Take a Number

by Janet Dawson

  I followed her into the apartment. In one corner of the living room a cage hung on a stand, occupied by a bright yellow canary that had scattered bird seed all over the carpet. As Lena Copeland approached the cage, making kissing noises, Sophie rewarded her with a burst of song. Then Lena walked to the kitchen and hoisted the bag of groceries to the counter that separated the two rooms. As she put away the contents, I walked to the living room window, which looked down on Howe Street. The drapes were open, with a row of house plants in ceramic pots at intervals along the sill. I gazed out at the construction site on the opposite corner.

  “So what is it you want to know?” Lena asked as she walked from the kitchen to the living room. She sat down on her floral print sofa and massaged one nylon-clad foot, then the other.

  “Did you hear the gunshots?” She nodded. “Tell me about it. Everything you can remember.”

  She sighed. “I wasn’t sure about the first shot. I was listening to some music while I got ready for bed. I thought maybe it was something I heard on the radio. But that second shot. It was right outside my apartment. I knew what it was. I used to live in East Oakland. Lots of drive-by shootings in that neighborhood.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I just froze,” Lena said, shaking her head. “I mean, I’m standing here in my nightgown with a jar of face cream in my hand, singing along with Anita Baker. Then comes this bang, and I’m thinking, girl, you didn’t hear what you just heard. That can’t be coming from inside this building. It has to be out in the street. I go to the window, peek out, I don’t see anything. Then I realized it must have come from out in the hall.” She glanced toward the front door of her apartment and shuddered. “I was ready to crawl under the bed. The phone was right there, but it never occurred to me to call the police. All I could think about was, my God, Maurice just left.”

  “Who’s Maurice?”

  “The guy I was out with Saturday night. I was worried about him.”

  “What time did he leave? How long was it before you heard the gunshot, the one out in the hall?”

  Lena tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Five, ten minutes. I’m not sure. You’re thinking Maurice let the guy in?”

  “I’m thinking he may have seen something, or someone.”

  “I called him that same night,” Lena protested, “to tell him what happened and make sure he was all right. He didn’t mention seeing anything strange.”

  “He might not have thought it was strange or out of the ordinary. When Maurice left, did he take the elevator or the stairs?”

  “When I closed the door, he was waiting for the elevator. Then when I opened it again—” She stopped.

  “When did you open the door again, after you heard the shot?”

  “Are you crazy? For all I knew there was still some nut out there with a gun. Only time I opened the door after I heard the shot was when the cops came knocking.”

  There was an armchair opposite the sofa, its faded blue upholstery covered with a plaid blanket throw. I sat down and leaned toward her. “But you opened the door after Maurice left and before you heard the gunshot? Why?” She flashed me that look again, the one I’d seen when we were standing in the doorway, when I said maybe Ruth didn’t kill Sam. “Come on, Lena. You must have had a reason. Don’t hold out on me.”

  “I heard voices,” she said finally. “In the hall. Yelling. Must have been when Ruth’s old man busted in.”

  “And right after Maurice left. How long?”

  “Long enough for me to get my dress off and hang it in the closet,” Lena said. “That elevator door is right by my front door, so when people get off the elevator I can usually hear them, but I don’t pay any attention. People talking in the hall, and the elevator itself, it’s background noise. I’m used to it. This was different, though. This was yelling, first in the hall, then farther away, like they’d gone into an apartment.” She sighed and shook her head again. “I wondered about Ruth, ‘cause I knew she was scared of her old man. I put on my robe and took a peek outside, to see where those voices were coming from. But Ruth’s door was closed. When I poked my head out, I didn’t hear the voices anymore.”

  “You didn’t see anyone in the hall?”

  Lena looked perplexed. “Not really.”

  “Either you did or you didn’t.”

  “When I opened the door, I was looking toward Ruth’s apartment.” She shifted position on the sofa and pointed to her left, bringing her hands into play. Then her other hand pointed to the right. “But I had this impression that someone had moved out of sight, into the laundry room, or that hallway that leads to the stairs. Maybe I saw somebody’s shoe or pant leg. It’s like I saw something out of the corner of my eye.” She snapped her fingers. “It was just that quick, not enough to register as a person, but someone was there. I just know it. I feel it.”

  “Did you tell the police this?”

  “I started to,” she said, “but those cops were more interested in what I actually heard or saw, not what I thought I saw. Besides, they’ve got themselves a pretty good suspect, don’t they?”

  “Ruth.” I nodded. “Mrs. Parmenter says she looked out into the hall after the shooting and saw Ruth walking toward the trash chute, with something in her hand.”

  “That old bitch is just foolish enough to stick her head out the door and get it shot off,” Lena declared. “Besides, she can’t see shit from her front door. How does she know what Ruth was doing?”

  I didn’t have an answer to that one. Mrs. Parmenter seemed sure of her version of the facts, just as sure as Lena was of her story. “You said you were listening to the radio when you heard the gun. What station, and what song?” Lena looked surprised, then rattled off the call letters of a local rhythm and blues station and the title of Anita Baker’s latest hit. I could check the station playlist and find out what time the record had been aired. That could help me pinpoint the time. “I need to talk to Maurice, Lena.”

  She sighed again, reluctant to give me her friend’s phone number. “Give me your card. I’ll have him call you.”

  Outside Lena’s apartment I walked past the elevator and turned right, intending to leave the building by the same route Sam Raynor’s killer had. I was halfway to the stairwell door when I heard an imperious voice behind me.

  “You! Hey, you!” I turned and saw a belligerent red face bearing down on me. “Who are you? What are you doing in this building, bothering the tenants?”

  The manager, author of the printed sign on the building door. Mrs. Parmenter had said his name was Sullivan. And Lena Copeland referred to him derisively as a cracker. I took my time answering, looking him over. He was my height, about sixty, pale blue eyes topped by a gray crew cut, with a thickset body in a green shirt and a pair of brown slacks.

  “Who says I’m bothering anyone?” I asked, my voice neutral. One of the tenants I’d talked with earlier must have called him.

  He shook a stubby finger at me. “Don’t get smart with me, honey. I know you’ve been ringing bells on every floor, pretending to be a cop, or some such. We’ve already had the cops in here. Who are you? Who let you in?”

  “I’m a private investigator. You must be the manager, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Private investigator,” he repeated with a snort. “Sure you are, honey. How did you get in here?” He slewed his eyes in the direction of Lena Copeland’s apartment. “Was it that colored girl in 301? I’ve had nothing but trouble since she moved in. Leaves the front door open, lets anyone in the building.”

  “I came to see Mrs. Parmenter. Ask her.”

  Sullivan looked a bit nonplussed. Mrs. Parmenter must have been on his approved list, unlike Lena Copeland. I already had him pegged as a petty tyrant whose world revolved around building rules and regulations, and now I added racist and sexist to the description. I turned my back on him and headed for the stairs.

  Twenty-two

  I STOPPED BRIEFLY AT MY OFFICE, CHECKING MESSAGES on my answering machine. The
Navy had called— Duffy LeBard, Lieutenant Bruinsma, and Alex Tongco. But I didn’t have time to return the calls. I was supposed to meet Bill Stanley at seven, at the Franklins’, and I was behind schedule.

  “You’re late,” the Admiral said tersely when he opened the door. He must have been waiting for me. I hadn’t even made it to the front porch yet.

  “I know.” I didn’t explain as I stepped past him into the entry hall. “How’s Wendy?”

  “How do you explain to a child that age that her mother’s in jail?” Franklin scowled.

  He had me there. It wasn’t a task I would relish.

  I saw Bill Stanley at the mantel in the living room, examining the Franklin family portraits. As I entered the room, so did Kevin Franklin, coming from the kitchen. Our eyes met, then his shifted quickly away. Chuck Porter must have called him after my unannounced visit to RedCom 20 that morning.

  “Productive day, Jeri?” Bill asked, turning to me. He was still in his lawyer suit, but he’d removed the jacket and unbuttoned his collar and cuffs. His gambler’s suspenders stood out against his white shirt, which looked considerably more wrinkled than it had this morning.

  “Somewhat. I’ll fill you in later. How’s Ruth?”

  “Bearing up. Still in shock.” He didn’t specify whether Ruth’s condition was due to the murder or her present incarceration at the Oakland City Jail. It was probably a combination of both. I tried to imagine Ruth in a cell, and had a hard time doing it. “Coroner was supposed to do the autopsy late today,” Bill said. “I’m gonna talk to the assistant D.A. tomorrow.”

  “Are we ready to do this?” Franklin asked, still in the doorway between the entry hall and the living room.

  The lawyer looked at him, then at Kevin, near the kitchen door. “I’m ready if you are. If either of you think it will be difficult for you, leave the room. I don’t want any interruptions.”

  Franklin’s mouth tightened. He wasn’t accustomed to being talked to so plainly, especially in his own house. “That won’t be a problem.” He walked down the hall toward the bedrooms, then returned a moment later, followed by Lenore Franklin and Wendy.

  The little girl wore a crisp green playsuit. Cradled on her left arm she carried the rag doll I had seen her playing with on my visit last week. Her face looked thin and bleak below her strawberry-blond hair. As I gazed down at her, I didn’t see any resemblance to either Ruth or Sam. Wendy looked like her own person, lost in her own world.

  Lenore smoothed the child’s hair. “Wendy, this is Mr. Stanley. He wants to talk with you.”

  Bill Stanley knelt, putting himself on the little girl’s level, and he stuck out one big hand. “Hi, Wendy. You can call me Bill.”

  Wendy hugged her rag doll tighter. She stared at Bill, then she stuck out her right hand and brushed his long fingers.

  “Let’s have a seat,” Bill said. He straightened to his full height. There were two chairs facing the sofa, a table between them. Bill sat down in the one closest to the fireplace and I took the other. Wendy perched on the edge of the sofa, while Lenore sat next to her. Admiral Franklin stood behind his wife, while Kevin remained standing near the kitchen door.

  Wendy looked around the room to all the adult faces and asked the question none of the grown-ups had so far answered. “Where’s my mommy?”

  “Your mommy’s in jail,” Bill told her. Lenore Franklin winced.

  Wendy thought about this for a moment, then she asked, “When is she coming home?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Bill leaned forward. “Wendy, I want to know what happened on Saturday, when the police came to your house. I know you talked to a policeman. What did you tell the policeman?”

  Wendy screwed up her face, looking as though she were about to take a spoonful of bad-tasting medicine. She didn’t say anything. Then she pressed her cheek to that of the rag doll and muttered, “I want my mommy.”

  “Your mommy can’t be here right now,” Bill said.

  “I want my mommy!” Wendy shouted at him. There was frustration and rage behind the words, a lot of it for a four-year-old child. Lenore’s hands moved toward her grandchild. The Admiral touched her shoulders and Bill shot her a narrow-eyed stare. Lenore’s hands stopped in midair. She laced her fingers together so tightly her knuckles turned white. Bill’s eyes moved back to Wendy.

  “Wendy, the policemen took your mommy to jail. If we are going to get her out of jail, you have to tell me what happened Saturday night, after you came back from dinner at your grandma’s house.”

  Wendy’s voice took on a scathing tone far older than her years. “My daddy was there. He came and sat on my bed. I was asleep but he woke me up. He said how would I like to go away with him.”

  “Did he say where?” Bill asked. “Did you want to go away with him?” She shook her head in response to both questions. “What happened then?”

  “I heard them yelling and I put the pillow over my head.” Wendy’s pale face reddened and tears slipped from her brown eyes.

  “Who was yelling?”

  “My mommy and my daddy. When we lived on Guam, they always yelled. Then my daddy would hit my mommy and make her cry.” She sniffed and wiped the back of one small hand across her face. “I don’t like my daddy very much,” she whispered.

  Now Lenore was crying as well, tears streaming down her face. She reached into the pocket of her slacks and pulled out a tissue. Above her the Admiral’s mouth worked and his gray eyes were as cold and turbulent as the Pacific during a gale. I looked past him at Kevin but I couldn’t see his face. He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and turned his back on the interview, staring out the dining room window at the backyard.

  I turned my gaze back to Bill Stanley, who looked steadily at Wendy as he probed. “You were still in bed?” She nodded. “What happened then?”

  “I heard a bang. Really loud. It scared me.”

  “When did you get out of bed? Right away, or did you wait a little while?”

  “I had to wait until my legs would work.”

  “Do you know how long you waited?” Bill asked. Wendy shook her head. “Did you hear another bang?”

  “Yes. But not as close. Then it was real quiet. I called to Mommy but she didn’t answer. So I got out of bed and went to find her.”

  “That was very brave, Wendy. I might have hidden under the bed,” Bill said matter-of-factly.

  Wendy wiped the tears off her cheeks. “I had to see if Mommy was okay. She was lying on the floor. I thought my daddy killed her. But she wasn’t dead. She sat up and hugged me. Then a big policeman came.”

  “Wendy, did you see a gun?”

  “The policeman had a gun.”

  “Did your mommy have a gun? Did you see a gun other than the policeman’s gun?”

  Wendy looked at him with wide brown eyes. “No,” she said finally, drawing the word out slowly. I sat back in my chair.

  “Is this what you told the policeman?” Bill asked her.

  “Yes. He wanted to know if I saw something.”

  “What was that?”

  “If I saw my mommy shoot a gun. But I didn’t. I only heard bangs.”

  Two gunshots, the one fired inside Ruth’s apartment as she and Sam struggled for the gun, and the second, the fatal shot in the hallway outside. Wendy’s account of what happened Saturday was close to Ruth’s. Even at the age of four the child was grimly aware of her father’s abusive behavior toward her mother, enough to fear that Sam might have killed Ruth.

  Bill Stanley probed further but elicited nothing more from Wendy than what she’d already told us. Finally he thanked her for talking to him and motioned to Lenore, who swept her granddaughter up and took her from the living room. When Lenore returned she looked drained. I felt tired myself.

  “Well?” the Admiral demanded.

  Bill shrugged. “She’s four years old. She didn’t see anything. Evidently she told the cops the same story, and it fits with Ruth’s version of what happened. I don’t think we have a prob
lem.”

  It looked as though I wasn’t going to get an opportunity to talk to Kevin Franklin tonight. Even as the Admiral buttonholed Bill about the next phase in Ruth’s defense, I saw Kevin step into the kitchen. I heard the back door open and close, then the sound of a car engine starting up. He was definitely avoiding me, but I’d catch up with him sooner or later.

  I looked down at Lenore, who sat wearily on the sofa. She spoke so softly I had to lean forward to hear her. “I’m glad Mr. Stanley told Wendy her mother’s in jail. I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. I just hope he can get Ruth out of jail, and soon.”

  I searched for something comforting to say but couldn’t find it. Bill Stanley tapped me on the shoulder. “C’mon, Jeri. We’ve got to talk.”

  We conferred on the curb outside, leaving the Admiral chagrined at being out of the loop. I gave Bill a rundown of my interviews with Mrs. Parmenter and Lena Copeland. He was less concerned with the possibility that someone had been with Sam the night of the murder than with what Mrs. Parmenter heard and saw and the time sequence involved. It was clear from my earlier conversation with him and the session just completed in the Franklin living room that Bill Stanley and I approached Ruth’s situation from different angles. He operated from the assumption that Ruth shot Sam, that her actions were justified and that he and the District Attorney could work out a deal.

  As far as Stanley was concerned, Wendy’s testimony just emphasized the Raynors’ abusive marriage and Sam’s status as a murder victim waiting to happen. Cutting a deal would certainly be easier, I had to admit. From what I could see, the Franklins were so anguished by the whole situation, and anxious to get Ruth out of jail, that they just might go for it. But I didn’t think Ruth had killed Sam. I said it again, pointing out Lena Copeland’s hunch that there had been someone else in the hallway before she heard the shot.

  “You gotta give me more than hunches, Jeri,” the attorney told me, pulling his car keys from his pocket and tossing them into the air.

  “I’m working on it. Just don’t plead her right away. Let me dig around some more.”