminal record was divulged to the grand jury. It was all about Miles Peterson being a karate expert—did you hear me put quotes around the word, expert? Which meant Miles knew that a kick to the throat would be fatal. And since Miles hadn’t been carrying any money, Jimmy’s actions could not have been a robbery but some sort of confrontation. Even though months of surveillance video from the marina established zero connection between Jimmy G and Miles. And it was only Miles’ word Jimmy G came at him with a baseball bat, because no bat was found—failing to take into account it likely rolled into the water and went out with the tide.”

  To Vance, it seemed that Olin was underplaying this critical element, assuming Miles’ attacker had possessed a bat or any type of weapon. But she chose not to debate the point and instead asked: “Wasn’t there also a witness who saw Peterson drag the man behind a dumpster?”

  “Yeah—and after Miles did that, he flew off on a dolphin.”

  “You’re saying the witness made it up?”

  “Maybe she thought she was telling the truth. But she’s a nut who—if public health was of the slightest importance in this country—would’ve been in a care facility and not swapping WIC vouchers for oxycodone. She only came forward after one of my competitors paid her a hundred bucks for her exclusive story.”

  “I heard the emphasis,” Vance said, sorting through the photocopied print and online articles spread across the table. “She disappeared though, didn’t she? The witness. After the grand jury hearing?”

  “Drug addicts tend to do that,” Olin said, then proceeded to recount much of what Vance had already read.

  How public opinion had initially fallen behind the theory that Miles overreacted and killed an older man—Jimmy G had been 53—which played into the ever-concerned minds of senior citizens leery of out-of-control teenagers. And that Miles’ claims of having to defend himself were deemed “self-serving” by the former State’s Attorney.

  But after months of editorials and investigative articles by Olin and others, public opinion began to turn—a change in momentum that picked up speed when a candidate running to unseat the district’s State’s Attorney found it to be a topic with traction.

  An innocent person was being prosecuted—an innocent child, which, being seventeen by that time, was how Miles was legally-defined. Whether the charges against Miles should be dismissed became a campaign issue the incumbent State’s Attorney couldn’t thwart.

  Aside from any interpretations of facts, Debra Vance asked Kent Olin for his personal opinion of Miles.

  “You mean beyond the is-he-a-danger part?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me put it this way…” Olin’s tone took on hints of admiration. “…I have never, ever, in my entire at-times-wretched life, met anyone who holds a grudge less than Miles Peterson. I never printed this because I didn’t want to give that jackass the satisfaction, but—”

  “Which jackass is this?”

  “Messick.”

  “The State’s Attorney who prosecuted Miles?”

  “Former State’s Attorney—yeah. And in the last interview I did with Miles, two weeks after the case was dropped, when I asked what he thought of Messick…? Miles said he didn’t blame him—that Messick was just doing his job as best as he could.” Olin paused, then added, “By this time, Miles’ family had put their house on the market to pay for his legal fees. His mother was fired from the school where she’d taught for ten years. His father—one look at him and you could tell he’d about lost his mind with worry. Find me another seventeen-year-old who’d be so charitable after going through something like that.”

  #

  Miles’ bedroom window was open as usual. The cool air of an end-of-summer midnight carried smoky scents from a neighbor’s fire pit and the occasional echoes of soft laughter.

  In bed near the window, wearing sweat shorts and a t-shirt, Miles laid on his back, head propped by a pillow, reading by the light of a nightstand lamp. Not a fishing magazine tonight, but a novel he’d picked up that afternoon at the county library branch nearest to their house. He’d added that errand while out with his father, something else to keep the two of them away from the house and the phone.

  Miles read all sorts of books. In middle school it had been graphic novels. When he was in jail, the counselor—who’d never mentioned she was actually a psychologist—brought him a stack of paperbacks. Anticipating it might be some kind of test as to which ones he liked, Miles read them all—thrillers, historical fiction, family sagas, even cat-cozy mysteries and a pair of Nicholas Sparks love stories.

  The book Miles was currently reading was another romance, written by a woman he hadn’t heard of. He preferred novels by female authors. A fairly-quick reader, he was already on page 50, mildly engaged even though the main character and her love interest were at odds because of a mutual misunderstanding that seemed somewhat unrealistic. Then again, people misjudged one another all the time.

  An hour later, Miles was still reading when a light came on behind an upstairs window of the house next door. He looked over a
nd saw a shadow pass behind a thin curtain.

  Since returning to the house at 10:30 p.m. after dinner and a movie with his dad, Miles hadn’t seen any activity at the Blakely house: no lights other than an outdoor pole lamp and the light at the front window that came on every evening just before sunset and went off around 11:00.

  For no real reason, Miles had assumed the woman next door wasn’t home. That she’d gone to Ireland to get her son back, putting on hold whatever else was going on in her life until she’d accomplished that mission. The same way Miles’ parents hadn’t gone to work for weeks after he was arrested, only returning to their jobs when they’d done all they could: hiring a lawyer, trying to get his bail reduced, then waiting, their lives placed in limbo by the legal system—slow-churning wheels claiming interests in justice manned by adversaries with their own individual agendas, misconceptions, and short-circuited logic.

  Miles went back to his book.

  Fifteen minutes later, the upstairs light at Ms. Blakely’s went out. He listened, but didn’t hear her crying as he had the night before. That came later, at 3:00 in the morning.

  8.

  Monday morning at Kensington High, Debra Vance had to admit that Elfin Arnold was right about one thing: Miles Peterson’s stature among his classmates had changed dramatically over the weekend, the result of that video post, which, as of two hours ago, had accumulated over 150,000 views and comments like, Police Suck, BRUTALITY, Police the police, even, Luv U Miles.

  Kids who hadn’t spoken to Miles in the first two weeks of school were suddenly offering fist bumps, telling him, Those cops were outta line, dude.

  At lunch time, the cafeteria table where Miles sat was jammed, as many kids talking to one another as to Miles, who seemed embarrassed by the attention. The girl seated alongside Miles, though—Jennifer Gaines, with her long blonde hair and hippy beads, her arms draped around Miles’ shoulders—sponged it up, her expression and how she kissed Miles on the cheek letting everyone know he was taken. That part, Miles seemed to like.

  Two hours later, Vance found Miles alone in the hall when he should have been in A.P. chemistry class. She trailed him to the auditorium where he exited the building by a side door and proceeded to the student parking lot, hands in his pockets.

  Vance remained just inside the auditorium doors, watching through a wire-mesh window as a dark-haired plus-sized woman in her late 20’s got out of a Toyota Prius and Miles angled toward her.

  The woman, wearing sunglasses, jeans, and a plain blouse, shook Miles’ hand, said a few words, then, on Miles’ nod, withdrew a digital audio recorder from her messenger bag. Because of the way Miles stood with his back to the school, Vance couldn’t tell for sure, but it didn’t seem like he was saying much. The woman appeared to do most of the talking. And after less than three minutes, Miles turned and started back toward the school, ignoring the woman when she called after him.

  The following morning, one of the county’s smaller newspapers featured a short article that referred to Miles as the “wrongly accused high school student” who, days earlier, had been forcibly detained by county police in the disappearance of a young neighbor. There were three comments from Miles, one of which sounded familiar to Vance after having spoken with Kent Olin, the reporter who’d covered Miles’ case in Florida.

  Miles was quoted as saying he didn’t blame the police for how they’d acted toward him. After all, they were trying to find a missing child, doing their job the best they could. The best they could…

  It wasn’t until Vance re-read the quote that she realized Miles’ statement wasn’t exactly a compliment or forgiveness, although the county attorneys who worked in the same office with Elfin Arnold—and would be responsible for defending the police including the officer who’d thrown Miles to the ground—likely saw it that way. Especially if Miles sued.

  The reporter also quoted Miles as saying he hoped Ms. Blakely, his next door neighbor, got her son back soon, and that he felt very sad for her.

  The same article referenced last Friday’s events as not being the first time Miles had been wrongly accused by the police. That two years ago he’d been erroneously charged with what the reporter termed felony assault—actually one of the lesser charges against Miles, murder having been the more headline-grabbing—which caused Vance to wonder if the reporter had chosen to phrase it that way because she thought it made Miles more sympathetic.

  The article also noted that in the two-year-old case Miles had defended himself against “an attacker with a long history of criminal violence” and quoted Miles as saying it had been a terrible period of time for him and his family, and they’d come to Maryland for a fresh start, and he didn’t want to have to relive what had happened by talking about it anymore.

  While the reporter ended her story at that, others weren’t about to let go of Miles’ past, although for different reasons. Elfin Arnold was one. The other was a classmate Jennifer Gaines had warned Miles about.

  #

  Debra Vance was at the opposite end of the hall when Rusty Bremmer, backed by three of his bulked-up football teammates, banged his fist against Miles’ locker. “I don’t know what the big deal is, Milesy. You get dropped by some cop and you’re a big man for pussing out—laying there. Mister I Killed Someone Tough Guy.”

  A small crowd of students quickly gathered—as though this confrontation had been anticipated and now here it was.

  Bremmer, all six-two, 205 pounds of him—lots of it fat but still All-County powerful—gave Miles a hard two-handed push in the chest. Miles did nothing to defend himself, letting the force knock him back against a row of metal lockers where he remained, hands down at his sides.

  Bremmer smirked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” pressing forward for more when Principal Davies’ bellow of, “Problem, gentlemen?” filled the hall. His obvious authority quickly dispersed those eager to see a fight.

  Bremmer, with his wild-man locks of ginger hair, was slow to turn and strut away, followed by his buddies, an entourage he assumed he’d have in even larger numbers throughout college and into the pros. After all, he’d already committed to a Big Ten powerhouse on a full ride, and was so convinced football was going to be his life he paid little attention to anything else.

  As Debra Vance remained within earshot, pretending to sort papers in a manila folder, Principal Davies stood alongside Miles. “Problem, Mister Peterson?” The veteran administrator’s tone remained firm but had quieted, his words intended only for the boy.

  “No, sir,” Miles said, calmly spinning the combination to his locker.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir.” Miles retrieved his physics text.

  Davies’ furrowed brow predicted that whatever he’d just witnessed was merely the first installment of events yet to unfold. Times changed, clothes changed, music changed, but kids basically remained the same. They were in a restless swirl of impatience, impulsiveness, and imperviousness. They believed they had the clearer view of what was relevant, drove pop culture and weren’t merely responding to it, that events prior to their birth were largely unworthy of their attention or concern, and everything they were discovering was a true discovery, not mere repetition of preceding generations. Davies believed it his duty to counter these myths—along with whatever other fallacies kids picked up at home—long enough to get them through four years of high school, knowing he wouldn’t always be successful. Every year he lost at least one student to some sort of recklessness: a drunken car crash on prom night, a drug overdose, a hey-watch-me stunt. “You’ll let me know if there are problems, won’t you, Mister Peterson?” he asked Miles.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Davies nodded and continued on his rounds—a man who ran the school from its halls, not an office. He was no sooner out of sight than Juan Arroyo, another student, came out of a nearby classroom and said to Miles: “Que debería haber caído ese pendejo.”

  Which Debra Vance believed translated roughly to: You should have dr
opped that dumb ass. She knew the small boy with the shiny black hair was referring to Rusty Bremmer, who Vance had witnessed mocking the school’s soccer team, calling them the Brown Beaners because of the number of Latino students on the roster.

  Miles replied to Arroya in rapid Spanish—not how the language was spoken in classrooms but in the streets. Vance had been surprised the first time she’d heard Miles speak that way, because he wasn’t enrolled in any Spanish class. And according to his transcripts from Martin County: never had been before.

  A few doorways later, the boys parted ways. Juan made an approving clicking sound with his tongue and Miles responded with a half wave.

  Debra Vance, behind Miles, said, “You speak like a native.” She’d been waiting for the right moment to have a conversation with him.

  Miles turned and smiled, completely at ease, as if the confrontation with Bremmer hadn’t unnerved him in the least. “I can get my point across, but I’d probably flunk Spanish One.”

  “But if you were in Acapulco, you’d understand directions from a local to get back to your hotel, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Vance walked alongside the tall suntanned boy, the top of her head barely at his shoulders. “I’m terrible at languages,” she lied, her fluency with Spanish having been a factor in her hire by the county police department. “I took French for two years in high school and don’t remember any of it.” That also was not true.

  Miles asked, “Why French?”

  The question surprised her, not just because he seemed genuinely curious, but because it was something an adult might ask. “I liked the idea of living in Paris,” she answered—something she hadn’t shared with anyone for a while, one of those idle dreams of childhood that now seemed well beyond reach.