by Jim Fusilli
“Open the box,” he demanded. “Go on.”
Marisol opened the box and began to dig through a layer of foam popcorn. Her hands trembled with fear.
She reached into the box.
And withdrew the Habishaw violin.
“Oh, Marisol,” Marley said.
Slowly, she raised the Habishaw. Its bloodstain seemed to glow in the harsh light.
“Marley . . . ?” Her bottom lip quivered.
Justice stepped back quickly and slammed the door shut. “Ha! You’re caught!”
Marisol looked at Marley, looked down at the Habishaw in her hand and began to cry.
“Marisol, don’t,” Marley said. “He hypnotized you. Don’t listen to anything—”
“Do you remember that, Marisol?” he said, a sneer on his thin lips. “Do you remember my hypnotizing you?”
Marisol was confused. In fact, she had no memory of what had happened. She didn’t understand why she was no longer in front of her apartment talking to Marley as her father and brothers made their way upstairs.
And she had no idea why the Habishaw was in her hand.
“Where’s your witness?” Justice challenged.
“I’ll tell them,” Marley said, stepping toward the doorman. “They’ll know it was you—”
“Do you think the police will believe you?”
“Yes,” Marley shouted. “Your father was a carnival barker and you knew Mesmero and he taught you! It’s a fact!”
The information she screamed was important, yes. But so was the volume: Marley wanted the first-floor residents to hear, or people passing through the lobby. Her voice rang out louder than the Kingston Cowboys had played their music, louder than Justice had shouted.
“And you know Juilliard. You were a security guard at Lincoln Center who was fired. For stealing!”
Justice’s face grew harsh in fury.
“You’re the one who’s caught!” she shouted. “Mesmero!”
Snatching the padlock from his pocket, Justice rammed it in place and then snapped it shut.
“The police will handle you two,” he said.
Marley reached between the slats and grabbed his tie, but his gray clip-on came off in her hand.
“Mesmero!” she screamed.
Their hearts thumping, Marley and Marisol stared at Justice as he stormed toward the stairs.
“Mesmero!” Marley screamed.
“Marley . . . ,” Marisol whispered. She shivered in fear.
“He’s—”
The heavy door to the lobby banged as it closed.
“Marley, we’re trapped.” She stared at the floor, the Habishaw quaking in her hand.
The overhead bulb cast peculiar shadows along the shed’s sides where old luggage and cardboard boxes were stacked at odd angles.
Though both teens were sweating, they found no relief in the cool air below earth.
"Marley . . .”
“Marisol, listen to me. Look at me.”
She reached and grabbed her friend.
“Marisol, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
As if to contradict Marley, Marisol held up the Habishaw.
“Marisol, you were trying to save the Habishaw. That’s why you took it.”
“I don’t under—”
“I read that people who are hypnotized won’t do something that’s against their principles. You wouldn’t steal, Marisol. But you would save a beautiful violin if it was in danger from a fire. He used your character against you.”
“He’s going to hurt us.”
“No,” Marley insisted. “He won’t. He can’t.”
“We’re trapped.”
“Marisol, we’ll be okay,” she said.
But the creepy walls of the tiny shed said otherwise. On the other side of the wooden slats, the boiler seemed a callous sentry.
“I told Teddy. He’ll come,” Marley said. With a smile, she added, “The buddy system. You know. . . .”
But Marisol wasn’t placated. Not a bit. Here she was, locked in an overcrowded wooden shed and, despite what Marley said, all she could see was the reality that she was now holding a valuable violin she’d been videotaped stealing from a display case at Juilliard.
Her family’s dreams would be destroyed, and she would go to prison, branded forever as a thief.
“Besides,” Marley said, “if he calls the 20th Precinct, Sgt. Sampson will come and we’ll explain everything.”
Marisol slumped. “He’s right,” she said. “They won’t believe us.”
“Sgt. Sampson will find the records that show Justice was fired—”
“We are just us, and he is a man of authority and no one will believe us and not him—”
“Marisol,” Marley said, “that’s why they will believe us. Because we are just us, and you are not a thief.”
Marisol shook her head.
“You are not a thief,” Marley said. “Your reputation, Marisol . . . That is worth more than the word of that ugly . . . That . . .”
With nothing else to say, Marley screamed. “Mesmero!”
“Mesmero!”
That last one was so loud and so shrill, the Habishaw vibrated in Marisol’s unsteady hand.
Teddy looked at his cell phone and frowned curiously. An excited message from Marley demanded a callback, but now when he tried to reach her, he went straight into her voice mail.
“Teddy. Teddy, where are you?” she’d said. “I’ve got it. Mesmero. Hypnosis. Call me now.”
No, Marley wouldn’t wait for his call, for his counsel. Marley took action, always.
He tried again. Voice mail.
Concerned, he stood and, keeping an eye on the shopping bags, tried Marisol’s number.
Voice mail, too.
Something was wrong. He felt it in his soul.
He waved his pudgy arms overhead until Kiana turned, staring angrily at him across the congested sales floor.
Then he waved good-bye and ran out of the store.
By now, the salty sweat on Marley’s skin had dried, and her desire for a drink of water had turned to need.
Teddy, she thought, where are you?
“No one is coming,” Marisol said. She’d stopped crying, but she kept shifting in the small space, the Habishaw cradled like an infant in her arms. “It’s been an hour. More than one hour.”
According to the clock in Marley’s phone, it had been fifteen minutes.
But it had felt like an hour.
“Too bad we can’t get a signal down here,” Marley said as she stared at her cell.
Soon the silence was disturbed only by the rush of water through the tangle of overhead pipes. The familiar, comforting sounds of the New York City streets were long gone.
“Nobody’s coming,” Marisol said.
“Yes,” Marley replied, “they are.”
A moment later, Marisol added, “Mr. Justice will lie.”
“Of course,” Marley said. “He has to.”
Teddy had a thought, and just before rushing down into the station to take the C train uptown, he made one last call.
But there was no answer at the Zimmerman residence.
Her voice soft as a child’s, Marisol said, “Are you worried?”
She had noticed that Marley had stopped shouting. And that she had gone on her tiptoes to tap on the water pipes with the side of her cell phone.
Marisol nestled the Habishaw against her little body as if she were protecting it from harm.
Next Marley ripped masking tape from the lids of countless boxes, finding old books and photo albums and bills and receipts and various other yellowing documents. Clothes too: baby pajamas and tiny T-shirts. Booties and blankets.
Maybe we’ll find silverware, Marley thought, as they brought down another box from a shelf. A knife, maybe.
But they found nothing to use to pry open the big lock on the shed.
And nothing to help burst through the wood: They learned a folding chair didn’t work very well as a battering ram.
<
br /> But as she rummaged deep below the bottom shelf, Marley found a folded cardboard box that was empty except for an instruction booklet.
“What’s this . . . ?”
Across the booklet’s face were the words HIGH OUTPUT SMOKE GENERATOR.
The smoke in Juilliard’s lobby . . .
“There was no fire,” Marley muttered. “Whoever spoke to the Times didn’t have the right information. . . .”
“Marley?”
“This is evidence,” Marley said, holding it so Marisol could see. “And, look, it has a timer. There’s probably a serial number—”
“You didn’t answer me,” Marisol said. “Are you worried?”
“I’m thirsty,” Marley replied. His toolbox, she was thinking. She wanted to find the tools he used to open the display case.
“And you are sure he will not hurt us?”
Marley remained quiet. But, she thought, there’s no telling what a cornered rat like N Justice will do.
chapter 13
Marley heard the upstairs door open, and saw a rush of light.
“They’re right here,” Justice said. “The two of them, and the violin. Unless your friends destroyed it.”
They saw Justice’s black shoes, the stripes of his gray slacks, the pockets of his burgundy coat, and then they saw all of him. His ferret face was bright red from heat and anger.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he continued, gesturing with his hat, his hair a sweaty mess. “I would’ve returned it, but they locked themselves in there with it.”
Teddy was behind him.
“They stole it and now they’ll demand the reward,” Justice said.
“Open it, please,” Teddy said.
“Not until they agree to let me return—”
“Open the shed,” Teddy insisted. “Open it now or you will be in more trouble than you can imagine.”
“Now listen here, young man—”
“Now!”
The stark fury in Teddy’s voice startled Marley. It also made her smile.
At that moment, the upstairs door opened again.
Sgt. Sampson rushed down the stairs.
Justice suddenly seemed confused.
Marley reached her hand between the slats. She had Justice’s gray clip-on in her fist.
Sgt. Sampson glowered at the doorman. “Do what he said. Open the door.”
Justice lurched toward the door. As he fumbled with the lock, Marley whispered, “Mesmero.”
The lock came off and the door swung open.
Stepping back, Justice said, “I can’t wait to hear what lies—”
As Teddy watched, Sgt. Sampson nudged him to the side.
“You all right, girls?”
Marley nodded as she walked toward him.
The Habishaw nestled in her arms, Marisol didn’t budge.
“Marisol,” the policeman said as he held out his hand.
“I’m afraid to move it,” she replied softly. “Can I hold it until someone from Juilliard arrives?”
“Now she cares!” Justice laughed. “The thief!”
Marley joined Teddy. His face soaked in sweat and gripped with fear, he offered her a bottle of water.
Marley gobbled the cool drink to soothe her parched throat.
And then she gave her brave friend a hug.
“It’s all right, Ted.”
“I called the police, but when I didn’t see them I thought . . .”
“No, no, Ted, it’s all right.”
Pointing angrily, Justice said, “They’re in it together.”
“Sergeant,” Marley said as she stepped toward the policeman. “He hypnotized her.”
“Ridiculous,” Justice snapped.
“Your forensic psychiatrist can show you how he used Marisol’s cell phone as a trigger.”
“Sergeant, are you going to listen to—?”
“Quiet!” That was Sgt. Sampson, his voice so forceful that Teddy jumped.
Marley said, “Remember when we saw Marisol on the second video? She looked down and to the right before walking off to her left toward Amsterdam?”
Sgt. Sampson nodded. Teddy did too.
“She keeps her cell phone on her belt on the right. That circusy ring tone told her to report to this building.”
“And I suppose I hypnotized her into stealing the violin by phone?” Justice asked sarcastically.
“You didn’t need the phone for that,” Marley said. “Marisol came to see you on Monday afternoon, the day before the Habishaw was stolen. You two were alone, and that’s when you planted the suggestion.”
“Go on, Marley,” Sgt. Sampson said, as he stared at the doorman.
“After she saved it from all that smoke, she ran outside and that’s when you called her. She brought the Habishaw here. Where you could store it. In a locked shed,” Marley said, pointing. “You have the key. We don’t.”
She turned toward Sgt. Sampson.
“See, he had it in that box in there. I bet his fingerprints are on the tape.” She looked up at the policeman. “You’ll find the box for his smoke machine too.”
Another police officer squeezed through the curious tenants who had gathered on the steps.
“Him,” the sergeant said, snapping his chin toward Justice. “And, Jackson, get someone over here from Juilliard to handle the violin.”
“You’re arresting me?” Justice protested.
“Sergeant, his cell phone. Please,” Marley said. “Just in case . . .”
He nodded and held out his hand.
The doorman looked up at him. Defeated, he surrendered his phone.
Officer Jackson took Justice by the elbow.
“She’s not a thief,” Marley shouted as Justice was led away. “No matter what you say, she’s not.”
Though her voice cracked, everyone heard her.
On a bench below a bulletin board jammed with official notices and photo of the Two-Oh’s softball team, Teddy entertained Skeeter, who seemed to be helping him negotiate “Pat the Bunny.” A noisy fan nudged musty air around the busy room.
As Zeke Zimmerman, Cristina Poveda, and Gus Poveda waited, dozens of police officers scurried in and out of the precinct house. Several dragged in unsavory characters and quickly scuttled them out of sight, their hands cuffed behind their backs, a pitiful look of resignation on their faces.
Lawyers arrived and disappeared to where the accused criminals had been taken.
Though she was a lawyer, Marley’s mother knew corporate law and criminal law were two very different things. But she represented Marley as she gave her statement. When the Povedas’ lawyer couldn’t be reached, she sat in with Marisol too.
As Sgt. Sampson questioned her, Marley was direct and straightforward, describing what she had learned about Jedediah Justice’s Traveling Amusements and its star attraction Mesmero. She told Sgt. Sampson that what she read about hypnosis helped her understand how Justice had manipulated Marisol.
“I guess Justice saw I didn’t like his style,” she said, remembering her brief visit with Wendell earlier today. “Then his nephew probably mentioned that we were trying to figure out what really happened. Justice panicked. I guess maybe he thought Marisol would show up alone and he’d let you find her with the Habishaw.”
During her interview, Marisol was tentative and frightened.
Mrs. Zimmerman asked for a moment, and Sgt. Sampson and Dr. Moon, the forensic psychiatrist, left the little pale-blue room.
“Marisol, el policía sabe que usted no ha hecho nada mal,” she said, her arm draped around her shaking shoulder. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Fine, then. Tell them. Tell them the truth.”
And when Sgt. Sampson and Dr. Moon returned, she did.
She said, “I decided to find out why Mr. Justice had judged us so harshly. We were only trying to play music together. All right, not very well, it’s true, but still . . . It’s a very good activity for us. But I could see that
Marley and Teddy believed he didn’t want us there because of who he thought we were, not because of our music. I am not inferior, and I wanted to know why he treated us so poorly. To confront him, yes, but also to understand.
“At first, he didn’t want to speak to me. He walked away. Surely, I thought, Marley and Teddy are right. I told him I was an excellent student at a very, very good school and that my parents are outstanding people, and I don’t deserve to be treated this way.”
Sgt. Sampson asked, “What did he say?”
“He apologized,” Marisol replied, “and he asked me not to repeat anything to Wendell or our friends.” She shook her head. “I felt he was sincere. . . .”
“Did he mention the Habishaw?”
“I don’t remember. But I did mention that I played the violin. ”
“Do you remember anything about the hypnosis?”
“Nothing,” she said, “no.”
“Where did you speak to him?”
“At his desk. Then by the fireplace.”
“You don’t remember leaving the lobby?”
Marisol said, “My memory is that we had a useful conversation. What I remember next is going home.”
Sgt. Sampson nodded.
He looked at Mrs. Zimmerman. “Dr. Moon needs a few minutes. It could help her.”
“I’ll advise her parents,” Marley’s mom replied.
“Otherwise, I’m done here.” Sgt. Sampson stood.
When Mrs. Zimmerman stood, Marisol did too.
The policeman towered over her.
“You’re a good kid,” he said, as he leaned down and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Miss Otto and Mr. Noonan are right.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Is the Habishaw . . . ?”
“It’s fine,” he nodded. “You took good care of it, Marisol.”
Marisol looked at Mrs. Zimmerman and sighed in relief.
“Let’s go,” said Marley’s mom, holding out her hand.
Marley’s throat was still raw from screaming, but having Skeeter on her hip and Teddy at her side made her feel much better. So did Sgt. Sampson’s report that the NYPD had searched Justice’s apartment and found a set of duplicate keys from Lincoln Center he had made while he worked there in security. One of those keys gave him access to the loading dock at Juilliard. The police believed Justice snuck in late at night to tamper with the display case when it was in storage, and also set up the smoke machine and a timer.
