“That’s your take. The way I see it, I’m providing a public service. A lot of people really need this stuff, and now they can get it—and at only $500 a bottle!”
I was so mad I couldn’t see straight. If only I had an ax I could smash Jim’s dastardly scheme to pieces. But it was too late for that.
I bolted out of Jim’s front door and ran to the alley behind Ravi’s shop. The padlock to the metal storage container had been cut off. Forcing open the heavy door, it was completely empty. Not a drop of Guilt Remover was left.
In disbelief, I walked in to the middle of the container, then heard the wailing of rusty hinges. A loud clunck! echoed through the hollow shell. I had been shut inside!
Fumbling in the dark, I felt around for an inside latch, but couldn’t find one. I placed my ear against the wall and heard footsteps running away.
“Jim, you sleazeball,” I shouted, “open this door!” I listened for a response, but heard none. I banged on the door. “Someone get me the hell outta here!”
Being so far off the street, I worried that my cries for help were being drowned out by the noisy demonstration. Droplets of sweat formed on my forehead. I hoped that I wouldn’t get broiled like a steak from the afternoon heat. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about suffocating. A slim ray of light streamed in through a tennis ball-sized hole in the roof.
I sat down on the dusty floor and waited for someone to happen by. What else was there to do?
How long I would be stuck in that metal dungeon was impossible to tell. My mind wandered to the plight of coal miners trapped underground. What were their thoughts while waiting to be rescued? How did they handle the possibility of not getting saved at all?
Just then, the sunlight coming through the ceiling flickered. I immediately looked up. “Is somebody there?” But It wasn’t the shadow of my rescuer. It was an intruder. A little brown squirrel had squeezed through the opening, temporarily blocking out the light.
With cheeks bulging, he scurried down the wall, then crossed over to a corner. There he unloaded his cargo under a pile of dry leaves, unconcerned that a human was sharing his hiding place.
“Hey, little fella,” I said. “Could you grab someone outside to come let me out? All you have to do is tug on their pants, then lead them back here. You know? Like Lassie does.”
The squirrel stood up on his hind feet and gazed at me, as if to say, “Dumb ass! Don’t you know you’re talking to a squirrel?”
For sure, the boredom and isolation were affecting my reason. I closed my eyes. How ridiculous, I thought, asking for help from a dumb forest creature. It was then that I heard a high-pitched, squeaky voice say:
“Lassie’s a dog!”
Okay, I was already a little stir-crazy, but I had sense enough to know that squirrels can’t talk. Still, to prove that I wasn’t losing my marbles, I opened my eyes and replied, “Say that again.”
Chewing on a peanut, the squirrel said, “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to eat.” He held out his half-eaten treat. “Want some?”
My eyes widened with astonishment. “How is it that you can talk?”
“How is it that you got trapped in this soup can? You’re the one with the superior brain.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shook my head. “This isn’t happening.”
The little squirrel hopped over to me. “You’re so right. Who ever heard of a talking squirrel? A singing chipmunk, perhaps, but never a squirrel that speaks.”
“Then, what are you?”
“Your conscience, maybe—like Pinnochio’s Jiminy Cricket. Or, I might be Gertie, your imaginary childhood friend, returned to keep you company.”
“How do you know about Gertie?”
“I know all about you. Squirrels are great observers. Living in trees, we see everything you silly humans do.”
“You expect me to believe that? What am I, stupid or something?”
“Extremely stupid, or you wouldn’t have walked right into Snipper Jim’s trap.”
“So, I messed up. At least I’m not freaking out over it.”
The squirrel rapped on the door with his little knuckles, then mocked me by shouting, “Someone get me the hell outta here!”
I wondered if trapped coal miners experienced the same thing. Just my luck I get a hallucination that enjoys being rude.
“That hurt my feelings,” I said.
“Good! Now you know how Hubert felt when you dashed his hopes of taking you out.”
“You don’t understand. Dating leads to intimacy—leads to commitment—leads to a relationship. Then comes the inevitable breakup. What chance would I have of regaining Hubert’s friendship after all that?
“Taking chances is the only path to finding happiness.” From his corner stash, he dragged out a Junior Prom ticket stub. “Here was a chance for happiness you should have jumped at.”
“Proms are foolish. All that primping and preening, pretending to be something you’re not.”
“‘Everyone was having such a good time.’ Those were your exact thoughts. Proms are once-in-a-lifetime traditions that no young person should miss.”
“You make me sound like a hermit. True, I keep to myself, but I’m perfectly happy that way.”
“Blah-blah-blah! You live your life in the dark—just like you’re doing now in this oversized lunch box.” He ran up the wall and pointed out the hole in the roof. “Out there—in the light—that’s where life happens.”
“Easy for you. You don’t have a two-ton door blocking your way.”
“Some doors have to be closed before others will open. He hurried back down and brushed a large heart shape in the dust with his tail. “Try opening that for a change.”
As much as I hated to hear it, everything that little rodent said was true. I longed to join in the dance, but was too snooty to learn the steps. Love was knocking at my door, while I cowardly watched through the keyhole. I was living a lie. And while I was convinced that I was happy, I was only hurting myself.
The squirrel climbed back up to the ceiling. “Well, gotta go now.”
“Wait! Are you just going to leave me here?”
“You’ve got good instincts, just like our dad said. Use them. You can start by letting yourself out of this heated freight car.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something? The door’s locked.”
“But the door isn’t locked, only stuck. I checked it out.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Some people have to learn their lessons the hard way. You’re one of them. Put your shoulder to the door next time. You might be surprised at what happens.”
A flash of fur and the squirrel was gone.
I stood up and charged at the door like a raging rhinoceros. Throwing my full weight against it, the stubborn thing opened!
I spilled out onto the ground, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Flat on my back, I squinted at the branches in the tree above me. Was that a squirrel I saw? No, just a cooing Mourning Dove, welcoming me back to the natural world. As for animals that talk, inspecting the container showed the dust-covered floor undisturbed. There were no tracks left behind by tiny feet, nor any heart-shaped drawings in the dust.
I came around to the front of Ravi’s shop just as the last news van drove away. While I was busy conversing with a squirrel, the police had broken up the demonstration. The rioters had all gone home. With no more disturbing images to broadcast, there was no point in the media sticking around.
Carefully stepping over broken glass, I couldn’t tell if I was on a battlefield or in a town hit by a tornado. Nearly all the windows in the buildings had been smashed. A police car had been torched. Ugly slurs were spray-painted on walls.
Where was Ravi’s Hate Slayer shampoo when we needed it? We could have doused those rabble-rousers with it from a water-dropping helicopter.
When you think about it, it’s not that crazy an idea. Those choppers are good at putting out fires in people’s backyards. Who k
nows? One day they might be used to put out the intolerance in people’s hearts.
Chapter 14
The Phone
Anyone who watches daytime television knows The Law Offices of Norman Hampstead. Find a channel running old 1970s sitcoms, and the personal injury lawyer will be there promoting his law firm. His commercials always begin with him asking,
“Have you or a loved one been injured . . . ?”
After boasting his success rate, he ends by declaring,
“Se habla español.”
Hampstead’s ads weren’t much different from those of his competitors. But unlike the ones who promise huge cash settlements, he actually delivers.
Twisting baseless claims into victories was his specialty. Wake up with a stiff neck and he’ll turn it into a work-related injury. Rear-end an old lady’s car and he’ll make it look like it was her fault.
A former criminal trial lawyer, Hampstead once defended a Wall Street banker accused of fraud. His defense was so compelling that the judge not only acquitted his client, but invested in his latest scam: luxury resorts in Tibet.
“Anything to win” was Hampstead’s motto. He was the perfect choice to represent Ravi.
Now that a lawyer was on board, he would need evidence to support his case—and I had the one piece that guaranteed Ravi an acquittal: Harley Fink’s cell phone.
Having Failed to enable its password option, Harley had left the door wide open to its internal data. The call records proved conclusively that he was the one who called me the night of the police pursuit. This not only meant Ravi’s freedom, I, too, would be off the hook, and ol’ Mr. Fink would be nailed as the criminal mastermind.
Meanwhile, Ravi remained behind bars, and seeing that he stayed there was the job of the federal prosecutor, Morris Crump. He was relatively young for his position, and had only recently been hired by the Justice Department. Assigned to prosecute Ravi, many grumbled at having a novice on such a high-profile case. But Crump was smart, aggressive, and eager to do battle in court. And why not? A conviction would secure him a bright future in politics, not to mention a place in criminal court history.
So, let Morris Crump present all the incriminating evidence he wanted.
We had the phone.
Let him bring a hundred witnesses to testify against Ravi.
We had the phone.
And when the prosecution rested its case, one tap on Harley’s touchscreen and Ravi would be vindicated.
Alec and I had teamed up to assist in Ravi’s defense, and our first order of business was to show his lawyer that all-important mobile device. I arranged a meeting with Mr. Hampstead, and was off to pick up Alec at the VA. But as I pulled up to the curb, I felt a sudden attack of anxiety. My mind flashed back to the time we were last alone in my car. That was the day I nearly drove Alec to suicide.
Alec climbed into the passenger seat, and I immediately felt awkward in his presence. After extending a cordial “Hello” to each other, we drove off.
Our trip was quiet for the first mile or two, then Alec said, “Amy, about what happened that day, I’m—”
“Don’t say it! It was all my fault. Your reaction was totally understandable. I just didn’t know how to handle the situation.”
“You did nothing wrong. I’m the one who screwed up. You were my friend that day, and I showed my gratitude by hurting you. Forgive me for being such an ass.”
He could have easily accepted my apology, but didn’t. I was moved by his honesty, and wasn’t about to let him accept all the blame.
“Fair enough,” I said. “I’ll forgive you under two conditions: One, that you forgive me the same amount, and two, that we put that whole thing behind us. You know? A clean slate.”
“A clean slate!” Alec held out his hand to close the deal. I hesitated to take it. There was still a lingering fear of his touch that I couldn’t quite get past. But he waited patiently. And when I finally shook his hand, I squeezed hard to show him that I was in control. His grip was every bit as firm. We were equals again.
We arrived at the lawyer’s office bright and early. A preliminary hearing had been set for the following morning, and we didn’t want to take up too much of Hampstead’s time. The hearing was of vital importance. It’s where the opposing parties meet to present their cases. If the judge feels the evidence is strong enough, he will proceed with a trial.
“Please, have a seat,” said the perfumed secretary. “Mr. Hampstead will be right with you.”
The wallpaper covering the reception area looked like bookshelves full of law books. Photos of Hampstead handing fat checks to his ecstatic clients were displayed around the room. I squinted at the images to see how large the amounts were, but the checks were blurred out.
Inside Hampstead’s private office, we found the lawyer sitting at his desk, his suit coat slung over his high-backed executive chair. His potbelly bulged through his vest as he looked over some legal documents. On the wall behind him were more photos of him shaking hands and grinning.
“Come in, come in!” he said, peering at us over the top of his reading glasses.
Alec and I sat down in the chairs facing his desk. I was just close enough to the lawyer to make out the heading on his papers: The People vs. Ravi Hakeem.
Hampstead lowered the documents and let out a sigh. Raising his glasses to his forehead, he leaned forward and said, “I’m not going to beat around the bush. It doesn’t look good for Ravi.”
“How so?” asked Alec.
“The prosecution has more than it needs for a conviction. The fact that Ravi hid potential bomb-making materials is irrefutable. The money the cops found on him indicates complicity. What have we got? No corroboration of Ravi’s whereabouts the night of the attempted bombing. Sworn statements from the people on his client list say they’ve never heard of him. And—let’s be honest—what jury is going to acquit a Middle Eastern immigrant accused of terrorism? I’m sorry, but without more substantial evidence, we’ll have no choice but to enter a guilty plea.”
I promptly stood up. “I’ve got all the evidence you need—solid proof that the police are holding the wrong man.” I held up the device. “This is the phone that was used to call me that night. The files on it show that Ravi did not make that call. It was made by a man named Harley Fink.”
Hampstead raised his eyebrows. “Harley Fink? Let me see that.”
I turned on the phone, swiped to the call record page, and passed it over to Hampstead. The lawyer lowered his glasses and examined it closely. He mumbled a few times, then said, “No. This won’t do. Data on digital devices are too easily altered. The judge will never allow it.”
He rapidly tapped the screen.
“What are you doing?” asked Alec.
“Tampering with evidence is a criminal offense. Best we delete this data right now.”
Alec lunged forward and grabbed the device from the lawyer’s hand, but he was too late. The screen was blank.
“You idiot!” yelled Alec. “You’ve ruined everything.”
“I just did you a big favor,” said Hampstead.
“Those calls would have cleared Ravi of a capitol offense. Now, no one will know the truth.”
With his hands behind his head, the lawyer leaned comfortably back in his chair. “I know what I’m doing. Believe me. It’s for your own good.”
While they argued, I glanced up at the wall photos and saw the face of Harley Fink in one of them—shaking hands with our lawyer!
“You mean, it’s for your own good!” I said.
I elbowed Alec and pointed to the chilling photo. Alec pushed his chair away and threateningly stepped around the desk.
Hampstead leaped behind his chair. “See here, boy! Keep your distance! Take one more step and I’ll have the both of you thrown out of here.”
Alec ripped the photo off the wall and hurled it across the room. “You want Ravi to lose!”
“Ravi’s discoveries must never be known. There are powerful busines
s interests and political forces at work here. They’ll break you and anyone else who stands in their way. For your own safety, I advise you to stay out of it.”
“And I advise you to hold on to your nose, because it’s about to be flattened.”
I grabbed Alec’s arm. “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “Ravi’s shampoo will be known soon enough. I happen to know that the FDA is already testing samples of it, and will be announcing their approval any day.”
The cocky lawyer laughed. “You sad, little girl. Our man at the FDA intercepted those samples months ago.”
Now, I was the one who needed to be restrained. “You won’t get away with this! I’ll take the stand in court and expose your whole rotten scheme.”
“And who will believe you? Without Harley’s phone, your story is no better than a fairy tale.”
The office door opened and two burly security guards stood in the doorway. Hampstead waved them inside. “Be so kind as to escort these young people out of the building, won’t you?”
Alec and I left without any further incident, but not before Alec had one last word for the crooked lawyer: “By the way, you’re fired!”
Visiting hours were nearly over by the time Alec and I reached the jailhouse. We had come to update Ravi on the day’s disastrous events.
Only phone visitations were permitted between visitors and high-security inmates. That meant that we had to speak to Ravi through telephone handsets, while viewing him through a bullet-proof glass partition.
I had already told Ravi about finding Harley Fink’s phone, and how it was going to make winning his case a slam dunk. That was a mistake. My big mouth had raised his hopes for an early release. Now, I had to tell him not to bother packing.
A door opened beyond the glass, and into the secure area stepped Ravi. He spotted us across the room and waved the moment the guard unlocked his handcuffs. My heart ached seeing him clad in his jailhouse uniform. That orange outfit was intended for outlaws and thugs, not for my friend.
Ravi’s ankle chains scraped the floor as he shuffled over to his seat. His eyes were bright with optimism. He was happy to see us, but I knew his joy would soon give way to disappointment.
The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers Page 11
