by Roger Herst
She placed her hand on his arm and spoke seriously now. “Yes, Noah. I want this center for Bart and for these kids.”
“Done, Rabbi. Then we’ll begin planning—with your input, of course. But you’ll have to think about matching funds. Remember that the Zentner Foundation doesn’t give a nickel without them. At least fifty percent.”
She took a deep breath and nodded. At the moment, she didn’t know where the money would come from. Maybe from the Friends of Bart Skulkin, though she suspected the majority favored a grant to Mothers against Guns. But she was sure now that a solution would come. It had to; the momentum had already begun. A friend in the advertising business called it “buzz.”
Then, a wild thought raced through her brain, stimulated by Lydia’s remarks in the car. There already was an available source of funds for Bart’s center—the prize money to be awarded by the Washington Pro-Am Tournament. If the winners could be persuaded to contribute their prize money to Bart's tennis center, there would be sufficient seed money to begin construction. This would require her to wear her most persuasive shnorrer’s hat, but a tennis center in Anacostia seemed like a natural beneficiary for a Washington-based charity. And what better way for tennis enthusiasts to further the needs of urban youth? She would need a roster of contenders, then a marketing program. She knew that other worthy charities would fight tooth-and-nail. But persuasion was her specialty.
***
The District of Columbia Detention Center at Norbeck, Virginia is situated on the banks of the Occoquan River, a tributary of the Potomac. It sits on vast acreage, a portion of which has been fenced off and is tilled as farmland by low-security inmates. Its battleship gray corridors, resounding with the echo of turning locks and the closing of metal gates, reminded Gabby of a 1940s prison movie. They made a striking statement about how society punishes those who violate its laws.
After a series of interviews, a metal detector screening, and a body search, she and Joel were escorted through a labyrinth of passageways to the windowless room in which inmates conferred with legal counsel. The cold formality of the process contrasted starkly with the open, easy atmosphere of the Eastern Correctional Institute where she had visited Noah Zentner during his brief incarceration.
Daryl Bender was seated behind a steel table, his hands positioned on the tabletop as if he were preparing to play the piano. He was a large boy with heavy limbs and a round head topped by rebellious hair. The grim, exhausted expression on his freshly-shaven face added years to his chronological age. He wore the prison uniform of blue denim shirt and baggy beige pants. As they entered, he looked up at them quizzically. Though puzzled by their presence, he seemed happy to break the boredom of confinement. He waited for them to speak.
Gabby introduced herself as a rabbi and close friend of Bart Skulkin. She introduced Joel as a friend of hers.
“What’s a rabbi?” he asked a little skeptically.
She hid her own embarrassment. What made her assume that a disadvantaged kid from a tough part of town would know about Jewish clergy? Bart might have been the first Jew he had ever met. “A pastor to Jewish people. A minister,” she answered. “A religious leader of a Jewish congregation. Bart Skulkin and his family have been members of my church since he was a child. If you’ve heard about bar mitzvahs, I was the rabbi who officiated at Bart’s.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He looked down. “So why did you come here?”
“May we sit down, first? We’ve come to talk about Bart. I was very fond of him.”
Daryl did not offer them seats, but instead stood to be at eye level. “I’ve already told the police everything I know about Mister Skulkin. And I don’t knows where Louis Cooley is.”
Gabby remembered that Louis Cooley had been his accomplice in the Starbucks robbery. “I didn’t come here to repeat those questions. You must be sick of them by now. I know I would be. But I know you’re a pretty good tennis player,” she said, watching Daryl relax back into his chair, then taking a seat opposite him. “I saw your picture in the school yearbook. You were on the team two years ago. I’m a player myself. Sometimes I hit with Marcel Clipper, Nathaniel Pinkard, and Horace Sklar. You know those guys, I guess.”
“She and another woman just beat Marcel and Zeekie in doubles,” Joel interjected. “You should know that Rabbi Lewyn is no amateur. She’s a tough tournament player. Men put her down until she trounces them.”
“Since Mr. Skulkin’s death, we’ve been trying to keep the team at Anacostia going,” Gabby said, wishing to deflect conversation about herself. “When I saw your picture, I wanted to know one thing, Daryl. Maybe you can help me out. Why did you choose tennis over basketball? You’re tall enough for the hoops.”
From the expression on his face she could see that the answer was complicated and perhaps painful. He took his time over it. “It’s too tough to make the basketball team,” he said finally. “Those guys are faster and taller than me. Even if the coach kept me on the team, I’d never get off the bench. And Coach Deming never liked me. All he did was yell at me. Made me feel real bad. I got to talking with Mr. Skulkin after a history class, and he told me about tennis. When I went to the courts, Mr. Skulkin would let me use his own racquet and showed me what to do. I’d never played tennis before. The game wasn’t that hard. Mr. Skulkin helped me get good fast. When I hit a bad ball, he didn’t yell like Coach Deming. I was just beginning and played real bad. But that didn’t matter to Mr. Skulkin. We talked a lot after practice. Sometimes we went to KFC for supper. Mr. Skulkin always paid for the guys. When tennis professionals came to town, he took everybody to see them play. Once he drove us up to Philly to a tournament. And when major matches came on TV, he made sure the team watched, and later we’d talk about strategy. He always brought sandwiches and Cokes.”
Gabby said, “You might have heard we had a memorial service for him at Anacostia High. I’m told that most of the student body attended. Marcel spoke for the team. Dr. Shaboya spoke for the school.”
“I’m real sad about what happened,” Daryl said.
“The police have suggested Mr. Skulkin was returning a handgun when he was shot, but they still don’t know who did it. Got any ideas, Daryl?”
“Nope.” His sharpness indicated this was a subject he would like to avoid.
“I would have thought you’d want his murderer caught. You sit here in Norbeck for blasting a coffee urn at Starbucks while the guy who did the real crime is out there enjoying the good life. That’s a pretty shitty situation, if you ask me.”
“Yeah,” he said but without conviction.
“We’re trying to build a tennis center in Mr. Skulkin’s memory. Somewhere in Anacostia. Architects are working on the plans right now. We hope to have courts, viewing stands, locker rooms, and cross-training conditioning equipment. A foundation has agreed to give half the money. That doesn’t mean we have all that’s needed, but, with some of the money in the kitty, I think we can raise the rest.”
“Mr. Skulkin would like that.” Daryl nodded his head in approval.
“I know he thought a lot of his players. He felt they could become champions if they were given the opportunity. Colleges give good scholarships to tennis players. Anacostia players might get some of that money. And who knows where that might lead?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Daryl mumbled. From the sadness in his eyes, she was pretty sure he guessed he would never be included in those dreams.
Joel adjusted his chair so that he could see both Gabby and Daryl. When he had agreed to come along, he’d thought she hadn’t much of a chance of building rapport with a felon. He was surprised by the ease of her conversation. Even a hood like Daryl, whose education came mostly from what he learned on the streets, had difficulty resisting her.
“Dr. Fox and I came from Washington to ask a few simple questions,” Gabby continued in the same tone. “They’ve been bugging us since Mr. Skulkin’s murder and you’re the only one who can help us understand. You liked Bart Skulkin, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. He helped me.”
“The police think he was returning a pistol for you. A .40 caliber. They think it was a Model 96, manufactured by Smith and Wesson. If I’m not mistaken, one shot was fired from it at Starbucks.”
“I never shot it,” Daryl snapped. “Louis Cooley did. I got it from the dealer, then changed my mind about taking it to Starbucks. Cooley said he wanted it for protection, and I gave it to him. He took the shot, not me. Nobody was hurt. When we ran, he handed it back to me cause it was my gun. I never shot it. Never. Not once. But the police don’t believe me.”
Gabby’s heard both Daryl’s words and his passion. She nodded slightly to convey she didn’t take issue with him. “All right,” she broke in, “All right, if you say so, I believe you not the police. But what I can’t understand is why you didn’t return it to the dealer yourself.”
He frowned, reluctant to lose stature by confessing that he had panicked. Everybody in the neighborhood knew how ruthless the dealers could be.
“I can’t force you to tell. Still, it would be helpful to understand,” she said, filling the momentary silence.
His lips remained sealed.
“Inspector Rose said it wasn’t wise to approach the dealer after a botched robbery. At least you can tell us if that much is true.”
Daryl’s eyes enlarged and his lips separated, but for a long moment he said nothing. Finally, he said, “When the gun went off, glass shattered all over the place. People were screaming. Cooley and I ran before I could see what happened, and I was scared bad cause I thought Louis had killed somebody. His car was hot, and I didn’t want to go with him. So I took the gun and ran. I didn’t want it, but I didn’t have money to buy it. Dealers come after guys who don’t pay. It was easy for Louis because he had a car to leave town. But I had got no place to go.”
“Daryl,” she said, changing direction abruptly, “was Mr. Skulkin shot because he had your Smith and Wesson?”
He nodded.
“How do you feel about that?”
“Assholes. They didn’t need to kill him,”
“Why did they?” she pursued, now a hound on a scent.
“Don’t know.”
“Was Mr. Skulkin reluctant to return the pistol?”
He didn’t expect that question, but shook his head. “Not especially.”
“How did he know where to return it?” Joel interjected. “I understand that dealers move around.”
“I told him about Switchboard—near Pine Street, at St. Elizabeth’s.”
“Same place you originally got the gun?” Joel asked.
“No. Always different.”
“Where was your contact?” “Fort Circle Park.”
“In an open field?”
“No. In the men’s room. You go in one stall. The man sits in another. You put your money on a newspaper and slip it under the wall. If the man likes it, he puts the gun on the paper and you pull it back to your side. Then you go quick. There’s somebody outside to see you don’t look back. It’s always at the end of the day when it’s nearly dark. Nobody sees nothing.”
“If I wanted to find that dealer, could I go to the same Switchboard near St. Elizabeth’s?” Gabby asked.
“Maybe. And maybe not. Like your friend says, they move around. Don’t mess around with it, lady. I’ll take care of them when I get out.”
“What does that mean?”
“They got the gun back. No sense shooting my friend. I’ll get them for that.”
“We hope the police will punish them,” Gabby added. “If you try on your own, you’ll get into more trouble. Help the police and you’ll get what is right for Bart Skulkin and you.”
“Police won’t help,” he said. “They’re just as bad as the bad people.”
Gabby saw no purpose in pursuing that line of thought and changed the subject. “By the way, what do you think about a tennis center for Mr. Skulkin?”
For someone to ask his opinion was unusual, but he rallied as though an expert. “That’s real good. Real good.”
“When we get it operating, I hope you’ll come play tennis there.”
“I ain’t gonna be out of this place for a year.”
Gabby pushed back on her chair to stand up, and Joel followed. “It will take more than a year to build it, Daryl. By then you’ll be out, and I expect to play with you. Will you play with me?”
He was dubious about the invitation, but game. “Sure. Sure, lady.”
***
As they headed south on Interstate 95 toward Quantico Marine Base, Gabby lapsed into silence, gazing out the window as they passed rich Virginia farmland and brightly painted antebellum farmhouses. Joel considered their conversation with Daryl Bender. Gabby’s gift for making conversation had demolished the barriers between them, and she’d probably gotten information from Daryl that police interrogators had—particularly his remorse over Bart’s death. Until his passion to take the law into his own hands cooled, Joel thought, he was better off behind bars.
In the meantime, he and Gabby were running late, so they’d have to rendezvous with other members of the One Shot Club at a designated location in the forest.
“So what’s your take on Daryl?” Gabby asked, interrupting his musing.
“I wouldn’t want to rob a grocery store with him. What’s your read?”
“Probably a decent kid who never had a chance. No male role models in his life. A mother who can’t make ends meet. Low motivation for school. He sees the law as an impediment, and feels free to challenge it. Sad thing is that he’s not even good at robbery. Sounds like he hooked up with another loser in Louis Cooley. Still, he has a thread of character. That’s why I invited him to play tennis. His interest in sports might turn him around.”
“Ever the optimist. Did you learn anything about Bart’s murder that you didn’t already know?”
She turned from the window to regard his face in profile. From the side, his oval shaped head, with tufts of hair around the ears, had a distinguished look. “We learned that Daryl’s Switchboard works around St. Elizabeth’s Hospital and confirmed how the guns and payments are delivered. Using public toilets is ingenious. There must be a dozen public parks in the area with rest rooms like he described. Transfers can occur at a different park and in a different facility every night. That sounds like pretty cheap overhead to me.”
Joel took the Quantico exit and proceeded toward Highway 1 and the base’s South Gate. Once there, a lance corporal with a sidearm on his belt, white gloves, cravat, and visored hat saluted smartly and requested identification. Joel passed the guard his invitation letter, and received in return a green permit for the Bronco’s windshield and a map with directions to a building called the Wilderness House. There they could change clothes and meet their military escort.
“Your permit allows you to transport a single 30/06 rifle but no ammunition. Is that correct, sir?” the corporal asked.
“Back there in the rear.” Joel was less formal. “Do you want to see it?”
“That’s not necessary, sir. Your pass says that you’re an officer of the NRA. We appreciate our friends. Have a good day and please mind the speed limit. Even friends who drive too fast are known to enjoy the hospitality of our world-famous brig.”
“Gotcha covered, Corporal. Thanks for the warning.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this, Joel,” Gabby said, the moment they were in motion again. “If you tell anyone in the Jewish community that I went on a hunt with you, that’s the end of our friendship, comprende? Coalition members will throw me to the lions without a hearing.”
“Remember, there are no bullets, Gabby. Don’t forget this is just an exercise. It isn’t deer season and even if it were, we only shoot one round per year. Just one. And today, none.”
“I’m still skeptical.”
“Wait ‘til you’re in camouflage and blend into the wilderness. You’ll see things you never imagined. Normally, men think of themselves as intruders in nature.
But when we stalk, we merge into a single continuity with our surroundings. For the time being, let’s concentrate on that map. This is a big reservation and it’s easy to get lost. I’m a bit nervous about making our rendezvous.”
Wilderness House was situated at the end of a dirt track that cut through a thick stand of sycamore, laurel, and scrub pine. Fallen trees made the surrounding area appear impassable. The 57th Battalion’s flag flapped in the wind outside the single story log structure. Two humvees were parked beside Carey Lawrence’s Ford pickup and Steve Murray’s Nissan Pathfinder. The original plan had been for Joel to go into the woods with four companions, but that changed when Gabby requested that Joel accompany her to the detention center. His friends agreed to leave the GPS coordinates for a meeting place in the woods with the Marines.
Half a dozen commissioned and non-commissioned officers in fatigues sat around a picnic table in the briefing room. Captain W. Clarence Bartholomew, golden hair cropped close to the scalp on the sides but thick on the top, rose to greet his guests with a friendly handshake. Other Marines abandoned reports and maps to extend their welcome.
“Your club has been assigned to hunt in Sector K,” the Captain said, stepping over to a large wall map. “It’s essential that you stay in the sector since we have training exercises all weekend. They’re approximately seven miles away and shouldn’t affect your hunt. But I must remind you that at Quantico we conduct most of our maneuvers with live ammunition. We wouldn’t want you near any of our reconnaissance teams. We’re also conducting artillery practice today, so you’re likely to hear some popping in the distance. Nothing to worry about. All cannon fire is restricted to zones G and L. The first barrage begins at 15:15 hours and you can set your watches by it.”
Gabby glanced at Joel, who smiled back in reassurance. The prospect of armed maneuvers, even miles away, left her a little on edge.
“Is there a place Ms Lewyn can change?” asked Joel quickly.
“Sure. Now that the Corps has women in combat support roles, we have facilities for them.” He flashed Gabby a friendly grin that she returned gamely, hoping he had no idea how far out of her element she felt she was.
