Shrugging. Sighing. “Okay, truce. Now, can we go see Ash? Meet his GM?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Stitchway.”
The dogs, Peaches a black lab mix, and Maggie a black and white border collie mix, were lying by the backdoor, heads on paws, eyes switching one to the other as their humans spoke.
“Give the girls a biscuit. Let ‘em out,” Manny said. “I can’t take their sad eyes. I’ll go call the DB Chief, and Donovan and Fred. Tell them what we found. Emphasis on WE! Then we go to the hospital.”
“Manny. Come here,” Liz said sweetly.
She stood on her tip toes, brushing her lips across his moustache. “I love you.”
“Umm, your pants are a little tight, partner.”
Chapter 33
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ASH WAITED, HIS EYES riveted on the doorway to his hospital room.
It was Noon.
His grandmother, the only person he trusted as far back as he could remember, back to his fourth or fifth year. She was the one who raised him. At first weekends, a month now and then, but after his mother died, his mother’s mother came for him. She took him away to live with her and his grandfather in London. It was at her knee that he learned compassion, at their knees that he turned away from violence.
A nurse in blue scrubs entered his room, smiled, took away the lunch tray. People passed by the door as he waited—doctors, nurses, visitors, a bed pushed by three men in scrubs, an IV strung to the patient’s arm—young, old? He couldn’t tell.
A woman with gray hair, clipped back, stepped in the doorway, framed in the doorway. A warm, loving smile spread to her lips, her eyes.
“Ashar … I am here.” She walked to him, her arms open wide to him.
Flinging his feet loose of the bed sheet, Ash stood receiving her embrace.
Looking into his eyes, she scrutinized his face. “Ashar, you are well?”
“Yes, Grandmother. I’m okay. A slight cut on my head. Here, sit.” He pulled a chair close to his bed, settled her into the chair. Pushing a pillow aside he sat cross legged on the bed holding her hands.
“Your trip—are you tired?”
“A little. Even before your call, it was time for me to come. I just wish your grandfather was alive to see the man you have become. He … we are so proud.”
Their heads bowed to each other, talking quietly. Neither noticed Star as she turned into the doorway. Her hand started up to wave, her mouth open to say hello, but stopped. The woman with Ash had to be his grandmother, her gray hair caught in a bun, a black long-sleeve shirt over a black skirt. Star saw the edge of the skirt grace one of her black sturdy shoes against the chair leg.
Star hesitated, hesitant to take another step from the bright hallway into the room with blinds filtering the sunlight. Not wanting to intrude on what was obviously a private moment between grandmother and grandson, she did not enter. Ash’s head bent down to his grandmother looking up at him. Her back was straight, no hunching at the shoulders. She was a strong woman speaking in a soft voice.
“Ashar, it is time. You must make a choice. Your life here. A new country, a new community that desperately needs your voice. Or, are you going to return to Syria? You have a passion for speaking the truth, a passionate voice that stirs people to listen. Your grandfather and I tried to give you the opportunity to think for yourself. There are so many misconceptions, painting a picture that all Muslims are bad. But it’s a new day … it can be a new day.”
The woman leaned closer, locking eyes with her grandson, forcing him to take in her words.
“Along the way some in the community may break your heart, may turn away, but do not let it break your will. They may not see, may not listen to the truth in your words, that you do not seek or suggest they give up or change their traditions. No, but to understand they can keep the old while embracing the new. They can exist, the traditions, side by side. People fear the unknown. Fear what is foreign to them. You must use your voice. You must help both sides to be open, to embrace one another, to trust.”
There was a rustle at the door as the doctor, white coat flapping, hustled into the room with a nurse, brushing past Star. The doctor had a smile on his face. Star quickly joined in line behind them. “Mr. Rais, your test shows you had a bad bump on your head, and, as you are well aware, a cut.”
Ash let his legs fall over the side of bed. Standing, he addressed the man. “Doctor, my grandmother. Grandmother, this nice doctor fixed me up. Oh … and Star. Star, please, meet my grandmother.”
The doctor nodded acknowledging the introduction. Star grasped the grandmother’s hand. “So nice to meet you.”
She nodded in return with a smile and eyes that seemed to gather Star to her.
“You’ll have a headache today, Mr. Rais, but it should clear up by tomorrow. So, Mr. Rais, you are now free to leave. The nurse will give you instructions and paperwork to pick up your personal items that were in your pockets. She told me she already returned your cell phone. If you have any questions give me a call. Anything you want to know now?” The doctor looked at his grandmother, back to Ash.
“No, sir, and thank you.” Ash stiffened as a police officer, holstered gun, entered his room.
“Hello, Mr. Rais. I’m Detective Fred Watson. We met but you were a bit groggy at the time. I understand you can leave the hospital, but I’d like you to come with me to the station. We need your statement, for the record, about the robbery and the assault that landed you in the hospital. We also have to talk to you about the status of your student visa. Our records indicate it has expired. Why don’t you get dressed. I’ll go with you to check out. There is also a matter of paying the hospital for your emergency. Do you have insurance?”
“Yes, he does, Officer.” Ash’s grandmother stood up. Stood erect. Face stern as she faced the officer. She was not to be trifled with.
“Your name, ma’am?”
“Mrs. Deven Patel, Adhira Patel. I traveled from London … to help my grandson Ashar. I will accompany him to your station. I have his insurance card with me.”
Fred looked from the gray-haired woman to Ash, and back to his grandmother. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to meet us at the station, Mrs. Patel. Here’s the address.” Watson handed Mrs. Patel his card.
“I’ll take you, Mrs. Patel. I just have to make a quick phone call.” Star turned to Ash. “You and your grandmother go check out. Mrs. Patel, I’ll meet you in the lobby. We can follow Detective Watson.” Star slipped out of the room as Ash accepted his clothes from the nurse.
Out in the hall, Star pulled her cell from her purse, and tapped Liz’s number.
“Liz, is Manny there? Detective Watson just came to take Ash to the police station. He said he wanted his statement about the robbery and then he said something about his visa being expired.”
“Star, we were just on our way to visit Ash. Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker. Manny’s driving. We’ll meet you at the station. Did his grandmother arrive?”
“Yes, she’s here. I’m taking her to the station. I think Ash may need your advice … his visa being expired.”
“Of course. Like Liz said, we’ll meet you there.”
“Manny, he’s from Syria, a Muslim. Are they going to deport him?”
“It’s possible.”
Chapter 34
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DETECTIVE WATSON ESCORTED Ashar to the DBPD station, pausing at the bullet-proof lobby window. He paused to tell the duty officer that two women, a Mrs. Patel accompanied by a young woman named Star Bloom would arrive soon. After signing in, he asked the officer to have them escorted to the conference room.
Hearing his name, Watson turned from the duty officer.
“Hey Fred, good to see you.” Manny strode up to his friend, hand extended. He smiled at Ash with a quick nod. “Liz and I were just down the hall.”
“Manny, Liz, hi … again. Twice in one day. I thought you were retired.” Fred said grasping Manny’s hand with a quick pump, then
Liz’s. “What brings you two here?”
“Well, this man.” Manny nodded to Ash a second time, shaking his hand signaling he was there to help. “His friend, Star Bloom, whom you also saw this morning, gave me a call that maybe I could be of some assistance … to her friend.”
“Okay.” Fred glanced at the duty officer, then Ash, then out the large plate-glass window. Nothing he could do but to accept the help of his old boss, but he was going to track down how Manny always seemed to show up in the middle of his cases. Maybe the chief didn’t trust him with the job. “I see Miss Bloom and Mr. Rais’s grandmother getting out of a van … Charlie’s Diner.” Fred glanced at Ash. “Come on, Mr. Rais. Let’s go to the conference room. They’ll catch up.”
Entering the windowless room with a long oak table in the center, chairs tucked under, Fred nodded to Ash. “Take any seat, Mr. Rais. Would you like a cup of coffee, glass of water?”
“N-n-no, thank you, sir.”
With a soft knock, the door swung open and Star, holding Mrs. Patel’s arm, stepped into the conference room. Mrs. Patel, her eyes sweeping the room, took a seat next to Ashar, patting his hand, whispering to him not to worry.
“Thanks, Manny, Liz, for coming,” Star said in a soft voice taking a seat on the other side of Ash.
“No problem. Glad to help if I can,” Manny said.
Liz, sitting beside Manny, leaned back in the black metal folding chair, took a deep breath, releasing the air in a silent sigh. This was her husband’s territory, his old stomping ground. Retired or not, at one time the Captain of the Criminal Investigation Division, DBPD-CID, he was still respected by the force, still called upon for help. It rarely happened that she accompanied him in DBPD’s hallowed halls. In such instances, they had made an agreement that he would always take the lead, she would observe. If she spotted something, good or bad, she’d note it on a pad of paper, slide it into his view.
Today was such an instance. She looked blankly around the room, withdrawing a yellow pad from her shoulder bag as Detective Watson began the meeting.
“Mr. Rais, please tell me, for the record, what you saw, what you did, and how you received a blow on the head that landed you in the hospital.” Fred, flipped on the recorder lying in the center of the table between him and Ash. Fred nodded for Ash to go ahead.
“I-I-I was waiting for Star. The diner was closing … no one left … when a man with a sweater came in asking for coffee. Tyler … the waiter … told the man there wasn’t any. T-T-Told him to come back in the morning. Then everything happened fast. Star came out, the man grabbed her, pulled a gun, pointed it at her, and I took him out. The man swung at me ... no, that’s not right. The man held the gun to Star’s head, demanded money. Tyler took bills from the register, shoved them at the man. The man yelled to get the rest … of the money. That’s when I took him out b-b-but he took me out. I guess I hit my head on the counter as I went down. That’s all I know. I w-w-woke up in the hospital.”
Fred stopped the recorder. “Excuse me, everyone, while I have this typed up. Take a break. There’s coffee, water on the table by the door. Help yourself. I won’t be long.”
“Mrs. Patel, can I get you something to drink?” Star asked looking around Ash to his grandmother.
“Do you suppose I could have a cup of tea, dear?”
Liz stood, stretched, raised her eyes to Manny. “Sure, Come on, Star. I’ll help you find a teabag … some hot water.”
“Ask the duty officer, front desk. She’ll fix it for you. Sugar, milk?” Manny asked Mrs. Patel.
Shaking her head, Liz grasped Star’s arm, leading her out of the room.
“Liz, what do you think? What’s really going on?” Star asked.
“Not sure, except I think Detective Watson is just warming up.”
A few minutes later, Fred returned followed by Star and Liz. Star set a teacup, teabag on the side, in front of Mrs. Patel and returned to her seat on the other side of Ash. Liz, locking eyes with Manny for an instant, returned to her seat beside him.
“Okay, Mr. Rais, here’s a copy of your statement, what you saw take place at the diner Monday night. Please read it and, if it’s accurate, sign at the bottom that you have read the report and you agree with it. If there are any changes or additional information you want to include just let me know.” Noting Mrs. Patel had a cup of tea, he asked if Star or Liz would like coffee. Both women shook their heads watching Ash sign the one-page report, sliding it to the Detective sitting across the table.
“Thank you, Mr. Rais. Now, it is a standard practice, when a victim of an assault is hospitalized in our jurisdiction, for the hospital to send a report to us, Daytona Beach Police Department. This practice gives us the information we need to help in the apprehension of the person who perpetrated the assault. In this case, the robber, the person who struck you ending in your head injury.”
“Have you found him already?” Star leaned forward, her hands grasping the edge of the oak conference table.
“Not yet, Miss Bloom. Now, Mr. Rais, further, as a routine matter, when a name is sent to us, for whatever reason, that name is automatically scanned through the Florida Investigation database in Tallahassee. Sometimes the name pops up as a match for someone we are looking for, or, as a matter of record, has committed some crime in the past. Such is the case of your name, Ashar Rais.”
“B-B-but I’ve never been arrested. I’ve never committed a r-r-robbery.”
“No, we didn’t find that you had committed a felony. But, I’m afraid we did find that you are in this country illegally. Your visa expired a month ago.”
“Detective, that was my fault. Mr. Patel, Ashar’s grandfather, was going to process the paperwork but unfortunately, it was delayed … due to his death.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Patel, but no matter who’s at fault, the visa was not renewed, and your grandson will have to leave the United States in the next few days.”
“I think not, Detective. You see my husband and I were having serious discussions, long distance telephone conversations, with our grandson, on whether Ashar should remain in the U.S. Ashar felt a responsibility to his family but very much wanted to stay in the United States. A country he had grown to respect. My husband and I agreed that he should remain in Florida.”
“But Mrs. Patel, he can’t just decide to stay. There is a process. I’m afraid he will have to return with you, or to … let me see, yes, return to Damascus, Syria, according to his visa, his country of origin, or London with you. He just can’t stay here. Then, he can apply to Immigration to start the process to come to the U.S. legally.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Detective Watson. But … Ashar, I’m sorry you have to learn of what I’m about to say in this manner. Please forgive the deception your mother and I held since your birth.” Mrs. Patel patted his hand, worry lines deepening around her eyes. She opened her purse retrieving a worn, dog-eared envelope. “You see, Detective, my grandson is already a citizen of the United States. He was born in New York, Calvary Hospital in the Bronx.”
“Grandmother?” Ash jumped to his feet. Looked down at his grandmother. “This can’t be true.”
Mrs. Patel grasped her grandson’s forearm. “Yes, Ashar, it is true. Your mother and I traveled to the United States under the pretense of seeing a sick friend. She was eight months pregnant but your father thought she was only six months along … easy to hide under her heavy clothing. We had a plan. We did not want her baby to follow in your father’s or your brother’s footsteps. Footsteps that seemed to take them further and further into the militant ways of those around them. So we came to the United States purposely to see that you were born here.”
Mrs. Patel did not turn away from her grandson. Did not look at the detective. Others heard what she was saying, but her words were for Ashar.
“Within four days after your birth, we traveled to India, to Kapas Hera, a village where I was permitted to attend school as a young woman and where I met your gran
dfather. Your mother and I told people that you were born in a little inn with the help of a mid-wife. No papers, just a beautiful baby boy. Your mother called your father, told him that she had the baby before she could join him in Damascus, told him she would return to him as soon as she could travel.”
“But grandmother, I have papers showing I was born in Syria, in Damascus.”
“Yes, your father went to the government offices, told them of the circumstances of your birth in Kapas Hera, and under those conditions requested the official give him papers, a certificate of birth proving his son, Ashar Rais, was a Syrian citizen. How you ask? He knew the right people, the right official who did this for him … for you. After all, your father was a trusted member of the military. A man who could be counted on—when he was ordered to do something he did it. Willingly.”
“D-D-did my father know of this deception?”
“Never. No one knows this—only your mother knew and I. And now you know the truth.”
“I guess that does it, Fred,” Manny said. “He’s an American citizen. I know you’ll track this down in the Bronx, visit the hospital, verify the birth certificate just to be sure.”
“That I will, Manny. That I will. But, Mr. Rais, I urge you to stay in Florida, or let us know if you plan to travel, until I can verify that this birth certificate is authentic.”
Fred looked down at the folder lying on the table in front of him. He grunted, a shallow sigh, looked across the table at Ash. “However, there is another matter, Mr. Rais. Seems your family name, Rais, turned up in a Homeland Security alert. The name is linked to potential terrorist activity, activity targeting the U.S.”
Chapter 35
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THERE IT WAS, the next shoe dropping with a thud that reverberated off the walls of the stark conference room. Rais now equated with terrorist.
One Summer: ...at Charlie's Diner (The Baker Girl Book 1) Page 13
