Last Chants (2 page)

And just a few years ago, he'd been arrested and convicted of felony trespass—for accompanying my parents to a demonstration against Lockheed. Arthur wasn't interested in politics, but he'd been in the middle of a discussion and had tagged along to finish making his point.

I'd had a long, frantic talk with my mother recently. California had passed a law making a third felony conviction—whether the felonies were violent or not—punishable by a minimum of twenty-five years in prison. My mother, flighty activist and bleeding heart extraordinaire, had more than three felony convictions already. One more and she'd never be free again. She'd die in prison.

Now I was watching our kindly old friend on the brink of getting arrested and charged with another felony. Unless there was some explanation I absolutely couldn't fathom, he'd be convicted.

I'd spent two months in jail myself. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, much less a seventy-year-old mild-mannered scholar.

Whatever the reason for what was happening, I couldn't bear to imagine Arthur locked away for the rest of his life. I couldn't just stand by.

I only had a moment to alert him. Even then, he might not be spry enough to outrun a young police officer. (If only Mother hadn't dragged him off to that demonstration!)

I charged across the street, oblivious to traffic, though the sound of screeching brakes told me traffic wasn't oblivious to me.

By the time I reached Arthur, it was too late to warn him. The cop was right behind me. I could tell by Arthur's flustered cry.

“Officer!” he said.

That one word, untinged by panic or hostility, dissolved my last doubt. Despite appearances, Arthur wasn't dangerous.

Maybe if I'd bought into, as well as having bought, a law degree, I'd have delivered a “surrender, and let me advise you” speech. But my faith in the criminal justice system could be measured in microns.

I knew the district attorney could find a felony in this situation no matter the excuse or extenuation.

Arthur in prison forever. I couldn't chance it. I had to try
something.

I was obscuring the officer's view. I took advantage of the fact to twirl as if Arthur had grabbed me, to back myself into his gun.

It was not a good feeling.

I told myself Arthur probably hadn't released—maybe didn't even know how to release—the safety on the gun, wherever it had come from and whyever he was holding it. No matter what, he wouldn't shoot me. Not intentionally, anyway.

“Back away, please,” I told the cop. “He's got the gun on me.” I worried that it sounded false, sounded silly, maybe wasn't even intelligible English.

Behind me, Arthur was beginning to disclaim. Luckily, he was agitated, stuttering.

“He'll kill me,” I blundered on. I looked over my shoulder. Arthur appeared perplexed. “Let him get away.” I tried to bore my meaning into Arthur's understanding. “He'll shoot me if you try to stop us!”

I felt like I'd picked up the wrong script. Arthur had, too: “I wouldn't hurt, I'd never—”

“If you back up, he won't hurt me,” I interjected. I glanced at Arthur's victim. He looked more surprised than anyone.

“But Willa,” Arthur protested.

“Will you what? Will you kill me? Stand back,” I urged the cop. Arthur just wasn't getting with the program. “Maybe if you let him go, he'll let me go.” I didn't have to work at sounding plaintive.

The cop got macho: “Stand back. Everyone stand back. Give him room.”

Bystanders had already practically leap-frogged over one another to get away. And people approaching were halted in their tracks by the sight of a gesticulating cop. (I'd always wondered what could stop urban professionals in their tracks.)

I started backing up, sure if I stepped forward, Arthur would remain rooted, making me the least threatened “hostage” since Tanya.

I couldn't think of a way to get him to half-nelson my neck. So I reached behind me, contorting my arm as if he were twisting it. I forgot to wince, but what the hell. I gave him a backward push.

“Let us go,” I said to Arthur, while staring at the cop. “He's dangerous.”

Combined with my shove, Arthur got, if not the idea, at least some momentum. As he staggered back, I matched his steps, keeping as close as Ginger to Fred. I grabbed a fistful of his trenchcoat, then pivoted around him, trying to change our direction. I hoped it looked as if he were in charge.

Arthur rotated with me, thanks to my strategic yanking of his coat. But he protested, voice loud and incredulous, “What are you doing?”

The cop said, “Nothing. Calm down. There's no need to harm the hostage. That won't get you anything.”

“Stay with me.” I thought I was whispering to Arthur. I was probably shrieking, I was so nervous.

The cop certainly heard me. “Don't worry, lady. Just keep your head.” He shouted at Arthur: “Backups are hitting this neighborhood hard. You're not going to get far. Make it easy on yourself.”

I let my free hand brush Arthur's nongun hand, then grabbed it. I pulled him along behind me, trying to act like he was pushing.

It didn't seem like much of a plan when I started. A few awkward moments into it, it seemed downright ridiculous. I nearly jumped ship right then.

Except for one thing: Another felony and Arthur would never get out of prison again.

With that thought came an even less-welcome one. If the cops caught us—and there was every probability they would, given Arthur's clueless discomposure and my utter lack of strategy—they'd soon learn I was a friend of Arthur's. They would reinterpret this scene to account for that, and they would realize the obvious: that I was working with Arthur. Except they wouldn't believe my involvement was limited to inappropriate good Samaritanism. They would see me as an accessory after the fact—whatever that fact might be. They might even think I'd been in on Arthur's “crime” (I still couldn't imagine a scenario that would put a gun into Arthur's hand). They'd consider me his accomplice.

At best, I'd be late for my first day of work.

Work: I'd scouted the neighborhood after my job interviews. I'd scoped out the nearest coffee and pastry shops, lunch joints, bookstores, dry cleaners, drugstores.

I'd been impressed with all the back-alley bistros, the mini-plazas with basement delis, the narrow parkways, the labyrinthine connections between skyscrapers. Hurrying, especially driving, through the Financial District gave the impression of big impersonal buildings. But at a leisurely pace, it revealed its architectural grottos and enclaves, its fey staircases and preened alleys.

In fact, we were in front of a tiny plaza now. Sandwiched between skyscrapers, it looked like a subway entrance with planter boxes. But it had escalators up to a barbershop and a travel agency and an escalator down to a market and a deli. The market had a back door. I'd opened it by mistake last week, noticing a storage area with an exit.

I pulled Arthur to the escalator, forcing him to follow me down the moving stairs. I could hear commotion and swearing behind us, people bumping one another in their haste to leave, perhaps. With luck, they would impede the cop.

I yanked Arthur into the market. I let go of his trenchcoat but kept a firm grip on his hand. I dragged him through the store and out the back, to the vocal consternation of its Chinese owners. I thought I heard the cop shout for us to stop, but he wasn't close enough for us to heed him. I opened a storeroom door labeled
STAIRS.

I assumed the cop was somewhere behind us, but I didn't look. I told Arthur, “We have got to outrun him. Follow me.”

“But Willa—”

“Follow me!” I dropped his hand, willing him to keep up.

I ran up the stairs, to a door labeled
EXIT
, and pushed out into an alley. I crossed quickly, bypassing the back door of a bank (too obvious) and going into a restaurant. I ran through it, past disgruntled men in tuxedo shirts, and out the back. I ran across the street and into a bank building. I managed to do it looking mostly backward, mostly at Arthur, focusing my imploring panic like a tractor beam.

Arthur remained in tow.

He still carried the gun. “Give me that! Good heavens.” I stuck it into my combination handbag-briefcase. It was a miracle no one else had joined the chase.

The cop, I hoped, hadn't kept close enough behind to know which building we'd entered.

We ran up three flights, then through another emergency exit. We found ourselves in a carpeted corridor. A nearby door read
LADIES.

I pulled off my jacket, saying, “Take off your trenchcoat. Now.”

As Arthur obeyed, I pushed open the restroom door.

“Arthur, you've got to find someplace to hide for a couple of minutes, okay?”

“But Willa, I've been trying to explain this is all a—”

I grabbed his trench. “I'll find you in two minutes,” I assured him. “Trust me. Hide.”

I stepped into the bathroom. I stuffed our jackets into the trash, covering them with paper towels. Then I wet my hands. I dampened the ends of my hair, an elbow-length reflection of a midlife yearning for my hippie youth. I twisted it into a skinny rope, which I tucked into my blouse. The blouse was high-necked. Without a jacket, I would look as if I worked in the building. I hoped I would look like a short-haired secretary.

I found Arthur idly reading the front-door directory of a law firm with many names. He was right across from the elevator; so much for “hiding.”

“We don't have a second to lose,” I warned him. “There'll be police all around. We'll have to separate. You take the elevator, I'll take the stairs. I'll meet you on the street.”

Could I show up for work without a jacket?

“What happened to your hair, Willa?” He seemed startled by the difference in my appearance.

“Never mind that.” I punched the elevator button for him. “Walk toward Market. I'll meet you at the corner.”

I dashed back down the stairs. A short service corridor led into an alabaster lobby. A few people waited for elevators, checking their watches. Others pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance. Watching them was the cop who'd been following me and Arthur.

He was intently speaking into his walkie-talkie. I tried to walk past nonchalantly, but my heart was racing. There was a certain
unhappy reality that never failed to annoy me; but if it failed this time, I was dogmeat.

“Hey!” the policeman barked. “Did you see anyone on the stair—?”

Before he could say more—maybe too soon—I shook my head.

He scowled, again lifting his walkie-talkie to his lips. Luckily he'd stayed true to guy form. He'd seen me as a blonde, not as someone with a particular face.

I left the building and merged with a river of workers.

Hot from running and worrying, clammy from drizzle on my shirt, I suffered a sudden lack of confidence in Arthur. What if he were caught alone—if he blundered into the police when I left him? Would he name me? Would he tell them what I'd done, thinking they'd believe his exoneration? (One thing about lawyering, it taught you how little the cops were willing to believe. And why.)

My confidence in Arthur was further undercut by the fact that he and my mother were friends. I knew how my mother reacted to being arrested. She was certain being right made her persuasive. Two dozen arrests and five convictions later, she still believed she could change the minds of police and judges; that, hearing her speak with logic and passion, they would be persuaded to take a left turn onto the high road. No doubt about it: In Arthur's place, my mother would admit another's complicity as if sharing an honor. And I knew from painful experience that her most well-intentioned friends could pose the biggest threat to my comfort and security.

By the time I joined Arthur, jittering in perplexity on the corner, I knew I'd better keep an eye on him; that I'd better get him safely out of the neighborhood.

I hoped it wouldn't take long.

For once, I was being unduly optimistic.

I
t was taking us forever to get out of the neighborhood. There were uniformed cops on every block. We ducked into buildings, we wound through alleys trying to avoid them. Moments after I dumped the gun in a trash can, we saw police stop an older man walking with a younger woman.

“We'd better keep to opposite sides of the street,” I fretted. “But don't lose track of me. Stay right across from me.”

Soon after, another cop seemed ready to approach Arthur, though he walked alone. Luckily, he glanced over at me. I pointed out the cop, discreetly, I hoped. He stepped into a nearby bank. The cop seemed about to follow, then went after another December-May couple.

By the time I joined Arthur, we were both as nervous as cats. Lingering a moment in a foyer corner, I snapped, “What in the world possessed you, Arthur? Why were you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

Doing what! “Holding a gun on that guy.”

“Holding it on him? Oh my, no. My my, no.” Arthur's wrinkled face ironed with astonishment. “Is that what you were thinking? I assumed you realized—I couldn't imagine why you did such a thing.”

“Me?” People around us turned. I lowered my voice. “Why
I
did such a thing?”

“Yes! Rushing up like that, pulling me away into this goose flight.” His face crinkled like wadded paper. “Really, I was so surprised. But you seemed very determined. I thought you must have a reason. And I hardly knew how to stop you.”

“Stop me? You'd be in jail right now, Arthur.”

“Oh, no.” His tone was avuncular. “I'm sure we'd have straightened it out.”

“But you were standing there holding—” I made myself shut up. This was not the place.

“I have no idea why he handed it to me. I imagine the policeman would have asked him.”