Blessed are the Dead (19 page)

 

Chapter 39

I
TRAIL BEHIND
Nana in her flowered blue dress as she wanders through her garden with a big straw basket, examining this and picking that, preparing me a care package to bring home. Terra-­cotta pots of basil, thyme, coriander, and Italian parsley line the paths. I walk past plots filled with tomato, eggplant, lettuce, and zucchini plants. During the summer and fall, I leave my grandmother's house every Sunday laden down with whatever crop has burst forth in bloom.

Nana plucks the ripest tomatoes and the freshest greens and carefully places them in the basket as she talks to herself in Italian. I pause, closing my eyes, savoring the love and peace that I always find in her presence.

My grandmother has been my confidante since I was a small child. Today, I confess everything to her. At first, I only told her about losing my job, but then my forlorn love life is brought up as we wash off the vegetables from the garden. Turning off the faucet, she turns and takes me by the elbow.

“Ella, why you don't want to be married?”

“It's not that I don't want to be married, Nana,” I say, and begin patting tomatoes dry. “It's that nobody I date understands how important my job is to me. I just don't know if I can be a reporter and a wife.”

“But your job is gone now.”

I shake my head sadly. “I know, but I'm going to get another job, even if it means I have to move away. And when I do, I'm going to need your support. I know Mama is going to flip out if I move, but being a reporter means everything to me. I'm not happy unless I'm reporting. It's my passion.”

Nana doesn't say anything. She turns on the water and hands me a purple eggplant. When I put my hand on it to take it from her, she won't let go until I look her in the eyes.

“
Mia cara
, passion is good, very good, but if you not have
famiglia,
too, you have nothing.
Niente.
”

“I have a family, Nana.”

“No, not the same.” She takes both of my hands and peers up at me. “You think you can't love because of Caterina and your papa?”

“No, I love,” I say, giving her a hug. “I love you, don't I?”

“Many ­people I love are gone,
mia cara,
but God makes sure you never run out of love.
Amore
is everything. Nothing else matters.
Capisce?
”

“Yes,
capisco.
I understand.”

“Good girl,” she says in exaggerated English, and pats me on the arm.

We fill our glasses with wine and walk back out into the garden. The setting sun is turning the sky behind us golden. I want to draw out this day as long as I can. I decide to stay overnight instead of heading home to my empty apartment.

“
N
ANA,”
I
SAY
as we walk down the cobblestone path in the garden, “do you believe in evil?”

She stops and squints her eyes looking at me. “
Naturalmente.
” Of course.

“Does it scare you?” I say, leaning over and picking some weeds creeping onto the path.

“No.” She gives a gap-­toothed smile that reminds me of Caterina's smile. “God and Jesus and the Virgin Mary are most powerful.”

“But if that is true, then how come bad things happen?” I pause. “How could God let that happen to Caterina?”

There. I've said it out loud. To someone who knows me—­and loves me.

She stops, then takes my hand and leads me to a little stone bench in her garden. “Sit,” she says.

I wait as she settles her dress around her.

“
Mia cara.
We are not supposed to know the why,” she says, grasping my hand in both of hers. “We who are left behind are only supposed to do one thing. Do you know what that is?”

I shake my head.

“We are supposed to live.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
I end up driving my grandmother to a doctor's appointment and don't leave until after lunch. She sends me home with a basket of fresh vegetables and a full heart. She also hands me a black velvet bag. Inside, I find a necklace, a gold chain with a golden horn on it—­a
corno
or
cornicello
.

I immediately recognize it.

“Put it on. It was your papa's,” she says, looking at me and clamping her lips tightly. I know better than to argue when my grandmother has that look on her face, so I put it on beside my miraculous medal and tuck it into my shirt.

Wearing the
cornicello
—­the Italian horn—­is supposed to protect you against the
malocchio
—­the evil eye. My brothers both wear the same necklaces. My dad had his on when he died.

Driving home, stuck behind dozens of red taillights waiting to pay the toll to cross the Bay Bridge, I remember to turn on my phone. I had switched it off in the exam room when it began ringing while the doctor was listening to Nana's heart. I saw it was my mother calling and knew I would have way too much to explain about why I was with Nana and not at work. When I turn it back on, my phone shows nine missed calls. But only three are from my mother. The other six are from Lopez. I'm about to call him back, when my phone rings.

Lopez shouts at me. “Giovanni, where the hell you been?”

“Talk to me.”

“I'm at the jail, man. I just watched that fucking psycho Johnson drive away in a Cadillac.”

 

Chapter 40

“W
HAT?”
A
FEW
cars honk as I cut them off getting over to the far right shoulder. I stop in front of a
NO PARKING
sign. I'm shaking.

“You there?” he asks.

I stare at the waters of the bay. To my right, I can see Alcatraz. “I don't understand.”

“He's on the streets. Off on a fucking technicality. I tried to follow him. By the time I got to my car, he was gone.”

“That can't be,” I say, almost to myself. “His trial isn't for weeks yet.”

“It was an emergency hearing or something,” Lopez says. “Call the courts guru, man. She's got the skinny.”

I pound my fist on my steering wheel. I'll never get the story now. He'll disappear, like he said, and I'll never know what happened to Caterina. I hang up and call Nicole. I don't even get a chance to say hi.

“Holy shit! I'm trying to reach the D.A. I'll call you back,” she says, and hangs up.

I'm just exiting off the Bay Bridge and near the Embarcadero when she calls back.

“Okay, here's the deal,” she begins. “It's fairly complicated, but the exclusionary rule is grounded in the Fourth Amendment, and it is intended to protect citizens from illegal searches and seizures. It also protects defendants from prosecutors and police who illegally gather evidence. What it says is that any evidence gathered illegally violates Johnson's rights and therefore is inadmissible. It gives him a defense that doesn't even consider whether he committed a crime or not. Instead, it looks at how the evidence against him was gathered, not what the evidence proves. It could be rock-­solid evidence against him—­which it is in this case—­but because a judge didn't sign the search warrant—­the case was thrown out.”

I'm trying to digest what she has said. “So what exactly happened?”

“What happened was the cops jumped the gun and executed the search of Johnson's car before an actual warrant was signed by a judge. The cops thought they had probable cause to search the car, based on the description of the vehicle. But Johnson's attorney got a copy of the liquor store's surveillance video. It shows a nearly identical car with a blond driver in his thirties pull into the lot at nearly the same time. That vehicle wasn't searched. That effectively shows that by searching Johnson's vehicle with an unsigned warrant, they violated his rights against illegal search and seizure.”

My mind is still reeling as I try to follow what Nicole is telling me. That's what Johnson meant when he said his attorney had something in the works. Good God.

“Because of this,” Nicole continues, “the judge ruled that the search warrants were not valid. The emergency hearing was held this afternoon, and the search warrant was tossed. All the evidence the cops gathered with it was also tossed—­anything that proved the little girl was in the car, such as her fingerprints, her clothes, strands of her hair, and so on. Because that evidence was critical to the prosecution's case against Johnson, his attorney successfully argued for the charges to be dropped. The judge did so, but reluctantly. At that point, he really didn't have a choice but to release Johnson.”

“So a cop fucked up the search warrant and a child killer is free to walk this earth?” I don't know what else to say.

“Gabriella?” The way she says my name makes me nervous.

“Yeah?”

“There's something else you should know. The D.A. told me something off the record.” She pauses for a few seconds. “It was Donovan. He gave the go-­ahead to search. He was the cop who fucked up.”

 

Chapter 41

I
PERCH ON
the edge of my couch flipping through the channels broadcasting the news about Johnson. I haven't taken off my jacket or set down my bag. I ignore Dusty's hungry meowing and just sit and watch the footage of Johnson's release. I flip from channel to channel. They all show the same thing repeatedly: Johnson's getting into his attorney's car and giving a cocky wave to reporters. His smile is the boyish, “aw shucks” grin he often gives me. I pull my jacket closer and glance at my door to make sure I locked the dead bolts. Finally, I shut off the TV and feed Dusty.

When my phone rings, I see it's Donovan calling on his cell. I don't know what to say to him. We haven't spoken for weeks. I start to pick up the phone, then put it back down. Dusty watches me. He meows and begins to pace, sensing my anxiety. Finally, the phone stops ringing. A moment later, a beep indicates I have a message. I play it twice just to hear his voice. It sounds garbled, not like him. I hear something in his voice I haven't heard before. Is it fear? Guilt? Shame?

“Maybe you should go stay at your mother's house . . . when they were cleaning out Johnson's jail cell, they found some papers under his mattress. They were all about you—­your business card—­looks like one you left for Jasmine's parents, photocopies of some old newspaper stories about your sister, all your articles.” He pauses for a minute. “Listen . . . he has your address. If I don't hear from you, I'm going to call SFPD and have them send a patrol car over to watch your place.”

I immediately dial him. I get his voice mail. At first, I'm disappointed, but then I'm relieved: He cares enough to call me and maybe send a patrol car over to protect me, but he doesn't care enough to come himself? Fine. I lie to his voice mail. “Thanks for letting me know. I'm heading to my mom's right now. I'm already in the car.”

While I'm speaking, my phone beeps. He's trying to call me back. I ignore it. I need time to think. Johnson's free. It's Donovan's fault. It's all too much. All I know is I'm not going anywhere tonight. I picked my apartment not solely for its lovely balcony views but also for its security.

You have to have a key to gain entrance to my apartment building, and my neighbors are nosy. Any strange-­looking man isn't getting into this building without someone's noticing. Because I'm on the fourth floor, I'm not really worried about anyone getting in through my windows or balcony. However, just in case, I call Lopez and tell him what I need.

Twenty minutes later, he's on my couch, showing me how to load and fire a small silver gun.

“Now, listen, man, this is important: You can't shoot through the front door and get away with it, but if anyone comes inside the building or into your apartment, you go ahead and blast the fucker. Okay?”

I feel silly that I procrastinated and didn't get my own gun yet, but thank him and tell him I'll return it in a day or two after I have a chance to buy my own. The gun is not registered, he says. If I do shoot it, I'll have to come up with some story about where I got it. I'm not too worried about that right now.

After Lopez leaves, I double-­check all my windows and doors and prop a wooden pole against the runner on my sliding-­glass door, even though my balcony is four stories above the ground.

I fall asleep and dream about a limping man, a dark figure loping toward me as I try to escape. I run down deserted city sidewalks dimly lit by old-­fashioned streetlamps, casting fearful glances behind me. He moves like a shadow. His body elongates until it seems as if he can stretch all the way and touch me even though I'm a block ahead of him. I turn a corner and hide in an alley, crouching behind a Dumpster, holding my breath.

I wake, and it feels like a weight is pressing down on me in the dark. I cry out, but no sound comes. I keep struggling out of the depths until finally I'm alert. I sit up shivering and flip on my bedside light. After a few moments, I turn it off, lie back down clutching my miraculous medal and my dad's
cornicello,
and fall into a deep, heavy sleep.

 

Chapter 42

M
Y INSIDES FLOOD
with a wash of fear when I hear the voice on the other end of my phone. I sit up in the predawn darkness of my apartment, clutching my cell phone and seeing with blurry eyes that it's only six o'clock.

How in the hell did Jack Dean Johnson get my cell-­phone number? He's been out of jail less than twelve hours.

“Gabriella? It's time. I told you that you were one of the few. You've earned it. Meet me at the Oakland Harbor tonight. If you follow Terminal Street, it will dead-­end. Follow the dirt road to the veteran's memorial dock at the end.”

I grab Lopez's gun and creep to my front window. I slowly draw back the curtain and peer out into the darkness. I don't see anybody on the street below. I also peek through my peephole into the hall outside my door. Nothing.

“How do I know you're going to really give me the goods?” I finally say. “How do I know you'll really tell me what happened to Caterina. And Jasmine? Why now? You're a free man. Why would you jeopardize that?”

“I figure I owe you. You might find this hard to believe, but I'm a man of my word. Besides, I'm not worried about the cops now. I'm meeting with you, then hopping on a freighter heading overseas. No one's going to give me work here. I need to go far away, where nobody has seen my face plastered all over the news. Don't worry, there are no strings attached. After tonight, no one will ever see or hear from me again. You'll be the last one to ever hear from me.”

I hesitate for a few seconds. It's my last chance to find out what happened to Caterina. And if I get details about Jasmine, it might be a way for me to get my job back, but I just don't know. He might be lying. He must sense my reluctance because he immediately ups the ante.

“And I have some things to show you to convince you.”

“What are they?”

He practically whispers it. “Pictures.”

A chill runs down the length of my body.

“Caterina?”

“Jasmine. Your sister was a long time ago. I would have been stupid to keep something around that long.”

Proof that he took Jasmine but not Caterina. For some reason, this convinces me he's telling the truth. If he wanted to lure me into meeting with him by lying about having pictures, wouldn't he have said they were of my sister?

Pictures proving he took Jasmine might be just what I need. I'll take them straight to the cops. He thinks he's so smart, but they'll be able to find him. I'll also take copies to my publisher with my story and get my job back. Or maybe, I'll take it over to the editors at the
Trib.
But most important, I'll finally find out about Caterina and Jasmine. I swallow a big lump of fear that rises in my throat. I can't afford to be afraid. This is my one shot.

“Fine. I'm there. I'm not in the mood for any games, so you had better come through with it. What time?”

“Eleven thirty.”

I hang up without responding.