“Yes,” said the old Jew and she knew he was telling the truth. He was concerned about her. It made no sense, even less when he added, “I’m a member at Mir Shavot. My wife is the president.”
“Mir Shavot?” she asked, now folding her arms in front of her.
“Where your picture was taken after you and your friends tore the place apart,” said Lieberman. “After your friend stole our Torah. We have a picture of that, too. Of him carrying it away right past you.”
Jara moved the hair that had fallen over her bandage and returned to the arms-folded position before answering. “You have no photograph of any man,” she said. “Your photographs are faked.”
“No,” said Lieberman. “Photos and a reliable witness. We believe the man in the photograph is Howard Ramu who was one of the three men murdered yesterday.”
Hanrahan just kept staring at the young woman, knowing that there was no way of identifying the fleeing man in the photograph from the blur of movement.
“I was on Dempster Street several nights ago,” she said. “Not late but after dark. I was waiting for a ride. Whoever took that picture and says it was last night or even the night before is mistaken or lying.”
“What were you doing in Skokie at night?” asked Lieberman.
“Visiting friends,” she said.
“What friends? Where do they live?” asked Hanrahan.
“I do not choose to tell you,” she said. “If it becomes necessary to do so, if my attorney advises me to do so, I will be prepared to give their names and address.”
“Who was picking you up?”
“Howard Ramu,” she said without blinking.
“Ah,” said Lieberman with a smile. “And I suppose he got out of his car, and escorted you to it.”
“Yes,” she said. “I believe it was raining and he had an umbrella.”
Hanrahan and Lieberman didn’t permit themselves to look at each other and confirm what they were thinking. This was one very clever and fast-thinking young woman.
“Why did Howard Ramu shave his head and why was he wearing a jacket with a swastika on it?” Lieberman asked.
She shrugged and answered, “I didn’t question him about it.”
“An Arab dressed like a skinhead? If he tried to join any of their groups, they’d cut off more than his hair,” said Hanrahan.
The light was small, but it was there, in her dark eyes. These policemen had tricked her. They had no photograph or no usable photograph of her with Howard Ramu, certainly no clear photograph of Howard in his skinhead clothes. She knew it. She wanted to bite her tongue till it bled. And then she remembered the old woman in the window outside the temple. Jara had looked up. The woman’s face was almost pressed to the glass and then the woman had disappeared.
“We have fingerprints,” Hanrahan said.
“No more,” answered Jara, moving from the desk past the table to a telephone on the wall. “Unless you wish to detain me forcibly I will now call my attorney and I will say nothing further to either of you or anyone else concerning this without advice and presence of counsel.”
Lieberman got up. So did Hanrahan. Neither moved to stop her from picking up the phone. “Tell him you’ll be at the Clark Street Station,” said Lieberman.
“I will tell her,” said the young woman, making clear that the Jewish policeman was not only a racist but a sexist. She was dialing now.
“When you finish your call, we’ll read you your rights and give you a few minutes to put some things together,” said Hanrahan.
She glared at Lieberman. The phone rang five times before Charlotte Warren’s secretary picked it up. “Ms. Warren’s office.”
“Tell her it is Jara Mohammed and I must speak to her immediately.”
“She’s in court all morning,” the woman said. “Would you like to leave a message?”
Jara definitely did.
Kim was sitting in a booth at one of the several restaurants that he and the Protectors protected and from which they collected a significant but not crippling fee. Kim followed no pattern in where he ate. The presence of the two policemen in the diner a day ago was a complete surprise. The two must have been staking out the diner, possibly for days, possibly for weeks. Mr. Park who owned the diner and had more than cooperated with the police would have to be punished for his lack of gratitude for the protection provided for him. Mr. Park had a fourteen-year-old granddaughter. Kim would wait and think of the most effective way of dealing with this so that the community would know.
Kim and the two men who had been with him at Park’s were out on bond. With his lawyer, a third-generation Korean who was kept on a respectable monthly bonus plus a fee per job, Kim had claimed that the policemen had trapped him, provoked him, that everything Kim had said had been misinterpreted, that Kim had simply made polite inquiries about the Park family, and sat down to wait out the rain, but the two policemen had pulled out weapons.
The judge didn’t believe him, but she had little choice. Bond was set.
Meanwhile, Kim would keep low, have his people be particularly careful when they collected, and back away from trouble. He had already taken a significant step in getting the two policemen to drop their charges. Kim had seen to it himself. He had personally frightened the old Jew detective’s grandson and had placed a man conspicuously parked across the street from the detective’s house.
The police might suggest that Kim’s man parked in front of the detective’s house get out and stay out of the neighborhood. They might even arrest him or rough him up a bit. The young man would gladly take a beating. It was his entry into the Protectors. The young man named Fu Sun spoke very good English and was in this country quite legally. He might even welcome a beating from the police, though he had been told to be polite and start nothing.
Kim’s booth was in the back of the small restaurant. He sat alone in his trench coat, wearing his sunglasses even though the lights were down and the day was slightly overcast, keeping out most of the sun. At the next booth, closest to the front door, two of the Protectors sat, not eating. Their job was to watch the door. When Kim was finished, they would be served while he sat and read the newspaper over a cup of strong coffee.
Kim did not carry a gun with him and would not do so again until the business of the arrest was resolved. He did keep a Colt King Cobra .357 Magnum in the glove compartment of his car and he knew that a compact Smith & Wesson .40-caliber pistol with no fingerprints was tucked under the cushion on which he sat.
He ate slowly, ignoring other customers who were beginning to come in for an early dinner.
The kitchen door behind the counter near the tiny restrooms opened. Kim did not look around. He continued to eat a very good slice of rare, thin-sliced beef. He did not even look up when he was aware that someone had moved into his booth opposite him. Instead, putting a forkful of beef into his mouth, he reached with his free hand under the cushion in search of the gun.
“Go for it, motherfucker,” said El Perro. “Por favor.” He had always wanted to say those lines and now that Emiliano Del Sol had been given his opportunity, he was in a good mood.
Kim looked up to see the grinning Mexican across from him. El Perro was wearing sunglasses and wore a trench coat mocking Kim who could see over the top of the booth in front of him that his guards were also facing a pair of Hispanics, though the young men were not wearing trench coats and glasses.
“You know who I am?” asked El Perro, reaching with the fork from the place setting in front of him to take a slice of beef from Kim’s plate.
Kim nodded.
“You don’t mind if I …?” El Perro said, looking at the slice of beef he had already taken.
Kim nodded to indicate that he didn’t mind.
“And my friend? He can have one too?”
The Mexican who had a reputation for unpredictable violence and insanity nodded to his left at the boy now sitting next to him. The boy was dark, almost black, very young, at least very young looking. He wore
a red shirt and a jacket that Kim knew had a painting of an octopus on the back. These were the Tentaculos.
Still Kim did not speak. He nodded and accepted the insult as the young man reached for the last slice of beef not with a fork but with a knife that appeared suddenly, The blade of the knife was clean and sharp. It stabbed the beef and the young man swooped it toward his mouth.
Kim displayed no anger and the sunglasses hid what little one might see in his eyes. He put down his fork, placed both hands on the table alongside his plate, and waited for these madmen to explain. He guessed extortion, which Kim would have to meet with war. Kim did not want war, but he did not fear it. In any case, he could not allow any gang or even a crooked cop to move in on his business. He kept inside the Korean community and could not tolerate the thought of anyone entering from the outside.
“Good meat,” said El Perro. “Got a name?”
“Bulgogi,” said Kim. “Would you like to have another order brought to the table?”
El Perro’s grin was broad now, showing remarkably white teeth. The scar on his face stretched white. The Korean was playing it cool. It was what El Perro expected, though he had been prepared for and would have welcomed a show of anger or action.
“No, gracias,” said El Perro. “Chuculo?”
The young man at his side chewing shook his head no. Chuculo was cleaning his knife on a napkin as he chewed.
Kim didn’t speak.
“I came to bring you some news,” said El Perro softly. “I’m afraid it is not good news. I have a friend who is a crazy old Jew policeman. I think maybe you met him. Well, a Korean or a Chinaman sitting across from his house had a little accident.” He nodded toward Chuculo, who was still chewing as he took a thick washcloth from his pocket and spread it open on the table. A bloody thumb rolled out.
“This Korean, Chinaman, whatever, he lost that about an hour ago. I give it to you. A gift. Maybe it’s too late to sew it back on. Maybe not. When my friend here found him all cut up, he asked the guy what he wanted to do, but he didn’t answer. He just drive away somewhere. Maybe to a hospital.” El Perro shrugged and continued, “Who knows. Anyway, you want the thumb, you got it. Gift. Me to you.”
Kim reached for the thumb, placed it back in the washcloth and wrapped it up. He had no intention of doing anything with it other than throwing it away later. Right now he had an impression to make.
“I give you this gift in exchange for a favor,” El Perro said, leaning forward and adjusting his sunglasses. “I would like you and your people to stay away from the Jew policeman and his family. I would like them not to be touched or threatened. I would like them to be safe. And maybe I don’t like the big Irish vaca he partners with, but I don’t want him bothered either. They do their job. And you do yours. I don’ want your territory or even a small piece of it. We understand?”
“And if I do not stay away from these policemen?” said Kim.
Chuculo’s knife came from nowhere. His hand swooped down swiftly, gracefully, and the blade dug into the wooden table between the thumb and forefinger of Kim’s, right hand. Kim neither blinked nor budged. There was no time. El Perro gave him the benefit of the doubt and pursed his lips in mock admiration.
“You bother Viejo,” said El Perro, “and we cut off your cock and the cock of every one of your men and make you choke on them. This I promise.” El Perro, though he had long since quit practicing anything that might resemble religion, crossed himself for emphasis. “You want war,” El Perro went on with a shrug, “jus’ don’t do what I say or, better, you come after me or let me know and I’ll come for you. Well, what you say?”
“You stay out of my territory and off my back,” said Kim, moving his hand carefully and pointing a finger at Emiliano Del Sol.
“It’s done,” said El Perro.
Chuculo carefully pulled his knife from the table and slid into the narrow aisle. El Perro slipped out and went through the kitchen door through which he had come.
“Ahora,” Chuculo said to the two Mexicans at the next booth who faced the two Koreans.
The Mexicans got up and all three backed out of the room into the kitchen. The two Koreans in the booth ahead of Kim leaped out and looked at their leader for direction. He motioned for them to sit down where they had been. He did his best to convey a sense of disgust at their inability to protect him.
When they sat, Kim looked at the hole in the table and the washcloth that held a thumb. He looked for a long time and then decided. There were too many Tentaculos and they were too crazy. El Perro had not asked into his territory, had in fact asked for nothing but that the two policemen and their families be left alone.
The decision was simple. He would do as the crazy Mexican asked but there would come a moment when this insult would be addressed. Even if it cost him his life, Kim would have his revenge or he would not be able to face an honorable death. For now, however, he had enough to deal with to keep his business going and stay out of jail.
NINE
LIEBERMAN, BESS, AND THE CHILDREN took a guided tour of the cleanup of the synagogue from Rabbi Wass himself.
An ABC crew had come to tape the damage and Jeff Greenfield had interviewed Rabbi Wass, Bess, a few members of the congregation, and, she later discovered, members of the Muslim community. Bess’s brief interview never made it to “Nightline” and she was not asked to appear. The whole show had been preempted by a series of Supreme Court decisions. Lawyers appeared. Lawyers always appeared. But Bess was not brooding over the loss of “Nightline.”
To those who had not seen the damage that had been done, the hatred that had ripped through the temple with the madness of a trapped animal, it looked much the same as it had before the attack. The speed with which the work had been done had been close to miraculous with donations of time, services, and furnishings coming in not only to Temple Mir Shavot but to the other temples in Chicago than had been vandalized. One rabbi, Tribenfeld, had a minor stroke when he saw the damage to his own house of worship. There was talk that Tribenfeld would retire now. He was old. He had been through too much in his life and had the number tattooed on his right arm to testify to it.
Lieberman and Bess could not see the temple through clear eyes. The double coat of white paint on the wall covered the graffiti, but Lieberman had photographs on his desk of the graffiti and all the damage and Bess carried in her memory her own version of what had taken place here. They could imagine where the words had been spray-painted. They could step down the carpeted aisle to the bema, the raised platform where the rabbi and cantor gave services, and Bess, as president, would make announcements.
Lieberman remembered the torn cushions, the wooden high-backed benches that had been broken and defaced and were now replaced with new, almost identical benches, contrasting with the few which had not been touched only by their newness. On the bema, the ark, the enclosure covered by a curtain behind which rested the temple’s collection of Torahs, was closed but, Lieberman and his family knew, the ark was almost empty. One small Torah, the personal property of Herschel Rosen’s sister brought from Kiev seventy years ago, sat alone in the ark.
“A good job,” said Bess admiringly.
“Yes,” said Rabbi Wass, looking around sadly. “Only those who had not seen the … what had happened can walk through and not remember, not imagine. It will never be the same. I can see it on your faces. I can see it in my own in the mirror.”
“It looks fine, Rabbi,” said Bess, touching his arm.
“Yes, it looks fine, but … perhaps it will serve as a reminder of what can happen to us, what has always happened, what God has given us to bear in return for choosing us as his people.”
Barry and Melisa had hurried ahead and climbed the two steps up the bema to the platform. Barry stood behind the podium where he would stand and recite from the Torah for his bar mitzvah in less than a month. The sight of his grandson, hands on both sides resting on the podium, white kepuh on his head, looking out at the empty benches, imag
ining, showing just a touch of fear, touched Lieberman as it must have touched Bess, who suddenly kissed his cheek.
“We go on,” Rabbi Wass said, looking at Barry.
Melisa stood before the ark. She knew that the big Torah, the heavy ancient blue velvet Torah, had been stolen. The ark had a new fascination for her.
“I fired Eli Towser,” Lieberman said.
Rabbi Wass shook his head. He didn’t have to ask why. Towser had shown nothing but scorn for Rabbi Wass’s pacifist attitude, Wass’s willingness to take the side of the moderates in Israel and not see the extent of the threat right in his own community. Towser was an angry, earnest, and very intelligent young man. Rabbi Wass had invited him to visit the congregation and earn some money giving bar mitzvah and bat mitzvah training. There was only one congregant who hired him who did not complain about Toswer’s focusing not on ritual but on politics with twelve-year-old children.
Rabbi Wass had tried to talk to Towser, who had answered that his own father had been an anti-British terrorist when he was twelve. It was clear from his tone that Towser respected neither Wass’s political position nor his religious conviction.
Towser had come to services regularly over the past five months, both on Friday nights and Saturday mornings and on high holidays. He had been part of the minyan. As an honorary member of the men’s club, he had launched into discussions of militancy and anger even when the club speaker was a Jewish sportscaster.
Rabbi Wass wished Eli Towser would go away. It was difficult to deliver a sermon or give a service without glancing at or being aware of the disapproving eyes of the bearded rabbinical student.
“I understand,” said Rabbi Wass with a nod. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief his wife had neatly folded, as she did each morning, into his jacket pocket.
Lieberman looked at his grandson who seemed to be trying to decide on the proper pose at the podium.
“So?” asked Bess.
Rabbi Wass put his glasses back on.
“So,” said the rabbi, “I break a precedent. If you wish, I’ll tutor Baruch.”
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