Contents Under Pressure (13 page)

“What’s hard to take?” I said, as the doors finally opened and we boarded. “You’ll see a lot of beautiful clothes, pick up some fashion tips…”

Lottie shot me a dark look. “That’s just what Gretchen suggested I need. Do you know what it’s like to set up photo sessions with those piss-ass women?” Her voice rose. “Each wants her own hairdresser, make-up person, and designer to be there. You know what it’s like trying to schedule that? Ten times over? And then get all of them and their entourages organized for a group shot, while making sure they don’t wind up in a cat fight? They all loathe and despise one another. I swear, Britt, I’d rather shoot pictures of a wreck or a plane crash or a dead body. One best-dressed has already changed her appointment three times. I want to strangle that woman. She has so many designer ball gowns that the overflow is hanging from the shower stall in one of her half-dozen bathrooms. Her furs have their own locked room down the hall. Furs? In Miami? You know how I feel about wearing poor dead critters.”

“Me, too. What are
you
going to wear?”

“The usual. My L. L. Bean shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots,” she said. “What else?”

“At least make it designer jeans.”

Lottie glared and punched the lobby button impatiently, as the elevator made grinding sounds, its door moaning open at every floor even though no one was waiting. “I can’t see how this assignment is gonna change the world and benefit mankind. This is not why I got into photo journalism.”

I made sympathetic noises. “How is Eduardo to work with?”

“Oh, he’s in hog heaven, mingling with high society and going to their big charity balls and fashion shows. I wish to hell he would butch up.”

“You think he’s…”

“Nothing would surprise me. How did Gretchen do you?”

“Insinuated that I am sleeping with the police department.”

“All of them? Even the SWAT team, and the vice squad?”

I nodded glumly.

“I hope you told her to eat shit and die.”

“I wish I had, but one of my stories was in front of her at the time. What is wrong with that woman?”

“If we had the answer to that we could take it on tour. That woman is mean enough to steal from her daddy. Just remember, leave time for Larry Zink, we’re fixing to have supper with him and Steve tomorrow night, so you make sure you don’t get involved in a story that keeps you late.”

The elevator doors parted, at long last.

“Try to come to the 1800 tonight for drinks with Ryan. It could be your last chance,” she said. “We’re launching him tomorrow. Gretchen wants the story for the weekend. We borrowed a used Cuba escape raft from the Coast Guard.”

We rolled our eyes at each other.

It took me twenty minutes to park at headquarters. I circled the lot endlessly, waiting for a space to open. Gretchen beeped me twice, but I ignored her. Finally, I nabbed a spot and hurried inside.

Menendez looked like he’d been waiting. He handed me a manila envelope.

“It’s a transcript,” he said, then stepped back into his private office.

“Danny, wait a minute. I need the paperwork to ride as an observer, on midnights, with Officer Francie Alexander.” Civilians have to sign a release absolving the department from liability when they accompany officers in city vehicles, a mere formality.

He turned back to me, his eyes expressionless, as though I was an unwelcome stranger. “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head.

“What do you mean? Is this some change in policy? I’ve ridden before, on days. It’s never been a problem.”

He shrugged and looked distant. “I’ll have to see if the major approves.” His expression said he knew damn well the major would not approve.

“Last time I signed up and rode the same day. It was no hassle.”

“Things are different.” He closed his office door.

What
is
this? I thought I sat down at an empty desk in the media room and opened the envelope to look at the transcript. I scanned it and knew what was wrong.

There it was, cops radioing that they were in pursuit dispatch asking if they needed additional backup. Negative. Other units appearing to join in anyway. Officers broadcasting their swiftly changing locations as the chase progressed. Then a delay, followed by a unit requesting rescue and an ambulance for the subject. Then a request for a wrecker.

What was missing was the most important, right at the start. No be on the lookout by the dispatcher for a car that looked like D. Wayne Hudson’s. No radioed description of an armed and dangerous suspect in a similar car, no reason for the fatal chase.

Menendez saw me approach his glassed-in office and picked up his phone as though making a call. I knocked anyway, then opened the door. “Danny, this isn’t complete.”

He stared, the phone in his hand. “Yes, it is.”

“Where is the BOLO the dispatcher put out for a car like Hudson’s?”

“There’s nothing like that on the tape.”

“But that was the reason they chased him.”

Menendez cradled the phone. His mouth was rigid, spitting words out rapid fire. “They went over the tape forward, backward, and upside-down. It’s not there.”

“Why would they lie about it? Why did they chase him?”

“I wouldn’t be calling anybody a liar, Britt. You’ll have to talk to them.”

“Is there an internal affairs investigation?”

He jerked back in his chair and thrust out his chin. “Why should there be? The case is cut and dried. The man ran from police and cracked up his car. What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I just don’t understand…”

“You have to talk to them.”

“They’re not returning my messages.”

He shrugged. “I can’t force them to talk to you. There is still a policeman’s bill of rights.” He picked up the phone again, dismissing me.

I was stunned. I sat down and reread the transcript. The chase ended at 12:58
A.M
., when one of the units said, “We got ‘im,” and gave the location.

That must have been the time of the crash. It wasn’t until 1:06
A.M
., eight minutes later, that rescue and an ambulance were requested. The call for a wrecker followed, six minutes after that, at 1:12
A.M
. That was the first mention of a 317—a traffic accident with injuries. I began to think about the air bag, and got a sick feeling in my gut.

The most obvious conclusion was too outrageous to be true. There has to be an explanation, I thought. Please let there be an explanation.

I left messages again for the cops involved, slid the transcript back into the envelope, and went back to Menendez, who looked exasperated.

“I want to ride on the midnight shift as soon as possible.”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just talked to Major Alvarez. He said no.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t have to explain why. He’s the major—observers ride at the will of the department. The major said no, and he’s the man in charge.”

“What’s his number?”

He told me, and I heatedly called it from one of the media room telephones. A secretary took my name and pronounced the major busy. I asked if she could be sure to have him return my call. All she could do, she said, was give him the message. She did not sound encouraging. Even if I did reach him, my chances of changing his mind seemed remote.

Francisco Alvarez had arrived in Miami as a teenager, in the sixties, during the first wave of Cuban immigration. About five feet, ten inches tall, he was solidly built and sullen-looking with dark tangled eyebrows and slick black hair. He carried a gold-plated automatic and rarely talked to reporters. Years ago he was linked to a big
bolita
scandal and never forgave the press, especially the
News,
for reporting it. One of those cops who liked to walk the cutting edge, he socialized with questionable people who invariably got into some degree of trouble, yet he always seemed to emerge all right.

Alvarez was never indicted in the
bolita
case but was summoned before a grand jury. He had always aspired to be chief, and felt that the news stories undermined his chances. Perhaps they did, then, but they were old news now, and next time the chiefs job opened up he would probably be among the top candidates. In fact, the politicos would probably select from inside the department next time, after all the flak from the police union and the troops for bringing in an outsider. As a Latino, Alvarez’s chances were excellent, if he was still around when the time came. Personally, I dreaded the possibility. If it was sometimes tough to dig a story out of the department now, it would be a heckuva lot harder with him as chief.

My problem now was how to get myself into a police car on the midnight shift. I had wanted this simply for background and atmosphere, and perhaps a glimpse of the troops in action, but being refused made me want to ride with them even more. I could ask Francie to smuggle me along like Bitsy, but she could wind up in trouble. That wouldn’t be fair. Homicide detectives, however, did their own thing. They were the elite, and were known for having an attitude; their positions were more secure. Maybe Sgt. McDonald liked me enough to do it.

He liked me well enough to return my call at eleven o’clock that night. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

“Is this the recorded line?” I asked.

“Obviously not. Why?”

“You’re right, I can’t stay away. I want to ride with you guys as an observer.”

“Sure, Britt. No problem. You just have to call PIO and sign a release.”

“There is a problem. I was there today, and the major said no.”

“How’d you piss him off?”

“I guess he’s in a hate-the-media mood.”

“He does have fits of that from time to time. Why don’t you just talk to him?”

“Why don’t you guys just let me go with you anyway? We don’t need a release. Nothing will happen. I’m not gonna sue if I stub my toe.”

I could almost hear him thinking, and see his face, serious and thoughtful. “It’s against policy. Is there something here you’re not telling me?”

“I just want a look, for background purposes, at what it’s like out there on midnights. I didn’t think you’d mind showing me.”

“Background for what?”

He wasn’t stupid. “Whatever stories I do in the future that concern midnights.” That was the truth.

“My partner would not be crazy about this. We’ll both step in it if anything happens. I can’t do that to him.”

He was saying no and laying it on his partner. “What could happen? Who would ever know? The brass isn’t out there on midnights. If something big goes down, I’ll act like I’m not with you.”

“When did you want to come?”

“Tomorrow night?” I tried not to sound too elated.

“Fine with me.”

“What about Flood?”

“He’ll be okay.”

I agreed to meet them at the station just after eleven. This would be interesting.

Ryan wore cut-offs, sneakers without
socks, and a fluorescent flaming orange life jacket over a loose white cotton shirt. There were seasick bands on his wrists, and a jaunty wide-brimmed straw hat on his head. His luggage included a duffel bag, several large plastic grocery sacks full of supplies, a big blue cooler full of sandwiches, soft drinks, and beer on ice, and a small tin pail for bailing. I had driven down to the Miami Marina to bid him bon voyage. The weather was grand, chamber of commerce perfect, sunlight dancing like diamonds on the water. The seas were flat; all systems were go. His raft was constructed of three Soviet truck inner tubes reinforced by canvas and lashed to a wooden framework. The lower frame was crisscrossed with chicken wire to keep out the sharks. The inventive homemade craft was spacious compared to some of the contraptions used by the
balseros,
runaway Cubans, to attempt the ninety-mile open-sea journey to Florida. Ryan had selected from what the Coast Guard had on hand. His other choices had included a block of Styrofoam with a single seat hollowed out and oars strapped to the sides, and a tractor inner tube equipped with homemade oars.

Seeing the flimsy weather-beaten raft made me respect even more the desire powerful enough for people to brave such leaps of faith, flinging themselves into the ocean on anything that might float them to freedom. Seven Cubans had put out to sea from Santa Fe, a coastal town about forty minutes west of Havana, on the raft Ryan chose. Eight days later the five survivors were rescued about ten miles off the coast of Islamorada. Two had lost their lives in pursuit of freedom, like my father. But there was a difference; I felt mixed emotions accompanied by a surge of pride. My father had returned to Cuba to fight for it.

The captain of the
Vagabond,
a local deep-sea fishing boat, had agreed to ferry Ryan down to the Keys, then east to the Cay Sal Bank, above the reefs, where his raft would be launched in relatively shallow water, twenty to thirty fathoms as opposed to thousands. Years ago the Navy used the same area, south of the Bermuda Triangle, as a bombing range.

The
Vagabond
would remain in the general vicinity, just out of Ryan’s sight in the interests of authenticity but close enough to rush to the rescue in case of trouble. He would be picked up after twenty-four hours. In the interim, his raft would drift up through the straights, the escape corridor parallel to the Keys used by both Cuban and Haitian boat people and rafters.

Lottie would spend the night aboard the
Vagabond,
keeping in touch with Ryan via portable hand-held radio. In the morning, a seaplane would skim out over the water for Lottie, who would shoot aerials of Ryan. Then the
Vagabond
would bring him back in.

Swim fins and a spear gun protruded from one of Ryan’s bulky bags. He appeared well prepared, a little plastic nose guard fastened to his sunglasses, his face smeared with sticky white sunscreen. The six-packs of Coors in his ice chest concerned me, and I warned him to go easy on the beer out there in the hot sun. “Remember the blotting paper,” I said, as I hugged him goodbye and resisted a sudden wicked impulse to hum the theme from
Jaws.

Lottie, wearing jeans, boat shoes, and two cameras, leaped gracefully aboard the
Vagabond.
Ryan followed, a little uncertain on his feet as the boat rocked gently at the dock. Lottie reached out to steady his arm, glanced my way, and we both smiled. Ryan did look like a tenderfoot.

We had had to cancel dinner with Larry and Steve, who had made reservations at a famous French restaurant. Lottie was disappointed, but I was secretly pleased that her assignment, and not my midnight shift plans, was the official reason for postponing our dinner date. I did not want to be accused of ruining her love life, when I was already to blame for ruining my own. She did not seem depressed at the moment, probably because the captain of the
Vagabond
was blond, Nordic-looking, and husky.

The
Vagabond’s
twin engines thundered to life, and the handsome blue and white vessel began to slip away from the dock. Lottie stood up on the tuna tower, hair streaming in the wind tike a Viking princess. Ryan stood on deck surrounded by his belongings, ready for adventure. He gave me the thumbs-up sign, and I waved as the captain steered smoothly out toward Government Cut and deep water.

A visitor was waiting back at the office. She rose from her lobby chair outside the newsroom and stepped forward when Gloria, the receptionist, greeted me by name. Long, lustrous brown hair framed a heart-shaped face that looked eager, though shadows smudged the skin under her eyes. Her figure was slim except for the swelling that filled out the front of her maternity jumper. She held out a hand and introduced herself as Betsy Ferrell, Ted’s wife.

“I’m sorry. I know I should have called first, but I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” she said.

I invited her into the newsroom, a little embarrassed about my grubby desk, and asked if she’d like to go to the cafeteria for coffee. “Not unless you really want some,” she said. “I just need to talk.” The look in her eyes told me that she didn’t just happen to be in the neighborhood.

Ryan’s chair was available, so I wheeled it around his desk and parked it next to mine. She sat down, clutching her purse. “I didn’t know you guys were expecting again,” I said cheerfully.

She started to say something, gulped, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Embarrassed for her, I took the box of Kleenex from my desk drawer and handed it over. She plucked one out, then kept the box balanced on her lap. Naively, I figured there must be trouble in paradise, that Ted had been acting up. Some men did when their wives were pregnant, but I was surprised at Ted.

“Britt, I want you to know we’ve always been grateful. Putting Ted’s name in stories in the past, the story last week…” Tears overflowed and she pressed a tissue to her eyes. Her fingernails were neatly trimmed and immaculate. I became conscious of my own fingers, stained with ink from the cheap ballpoint pens the paper issued to us. “It’s meant a lot … We’re so proud of him.” She sniffled, struggling to continue.

“Mrs. Ferrell, what’s wrong?”

“Please call me Betsy.”

I nodded.

“This story, the story that you’re working on, please let it alone. Don’t write it.” Pink blotches had appeared on her cheeks as she dabbed at her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” she gulped. “D. Wayne Hudson.”

“Why are you so upset about this story? Look, just catch your breath and tell me what we’re talking about here.”

“You know why,” she said, then leaned back in a determined effort to regain composure. She sniffed and made an attempt to smile. “You know we’re a SITKOM family.”

“Excuse me?”

“Single Income, Two Kids, Outrageous Mortgage,” she placed her left hand, with its modest wedding band, on her swollen belly—”except soon it will be three.”

Not living out in suburbia, I guessed I wasn’t caught up on the lingo.

“I have never wanted Ted to work midnights,” she said cryptically. “He never liked working with those guys; they’re always in trouble. But he wanted the extra money, with the new baby and all. He swore he’d never let them drag him into anything. That was why he switched back to days. If only he’d done it sooner.” She leaned forward, eyes pleading. “We can’t afford to have him get in trouble and lose his job. It’s not just losing the paycheck, or even the house with a baby on the way. It’s the job.” Her voice was low and intense. “He loves it so much.” She looked ready to weep again, and I felt like shit.

“What makes you think Ted is in trouble?”

“He won’t be if you just let it go. Let it go, Britt.”

I was confused. “How do you know what I’m working on? I haven’t even talked to Ted about it.”

“They know, Britt. They all know you’re on the story.”

“Who is ‘all’?”

“Ted, the Blackburns, Manny Machado, Estrada, their families, Carpenter. Everybody’s upset.”

Her words were chilling. While I’d been piddling around, unaware, my lame efforts had been agitating a lot of people.

My face must have telegraphed my feelings. Betsy looked apprehensive. “Ted doesn’t know I’m here,” she whispered. “But I thought if I appealed to you, woman to woman, you wouldn’t do this. There are so many other stories. I’m sure they’d be eager to help you with some of them. You’ve been so good to us, so fair in the past.” She shredded a tissue nervously.

“I’ve never been good to you and Ted, Betsy. I wrote stories about him because he deserved them. All I can tell you is that I’m as fair as I can be, and I do care. Did Ted do something wrong?”

“He never would!” she cried vehemently.

“So what is there to be upset about?”

“You don’t understand…” she stopped, her eyes changing. “You’re going to keep working on it,” she said slowly.

“Sure, and it would make everything a lot easier if Ted would just give me a call and help me piece together what actually happened that night.”

“I have to go now.” She stood abruptly, placed the box of tissues on my desk, and turned to leave. Unconsciously, she was clutching her purse to her bosom, like a baby. “Thanks for talking to me. Please don’t tell anyone I was here.”

So something ugly did happen between the cops and D. Wayne Hudson, I thought, watching her walk away. I bet I knew what it was. Somebody had lost control, and the others were covering up for him. I wondered which of D. Wayne’s injuries had come at the hands of a brutal cop? Or did they all? Only one thing was certain—nothing would keep me from this story now.