Taken (8 page)

As it turned out, finding an adoptable infant was nearly as difficult as dealing with the whole surrogate-mom issue, but of course we didn’t know that when we started. It helped that we weren’t insisting on a blond, blue-eyed baby. Hispanic origins were fine with us, although Ted was uneasy with the agencies who specialized in South American babies. Too many stories about poor women being more or less forced to sell their newborns, or having them stolen away and sold to intermediaries. Best to stick closer to home, where U.S. law applied. Eventually we found an agency with connections in Puerto Rico, were put on the list, and at last the great day arrived and baby Tomas came into our lives.

Could his mother still be alive? Had a woman calling herself Teresa Alonzo hired the man in the mask to take him back? But it didn’t make any sense—why hadn’t I been notified? Obviously if his birth mother wanted to reestablish contact, we could have worked something out. I wouldn’t have been so selfish as to deny my son contact with his birth mother. Would I?

Honestly, I don’t know how I would react. The notion that a birth mother might be involved is strangely reassuring, because if true it means that he’s still alive. But why empty my bank account? They’d have had no way of knowing that the money was intended for Tommy’s use eventually, would they? The man in the mask could access my accounts, pry into all my records, but he couldn’t read my mind, could he?

Truth is, I’m not sure of anything. I’ve never felt so lost, not even in those first nightmare days after Ted passed. Nothing is what I thought it was. The world is upside down, or inside out, and I’ve no idea where I fit in the scheme of things.

Except for this. I raised him, nurtured him, loved him to pieces, and this one thing I know: I’m the only mother Tomas “Tommy” Bickford has ever known.

A
fter an eternity—nearly four hours, by my later reckoning—Maria Savalo returns to my holding cell with a smile on her face and a bounce in her step. She’s carrying her briefcase in one hand and a shopping bag in the other.

“The good news is you’re getting out of here,” she announces brightly. “The bad news is you can’t go home. Not yet.”

She hands me the shopping bag, which contains my personal effects, meager as they are, with the exception of my purse. Ms. Savalo explains that my purse, a simple black Coach bag, was specifically mentioned in the search warrant that was issued after I was taken into custody, and will be retained for “further examination,” whatever that means.

“What do they hope to find?” I ask, bewildered. “A letter of confession?”

“They didn’t say. They never do. The important thing is, the county prosecutor’s office has decided not to file charges ‘at this time.’”

I let that sink in. “Meaning they might still arrest me?”

Ms. Savalo shrugs. “Can’t know for sure. My instincts tell me there’s still a strong possibility an indictment will occur, assuming they can develop the evidence, link it together.”

She goes on to explain that as far as the prosecutor is concerned, there are problems with the police theory of the crime. Not the least of which is how a woman of my size and strength managed to hoist the body of a 248-pound man into the freezer. Plus, anything the deputies discovered upon entering the house might come under “fruit of a poisoned tree”—Ms. Savalo’s phrase—because they entered and searched without a warrant.

“Real sticky problem for them is what to do about the phone call,” she explains, plopping down on the bunk.

At first I assume she’s referring to my call to Jake Gavner, when I lied under duress and convinced him my son was safe and sound at home. But no, it seems there was another phone call, one I had nothing to do with.

“Think about it, Mrs. Bickford. What were the police doing knocking on your door? Had to be something that alerted them to you. That something was an anonymous call to the 911 line, which means they have it on tape. So far they haven’t let me listen to the call—they will eventually—but from what I was given to understand by the prosecutor’s office, the caller implicated you in the disappearance of Sheriff Corso. Why Deputy Sheriff Crebbin didn’t apply for a search warrant at that point, I don’t know. Certainly on the basis of the call, one would have been granted. But what happened is, as soon as they got the call they raced over to your place and knocked on the door. Guess maybe he thought Corso might still be alive.”

“They were close friends,” I tell her, feeling ill, despite the good news of my impending release. “Terry must have been frantic to find him.”

“Whatever,” says Ms. Savalo, somewhat cavalierly. “The point is, who made the call? Leaves the prosecutors with an unknown quantity, and they hate that.”

“Must have been the man in the mask,” I suggest. “He called me just before they knocked on the door, and made sure to mention the basement.”

Ms. Savalo shrugs. “All this will be sorted out eventually. We have more to discuss, but first I’d like to get you situated. Your home is still a crime scene, so I took the liberty of booking you a motel room for a few days. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid. Just four walls, a shower and a bed.”

“Anything, I don’t care.” I’m in desperate need of a hot shower, having been stuck in the same clothes I had on when Terry Crebbin and his deputies hustled me down to the station. Clothes I’d already been passed out in for who knows how many hours.

Ms. Savalo pauses, studies me. “There’s a reason it’s nothing fancy. I’m not really worried about spending your money at this point, Mrs. Bickford. But we’ve got a situation outside the station and we have to come to an agreement on how to handle it.”

“Situation?”

“A media situation. They’ve obviously gotten wind that you’re about to be released. I counted five TV-news vans. Cable and local affiliates. This is your chance, Mrs. Bickford, if you want to take it.”

I’m confused not only by what Ms. Savalo is saying, but by her whole attitude, which has shifted. As if she’s in the process of judging me, much to her regret, and expecting the worst.

“What are you talking about? What chance?”

“Your fifteen minutes of fame. You can hold a press conference as soon as you walk out that door. Proclaim your innocence on camera, and there’s a very good chance the footage will be carried by Fox News and CNN, as well as every local station in the tristate area.”

I bury my face in my hands. Whatever muted euphoria I’d been experiencing at the idea of getting out has just been extinguished by the prospect of a media swarm. Strangely enough, I hadn’t even considered the possibility. Too many other things to obsess on. But the very idea of appearing on TV at a time like this makes my skin crawl. Never really understood why so many victims of crime, or those accused of it, are so eager to exploit face-time on TV. Hi, your infant daughter just drowned in your swimming pool, would you care to say a few words? Sure thing, but let me do my hair first, and while I’m at it, hire a media consultant.

Ugh. Revolting.

A wave of nausea doubles me up in stomach cramps. Gorge rising as I imagine microphones being shoved in my face by leering reporters. Hey, Killer Mom! What have you got to say for yourself!

“You’ve got to get me out of here,” I tell her, gasping back the bile in my throat. “Is there a back way?”

“You don’t want to speak to the media? Appear on TV? Tell your story?”

“Please help me,” I say, involuntary tears rolling down my face. “I’m begging you. Can’t you make them go away? Please?”

All of a sudden Ms. Savalo’s tight smile relaxes and turns warm. She reaches out, patting my arm, reassuring me. “Of course there’s a back way out. There’s always a back way out, but I had to know your intentions.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

She sighs and stands up from the bunk. “Come on, Mrs. Bickford, our chariot awaits.” Leading me from the holding cell, she explains: “There are two kinds of defense attorneys. Those who want to bring it to the cameras and those who don’t. I never bring it to the cameras if I can help it. My opinion, it’s almost always the first sign of a weak defense, or a guilty client. That creep who chopped up his wife and his unborn child in California? His lawyers kept that front and center on the cable talk shows for months. Not because they were convinced their client was innocent, but because they were afraid he was guilty. Their only strategy was to try and taint a jury. Sow some doubt, muddy the waters. I don’t work like that. Just a personal preference, really. I’m much more comfortable working behind the scenes. Using my contacts, making my best case directly to the cops and the prosecutors without filtering it through Fox News.”

We come to a hallway in the rear of the station. There’s no sign of Terry Crebbin or any of his men, but Deputy Katz is waiting there in full uniform, a heavy, holstered revolver on her slender hip. She won’t meet my eyes, but she’s willing enough to look at my lawyer. Indeed, I get the impression they know and respect each other.

“We all set, Rita?” Ms. Savalo asks.

Deputy Katz nods, hands her a set of car keys.

“Thanks, Rita, I owe you one.”

The rear exit to which we’ve been guided connects directly to the employee parking facility. Police cruisers, civilian cars, a tow truck. And the beautiful thing, no access to civilians, including the media.

“Deputy Katz loaned you her car?” I ask, astonished, as we hurriedly head for a five-year-old Honda Civic purposefully positioned not far from the exit door.

“Offered her five hundred bucks. She wouldn’t take it.”

We get into the car and I hunker down instinctively, expecting to be assaulted by boomed microphones at any moment.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Is she a friend of yours?”

Ms. Savalo shakes her head as she fires up the engine. “Nope. Never met her before. I just explained the situation and asked for her help. She complied. Nice kid.”

I’m amazed, considering how lovely Rita had been treating me. As if firmly convinced of my guilt, and repulsed by my very existence. Makes me think that Arnie Dexel has steered me right, finding a defense attorney who can “explain the situation” and get the cops—or at least one cop—to cooperate. I start to babble something to that effect and Ms. Savalo cuts me off.

“Get down in the seat. Doubt any of these jackals know who I am yet, but you never can tell.”

I scrunch down, aware of the musty interior of the Honda, the coffee-stained upholstery. Never do see the TV vans congregated around the front of the station because Ms. Savalo has gotten directions that take her through an adjacent parking lot, and then onto a one-way street, avoiding the main access road altogether. A few minutes later she gives the all clear and I sit up, somewhat tentatively.

We’re on the street, in light traffic, and no one is paying us the least attention.

“If you’d wanted to speak to the press, I’d have helped you set it up, advised you on what not to say,” she says conversationally. “Then I would have arranged to get you other representation. Somebody you’ve seen on TV. Some glamour-puss like Roy Black or maybe even Alan Dershowitz. Both of them are terrific, by the way. It’s just not my scene.”

“Nor mine,” I confess, my voice shaky.

“Good, we’re on the same page. Lay low for a few days, they’ll be on to the next story.”

“You really think so?”

She nods. “It’s a game, Mrs. Bickford. An understanding between the hunter and the quarry. Once they get the message that we’re not playing the game, seeking the publicity to advance my career or yours, they’ll find another, more cooperative victim.”

We’ve merged onto a road that runs parallel to the highway, not far from the Bridgeport line. At the traffic circle Ms. Savalo checks the rearview mirror, appears satisfied, and then pulls in to an aging motel complex. She avoids the front office, which faces the traffic circle, and goes directly around to the rear parking lot, out of sight from the road or the traffic circle.

“Not exactly the Waldorf,” she says, shutting off the engine, “but it will have to do.”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“Good. Because you’ll need to save your money so you can afford my fee.”

We haven’t discussed that yet, nothing about cost or fees, but I know enough about what lawyers charge to assume her retainer will be enormous. I start to quiz her on the subject, thinking she wants to get into it now, and once again she cuts me off.

“Let’s get you out of sight first,” she says, grabbing a small suitcase from the trunk of the little Honda.

Given what she’s accomplished so far, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with her. Walking more quickly than I would have been able to on heels that high, she leads me up the stairs to a room on the second floor. Produces a tagged motel key from her bag and quickly opens the door.

“Here we are, Mrs. Bickford. Your home away from home.”

Standard American motel, of the era Edward Hopper made famous in his melancholy paintings. Therefore dated, if not timeless. Sealed window with the curtains drawn, paneled walls, a queen-size bed that looks a little splayed. Formica-laminated bureau, table and chairs, sink area in the far corner, a poorly vented, windowless shower stall. Battered TV on the bureau, looks like it might tune in
Leave it To Beaver
or
I Dream of Jeannie,
and I don’t mean on the TV Land channel.

Ms. Savalo tosses the suitcase on the bed, sets down her briefcase and rubs her hands together. “There,” she announces, “mission accomplished! I put a couple of outfits together,” she explains, indicating the suitcase. “Nothing fancy. Jeans, tops and underwear from Target. You won’t have access to your own clothes for a couple of days. Also an inexpensive handbag.”

I’m so grateful I feel like blubbering. But something tells me not to blubber in the presence of my new, very feisty attorney. So I sit in one of the chairs provided, and fold my hands and wait.

“Coffee? They’ve got one of those little machines.”

“Coffee would be great.”

She busies herself by the sink and soon produces two cups of lukewarm, coffee-flavored liquid. I gulp it greedily, and Ms. Savalo settles into the chair opposite.

“You’re wondering what happens next.”

I nod, clutching the plastic cup.

“We put together a formal agreement, you sign it. Right now you’re being billed at my usual five hundred per hour. That’s on the high side for hourly billing, but I’m worth it. If you’re indicted, God forbid, there will be an additional fee, somewhere in the range of fifty grand. That will cover me, a research attorney and whatever fees we pay to the investigators. Expenses extra. If it goes to trial, God
really
forbid, be ready to pony up another hundred K.” She pauses, waits for my reaction. “Are you shocked yet?”

“I’m beyond being shocked, Ms. Savalo. Finding the body of a friend in my freezer, that shocked me.”

“So you’re okay with the money?”

I shrug. “I don’t have that kind of cash. The five hundred thousand in that account was Tommy’s inheritance. It wiped me out. But there’s plenty of equity in my house. Some in the business, too. I’ll cover it, one way or another.”

“Good. Then I’ll be taking a lien against your property. Standard procedure, I’m afraid.”

I get the impression she’s expecting me to argue about the fees and the lien, and that she has her counterarguments ready to go. I’d like to skip past all of that, and say so.

“Fine with me. Most people get freaked about the money,” she explains.

“I’ll get freaked about it later, if you don’t mind. Right now I want you to tell me what to do about my son. Can you put me in contact with someone at the FBI? Maybe they already know about the man in the mask. I think he’s done this before.”

Ms. Savalo puts down her plastic cup, then places her briefcase on her knees and thumbs the lock open. “I took the liberty,” she says. “Put a call in to the local office in New Haven this morning, shortly after we first spoke. They haven’t got back to me yet, which is no surprise. I caution you not to expect much help from the feds.”