It’s ten o’clock in the morning. We’re about to be discharged from Kings County Hospital although our body’s in no shape, our mind either after an interview by a psychologist named Lynch, she from the looney ward in another part of the hospital. Did we do this to ourselves? Oh, not literally, but does something in our bizarre affect draw male violence to us? More importantly, is Carolyn Grand’s current environment insufficiently protective?
I tell her to call our lawyer, tell her three times before my swollen mouth forms the words precisely enough to be understood. Then she backs off.
Five minutes later a nurse informs me that I’m to be discharged as soon as the paperwork’s completed.
“You’ll be just fine, dear. No lasting damage.”
I hobble to the patient’s locker on the other side of the room, no escape from the pain now. My lower back is on fire.
The clothing I discover in a plastic bag, Serena’s clothes, are soaking wet, yet I’m to somehow put the garments on my body, bra and panties, skirt and blouse, wet socks, wet shoes. Then I’m to take my fastidious self home via public transportation.
There’s a mirror on the inside of the door. My face is the color of an eggplant and hideously swollen, the right side especially. My nose, with the bandages removed, is thick and cut on the side. The upper and lower lids of my right eye are so swollen they meet. Like a pair of lips.
I touch the line of stitches on my forehead, thinking, Oh, yeah, why leave Frankenstein out.
“Hey …”
I turn to find the cop, Ortega, standing inside the door, a tote bag in his left hand, a set of car keys dangling from the fingers of his right.
“I brought some dry clothes from your apartment.”
He steps forward, lays the tote bag on the bed, looks back at me. Only then do I remember that I’m wearing a hospital gown that stops north of midthigh. And nothing else.
“I’ll wait outside,” he says. “But tell me …” He hesitates, his smile apologetic. “Well, who am I talking to? With your face the way it is, you all look alike.”
I can’t help myself. I return his smile as best I can. “Victoria. Now, get out.”
“The first thing I want to know is how you got into the apartment.”
It sounds like I’m speaking through a gag, every word muffled, but after a short pause, he answers.
“Serena gave me the key. Last night.” He pulls the car into traffic, straightens out. “By the way, I met your neighbor, Marshal, the one who reeks of marijuana. He knew about the attack because we had the building canvassed for witnesses. Several other buildings, too. Unfortunately, it was raining so hard nobody saw anything. The security cameras were also useless. It doesn’t matter now that you’ve identified—”
“Not me.”
It’s drizzling and I watch the spots accumulate on the windshield. I have a million questions, but there’s no getting the words out, the effort to speak past my injuries too great. Still, that I’m in a car, traveling in private and not on a bus trying to shield my face seems almost miraculous.
“Right, not you. Serena’s identification. O’Neill’s still on the run, by the way, so you’ll have to be careful. Very, very careful. But think about the consequences. O’Neill will be remanded without bail as a parole violator the minute he’s taken into custody. You don’t get a lawyer when you’re on parole, or a trial. You get a hearing, a short one at that, and if the hearing officers don’t like what they hear, you’re sent back to serve your original sentence. Plus, the new charges don’t go away and the years keep piling up.”
I wait until Ortega works his way around the back end of a double-parked taxi, then say, “What do they call you?”
It comes out: “Wha day ca ruuuuuu.”
Ever the lady, I repeat myself. This time my speech bears a close enough resemblance to the English language to be understood.
“The name on my birth certificate is Roberto. But I’m Bobby to my friends.”
“Are you our friend? Are you here in your capacity as a friend?”
He turns from Clarkson Avenue onto Flatbush, staring straight ahead for several blocks until we’re again stopped by a light. Then he says, “I read Hank Grand’s file. I know what he did to you.”
“Fine, so you pity us. But I asked if you’re a friend.” I have to repeat myself, but not because he doesn’t understand. I’m thinking he can’t answer the question for himself. In the end, though, he doesn’t have a choice.
“If Eleni were only Eleni, the answer would be obvious. But she’s not.” He looks at me for a moment, eyes fixed on my injuries. “If wanting to help you means I’m your friend, then I’m your friend. Except that I can’t help you. I can only watch.” Ortega’s foot slides to the brake as a cyclist veers into his path. “Okay, let me explain how it works. As detectives, me and Greco gather evidence. We can make an arrest anytime, but unless the suspect is likely to flee, we don’t decide on our own. We take our evidence to the squad commander, Lieutenant Ford. She’ll either authorize the arrest or ask us to dig up more evidence. But even if she okays the arrest, the issue’s not settled. There’s a unit in the district attorney’s office that liaisons with precinct detectives, especially on major cases. Keep in mind, cops only need probable cause before making an arrest, but prosecutors have to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. So, the DA’s office may refuse to arraign a suspect until we produce more evidence. In your case, if you’re indicted, your defense will be handled by a special division inside Legal Aid devoted to major prosecutions. That alone makes ADAs cautious. Remember, cops advance their careers by making arrests, prosecutors by securing convictions or guilty pleas.”
I don’t protest when Ortega—I can’t bring myself to call him Bobby, not yet—parks the car and walks me to our apartment. Nor when he runs out to the store and returns with groceries. But I’m feeling—things, sensations, deep dark desires?—maybe for the first time, despite the pain, despite a fear I’ve carried for all of my life. I know the others, especially Martha, think I’m attracted to women—I thought so myself—but in truth I’ve been little more than a spayed cat. What other choice did I have? Eleni’s promiscuity? Which still threatens us with catastrophic consequences? Better to remain the asexual child Carolyn Grand might have been.
I watch Ortega put the groceries away, watch his eyes as he comes back into the living room. I’m on the couch, lying down, the better side of my face on a throw pillow. Despite the pain, I lurch into a sitting position and motion him over. He looks down at me, his eyes as searching as my own. What, exactly, are we, Bobby and I, looking at? Who’s on the other end of the line? I take his hand, and I mumble, “Flank uuuu.”
Ortega lays the back of his hand against the side of my face. “I have to get going,” he tells me. “We’ve got two other cases working and I’m the lead on both. Luck of the draw.”
The irony doesn’t escape me as I watch him head for the door, a testosterone-oozing cop with a heart of gold.
“I want to hear your story,” I tell him. “It’s only fair.”
I have to repeat myself before he gets it. Then he laughs, and his hand rises to his chest as I imagine it rising to Eleni’s breast.
“Next time, Victoria, assuming you want to see my ugly face again. Oh, by the way, I asked Marshal to stay with you, at least for tonight. He’ll come over about seven. Until then, jam a chair under the knob and keep something, a knife, close to you.”
“Do you mean the knife you confiscated?”
I’m expecting a laugh, but Ortega bites at his lower lip, then squats. He lifts the cuff on his right pant leg and withdraws a small revolver from a holster fastened to his ankle. He lays the revolver on top of the memos on our table.
“O’Neill’s breaking down,” he explains. “He’s spent most of his life in a cage for extremely violent crimes and now he knows he’s going back. Somebody has to pay, Victoria. And that somebody, right now, is you.”
“And I’m supposed to just shoot him?”
“Actually, you do have an alternative. You can give O’Neill what he wants. You can confess to killing your father. Not a strategy I’d recommend, by the way. But neither is letting O’Neill beat you to death. Don’t underestimate the threat.” He pauses, waiting, perhaps, for me to laugh. When I don’t, he continues, his tone now sober. “What I think is that Detective Greco, if he can’t put the murder on someone else, is gonna take a shot at you. He’s gonna put you in a little room, apply pressure and see what pops out. It’s not that he thinks you’re guilty. It’s that you might be and he has nothing to lose.”