Messenger from Mystery

by Deno Trakas

  “Yeah, what’d you think?”

  “What if I need someone to testify for me?”

  “Look man, just tell it to the detective when he takes your statement. I can’t stand here and chat with you all day.” He turned and started down the hall.

  “Wait. Is there some way I can get a newspaper?”

  Over his shoulder he said, “This ain’t a Holiday Inn.”

  I went back to my bunk, fending off requests for cigarettes and change, mostly ignoring and being ignored by my fellow criminals. There was no TV, no recreation, no books, no decent window to stare out of, just dingy walls and the smell of booze and unwashed men, most of them lounging around in their underwear, playing cards, talking to themselves. . . . I thought of Azi again—what was her jail like? How many thousands of times worse?

  “What day is it?” I said aloud but to myself. Nobody paid attention. I sat up and asked the black hummer across the aisle if he knew. He shook his head and kept humming. I got up and went to ask the guard, not the same one as before.

  He punched a button on his watch and said, “Tuesday, November fourth.”

  “Thanks.” Somehow I’d missed the end of October, Halloween. Now it was election day. Also day 365, the anniversary of the day the hostages were taken. What a strange coincidence.

  Late in the morning I was summoned to a Captain Sweitzer’s office, where I told my story to the detective and a tape recorder. I told the basic facts truthfully except for the end—I said I was trying the window just to make sure it was locked.

  He shook his head like a father listening to his son explain punk rock. “You’ve been charged with trespassing and attempted forced entry. You happen to be in luck because at city court the judge tries criminal cases on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so you’ll see him this afternoon. I suggest you call a lawyer.”

  “Do I have to? Can’t I just call Nadia to come in and testify?”

  “Yeah, if you’re sure she’ll come and corroborate your story.”

  “Let me call her.”

  “Make it quick,” he said, handing me his desk phone.

  She wasn’t home, so I tried Richard. He wasn’t home either, but I left a message with Emily, telling her that I was in the city jail and I’d appreciate it if he could come to my trial, and bring Nadia, at 3:30. Of course Emily was shocked and wanted to know what heinous crime I’d committed. I told her I couldn’t talk now but not to worry and I’d give her the full story next time I saw her.

  As I handed the phone back, I asked, “What do I do now?”

  Captain Sweitzer shook his head again. “You go back to jail.”

  Later I fell asleep and dreamed that Richard held his baby Maria in both hands and lobbed her to me, but I had a box in my hands and let her fall onto the ground. When the guard shook me, telling me it was time to see the judge, I thought it was for that.

  The guard told me to get in the back of the line of eight inmates, and we were led out of the cell, up some stairs, and into a hall that fed into the courtroom. One at a time Judge Ware, a corpulent, silver-hair, pink-skin man wearing a seersucker suit instead of a black robe, called us in by name.

  “Henry Neighbors.” Henry went and stood at the desk in front of the judge. “You’re charged with public drunkenness. You want a lawyer?” Henry shook his head. “You plead guilty or not guilty.” Henry mumbled guilty. “Forty-five dollars or seven days.” Henry came back to the hall, walked by and returned to the jail, obviously having chosen the seven days.

  It went fast. Five of the men were charged with drunkenness, two with domestic violence, and one with petty larceny. Only one, a domestic violence, pleaded not guilty, and the judge tried him on the spot, calling forth the arresting officer and the woman involved. The prisoner and woman got into an argument, but the judge told them to shut up and then referred them to family court.

  Finally it was my turn. “Jason Nichols.” I entered and quickly scanned the room, happy to find Richard and Nadia in the back row, but embarrassed to be included in this parade of losers. “Mr. Nichols, you’re charged with trespassing after notice and attempted forced entry. Do you want a lawyer?”

  “No sir.”

  “How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “You want a jury or you want me to try you?”

  “You.”

  “Witnesses come forward please.” The driver of the patrol car stepped up, and I motioned for Nadia to come to the front to stand beside me. She half smiled, looking scared and confused—from her expression I realized I must look like a wild man, or like a criminal.

  After the judge swore us in, the patrolman told his story.

  The judge looked at Nadia. “Who are you, ma’am?”

  “Nadia Al-Sabah. I’m friend of Jay. I live at apartment.”

  Then he turned to me. “Tell me your story, Mr. Nichols.”

  I told my version.

  The judge took off his bifocals, rubbed his nose and squenched his eyes, then spoke to Nadia. “Miss Sabah, is that accurate as far as you know?”

  “Yes sir. But I don’t know Jay come back to apartment.”

  “And Mr. Nichols is a friend of yours?”

  “Yes sir, good friend.”

  “Were you the one who reported the prowler?”

  “No sir.”

  The judge turned back to me. “Mr. Nichols, why didn’t you get Miss Sabah to identify you last night?”

  “I didn’t want to bother her or anyone else at the apartments.”

  He glared at me, and I was sure he thought my story was suspicious. “Next time, let the police patrol the neighborhood at 1:00 in the morning. And if you are ever questioned by the police again, tell them your story, because if you waste my time in court again, you’ll spend a week in jail. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Case dismissed.”

  Richard came around the benches, where the dozen or so spectators sat, and joined us as we left the courtroom. He shook my hand and said, “Congratulations, you beat the rap.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for coming. Both of you.” I gave Nadia a squeeze.

  “Why didn’t you call me last night? I would’ve bailed you out,” Richard said.

  “Sure Rich. When was the last time you had an extra forty-five dollars in your wallet?”

  “You should tell me you need me, Jay, you don’t need to go to jail,” Nadia said.

  “Next time I will.” I looked around. “I need to check out, get my stuff. Did y’all come together?”

  Nadia answered, “Yes, and I need for you to drop me, okay?”

  “Sure. Let me find someone who knows what I’m supposed to do, and then we can get out of here.”

  When we dropped off Nadia, I saw my car—I’d forgotten it was there. I offered Rich a beer and asked him to follow me to Yesterdays, a combination tavern and restaurant with a nostalgia theme that had been open about a year and was popular with students. We talked junk for a few minutes, but then I told him the story of the last thirty hours, beginning with the botched exam. I finished with the arrest, telling it straight, even the part about trying to get into Nadia’s apartment.

  Richard’s response was, “You’re fucking crazy, Mano.”

  Meaning he understood and was on my side no matter what. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands rubbing together as if to make fire. “How you feeling now? You okay?”

  “Yeah. Relieved to be out of jail, relieved to get a little insanity out of my system.”

  “What about comps? The one on Friday is your easiest.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve already failed one and missed another, so I’d have to take all three over again anyway, and there’s no way I’m going to spend another year, or even another month, studying.”

  I thought he would be mad at me for giving up, but his tone was practical. “Maybe we can talk to Sheldon.”

  “What’s the point, Rich? The Great Graduate Director i
n the Sky obviously doesn’t want me to get a PhD, and really, if you look at the big picture, the real big picture, it doesn’t matter that much.” I was thinking of Azi, of course, and again I wanted to tell him everything, and I almost did, but the need to protect her was as great as ever.

  “Well, maybe you’ll think more clearly in the morning.”

  “I think I’m thinking clearly now. I think jail gave me some perspective.”

  “Maybe. So you’re okay? You’re not going to do any more crazy shit?”

  “Not today.”

  “Oman Lare’s coming next week, right?”

  “Yeah, damn, I almost forgot.”

  “I look forward to meeting him.”

  “Yeah, you’ll like him.”

  “Okay.” Richard chugged the last of his beer and said, “I need to get going. Have you voted—I guess not. Are you going to?”

  “Might not do any good, but Hell yeah.”

  CHAPTER 16

  After getting out of jail and voting, I resolved to appreciate my freedom, to use it to clear the room and see what lay on the floor. In my apartment I turned on the TV while I sorted papers, replaced my books on my bookshelf, and made stacks on the kitchen table of those I had to return to the library. CBS was already declaring an easy victory for Reagan. Pissed off, not only because Reagan was ahead—clearly a result of the unresolved hostage crisis—but because the newsmen had called it before the polls on the West coast closed, I switched off the TV.

  Friday, November 7, Sadegh Ghotbzadeh gave a speech denouncing the Islamic Republic Party and was arrested and taken to Evin Prison in Tehran. Maybe he was in the same jail as Azi. But I missed the news because I was taking the third exam. When the time came, it seemed senseless not to—I’d already cancelled my 102 classes, so what else did I have to do? And I nailed it. I could’ve answered all three questions, but I chose two of the standards of twentieth century American literature, one on the roots of modernism, and one on untraditional narrative in contemporary fiction. I finished with a half hour to spare. When I got back to my office, Richard, who’d heard that I’d taken the exam after all, was waiting to take me out to lunch to celebrate.

  That afternoon, Michaels called for the first time in a couple of weeks. “Have you heard about Ghotbzadeh?” he asked.

  “No. What?”

  “The militants arrested him. But they must’ve had the Ayatollah’s blessing.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, he said in public that the government is being run by a bunch of fascist extremists.”

  “Wow. What do you think it means?”

  “Hard to say. Things over there are more screwed up than ever, with the war and all. Saddam is sending troops across the border into Iran, and the Ayatollah is sending jets to bomb Baghdad, and of course we get blamed for the whole thing—it’s insane. But it’s not good for Azi, that’s for sure.”

  “You’ve got to do something, Michaels, especially since y’all are going to be out of office in a couple of months. And, by the way, I’m sorry about that.”

  “Thanks, man. It was all about the hostages. But now the country’s going to see what Voodoo Economics is, and what a country without regulations is like. It ain’t gonna be pretty.”

  “But what about Azi?” I said sharply.

  “We couldn’t rescue her before, Jay, so how do you think we’re going to do it as lame ducks?”

  “Push all the buttons, Michaels. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “I wish I knew what buttons you’re talking about.”

  “Tell Ham to call the CIA and demand a covert operation to break her out of jail.”

  “You’ve seen too many movies. In the first place, covert operations are risky and costly. In the second place, Ham doesn’t have the authority to ask for one. Especially not now. It’s over, man.”

  “You’ve got to do something. You’ve been giving me the runaround for months, and I’m sick of it. Azi’s life is at stake. Do something or I’ll call the Washington Post.”

  “Stop threatening to call the media, Jay. First of all, it would make her situation more precarious. And second, for them to take you seriously, they’d need corroborating evidence, and nobody’s going to back you up.”

  “You mean if they called you, you’d lie?”

  “Yes, and so would Ham. When you work in government, there are things you don’t talk about, no matter who asks. Don’t be naïve.”

  “I’m not naïve,” I said, although I knew I was. “I’m mad, and guilty, and you should be too—Azi was trying to help you, and if the CIA hadn’t fucked up, she might well have helped you get re-elected. You owe her.”

  “Granted. But we can’t go to war with Iran over one civilian.”

  “I don’t want you to go to war. I want a simple covert operation. I mean, you tried to break all fifty-two hostages out of jail; you failed, but if you thought that could be done, surely you think this can be done.”

  “We, the President’s office, didn’t have anything to do with the rescue mission. That wasn’t even the CIA—it was military. And, as you say, it failed. Can you imagine if we tried something with Azi and failed again? The consequences would be disastrous.”

  “What? You’d lose your job?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. Look, I don’t have time for this. Bye, Jay.”

  Not long after Michaels hung up on me, Nadia called. “So, Jay, the comp is over?”

  “Yes, they’re over. How did you know?”

  “Richard call. He ask can I come to lunch but I can’t. What you are up to tonight? I want to make dinner to celebrate the end.”

  The end—that could mean so many things. “That’s nice of you, Nadia, but I had a big lunch, and I’m not in a celebratory mood.”

  “Why, Jay? You aren’t happy the comp is over?”

  “Yeah, sure, but . . . I just heard that Sadegh was arrested—things are bad over there.”

  “Oh no, I am sorry.” She didn’t speak for a moment and I wondered if she was thinking of Azi, but then she blew her nose and said, “Hey Jay, I hear about Saad. You remember Saad?”

  “Of course, my best friend.”

  “Yes, well, I hear he go with some Saudis to Afghanistan to fight Soviets, but then when war with Iraq start, he go to Iran to fight.”

  “The boy likes to fight, that’s for sure—I wonder how he did against the Soviet army.”

  “I hope he die.”

  I’d thought we were sort of joking, but clearly we weren’t. “That would be okay with me,” I said.

  “I think if he don’t die, some day he come back to States with bombs.”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said.

  “Do you know people who stay in contact with him? Maybe Abbas and Wahab?”

  “Yes, Abbas. I ask if he think Saad come back here. He say no, Saad know they look for him, and he is fighting Iraq now, but maybe when war is over. . . .”

  “That’s useful information, Nadia. I’ll tell my contacts at the CIA Maybe they can put him on a list of some kind to prevent him from coming back.”

  “They have list like that?”

  “Hell if I know, but they sure as hell need one.”

  When I picked up Oman Lare at the airport, he looked older than he should. He had a good tan, but his skin was leathery, especially around the neck and hands, one of which sported a tattoo of a goat. But his black beard worked well to balance his long black hair, and he seemed to be in good shape. With his sunglasses on, he looked like the lead singer of a rock band, scanning the airport for his groupies.

  “How you doing, Jay?” He slung his satchel over his shoulder, shook my hand, and we headed for baggage claim. He walked as if he had a sore knee, and his boot heels clicked on the linoleum, alternating with the pad of my running shoes, as we made an iambic line through the terminal.

  “How was your trip?” I asked.

  “D
amn dull, just how I like it. I’m glad they sent you to pick me up and not some department chair asshole because I need a beer.” His brisk stride and chatter made him seem nervous, which surprised me.

  “Okay, we can stop at a bar on the way to the hotel if you want.”

  “I want. Take me to the action, some place in Five Points.”

  “You know your way around Columbia?” I asked.

  “A little. Used to date a girl at USC. Where do you live?”

  “Not far from Five Points, as a matter of fact.”

  “You have a roommate?”

  “No.”

  “How about an extra bed or couch? The point is, I don’t feel like staying in a goddamn hotel. You think I could stay at your place?”

  “Sure, if you want. It’s not much, one bed, one couch.”

  “Good enough. I’ll tell the department to give you my room money and we can use it for beer and pizza. I hope you can find us some good pizza. It’s not exactly standard fare in Mexico. I get one of my girls to make it, but the crust always tastes like tortillas.”

  I laughed. “Pizza’s about all I eat, except when I splurge on cheeseburgers at Hardees.”

  “Great. What’s on the agenda for tonight? I guess you have schoolwork or something. I don’t want to be in your way.”

  “I should prepare for my 102 class, but you can probably talk me out of it.”

  “Great. Let’s go somewhere you’ve never gone, let’s make up some truth and some lies. You up for that?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “You got a girl?”

  “Sort of.”

  Of course he asked what a “sort of” girl was, so as we headed for the car, I told him briefly about Nadia and Azi and tried to explain how it was that I had two women and none. At the moment, I said, I was mainly worried about Azi—I didn’t tell him about Athens and jail, just alluded to the many difficulties of life in an Islamic Republic at war. He listened, asked questions, then took his turn and told me about his last love, a wispy Texan who’d left him recently to move to Santa Fe to paint watercolors of the desert. He spoke of her with respect and melancholy, nothing like the macho bluster he’d used on the phone.