The White Van

by Patrick Hoffman

  The door opened, and the bald cop stepped back in carrying a plastic chair.

  “Dave, can you get Ms. Rosario a . . .” She looked at Emily.

  “A Coke.”

  “Get her a Coke.”

  He set the chair down and left. The woman cop leaned forward on her elbows and looked into Emily’s eyes.

  “Officer Sam Trammell was pronounced dead.”

  “I know,” said Emily.

  “He was a good cop. A good man.”

  “He seemed like it.” The cop squinted. Too much, thought Emily. “In the short time he was helping me.” Slow down, thought Emily.

  The cop breathed in heavily and looked through some papers on the table in front of her. Emily’s eyes went to the papers, pages and pages of photocopied handwritten notes. Emily couldn’t make out the words. The bald cop stepped back into the room and handed Emily the Coke, which she opened shyly, as if the noise might disturb someone. The bald cop sat down next to the woman. He had to squeeze in to fit. The temperature in the room seemed to rise.

  “I’m Inspector Cooley,” said the lady, “and this is Inspector Lake.” She nodded toward the bald cop. “Again, sorry for the wait. You understand that you’re not being held here, right?”

  Emily nodded, but she knew it wasn’t true.

  “You’re free to go at any time. If you want, you can get up right now and just walk out that door.” The lady cop’s thumb pointed to the door behind her.

  “Yeah, no, it’s all good,” said Emily.

  “Good,” said the bald cop.

  The lady cop spoke. “So, Emily, I’m just going to turn on this tape player so we can tape this, and we’ll get you out of here as fast as possible. I know this is really stressful.” She pressed the record button on a black tape recorder that sat on the table. Emily figured the tape recorder was probably for show; there was probably a hidden camera in the corner of the ceiling, and the room would be wired for sound.

  “Today’s date is August second, 2010,” the woman said. “The time is twenty-two-thirty. I’m Inspector Cooley, I’m here with—”

  “Inspector Lake, star number 1149.”

  “We’re in the Homicide Division, speaking with, Emily—Emily, go ahead and say your full name.”

  “Emily Rosario.”

  “What’s your date of birth?”

  “January eleventh, 1983.”

  “Now Emily, I’ve told you that you are not under arrest, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve told you, you can walk out this door any time you want. Right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Okay. Now, Emily, because this incident involved the death of an officer, I have to read you your rights.”

  “Okay.”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” said the female cop. “Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney. You have the right to have an attorney here with you. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights?”

  Emily nodded.

  “I need you to say you understand them.”

  “I understand them,” said Emily.

  “Good. Okay, Emily, you witnessed an incident tonight on Minna alley.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why don’t you just set the scene for us, where you were coming from, you know, that stuff.”

  “Okay, I had been . . .” Emily’s mind tracked across her story. She hadn’t considered how to answer these preliminary questions. Where had I been? She had been hiding in a motel because she’d robbed a bank and some Russians wanted to kill her. Stick to the truth. “I had been—I stay at the Auburn Hotel, you know, right there where this thing happened, but I had been gone for like a week, or something, so I had just come back.” It was a long speech.

  “Where had you been?” asked the bald one.

  “I was staying in the Marina.” No reason not to be, she thought.

  “Okay,” said the lady. “So you’re coming back home, and what happens?”

  Emily’s eyes went from one cop’s face to the other. She had to make them think they were smart; make them feel they were in control. Her eyes went to the tape machine on the table between them. Show them fear, she thought. Throw out a little fear and see what they throw back. “Can you turn the tape off for one second?” asked Emily. She put a pained look on her face.

  Inspector Cooley pressed stop on the tape.

  “I got a question,” said Emily.

  “Go ahead.”

  “What if what I was doing was,” she paused and then continued, “you know, am I gonna get in trouble?”

  Cooley’s eyes smiled a little. “Emily, whatever you were doing, we’re not interested in that. We don’t care. We’re not looking to get you in trouble.”

  “A cop got killed,” said the bald one. “We want to know what happened.”

  So far, they had not shown any signs of knowing about the bank robbery. They were not coming at her hard at all. It seemed, Emily thought, looking down at the can of Coke on the table, that they genuinely wanted her to help them.

  The lady cop raised her eyebrows at Emily like a question, and Emily nodded. The cop pressed the record button.

  “We’re back on tape,” said the woman.

  “Go on,” said the man.

  “So, I came back, and then all that stuff happened.” Play dumb. Keep it simple. Emily breathed in and out, calming herself.

  “What happened?”

  “The guy, the man who grabbed me, shot the one cop, and then the other cop shot him, and that’s it. That’s all I know.”

  “Did you know the man who grabbed you?” asked the woman.

  “No. Nope.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “Not before tonight.” Emily locked eyes with the female cop and felt her blood pressure rise, but to a controllable level. The cop was good, she didn’t give any signs; her face didn’t betray what she knew, one way or the other.

  “Tell us about him trying to grab you. You know, where did he do it, what did he say?” said the female cop in a soothing way.

  “He grabbed me right in that alley, right where it all went down.”

  The female cop’s face looked concerned. Emily watched as the area in the middle of her eyebrows tensed; she saw her lips get tight. She didn’t look at the bald one; she just focused on the woman. And the woman cop’s face showed a slight sign of disbelief.

  “Where did you first run into the man who grabbed you?” she asked again.

  “In the alley.”

  “The problem is,” said the bald one, “we know Officer Trammell and Officer Elias walked you down Sixth Street to Minna alley. We’ve talked to witnesses and we’ve seen some video, so we know that part. We’re just having a hard time seeing what you’re telling us.”

  “That’s it,” said Emily, “that’s right, the two cops, sorry, the two officers had gotten me on Sixth Street and walked me down to Minna and over that way toward the man that had tried to grab me.” The words felt jumbled. She was having a hard time finding a rhythm. I need to quit using drugs, she thought.

  “When did the man try to grab at you?” asked the lady.

  Emily understood. The timing was off. “He grabbed me before those cops had seen me.” She put a little bit of annoyance into her answer to try to keep the conversation moving.

  “Okay, so the cops had seen you, and they walked you back to where this man had tried to grab you?” asked the female cop.

  Emily felt like the lady was telling her this was the right thing to say. “That’s right,” said Emily.

  “So, how long before you ran into the cops had the man been grabbing on you?” asked the bald cop.

  “Just then, just before all this.”

  “Now when you say ‘grab,’ what do you mean?”

  “I mean, I was walking to my house and that punk, sorry, that man tried to grab me and pull me
into his van.”

  “Where’d he grab you?”

  “’Cause he’s a pervert.”

  “Where’d he grab you?”

  “He grabbed my arm.” Emily raised her left arm. One half of the Russian’s handcuffs—the half that remained after she shot herself free when she woke up in the park—was dangling from her wrist. She dropped her hand.

  “Is that a handcuff on your wrist?” asked the bald cop.

  “Yeah,” said Emily.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s one of those fashion things,” said Emily, “like a hip-hop thing. They got them now.”

  The female cop nodded her head, but her eyes looked skeptical.

  “Were you ever handcuffed to a window?” asked the female.

  “No, I don’t think so. But my memory is all messed up over what happened.”

  “There’s a witness who stated that you were cuffed to a wall.”

  “What’d the cop say?” asked Emily.

  “Were you ever cuffed to a wall?” asked the female.

  “Not that I could remember, unless the officer said I was. He’s probably better trained at all that memorizing than me.” Emily wanted to dig her heels in. She figured that maybe by arguing about a small point she could avoid any bigger questions.

  The two cops stayed silent. Emily could hear a vague electrical droning all around her. She looked down at the tape player and watched the wheels turn. The flesh on her stomach hurt where the cop had pinched her. The bald cop kept staring while the female leafed through the loose papers in front of her. Emily, in an effort to appear calm, yawned.

  “So, the man tried to grab you?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the alley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you ran to the two officers?”

  “Uh huh. I mean, I ran in their direction, but they saw me and they grabbed me. And then I told them what happened and they took me back that way. And then it was just like bang, bang, bang and that’s it.”

  “I see,” said the bald cop.

  “When did you cut your hair?” asked the female cop.

  “From what?” asked Emily.

  “Your old mug shot, and your DMV picture, you always had longer hair.”

  “For a change. And to make my boyfriend mad.”

  “Who’s your boyfriend?”

  “His name’s Pierre. Well, his name’s Anthony Baptiste, but they call him Pierre.”

  “And where’s he?”

  “That’s my question, too,” said Emily.

  The female cop smiled. “So, the man grabbed you, you ran to the cops, they walked you back to Minna alley. What was the man doing when you got there with the cops?”

  “He was just sitting in that van with the engine on, right in the middle of the street, just hella lurking.”

  “And what did the two officers do?”

  “They walked to the van to get him like that, or talk to him, you know, that kind of thing, but the dude just opened the door and straight walked right at them and raised up.”

  “He fired his weapon?”

  “Straight ringing bells, shot the young cop and then boom, the other cop shot him. It all went down in a second. Just like that: bang, bang. But he saved me, the officer did. I wish I could thank him, though.” The words were coming free and easy now. She took a sip from the Coke can.

  “And you were handcuffed at this time?”

  “Not that I recall, but if that cop says I was then he probably knows better than I do.” The officers stayed silent. “He’s the hero, not me,” said Emily. Emily and the female cop locked eyes. Emily didn’t look away.

  “Did the man say anything as he raised his weapon?”

  “The Russian?” asked Emily. As it came out of her mouth she wanted to grab the words and pull them back in, but she couldn’t; they had escaped and the little black tape recorder on the table continued to turn its wheels. There was nothing she could do. She tried to compose her face. She could feel tiny sweat clouds forming on her brow.

  “The man,” said the bald cop.

  “Yep,” said Emily.

  “Why’d you say Russian?”

  “’Cause when he had grabbed me he was like saying, Get in the car, but he said it like hella Russian sounding, I don’t know. French, or something. Why? He ain’t Russian?”

  “He was a Russian citizen,” said the female.

  “I don’t know,” said Emily, shaking her head. “He’s French?”

  “Did he say anything to you?” asked the bald cop.

  “Because his accent,” said Emily. “Did he say anything? He was just like, Get in the car, bitch.”

  “Okay,” said the female, “slow down. Let me get this straight. You’re coming home and the man tried to grab you, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you when he tried to grab you?”

  “I was somewhere around there, just on my way back home.”

  “Was he driving in his van?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he stop and get out?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And he tried to pull you toward the van?”

  “He grabbed my arm and yanked on me.”

  “And you managed to escape, and you ran up Sixth Street, and those officers happened to see you running, distressed, and they grabbed you?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And what did they say to you, when they grabbed you?”

  “‘Can we help you.’”

  The space above the female cop’s eyes quivered.

  “No, that’s not what they said, but that’s what they meant,” said Emily. The female cop nodded her head slightly. “Their actions said, can I help you.”

  “But they had stopped you as a suspect,” said the bald one.

  “That’s right, or they stopped me ’cause I was running and that don’t look right on Sixth Street.”

  “And you told them what had happened, with this Russian man trying to grab you.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Now, you walked back with the two officers, they took you to Minna alley, they asked you to wait, because the van was there—I don’t want to put words in your mouth.”

  “You’re saying it how it was,” said Emily.

  “They approached the van and the dude jumped out and started shooting.”

  “That’s it.”

  10

  The police came. Then more. Then the ambulances. The first cops were soon joined by inspectors, crime scene investigators, sergeants, two lieutenants, and a captain. The alley became filled with men. There must have been nearly forty officers.

  Someone had produced a metal folding chair and placed it right near the spot where Emily had been standing and Elias now sat on it. Trammell was dead. Elias watched everything. He was in shock. Trammell was dead and it was Elias’s own fault.

  Nothing made sense. Breathing was difficult. He wanted to cry. His body felt wrung out. All the drinking, all the lack of sleep, was catching up to him. The buildings, the cement, San Francisco itself, the trash, everything was making him sick. He kept taking big, exaggerated breaths, hoping something would give, but it wouldn’t. He was stuck with himself.

  Two of his partners from the Gang Task Force stood in front of him as a sort of barricade. They both held a hand on his shoulder, and they took turns looking at him and shaking their heads. They couldn’t believe it.

  His fear of being caught was making his face ache. The muscles in his shoulders felt hardened to metal. If he could just have the last week back; he would trade everything for the last week. His head ached. The foreclosure of his house occurred to him like a sick joke. Take it, he didn’t care. Take his job. Take everything. Just don’t let me get caught.

  He could still feel the way his gun had recoiled when he’d shot it. It was the first time he’d ever fired his gun in action. His head and arm echoed with the buck of the gun. His ear throbbed.

  He could stil
l feel, in the memory of his finger and thumb, the place where he had pinched the girl. What would she say? How in the world did he end up in a partnership with her? Who the fuck was she?

  Trammell’s body had been covered with a blanket. The bullet had entered his face, above his cheek. Elias felt a desire to yell; he felt obligated to yell. He wanted to yell that Trammell shouldn’t be left out on the ground like that. He figured he should be protesting somehow, exhibiting some kind of outrage, but he also felt a strange, depressed kind of stage fright. He had lost his voice. He was in shock.

  He thought about confessing. He wanted to do it right away. Get it over with. Lay it all out. The pain in his chest was suffocating. He’d take the blame for everything, even for Rada Harkov. But as more officers arrived, something changed. The cops had a look in their eyes. They ran around busy and intent, but each one looked at him differently. They looked at him with something like respect. He was a man who shot a cop killer from fifteen yards away. A perfect shot.

  The cops had already taken Emily Rosario away. You saved me, and I didn’t rob no bank. You saved me.

  Inspector Ortiz was the officer in charge of the investigation and the fourth cop to ask Elias what happened. He was small and old and looked like a television cop. He ushered Elias away from his two partners and walked him farther into the alley. His manner was calm. He was a good listener.

  Duda Rue. Elias explained that they had been looking for a bad guy named Duda Rue. They got a tip that he was staying at the Henry Hotel. That’s where they were headed when they saw the girl running. She ran right at them. They stopped her to see what was up.

  “Why was your car parked in the number-two lane?” asked Ortiz.

  “’Cause we saw her running,” said Elias. Committing to the lie brought a measure of calmness.

  Elias could see the problems with the story even as he told it. He left out seeing the van drive by. How many witnesses were being questioned right then? How could the man in the van have grabbed her if he was driving by? Elias could feel the weight of the girl’s gun in his jacket pocket; he could feel the stack of hundred-dollar bills.

  “We saw the witness, the Rosario woman running up Sixth Street; we jumped out and secured information on the suspect.”