"I'm fine," Toy insisted. "Really, Sylvia, I'm okay. They put in the pacemaker, so that should be the end of that problem. I want you to go back. I want you to check on Margie for me. I had a dream about her the other night, and I'm worried."
"Oh, yeah?" Sylvia said, narrowing her eyes at Toy. "What about the police and all? I went down there and gave them a statement, but they're pretty tough, Toy. They really believe you did these terrible things."
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"They can't prove it," Toy said quickly. "I was in cardiac arrest at the time of the fire in Kansas. You were with me, remember? You told them, didn't you?"
"Of course I told them," Sylvia said, "but they don't believe me. They just think I'm lying, trying to cover for you."
Sylvia was silent for a long time. She finally said, "I've been thinking and thinking, and I just can't figure this out. The newspaper said there was a film of you saving that little boy. And the whole thing was just like you said: the fire, the school, even the field. How could that be?"
Toy just shrugged her shoulders, an impish look on her face.
Sylvia took a sharp intake of breath. "Oh, my God," she said loudly, "I'm sitting here talking to you like you're a normal person, but you're not. You were really there, weren't you?"
Toy nodded.
Sylvia immediately sprang to her feet and crushed Toy's head to her body, her eyes wide with astonishment. "I knew it," she said. "I knew it was some kind of miracle. I just can't believe you're my friend, that someone so special would want to be with me."
"I love you, Sylvia," Toy mumbled against her chest. The woman had her arms around her neck now and was practically strangling her. When she finally released her, Toy looked up. "We won't be together if you transfer to another school."
Sylvia instantly released her, slapping her hands against her thighs. "What are you talking about? Transfer? Did someone say transfer? I'd never want to leave Jefferson." She shook her head. "I was just kidding when I said that."
"No, you weren't," Toy said firmly.
"Yes, I was," Sylvia argued. "I love Jefferson. I love working with those kids. They need me. How could I ask for a transfer?"
"They do need you," Toy said. "They need someone who has a positive outlook and a good sense of humor." Then she smiled and added, "There's a lot of accidents at Jefferson, and you're pretty good at CPR."
Sylvia's chest swelled with pride. "I did okay, didn't I? I was certain I was going to clutch up."
"You did great," Toy said enthusiastically. "I owe you my life, Sylvia. I mean it."
Toy saw that her friend was crying and felt tears gathering in her own eyes. "Go on," she urged her. "If you leave now, you can still catch a plane back tonight."
"But I can't leave you," Sylvia sniffed.
"Go," Toy said again even more forcefully. "Please, Sylvia, they're going to need you at the school. We both can't be out. You have to go back."
"I want you to know I believe you," she whispered, clasping Toy's hand. "I've always thought you were an angel. I mean, not a real angel, but you've always been good enough inside to be one. Now all these people know, too, you know, and that's good. It's good that they know what a special person you are."
Toy leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. Sylvia stood to leave but was hesitant. She made it to the door before she stopped and gazed back at Toy with a bewildered expression on her face. "Does this mean I'm not Jewish anymore?"
"I don't think so, Sylvia." Toy smirked. "Why would you say something so silly?"
"Well, if you're an angel and I believe you're an angel, I just don't know," she said thoughtfully. "The whole thing doesn't sound very Jewish to me."
"Look," Toy said earnestly, "I can't explain what's been happening to me. But I can tell you one thing. I believe there's someone at the wheel of this ship, Sylvia, and I believe that someone has a specific plan for all of us. I don't think it really matters if we're Jewish or Mormon or some other religion. Do you know what I mean?"
"Exactly," Sylvia said, a steely determination leaping into her eyes. "I know I've got to go back to that school and be the best darn teacher those kids have ever seen."
Before Toy could say anything else, Sylvia had spun around and disappeared through the doorway.
The next morning, Toy told her mother she wanted to see Stephen. While her mother went down the hall to call him, Dr. Esteban stopped by and told Toy that he would have to clear her by tomorrow to return to the detention center.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I've stretched it as far as I can. They'll keep you in their medical wing, but . . ."
"I know," Toy said. "I want to thank you for all you've done."
Once he left, Toy pushed her tray over the bed and tried to comb her hair, put on some lipstick. She wanted to be strong when she saw Stephen. She wanted to look good.
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Stephen was standing next to his wife's bedside by one o'clock that afternoon. Toy had been allowed to get up and walk into the hall before he had arrived, with a uniformed guard at her side. Now she was dressed in a bathrobe and sitting up in bed, pillows propped behind her back.
His voice was frosty, his face set. "You asked me to come. I'm here. Now what?"
*i left some things in the safety-deposit box at the hotel. When you check out to go home, please get them for me. There's a videotape and I don't know what else, but please promise me you'll take care of this for me. It could be important." She stopped and handed him something. "Here's the key."
"Is that why you asked me to come?" he said angrily. "What? Do you think you're a celebrity now and I'm nothing but your errand boy?"
"I've decided I want to go through with the divorce, Stephen." Toy felt a jolt. She had finally said it. She tried to remain calm and spoke in a low voice. "I know you haven't been happy for years. I don't know why. I mean, I tried to do everything you asked of me. I guess it just wasn't meant to be."
He was silent, staring, his eyes opaque and distant.
"I won't destroy you or anything," Toy continued. "You can keep the house, the cars, everything. I just need enough money for my attorney and to get a new start."
"Doing what?" he said with contempt.
Toy didn't react. There was no use. The days for reacting were over. "I want you to know that I truly loved you," she said softly. "When I married you, it was the happiest day of my life."
His face softened and he shuffled his feet on the linoleum. "I still love you, Toy, but I guess you don't love me anymore. It seems like everything I do or say lately is wrong."
"I never said that," Toy answered, finding his eyes.
"Well, that's the way you act. I mean, I've only been concerned about your health. I knew something terrible like this would happen. Of course, I never thought you would be arrested for murder. If you hadn't run off like a nut, none of this would have happened. You should have stayed home where you belonged."
"See?" Toy said quickly. "That statement right there. Think about it, Stephen. You treat me like I'm an imbecile."
He slowly shook his head. "No, Toy, you're wrong," he said. "I think you're fragile, almost too good for the world we live in. I just
get scared, you know. Scared that someone is going to hurt you." He choked up and had to stop, tears gathering in his eyes. "You give so much of yourself away that there's just nothing left. Must you hate me for wanting to protect you?".
"No," Toy said, sighing deeply. "I don't blame you. I understand, Stephen. Really, I do."
"Then why do you want a divorce?"
Tears were streaming down Toy's face now. "I just know it's time," she said, reaching for a tissue.
"Time for what?" he said.
She whispered, "Time for us to be apart."
"I see," he said stiffly. "Then I guess we'll be apart."
"I guess we will," Toy said sadly. "Can you hold me, though. Only for a few minutes. I just want to be held."
Stephen walked to the edge of th
e bed and took up a position next to his wife. Then he pulled her slender body into his arms. "Was it really that bad?" he whispered. "I tried to give you everything. We have a beautiful house, nice clothes, a new car."
"Yes, it was, Stephen," Toy said meekly. "What you didn't give me was the one thing I needed."
His face was twisted in anguish. "Tell me one thing you needed I failed to give you? Tell me?"
"You didn't believe in me."
Toy turned her head away while her husband pushed himself off the bed. When she looked back, the door was swinging closed and Stephen was gone.
The following day they transferred Toy to the medical wing of the detention facility. That afternoon she was allowed to have a visitor. Sitting in a small interview room, still dressed in her robe and slippers, Toy looked over at Jeff McDonald. "You want me to do what?"
"I want you to go on television," he said. "Tell the world everything you just told me, how you went into cardiac arrest and had these dreams. How these dreams turned out to be real-life events. We've rounded up people from all over the world. We're going to do a ninety-minute special on prime time."
The reporter leaned back in the chair and sighed. For all he knew, this woman was a dangerous criminal, or at the very least, a raving lunatic. The public didn't want to hear it. Like ET, or some other stupid fantasy movie, they wanted to believe she was an angel, so Fielder and the rest of the brass at CNN had decided to give them
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what they wanted. They wanted to see serial killers, they showed them serial killers. They wanted angels, they got angels. It chapped his ass. He'd done a dynamite job of investigative reporting and they'd turned it into tabloid journalism.
"No," Toy said. "I can't. For one thing, I'm in jail."
"That's not a problem," he said wearily. "I've already spoken to the warden. We're going to tape your portion of the program right here."
"I don't know," Toy said. She remembered this man the day she was arrested, remembered him with the cameraman. He'd been the man asking her to turn around so they could catch her face. Now he was sitting here asking her to go on national television.
"Look," McDonald said, leaning over the table, "this is your one chance to show the world who you are, to tell your side of the story." Then he paused. "This isiyour chance to prove your innocence. If these cases don't go to trial, no one will ever know if you were guilty or not."
Toy knew what he was saying. He was saying that she would always be the baby snatcher, the woman who had set fire to a schoolhouse full of children. No matter what she did or accomplished, this would always be hanging over her head. Toy wondered if she would lose her job, and if she did, if another school board would ever hire her.
"Okay," she said finally, "I'll do it."
"Great," McDonald said, standing and shaking her hand. "We'll get it set up. We'll probably shoot tomorrow. Are you up to it?"
"I guess," Toy said. "What do I have to do?"
"Just answer the questions and tell the truth."
"All right," Toy said, nodding her head, thinking. "But I want my mother there."
McDonald grimaced. Everyone wanted something. At least she had not asked to be paid like all the others. He knew if they didn't get her story aired fast, every studio in town would be trying to buy the rights for a movie of the week or a feature film. Right now she was the biggest story in the country. Whatever the woman wanted, she would get. "We'll see if we can arrange it."
When Sandy Hawkings came to work the next morning, more than two hundred people were lined up in front of the jail, all carrying signs that read Free the Angel. The NYPD had dispatched officers for crowd control.
"How long have they been out there?" Sandy asked the officer in the control booth.
"All night. They stood out there with candles."
"God," she said, "they must have heard they were filming here today. You know, everyone wants to get on television."
"Have you looked at these people?" the male officer said, staring out across the street from his booth. Not waiting for Sandy to respond, he continued, "There's little kids, old men and women, every walk of life out there. You know who that man is in the black trenchcoat? That's Senator Weisbarth. He's the latest to jump on the bandwagon."
"No," Sandy said, peering out through the glass, a cup of coffee in her hands. "What's he doing standing out there?"
"Swears the second he saw her, he lost all taste for alcohol. Seems he'd been battling the booze for years, and has a bad liver. Didn't you see the story on him? It was in all the papers. Thinks she saved his life or something. Don't that beat all?"
"Yeah," Sandy said, her voice peppered with cynicism, "mass hysteria. That's what's going on."
The guard spun his chair around and looked up at the tall correctional officer. "Can you get me in to see her?"
"Who?" Sandy said, her mind a million miles away, unable to pull her eyes away from the crowd of people across the street.
"You know," he said coyly.
She shook her head. "You, Zeb? Now you believe in this woman?"
"I didn't say I believed in her. I just said I wanted to see her. Who knows, maybe she is some kind of angel. If she is, I want to be sure and get my three wishes." The man laughed, but it was forced. He was serious.
"I think you're a little mixed up, Zeb. Angels don't grant you three wishes," Sandy said, thinking she'd heard enough. She headed out of the control booth to start her shift. "That's a genie, idiot."
Sarah read every story written on Toy Johnson in each and every newspaper and magazine, and then passed them on for Raymond to read. With every hour he was becoming more alert and lucid. He had spoken to her on several occasions, and he had returned to painting. In addition, the look in his eyes was far more alert and focused. Sitting on the floor in the loft with him and two glasses of wine and a half-eaten pizza, Sarah said, "We have to do something, Raymond. She's going to be shipped to Kansas and tried for murder. The hear-
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ing is tomorrow." She paused and looked over at him. "I don't know what to do, though. I've called the hospital and the jail, and they won't let me talk to her."
The newspapers were spread out on the floor and Raymond picked one up. "Look," he said, pointing at a picture in one of the articles.
"Yes, I know," Sarah said, leaning over his shoulder to see what he was referring to, "that's the boy she saved in Kansas."
"We have to call him," Raymond said, his eyes darting around the room frantically.
"Call the boy? He was injured, Raymond. What could he do?"
"He can tell the court what really happened."
Sarah ran her hands through her hair as she was thinking. What he had suggested really wasn't that far-fetched. If they could convince Jason Cummings to fly to New York for Toy's hearing the next day, they might not extradite her to Kansas. Surely, she thought, if anyone could convince the authorities that Toy hadn't meant to harm or kidnap a child, it should be the child whose life she had saved. "You might be onto something," Sarah told Raymond. "Here, give me the paper and I'll see if I can get in touch with the boy's parents in Topeka."
"No," Raymond said forcefully, standing and looking down at Sarah, "this is something I have to do on my own."
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and just underwent surgery. To transfer her to a detention facility in another state would be a travesty of justice."
"I object, Your Honor," the district attorney said. "This is highly irregular."
Judge Valerio had his head propped up with one hand and started scribbling something on a piece of paper. Finally, he raised his head and rendered his ruling. "I think this case is unusual enough that we might move away from the norm here. Mr. Spencer, I'll allow you to call your witnesses. Just make it brief because we have another hearing scheduled after this one."
"The defense calls Raymond Gonzales," Spencer said.
The back of the room fell silent as a dark young m
an made his way down the aisle to the witness stand. Toy craned her neck around and then did a double take. He looked distinctly familiar, but she couldn't remember from where. She started to say something to Miles, but the attorney was fidgeting nervously and not paying attention. "This is going to be tough," he told Toy. "He's autistic and can barely communicate, but his girlfriend insisted he could testify."
Raymond was dressed neatly in a black blazer, a white cotton shirt, and a pair of brown wool pants. His long hair was swept back and secured in a tight ponytail at the base of his neck. Once he was seated in the witness box and looked out over the courtroom at all the people, he blanched and dropped his head in fear. But in his hands was the ruby-and-diamond ring that Toy had given him years before. He had been clutching it so tightly in his palm that the stone was cutting into his flesh.
Once he had been sworn in, they began.
"When did you first meet the defendant?" Spencer queried.
Raymond stared straight ahead of him and spoke without faltering. "When I was thirteen years old."
"And where was this?"
"In a Sunday school class in Dallas."
"I see," Spencer said, "and what happened that day?"
Slowly, painfully, Raymond told his story, forcing the words out. A pronounced hush fell over the courtroom. It was a momentous occasion for the artist. Sarah had hauled one of the life-size portraits of Toy depicted as an angel with outstretched wings into the courtroom, and it was propped up against the far wall for everyone to see. No one could fail to note that the woman in the painting was dressed in a California Angels T-shirt, the same shirt Toy had been wearing when she was arrested. And the likeness was remarkable. The paint-
ing was so lifelike and striking that most of the eyes in the courtroom remained focused on it while. Raymond testified, allowing him to speak more freely.
Although the woman Raymond had searched for and painted obsessively all these years was right in front of him, where he could feast on her every feature, he was surrounded by a teeming mass of humanity. Voices, odors, and offensive colors swirled around his head. But he persevered. One glance at Toy and he felt strong and confident. She was real. She was here. Nothing could ever harm him.
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