Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  We parked down the block and approached on foot. The house, on a quiet residential street, actually belonged to the suspect’s parents, the cops said. The son, age twenty-six, had done time for burglary, drug, and driving offenses and swore he would never go back to jail. When he ran in the back door shouting that police were right behind him, his family ran out the front. They forgot to take along the family pistol, kept for home protection. Just as well. Who knows what bad things might have happened had family members come running out to greet the cops with it.

  However, the first question police ask is whether there is a gun in the house. If the fugitive had not thought about the weapon, the cops brought it to mind by loudly demanding that he throw it out and surrender.

  He refused.

  Now he was armed, SWAT had mobilized, every house on the block had been blacked out, the neighborhood evacuated, and a hostage negotiator summoned. Sharpshooters were dressed in black and wore ballistic helmets. Protected from neck to groin by Kevlar vests, they crouched low, their .308-caliber Remington sniper rifles poised.

  The arrival of Lance Westfell broke the tension. The SWAT cops were all eager to meet him. Since Miami Vice, most local lawmen no longer fantasize about heroically thwarting a major crime in progress. The favorite fantasy now is to make big bucks writing movie or television scripts. They mobbed the star and pumped his hand. What about the young man inside, holding himself hostage, gun to his head? I wondered.

  Refusing to surrender, he had ignored orders from police, pleas from his overweight mother, and halfhearted cajoling from a kid sister who wore gold rings in her pierced nostril and appeared to be in her teens.

  The father, police said, was out of town. Made sense to me. If they were my family, I would definitely be out of town myself.

  Hostage negotiator Glenn Grimes strode our way. “Glenn,” I said, notebook ready, “can you fill me in about your—”

  He swept by without a nod and joined the cluster around the film star. “Mr. Westfell,” he said. “I hate to ask this, but we’re having no luck with this kid. The mother says he’s a big fan. Think you could help us out and give it a try?”

  The mother and sister gazed imploringly from a distance, hands clasped prayerfully.

  “Sure, I’ll give it a shot.” Westfell did not seem surprised. I was. Were they serious? Was this Candid Camera? Were they already filming the movie? Was I the only one here who didn’t know it?

  Grimes, Lance, and the lieutenant in charge broke from the group and headed for the command post. The negotiator lifted the yellow crime-scene tape. Lance and the lieutenant ducked beneath. I followed. Or tried to.

  The lieutenant blocked my way. “Sorry, Britt, outside the tape.”

  “But,” I sputtered, “but Westfell’s with me!”

  “Sorry. No press inside the tape. That means you.” He added insult to injury when he tersely instructed a patrolman manning the police line to “Keep an eye on her,” then turned to catch up to Grimes and Westfell.

  Damn.

  Lottie arrived, breathless. “Did you hear? I met him! I met him!” She looked around. “Where is he?” she demanded. “I thought he was with you.”

  We took turns watching, peering through the 500-millimeter telephoto lens mounted on her Nikon. The high magnification, and a device that doubles focal length, works as well as a pair of high-powered binoculars.

  The barricaded suspect was refusing to answer the telephone, so SWAT was sending in Alex. Two hundred and fifty pounds, he stands three and a half feet tall. His heart is a battery pack, his face a camera that swivels and scans. A Star Wars-style robot, he works with SWAT and the bomb squad. His arms are metal; his hands are mechanical claws that can open doors and suspicious packages by remote control. He maneuvers on small tractor tires with a treadlike chain, is armed with water cannons that can reduce a bomb blast to a harmless fizzle—and is potentially deadly. A Remington semiautomatic shotgun is mounted on one of his steel claws. The cop watching through Alex’s camera eyes can trigger the weapon by remote control.

  Alex speaks, in the voice of the negotiator at his controls, and can broadcast both sides of the conversation. He can be a hero, never misbehaves in bedrooms or bars, and never has to be reminded to buckle his seat belt or wear a bulletproof vest. A heckuva cop, he would probably make a good husband.

  He rolled up the front walk and stopped outside the front door. He spoke tonight in the familiar voice of a film star.

  “Hello, Carl? This is Lance Westfell. I’m here in Miami to make a film, and these gentlemen out here think that you and I should talk.”

  “Westfell?” A curtain moved in the front window. “Are you really out there? I can’t see you. Could you step into the light?”

  Alex’s camera swiveled toward the movement as his voice changed.

  “This is Glenn again, Carl. We can’t allow Mr. Westfell to do that until you throw out the gun.”

  “I want to talk to Westfell.”

  “I’m here, Carl.” The actor’s resonant voice was unmistakable.

  “You should do more Westerns. They’re your best work. I liked The Last Gunfighter.”

  “Thanks, Carl,” Westfell said. “So did I. But Wyatt Earp is dead now. No man makes it alone today with just a horse and his six-shooter. We all need help from others.”

  “Great line,” I whispered to Lottie, impressed.

  “I think it’s out of the movie,” she said.

  “That’s why I’m concerned about you, Carl,” Westfell went on. “I’m here to see you get that help.”

  “I’d rather die than go back to jail.” Carl’s voice grew ragged. The cops stirred ominously and a crouching SWAT member moved into position to lob in tear gas grenades. As though they would successfully startle the suspect into missing his own head if he shot at it.

  “That’s no answer, Carl.” Westfell’s deep voice sounded warm and concerned. “Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Come out here so we can shake hands and talk man to man.”

  “Can we have our picture taken together?”

  The lieutenant nodded.

  “Certainly,” Westfell said, into Alex’s mike. “My pleasure.” He glanced down the street in our direction. “We already have a photographer here. She’s a redhead. A knockout.”

  I held my breath as the front door inched open. Alex rolled in reverse, about eighteen inches, shotgun claw raised. “Carl, they would prefer that you just lob the gun out first.”

  “Here it comes.”

  “Hot damn and hallelujah!” Lottie said, as the gun plunked out onto the grass next to the stamped concrete walk. Formerly invisible, a figure in blade SWAT gear pounced out of the hedge to snatch it up.

  A muffled cheer arose from the assembled cops as Carl stepped out. He did not look sheepish, like most screwups who surrender. His eyes searched the crowd expectantly.

  He was patted down but not cuffed until he and Westfell shook hands, then bear-hugged. They allowed Lottie to trot down the street to shoot the picture, but not me. The damn patrolman had his orders. I was furious.

  “Is somebody taping this?” Carl bawled as he was led away. He was ensconced in the backseat of a patrol car when I was finally permitted down the damn street.

  “My mom always said I’d be on Cops or America’s Most Wanted,” he told me cheerfully.

  “Hang in there, man,” Westfell told him; then Carl was driven off to face charges of vehicular homicide, leaving the scene of a fatal accident, and numerous misdemeanors. His mother and sister, gushing at the star along with half a dozen cops, didn’t even wave goodbye.

  “Westfell’s the real deal,” Lottie whispered. “Look how the cops love him.”

  “Because they all want to write scripts,” I said, still bitter at being left out, “or work as extras, paid consultants, or hired security for his new movie.”

  “He was aces with that fruitcake.”

  “Publicity
stunt,” I muttered.

  The chief even materialized to thank Lance for his help. Lottie shot them shaking hands, while I rolled my eyes and fantasized about switching captions so that under this one it would say DERANGED SUSPECT SURRENDERS TO MOVIE STAR.

  “Britt? Lottie?” The star’s big hands rested on our shoulders. How nice of him to finally acknowledge my existence. “I can count on you two, can’t I, to keep my part in this out of the newspaper?”

  Lottie looked smug.

  “I don’t feel comfortable about press that comes from somebody else’s misfortune. Deal?”

  “I’ll talk to my editors,” I said, knowing they would agree.

  I wanted to canvass the neighborhood, now that the cops were pulling out, and tried the house directly across the street.

  Lance frowned as he trailed me up the walk. “Nobody lives here. It’s all boarded up.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” I rang the bell.

  “Just a minute,” someone called.

  “Some people,” I whispered, “are still shell-shocked from the storm, still hiding behind hurricane shutters.”

  Nearly every block still has at least one shuttered house, where barricaded occupants live like moles, with no natural light.

  A small pale woman opened the door, blinking in surprise. She wore a loose housedress and scuffs and had to be in her seventies. “I thought you were my neighbor,” she said. “She called to say they were at it again across the street.”

  I introduced myself.

  “And he’s the actor,” she said, peering nearsightedly up at Lance. “Saw one a his movies on TV the other night.”

  “How did you like it?” he asked.

  “Too many commercials.”

  She motioned us to follow her into the living room. The only bright spot amid the dark old-fashioned furniture was an arrangement of artificial flowers in a pink ceramic bowl on the coffee table.

  “The trouble’s over,” I said. “The SWAT team came out, and the police arrested the son.” Lance and I sat side by side on the velvet sofa. She used the remote to mute the TV, which was tuned to the weather channel, and settled into a matching armchair.

  “What’s he got hisself into this time?” She faced us, hands in her lap, expression expectant.

  “Looks like he was the driver involved in a fatal hit-and-run a few nights ago, and he fled from the police today,” I said. “Is all this excitement unusual? Or have you had problems in the neighborhood before?”

  “Oh, we’ve had problems. Started when they moved in ‘bout ten years ago, just after my late husband had his first heart attack. Ernest passed away in December of ‘ninety-two. That boy broke into every house on the block while he was still a teenager. His parents always asked us not to prosecute, and we tried to be good neighbors. But they never did offer to pay for anything he stole. And he didn’t quit. I called nine-one-one so many times, it’s on my speed dialer now.” She nodded at the telephone. “Haven’t used it lately, because I don’t see out.”

  “We noticed your shutters are still up.”

  “I was going to take ‘em down, but then Weaver the Weatherman said another disturbance was out there, stirring up trouble in the Caribbean, so I decided to wait till after hurricane season. Got arthritis now, and it’s a hardship at my age to keep taking ‘em down, then putting ‘em up again. Thought I would take ‘em down at Christmas, then put it off till after the New Year. But now hurricane season isn’t all that far off, so might as well leave ‘em up.” She smiled.

  “Must be gloomy during the day,” Lance said.

  She nodded. “Have to leave the lamps on all the time, and the TV, to know what’s happening out there. But you can’t beat the security.” She looked wistful. “Used to love to paint when I was a girl. Been thinking maybe I’d get me some brushes and maybe paint windows on the inside of them shutters, pictures of clouds, some trees and flowers.”

  She offered iced tea, but I was on deadline. She invited us back any time and suggested that Lance do something about all the commercials.

  “Living in the dark has got to be depressing,” I said, on the way back to the News.

  “I know I’m depressed,” Lance said.

  I do not know how I missed the expressway entrance—preoccupied, I guess. No big deal, not much traffic at this hour. I could drive back through the inner city. Northwest Second Avenue cuts through high-crime neighborhoods but my car was new, in good shape, and I was not alone; a superhero was riding shotgun.

  “The chief seems like a down-to-earth guy,” Lance was saying as he rolled down his window and lit a Marlboro. “I’m liking this town more and more. It’ll be great to move into the house. Hotels are so impersonal. A house makes you feel like part of the community, less like an outsider. I never expected such a warm welcome here. In LA, you get no respect. Did I tell you the University of Miami wants me to lecture on film history and help put together a film study program? And the Cultural Affairs Commission has invited me to be honorary adviser.”

  I smiled cynically. “Well, when they present you with the key to the city, check it out. It’ll tell you where you stand. The keys they usually hand out are plastic; they order them by the gross. Only really important people get engraved metal keys in velvet-lined boxes. They’re expensive.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  His smoldering gaze made me jittery. Or was it my car? More specifically, the red light glaring from the dashboard. The battery light. I took my foot off the gas and the engine died. I suddenly became very aware that I had neglected to sign out a cell phone from the neat row of chargers plugged into the city desk and that I had taken my gun back into my apartment the night before.

  “Car trouble?” Lance inquired. “Looks like the battery.”

  We were in the worst possible neighborhood. They call it the Hole, an area of gangs, street shootings, drive-bys, and robberies.

  “This can’t be.” I tried to restart the engine. “This is a brand-new car.” I hadn’t even replaced the emergency kit I always kept in the trunk. Flashlight, jumper cables, flares: I drove them around for years, and now that I needed them…

  I turned to Lance. “You don’t happen to be carrying a gun, do you?”

  “Hell, no.” He sounded startled. “Why would I have a gun?”

  “Well, you always do in the movies.”

  “That’s Hollywood. This is real life.”

  “Humph, that’s what I keep trying to get across.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, forget it. It’s my fault for taking this route and forgetting a cell phone.” I remembered Fred’s warnings and watched the rearview. Maybe Lottie would arrive to the rescue on her way back to the paper, but I knew better. She was too focused, too smart, to make the same mistake I did. I tried the car one last time: nothing. The headlights were out as well. As I opened the door, the interior chime didn’t even sound.

  “I’m going to find a phone,” I said evenly. “Stay here, keep the doors locked.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He pushed his door open. “Lemme have a look, it’s probably something simple.”

  “Too dark,” I said. “You won’t be able to see a thing plus it will tip off the ‘hood that we’re in trouble, in case you haven’t noticed, this is not Beverly Hills.” The anticrime sodium vapor streetlights were gone, used for target practice or stolen for scrap. “I’ll call the paper, have somebody pick you up, and try to get a tow truck.”

  “Hell, no,” he said. “We go down, we go down together.”

  Nice line. It was too dark to see his expression.

  “Okay,” I said. “Hide anything you really want to keep somewhere in the car. They’ll probably break in, but Lord knows they won’t be able to steal it unless they steal a tow truck first.” I scanned the street. “Bring some money and a credit card.”

  He made a questioning sound.

  “Robbers on crack are enraged w
hen victims don’t have any money. That’s when they shoot them.”

  “Don’t have any.” He shrugged. “Never carry it. It’s not me.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. Made sense. The more money a man has, the less he needs it.

  We bailed out, walking rapidly, with purpose, toward the Boulevard. We did not speak; our voices might draw unwelcome attention. There were garbage cans in the street, and the sidewalk was littered with broken furniture, discarded clothing, and trash. The few intact ghetto buildings were ringed by security fences wreathed in razor wire. I spotted a pay phone outside a boarded-up Laundromat a block and a half away but found it an empty shell, vandalized and dead.

  Where is a patrol car when you need one?

  “Beautiful night,” Westfell finally said softly.

  He was right. Even in this bombed, burned-out Beirut of a neighborhood, the air was soft, stirred by a playful breeze, and a canopy of stars outshone the city lights.

  Movement from across the street caught my eye. “Stay calm,” I murmured.

  “I am,” he said. “They’re just kids.”

  They were, just six to nine years old, four or five of them, nudging each other and staring. “Spotters,” I said.

  They scampered around the corner and disappeared, babbling and laughing among themselves, like some scruffy little herd of urban wildlife. I caught the word “tourists.”

  Oh, shit, I thought. They think we’re tourists. Prime targets. Who else but tourists would wander into this neighborhood at this hour?

  Ponce de Leon, our first tourist, discovered Florida as he searched for the fountain of youth. He named the place for its beautiful flowers. The natives responded by shooting him dead in 1521. They took him out with an arrow. Little has changed, except today the natives use lead.

  “Let’s get outa here,” I said, poised to run.