California Angel

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  hours during the afternoon. The hospital verified that she'd been a patient, and they insist that Toy Johnson was returned to the hospital later that same afternoon. She was returned by an NYPD officer."

  "Fabulous," Miles said. "If that isn't an air-tight alibi, what is?"

  Connors looked up and rubbed his eyes. He'd been up all night studying this, trying to figure all the angles, identify all the traps. "The NYPD has no record of ever picking up a Toy Johnson or anyone else, for that matter, and delivering them to Roosevelt. In checking with the hospital, all they know is Mrs. Johnson was escorted into the emergency room by a man in a uniform."

  "I see," Miles said. "But they did confirm she was in the hospital and her heart stopped. If she was in the hospital, how could she be in Kansas?"

  "Well," Connors said, a look of exasperation on his face, "she even admits she was in Kansas. She told her husband she was in Kansas. She told Dr. Esteban she was in Kansas. I'll bet you anything she told the arresting officers she was in Kansas as well. All she has to do is get up on that stand and say she was at the scene of the crime, and the rest won't matter. We can't impeach our own witness."

  "We can if she's mentally incompetent," Miles said with authority. "We can get the criminal proceedings suspended on the grounds of incompetency, ship her to a mental hospital, and let them set her memory straight. Then we'll bring her back to court and get her acquitted. Either that, or we won't allow her to take the stand at all."

  "Let me tell you something, Miles," Connors said, "this woman fits the profile of a body snatcher to a tee. She's childless and wants a child desperately. According to her husband, they've gone through all the tests, saw a fertility doctor, the whole ball of wax. She's been exhibiting bizarre behavior. It's Mrs. Johnson's image on that videotape out of Kansas, right there at the scene of the crime. How can we possibly win this case?"

  "Have you seen the film?" Miles said. As they had as yet to accept the case, most of the evidence was off limits.

  "Everyone has seen it," Connors said, looking at Miles as if to say, where have you been for the past twelve hours? "They ran a thirty-minute news program on CNN this morning. I thought you watched it. They had the clippings from the fire. Close-ups, too, Miles. Then they had the footage of her arrest. It's the same woman. Anyone could tell it's the same woman."

  Miles had not caught the news that morning. "Did you tape it?"

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  "Of course," Connors said.

  "I'll look at it later." He looked out over the room, "So, did all of you see the tape?"

  Sixty percent of the people nodded; the rest shook their heads. Miles asked them, "Should we take the case?"

  "I vote no," Connors said, placing his hands on top of the closed file, a symbolic gesture that he felt their involvement belonged right where it was. Closed. "These are nasty charges, Miles. And this is the most muddled and difficult case I've ever seen. We're talking three counts of first-degree homicide. We might also be looking at the death penalty. With the kidnapping charges as well, you could tie us up for years on this case."

  "Hmmmm," Miles said, thinking, "but is it sensational?"

  Connors grimaced and looked away. A chorus of other voices rang out, expressing their opinions. They all knew it was sensational, particularly those among them who had seen the tape of Toy Johnson in her California Angels T-shirt getting into the back of the police car.

  Ann Rubinsky spoke up, and everyone turned to listen. She was in her middle thirties, had gone to law school only after she had started her family, and was Spencer's newest rising star. Brilliant and articulate, Ann wore her straight brown hair in a tight French twist and was dressed in a navy blue two-piece suit with a lace collar. "This is a tremendous opportunity, Miles," she said, leaning forward in order to see him. "I completely disagree with Phil on this one. This is the kind of case that the public adores. And I think you will have no problem getting the woman cleared. Obviously there's a mistake here. She must have a dead ringer in Kansas. And think how good you'll look when you save this poor, innocent woman from a prison sentence. She's pretty, charming, theatrical. My God, they arrested her in a T-shirt with a halo. She's so innocent-looking, she looks like she could spread wings and take flight."

  "Did you see this?" Miles said, pushing a copy of the New York Post across the table. On the front page was a picture of Toy and the headline Angel or Kidnapper?

  A flurry of commotion rang out around the table. Connors glared at Rubinsky. Miles pushed his chair to an upright position. "I've decided to take the case. Whatever we can throw in the fire to keep them from transferring her to Kansas, we have to set in motion. She was in a hospital," he said, his glasses on his nose now, everything about him cranked and turning. "Get someone over to the jail and have them get her to sign a consent for her medical records. Find out

  what they were treating her for, if there's any risk if she travels. Also, see if we can't use this to get her moved to a medical facility. Her health might be one reason we can keep her in the state. And send someone over to the hospital, find out if anyone knows where the cops picked her up. We've got to find the police officer who brought her back to the hospital." Miles stopped, took a slug of coffee, set the file aside, and began making a list on a yellow pad of paper. "Ann, line up an expert to study that tape . . ."

  "Oh," she said excitedly, "I forgot to tell you who picked her up when she ran out of Central Park with that kid in her arms."

  "Who?"

  "None other than our own state senator, Robert Weisbarth."

  "Has anyone talked to him?" Miles said, thrilled at this development. "What did he think?"

  Ann Rubinsky tossed her head back and laughed. "He didn't think anything. His chauffeur told the police that the good senator was drunk as a skunk that night. After the woman vanished from the car, he started babbling like an idiot and had to be sedated."

  "When you say vanished," Miles asked nervously, "exactly what do you mean?"

  "Just that," Rubinsky said. "She was in the car, and then she simply wasn't. I interviewed the chauffeur this morning and he says the same thing. He looked in his rearview mirror and the woman was there, and then she just vanished into thin air."

  "So, she opened the car door and got out. Right?" Miles said, his eyes narrowed to slits, his fingers playing with an edge of the newspaper with Toy's photo on the front page. "What's so mysterious about that?"

  "She vanished, Miles," Rubinsky repeated. "Both Weisbarth and his driver insist she didn't open the car door and get out. As they tell it, the car door was already open. She was bending over the child and talking to her, and then suddenly she disappeared. I can't explain it more simply than that. I mean, let's face it, people don't vanish, so it's obvious the woman just ducked down and slipped out of the car without them seeing her."

  Miles Spencer had one hand pressed firmly on top of the newspaper now. He dropped his eyes, seeing only Toy's image and the word Angel, his hand covering the rest of the headline. The muscles in his face became rigid, and he stared at the photo for some time in complete silence, every eye in the room watching him intently. Then

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  he simply stood, picked the newspaper clipping off the table, and with no explanation walked out of the conference room.

  "Help, get help," Bonnie Mendoza screamed through the bars. "She's not breathing." Then she ran back to the body on the floor, pressing her head to the chest, trying to see if there was a heartbeat. "Oh, God," Bonnie yelled, "she's dead. Her heart isn't beating. Get help, get help fast."

  Toy's eyes were wide open; she was on her back on the dirty linoleum floor, Bonnie bending over her, uncertain what she should do. One minute they had been sitting on the edges of their bunks talking about Toy's case, and the next, Toy just froze and then fell to the ground, the same exact expression on her face as before she passed out.

  Feet were pounding in the hall. The other prisoners were making a racket, sticking their h
eads up close to the bars, trying to see what was going on. One woman had a small mirror and slid it through the bars to see down the hall.

  Sandy Hawkings was panting and out of breath. As soon as the door to the cell opened, she shoved Bonnie Mendoza away and placed a finger on Toy's neck. "Starting CPR," she yelled into the portable radio. "Get an ambulance rolling and a gurney up here. And get me some backup. Quick."

  As soon as she tossed the radio on the bunk, she bent down and ran her fingers up Toy's midsection, trying to locate her sternum. Once she had, she began pressing on her chest. "What happened?"

  "She was fine," Bonnie said, "and then she just fell on the floor."

  Sandy leaned over and forced oxygen into Toy's mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another female correctional officer in the cell.

  "Ambulance is en route," the woman told her, holding Bonnie at bay with an outstretched arm. "Want me to spot you?"

  "No," Sandy said, pressing again on Toy's chest, determined to bring the woman back. Sandy had given many people CPR in her long career. When she pressed her mouth to theirs and blew her breath into them, they were no longer prisoners, no longer strangers. They were Sandy's responsibility. "Are they bringing a gurney from the medical wing?" she shot out just before bending down to Toy's open mouth again.

  The answer came rushing into the cell. Two men with a stretcher.

  The other officer took Bonnie outside to give them room, then they both stood and watched.

  "We can't stop CPR," Saridy said quickly, depressing Toy's chest. "Just lift her on the gurney. I'm going with you."

  The men did as she said, Sandy standing with them and continuing mouth-to-mouth as they rushed down the hall. Every few seconds they would stop, drop to the floor, and Sandy would complete the compressions. Then she would continue ventilating Toy as they moved down the hall. They passed through the gate into the cell block, moved through another long corridor and were finally outside in the open air.

  An ambulance was parked at the curb, the rear doors open. They had a hospital inside the detention center, but they were not equipped to handle such a serious problem. And if the prisoner did die, they wanted her to die outside the walls. It didn't look good on the stats.

  Sandy Hawkings dropped to the curb and placed her head in her hands as the ambulance carrying Toy Johnson screamed down the road, lights flashing, siren squealing. Several other members of the correctional staff joined her, and one officer put her arm around Sandy. "I didn't save her," Sandy said, her voice cracking. "I tried. I tried. God, how I tried."

  "You were great," the other woman consoled.

  "Yeah," Sandy said, looking up, "but was I great enough?"

  Toy was walking down a long, narrow path lined with cobblestones. On either side of the path were vibrant fields of spring flowers, their fragrant scent meshing into one wonderful odor, so sweet, so delicate that Toy could feel tears of joy in her eyes. Somewhere in the distance she saw Margie Roberts in a beautiful peach dress. The dress was of the richest satin, trimmed with intricate white lace. Around her waist was a broad satin sash, and her hair was tied with white satin bows. Toy shielded her eyes, for Margie appeared to be standing right beneath an enormous sun, its warm yellow glow bathing her in blazing light. She was laughing and happy, and as Toy got closer, she could see a large white tent, its canvas tarp billowing in the gentle breezes. Carried on the wind were the lyrical sounds of laughter and people's voices. It sounded like a birthday party or a wedding.

  Just as Toy got close enough to see her face, she saw that Margie was beckoning and waving to her, encouraging her to join the cele-

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  bration. Then as suddenly as the dream had begun, it abruptly ended. The last thing Toy recalled was Margie extending her hand to her just as she reached out to accept it.

  Instead of Margie Roberts, Toy opened her eyes to Dr. Esteban, a man in a police uniform, a number of white-uniformed nurses, and surprisingly, the time-ravaged faces of her mother and father. She shut her eyes and let the darkness take her again. The man in the uniform was there to take her back to jail. She couldn't bear it.

  Then she heard her name over and over again. "Toy, wake up. Toy, it's Stephen. Can you hear me? Your parents are here."

  She heard his voice, but she couldn't respond. Something was holding her down, trapping her inside her body.

  "Toy, darling," her mother's voice said in the darkness. "Oh, my baby, my beautiful baby. Talk to me, Toy. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

  Toy felt the presence of herself, her identity, but she couldn't answer, couldn't squeeze her mother's hand. She didn't have hands. She didn't have a voice. Her body seemed to be a mass of swirling particles that had been stirred into a frothing, boiling mess and then allowed to disperse into the universe.

  "Toy, doll," her father's deep, scratchy voice said, "come on, sugar. Where's my little fighter, where's my little Toy?"

  A stab of pain entered her chest and Toy groaned. Then she opened her eyes and saw Dr. Esteban's face. "She's conscious," he turned and said to the group, then quickly looked back down at Toy. "How do you feel?"

  Why do they always ask that? Toy thought, closing her eyes again as she mumbled bitterly under her breath, "Sameness, sameness, sameness." The same hospital, the same doctor, the same concerned expressions on the same unknowing faces. Didn't they realize they were on a merry-go-round, that they had been through all this before?

  "Mrs. Johnson," Dr. Esteban continued, "I know you can hear me now. If you can't speak, just listen. You underwent surgery. You're in the recovery room at Roosevelt. We inserted a pacemaker. Everything went very well."

  Toy opened her eyes a few moments later and looked up at her mother and father. Right behind them she saw Stephen. "They put in a pacemaker?"

  "Yes, honey, they did," her mother said. "And now you're going to be just fine. All these problems will soon be behind you."

  Toy gazed lovingly at her mother's face. She'd once been so pretty. But now she was old, her face a mass of lines and crinkled flesh. Toy focused on her hazel eyes, ort the kindness and understanding there. "Why did you let them do it, Momma?"

  "Well, Toy, we had no choice. You almost died. Why didn't you call us before and tell us you were sick?" Suddenly her mother put her hand over her mouth, and tears pooled in her already watery eyes. "We had to see it on television . . . that our precious Toy had been arrested."

  Her father leaned down and kissed her face. His breath smelled like tobacco. "You've been smoking again, Daddy," Toy said.

  "Yeah," he said.

  Now it was Stephen's large, looming face staring down at her. Toy turned her head to avoid it. "Go away. You had no right to let them butcher me, put some machine inside my body."

  "I had no choice, Toy," he snapped. "Either you had the operation or you died. What did you want me to do?"

  "Let me die," she said.

  A few minutes later, she heard him in a far corner of the room speaking in whispers to her parents. "I just can't reason with her," he said. "This is the way it's been for the past three or four months."

  Toy had meant what she had said. She wanted to die, was ready to die. As soon as she was well, the man in the uniform would take her back to the jail. Everyone despised her, thought she was a baby snatcher and a lunatic. She couldn't save anyone, she thought bitterly. She couldn't even save herself.

  Sylvia had tried calling Toy at the hotel for days, but had repeatedly missed her. Concerned, she had called Roosevelt a few times and was pleased to learn that Toy was no longer at the hospital. That was a good sign, she told herself.

  Tuesday morning she got up after her brother had already left for work, wondering if her friend was still in Manhattan and if so, was she going to return with her today on their prearranged flight? She poured a cup of coffee in the kitchen and sat down at the table to read the morning paper. "Thanks, Abe," she said, grabbing a donut out of the box on the counter and taking an enormous bite
out of it.

  When she saw the headline and Toy's face staring back at her, she spat the food out of her mouth.

  "Good Lord," she exclaimed. "Arrested? Toy was arrested for murder." Sylvia's head was spinning. How could it be? What in the

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  world were they talking about? She quickly scanned the text and thought it was the most bizarre thing she had ever seen. But there was Toy, in that silly baseball T-shirt, looking radiant and gorgeous. Rushing to the phone, she started making phone calls. She had to find out where they had taken her.

  Sarah was tired and bedraggled. It wasn't from overwork, since she had hardly left the loft in days. She was emotionally exhausted. Sadly she realized she was reaching some kind of milestone in her relationship with the tortured young artist. If Raymond didn't improve soon, they would have to vacate the loft, and Sarah didn't know what would happen to them in the future. If she didn't work, they would have no money, and with Raymond the way he was, she simply could not leave him alone for longer than a few minutes while she ran out to get food. In his disconnected state he could wander off and be seriously hurt.

  Sarah knew she would have to let them admit him to a hospital. She simply could not accept such a grave and time-consuming responsibility.

  Raymond's condition had improved but only slightly. He was still uncommunicative, and when he did become alert, his behavior was childish and strange. He seemed to be locked in a repetitive fantasy of that one day in his life, the day he had seen the mysterious redheaded woman. One night when he had been particularly lucid, he had told her the story of what had occurred that day in rambling, disjointed sentences that didn't make much sense to Sarah. But she was thrilled each time he spoke. Every word that came from his mouth was like a morsel from heaven.

  Opening the New York Times, she thumbed through the pages absentmindedly and then suddenly gasped. "It's her," she screamed at Raymond. He was sitting at the table, his head dangling loose on his neck, dressed in his pajamas. Sarah shoved the paper right in front of his face and then leaped to her feet and circled the table until she was standing beside him. "Look, Raymond," she said excitedly, "it's your angel. Don't you recognize her? God, she even has on the same T-shirt that's in the paintings. Look, Raymond. Look!"