A few years ago, some nosy neighbors filed a complaint with Child Protective Services, saying they thought Jason was being neglected, and when CPS came to investigate, they didn’t like what they saw. But his mom managed to put on a good act, and nothing happened. But then, in high school, Jason started cutting class and getting in trouble. And when he and some friends were caught drinking beer in one of the guys’ cars, in the student parking lot during school hours, that got the social worker back on their case. And that scared his mom all over again. With CPS sniffing around, the next step would be the cops. And she decided Jason was too much of a liability. That’s what she’d told him. He was a liability.
So then, with the help of some friend from a long time ago, his mom found out where his dad lived. She told Jason to pack up. They drove twenty-three hours from Texas to Hamilton Heights, and when she stopped at the dad’s address, she told Jason to get out of the car. She took him by the hand and pulled him up to the door, rang the doorbell and pounded on the door, and when his dad opened the door she yelled, “Your turn, Sam,” shoved Jason inside, ran back to the car and peeled away.
It’s like someone has turned the talk faucet on, and Jason keeps talking and talking. He says it was strange. Even though his mom had burned all of his dad’s pictures, Jason recognized him right away. Eleven years without even a picture. And his mom would never talk to him about his dad, and she’d smack him in the face if he ever asked about him. Eleven years in a total dad blackout, and he still knew his dad right away. And his dad knew him! Threw his arms around him and hugged him tight. He was so happy to see Jason, he was crying, just holding him and crying. His dad told Jason he’d wanted to take him with him when he split from the mom, but Jason’s mom took off with him. No forwarding address. His dad told Jason his mom hadn’t wanted him. She’d only wanted to hurt the dad.
It wasn’t news to Jason that his mom didn’t want him, but it was total news to him that his dad did. No one in his whole life had ever wanted him before. And he got a family. Uncles and aunts and cousins, and his dad had a lot of friends, too, who were almost like uncles to Jason. For the first time ever, he had a family that did things together. A big Patriots family all working to make things better for the real Americans. On weekends they did all kinds of training. It was great.
And then he goes quiet until he says, “But I don’t like hurting people. My dad says the ones we hurt aren’t people anyway. Not like us. But I don’t like that part of it.”
Joe pours more tea. Peppy gets squirmy. I put her down and hear the click of her toenails, then the flap of the dog door as she takes herself outside. When she comes back, she goes to Jason. He picks her up. Rubs her ears.
Text ding from Max: are you ok?
Me: thumbs up emoji
Max: where are you?
Me: Joe
Max: I’ll come get you when you’re ready to leave.
Me: No need.
Max: Yes. Need.
Me: No. I send it seconds before the phone battery goes totally dead.
Joe’s watching me do the text thing.
“Sorry. I had to answer that, or Max’d go all crazy. Calling everyone. Running around looking for me. She doesn’t want me walking alone anywhere at night anymore. Not even home from your place.”
Joe nods. “I guess that’s understandable.”
“It’s a pain.”
“You’re lucky to have a mom who cares,” Joe says.
“I know that. It’s still a pain,” I say.
Joe looks across at Jason. Shakes his head like he can’t wrap his mind around all that Jason’s said. I can’t either, but who could make that shit up?
Joe turns to me. “What about all of those interviews with the cops? Why didn’t you tell them?”
“Because I knew they wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t see him. And, you know, a Mexican guy’s word against a white guy’s?”
“C’mon Eddie. Your brother’s a cop. You can’t be that prejudiced against cops. You know better.”
“I know they were about to do a Devon Parker on William that night. If I hadn’t come around enough to yell ‘Dad’ at him, it would have been bad news.”
“Dad? I thought he was only ‘sort of a stepdad.’”
“Yeah, well I wasn’t in any shape to give details. I mean, as fuzzy as I was, I knew yelling ‘Dad’ would let the cops know William belonged with me—let them know they could stop treating him like he was a dangerous criminal who'd just beaten me up and was robbing me.”
“Well, you’ve got to tell the police,” Joe says.
“No!” Jason says. “The Patriots! They’ll know I was the one who told! They’ll kill me! I know my dad loves me, but it’s all about the cause!” He glances at the clock. 8:50. “Gotta go! My dad’ll send somebody out to find me if I’m not home by 9:00.” He rushes out, calls back, “Don’t tell! Please!”
I rinse my cup, leave it in the sink. Joe watches me.
“You’ve got to tell the police.”
“I don’t know...”
“You’ve got to! That bunch needs to be stopped.”
“What if they would kill Jason? I wanted revenge, but...”
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours. If you haven’t told by then, I will. But it should come from you.”
I go blocks out of my way so I can cut through the park. Being in the middle of all of those oxygen-exhaling trees and bushes always helps clear my head, and I could use some help with that tonight. That first blow to Jason brought a flood of relief from my long-building anger and frustration. I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me, but I never wanted him dead. Would they kill him?
I wander over to the swings and take a seat, remembering how Mario always used to push me on my favorite middle swing while we waited for Max to get off work. I sit, scuffing my shoes in the sand, barely moving back and forth, wondering what it would be like if no one ever wanted me. I can’t imagine how that would be. And what'll happen if I tell the cops? What’ll happen if I don’t? Joe always means exactly what he says, so I guess one way or the other, the cops’ll know pretty soon.
I watch a blinking satellite cross the sky overhead, then start walking toward home. I’m a few blocks away when I see Max and William in the distance, walking toward me. William’s swinging a flashlight. Max is carrying her old walking pole thing that she hasn’t used for years. I wave both arms overhead.
“Eddie?” Max yells.
I pick up the pace to meet them. When I get close, Max rushes to me and grabs me in a tight hug. Is she crying? She’s crying!
“What’s wrong?” I say. Like maybe there’s been some awful phone call from the Redville family, or maybe Olivia’s parents have been arrested, or...?
Max loosens her hug. “It’s just, we worry,” she says.
I take another look. The flashlight in a neighborhood with streetlights. The long, pointy walking pole that Max no longer needs. Weapons. They’re carrying weapons.
“I texted, and you didn’t answer. I called Joe, and he said you’d left about fifteen minutes ago. We just...”
“Sorry,” I say. “My battery went dead.”
We turn and walk back to the house. As soon as we come through the door, Imani yells, “No fair! I wanted to call 911!” She slams William’s cell phone down on the sofa and clomps back to her bedroom. “Be glad you didn’t have to,” William calls after her.
So, Max and William had gone looking for me, fearing the worst. If they weren’t back within twenty minutes, Imani was to call 911. William had written careful instructions for what to say to get responders out looking for them. For us.
I get Buddy’s leash, snap it on. Max follows me to the door. “I’ll go with you,” she says, grabbing her walking stick again.
“No. I’ll be fine! No hovering!”
“Take this, then,” she says, shoving her walking stick at me.
“I’ll take the flashlight,” I say, and leave as she calls after me to be careful.
So, my body’s all healed, but there’s still, what do they call it in the military? Collateral damage?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A Lie Revealed
With my cell plugged in and charging, I sit on the floor, back against the wall and call Rosie’s number. No answer. It’s after ten. She’s not supposed to use her phone after ten, but sometimes she does. I text: Goodnight. Love you.
Remembering the swings, remembering that Mario has always had my back, I call. He picks up right away. I hear the smile in his voice. “Hey, Babbler. What’s up?”
“I want to talk with you about something, you being a cop and all.”
“Yeah?”
“Well...I sorta knew who one of those guys who beat me up was.”
“You sorta knew, or you knew?”
Even though we’re not face-timing, I know exactly what Mario’s expression is right now. It’s the raised eyebrow, straight-lined mouth expression that says: stop with the modifiers, the “sortas," and “almosts,” and “maybes.”
“I knew.”
“All along when you said you didn’t see anyone, you were lying?”
“I didn’t see anyone. I heard someone.”
“Tell me about it.”
So I do. I tell him what I heard, and how I worked to get strong again to get back at Jason, and the fight this afternoon, and then everything Jason said, and how Joe said if I didn’t tell the police within 24 hours, he would.
“Joe’s right. The police need this information.”
There’s a silence that’s starting to feel awkward when Mario says, “I’ll come down. Go with you to the police.”
“You don’t have to...”
“Yeah, I do. I’ve got background on these guys that may be helpful. And I want to be sure you get to the right people when you tell your story. Most of the Hamilton Heights guys are good, but there’re a couple of doofuses on the force, and we don’t want them screwing things up. We’ve got to be sure that Jason’s protected, so we want to be careful about what we say, when, and who we say it to.”
Mario says he’s tired. He’s not going to start the two-hour drive at midnight, plus he’s got to take care of a few things at the station and arrange for someone to cover his shift for him.
“I’m an early riser,” he says. “I’ll get there by nine, ten at the latest.”
He says to be fake sick and stay home ’til he gets here. He says not even to tell Max what’s up. We can all go to Dimitri’s when she gets off work and talk then.
William bangs on my door around 6:30. “You’re late!”
“I don’t feel too good!” Which is true. My stomach is all trembly about going to the police station. Not as trembly as it’d be if Mario wasn’t going with me, though.
7:00. Text ding. Rosie: Where r u?
Me: sick
Rosie: sad face emoji
Minutes later, another text ding.
Joe: Are you telling or am I?
Me: me
Joe: thumbs up emoji
Mario pulls up in a squad car a little before ten. He’s wearing his uniform and badge. He reaches over and opens the passenger door for me.
“What’s with the squad car?” I ask.
“The chief told me to make it official.”
“Why?”
“There’s an active Patriots group up our way, too, but we can never get anything on them. A trans kid was killed a couple of months ago. Super bright, talented, killed on their way home from a night class.” Mario pauses, shakes his head. “It had to be the Patriots but no witnesses. No evidence.”
We do the drive-thru thing at Starbucks. Mario gets a large espresso, and I get a medium hot chocolate. Mario gets a protein box too, but I’m not hungry.
We park in a shady spot so Mario can eat his breakfast before we go to the station. He says he called ahead to be sure we’ll be talking with the right people. “Officer Harvey, who you already know,” he tells me. “And another guy, Mr. Chang, who specializes in hate crimes.”
We talk about not much while Mario finishes his breakfast. Traffic. The weather. Tio Hector’s smaller than usual garden. Mario notices my bracelet, and I tell him about William’s gifts.
“Better than your old one,” he says, looking closely at the letters.
I don’t tell him I gave the bracelet a vacation yesterday. But me and Cesar? We’re good again.
We dump our trash and drive to the police station, past the entrance where the red, white, and blue flag flies at the top of the tall pole, and the California bear flag flies below. We park in the back, one dusty little sheriff's car in the middle of a row of big, shiny police cars. Mario texts Harvey that we’re here, and after a minute or two, he and Mr. Chang meet us at the back entrance. Chang’s not wearing a uniform.
Basic greetings and then we follow them up a short staircase and back to a room about the size of our dining room, a yuck green color, probably Celery Verdure. In the middle is a round wooden table with six rolling chairs around it. Harvey pulls two chairs off to the side, spaces the others equally, and motions for us to sit down.
“Coffee?” Mr. Chang asks.
“No thanks,” Mario says. “We made a Starbucks stop before we got here.”
“Wise move,” Harvey says. That gets a laugh from the three of them. Maybe cops don’t make good coffee.
“I’d like to record this, if it’s okay?” Harvey says, taking a small recording device from his shirt pocket and placing it in the middle of the table.
“Sure,” Mario says. “Me, too.” He takes a similar looking device from his own shirt pocket and sets it across from Harvey’s.
“Fair enough,” Harvey says.
“All right, Eddie,” Officer Harvey starts, “You remember something more than you told us about earlier?”
I nod.
“Yes or no. For the recording.”
“Yes.”
And then we go through the whole thing again. Everything I told Mario last night, except I don’t name Jason.
Then Chang takes over.
“You say this kid—X, we’ll say—is part of a group that’s called the Patriots?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about the Patriots?”
“Nothing, except they hang out together and wear flags on their camo jacket sleeves.”
“What kind of flags?”
“American flags.”
“What else do they wear?”
“Sometimes they wear boots with their pants tucked inside.”
“Does X dress like that?”
“Sometimes one of those jackets.”
And on and on, asking the tiniest details. Did I know they were the ones who slashed my tires? No. Did I think they were the ones who slashed my tires? Yes. When I was attacked, what time was it? What day was it? Where was I? Hypnotically dull, and then, in the same dull tone of voice, Chang says, “Name of the kid you heard?”
I almost blurted out Jason’s name. Caught myself just in time.
Mario’s out of his seat. “That’s it!”
I roll back. Stand beside Mario.
Harvey shoots Chang a dirty look.
“A kid’s life is at stake, and you’re trying to trick my brother into saying the name? And then what, you’d rush out to arrest him, but he’s not there, and the next day he turns up dead??”
Mario shoves his chair back, grabs my arm, and pulls me out the door with him. Down the stairs, through the parking lot, and into his squad car in a flash. Harvey’s in the parking lot now, yelling for us to wait.
Mario backs up, and makes a quick turn, onto the street. My heart is racing, but Mario’s all calm now.
“I’m proud of you,” he says. “That trick is older than dirt, but it often works on inexperienced witnesses.”
“It almost worked on me.”
“But it didn’t...What an unprofessional asshole.” Mario glances in the rearview mirror. “Here comes Harvey.”
Harvey is right behind us as we pull
into the driveway at my house. Crap. Two cop cars in our driveway?? That’ll get the neighbors talking.
Harvey follows us to the door. “Can we continue our conversation?”
“No Chang!” Mario says.
Harvey nods and follows us inside. Once again, we’re at the dining room table, except this time it’s only the three of us. Harvey takes out his recorder. Mario shakes his head. Harvey puts the recorder back in his pocket and takes out the little notebook I guess he always carries with him.
“Tell me about the kid who beat you up,” Harvey says.
Should I? Is it true Jason’s dad will kill him if he finds out about what Jason said? I ask what’s most on my mind. “What’ll happen to the guy?”
“Good question,” Mario says.
Harvey glances at Mario, turns back to me.
“This is a group we’ve been watching for a long time. They’re in other places, too, like up where your brother is, and down toward San Diego. They don’t all call themselves the Patriots, but they’re connected. White supremacists. Wherever they are, they’re plastering walls with ‘Stop White Genocide,’ and all kinds of hate signs targeting Muslims, Jews, Blacks, anyone who’s not of the ‘pure white race.’ They beat up on people. Sometimes kill, but so far, we’ve not been able to prove anything. “
Mario chimes in, “They’re also after LGBT people, immigrants, people with disabilities, you name it.”
“But what will happen to...X?
“I’m getting to that,” Harvey says.
He goes on to say how the incidence of hate crimes rose during the campaign, when there was all of that anti-immigrant fever, and rose even more after the election. “Like that sign you painted over,” he says. “Wasn’t that shortly after the election?”
I nod.
“As soon as we get some solid evidence, or a solid witness, we can move in on these guys. Stop them. That’s why Mr. X’s story is crucial.
“But...”
“Yeah. I know. What will happen to him? We’ve been in touch with the FBI regarding Patriot activity around here.”
Eddie's Choice Page 20
