Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  I returned a phone message from Sam Bliss, who sounded weary, as always. “What are you doing in so early?” I asked.

  “Meeting with people from our gang unit. I think that tip you passed along was good. The PLO is stockpiling guns.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why as well as I do.”

  “Sure. Guns are power. Guns are money. They can be sold. They can be traded. But there has to be something more.”

  “Yeah, keep this between us right now. But our intelligence is that they do have a problem with the Brickell Boys.”

  “They always have. Why is it heating up now?”

  “Why? Why? Why? You sound like my kids. Word on the street is that some of the Brickell Boys got lucky pulling a routine burglary, apparently stumbled on an extensive gun collection that included four assault rifles.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  “Think it was the PLO who hit Zipper’s store looking for matching firepower?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. They had a skirmish outside a dope house in Liberty City the other night, and looks like the assault weapons changed hands.” He chuckled. “Appears the Brickell Boys got hijacked; somebody stole their toys. We’ve got two with minor wounds but they’re not talking.”

  “So they hit Zipper’s, trying to recoup?”

  “Looks like it. Apparently, they’re not comfortable being outgunned by the enemy.”

  “Who is?”

  “Those assault rifles are in big demand, on the street for inner city warfare or to sell to some of the back-to-Cuba movements.”

  “How did they stumble on that kind of firepower? Where was this burglary?”

  “Didn’t hear it from me?”

  That was the question he had been waiting for me to ask. “We never talked.”

  “Private home, in the Roads section.” He paused. “Monica and Wallace Atwater.”

  “You’re kidding!” Wealthy civic and business leaders, he is a former stockbroker, a financial planner, and top dog in the Chamber of Commerce. She is executive director of the Tourist Development Association. “What were they doing with those kinds of weapons?”

  “Home and personal protection. That’s what they say,” he said smugly.

  “I love it, great story.” The Atwaters sang baritone and lead soprano in the noisy chorus of politicians and prominent citizens who blamed news reports, not young men with guns, for Miami’s tarnished image. They accuse the media of “exaggerating” the crime problem, and I am a prime target. My recent story on a Boston tourist carjacked in the Design District drew a TDA protest from Monica Atwater, claiming I “unfairly smeared” the district because the man from Boston was not actually murdered there. As she accurately pointed out, his killers did not shoot him four times and push him out of his moving Cadillac until they had driven a good four blocks outside the district’s unofficial limits.

  “You can probably pick up a copy of the burglary report tomorrow.” Bliss’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Here’s the case number.”

  I jotted it down. “Did you find the murder witness, the nine-one-one caller yet?”

  “Nada. Thought maybe you’d get a call after your story.”

  “Nope, but I’ve been off. If anything comes in, I’ll let you know.”

  Two messages from Darnell Oliver. I pushed them aside to return to in the morning when I was officially back on the job.

  I shuffled through the rest of my mail and snatched up my ringing telephone as I scanned an FBI bulletin.

  “What size shoe do you take?” the caller asked.

  “Six,” I replied, without thinking. “Why?”

  “What kind of shoes are you wearing now?”

  “What? Who is this?”

  “High heels? Or is it sandals?” the caller whispered, breathing hard.

  “Is this a joke?” I spun around, scanning the newsroom. None of the smart alecks were there. Only Ryan, at the desk behind me, focused on his terminal, at work on a story.

  “No, you wrote about me.”

  It couldn’t be. Maybe it was. “What is wrong with you? If you want a sick relationship with women’s shoes, go buy a pair. You can even buy them used at the Salvation Army or Goodwill.”

  “It’s not the same. It’s better when you know who wore them.”

  “You belong in jail, you pervert!” I slammed the phone down. “Britt?” Ryan’s voice was soft, behind me. “Who was that you were just talking to?”

  “Nobody,” I said. “Just some weirdo.” It takes one to know one, I thought.

  9

  His grandparents nagged the twenty-five-year-old man to find a job and support himself. They told him to move out and said he was “no good.” They were right. He reacted by stabbing his granddad seventeen times and bludgeoning Grandma to death with a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.

  The manhunt ended at the nearest pawnshop. The story kept me busy for most of the morning, but not too busy to stop by headquarters to pick up a copy of the Atwater burglary report.

  Police don’t issue press releases about this sort of crime. People like the Atwaters will shove aside old ladies who shuffle between them and a camera lens, but they definitely prefer low profiles on their private peccadilloes. Police brass, ever conscious of politics and promotions, try to accommodate the rich and powerful by fixing tickets or keeping a lid on a DUI arrest or some other embarrassing faux pax, but foot soldiers from the ranks always rat them out.

  Journalists live for the opportunity to tweak the pompous. As somebody once said, Good reporters comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.

  Editors were clustered around the city desk when I spilled the story. Gretchen’s classic nose wrinkled, as I expected. “But it’s only a burglary, Britt.” Pursing her lips, she smoothed her sleek blonde coif. “Hundreds happen every day, thousands. Since when do we report them?”

  “Depends on what’s stolen and from whom. These are the same people who appeared on CNN last week to tell the world that we have no crime problem. If Miami is as safe as they claim, why does Monica Atwater, in her posh, well-patrolled, upper-income bedroom community, find it necessary to keep an AK Forty-seven under her bed and an Uzi on her night-stand?”

  Everybody else on the desk agreed that the story belonged on the budget, leaving Gretchen conspicuously silent.

  The story would not rate a front page headline. At best, it would appear somewhere below the fold, inside the local section, but it was front page in satisfaction.

  Monica Atwater returned my call immediately, since I had not left word what it was about.

  “Sorry to hear about your burglary.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The voice was as brittle and cold as ice.

  She quit stonewalling when she realized I knew chapter and verse, then argued that it would be irresponsible to report the crime and that, if forced to do so, she would call her “good friend” the publisher to prevent it.

  “Did the gold charm bracelet they stole have sentimental value?” I asked sympathetically.

  “As a matter of fact, it did,” she snapped.

  “What about the AK Forty-seven?”

  A long pause. “My husband is a collector.”

  “But I thought one was taken from under your bed. Is that where he keeps his collection?”

  “He’s out of town a great deal. It was there for my personal protection.”

  Perfect quote. “But I thought you, Mr. Atwater, and your organizations speak out against private gun ownership on the grounds that it isn’t necessary for personal protection.”

  She hung up.

  I punched the redial button. “We were cut off,” I said cheerfully.

  “No, we weren’t,” she said, “and I’m calling your publisher.” This time she slammed the phone down so hard it hurt my ear. I tried Atwater’s office, but his wife’s dialing finger must have
been faster. First his secretary said he was on another line; then she came back to report him gone for the day.

  The story would be stronger if police could actually link the Atwater guns to a homicide. I wondered if there was a way to actually tie the stolen weapons to the young security guard’s murder. But the connection was tenuous at best, a street-level arms race. The theory might or might not be true, much less provable.

  Before finishing the story I called Bliss to see if anything was new. “Gotta go,” he said. “A nurse from county ER called. One of Angel Oliver’s kids just came in. Nurse knew the history, saw the name, gave us a call.”

  “Which one is it? Is it serious? What kind of injury?” I pictured Harry, his big eyes and solemn little face.

  “Dunno. Don’t think it’s life-threatening but if she hurt one of ‘em, it could be enough to revoke her bond, and give the rest of ‘em to the father.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said.

  I turned in the Atwater story, aware it would not make the early edition. Every editor up and down the line, maybe even the publisher himself, would scrutinize my copy, and it would be vetted by the paper’s in-house lawyer. Some would not be happy, but hell, news was news.

  Angel seemed to be pouting. She wore black jeans, a scoop-neck tee, and an attitude. She was flanked by Bliss, in his blue suit, and an HRS caseworker, a plump middle-aged woman with a file folder in her hand. A baby wailed behind the curtain.

  The detective and the social worker were taller and outweighed her, but from the body language it looked like Angel was holding her own. She wasn’t backing down. I was on borrowed time—hospital personnel would soon make me as a reporter and bounce me out of there—but I hung back, hoping Angel wouldn’t spot me until I got a handle on what was going on. A doctor behind the curtain with the patient said something and they all turned. Angel spoke with him briefly, then scooped up a toddler in diapers, one of the little ones, smaller than Harry. The runny-nosed little girl, red in the face from crying, quieted in her mother’s arms. I saw neither blood nor bandages.

  Angel tossed back her loose blonde hair and wheeled away from them, straight toward me. No one attempted to stop her or take the child. Then she saw me and hit the brakes.

  “What’s she doing here?” She spun, glared at Bliss, and stamped her foot. “You called her! What is this? You’re just trying to make me look like a lousy mother!”

  She did a pretty good job of that herself, I thought.

  “You won’t get away with this! I’m calling my lawyer!” Still clutching the tot, she veered away abruptly, giving me a wide berth. “Stay away from me and my kids,” she muttered, “or I’ll kick your ass from here to Homestead.”

  She stomped off, mad as hell, shaking her bootie in those tight jeans, the big-eyed baby gazing placidly back at me over her shoulder.

  “There is no reason. I would say she did exactly the right thing,” the social worker was telling Bliss as I approached. He scowled in disgust.

  “Is the baby all right? Where is she going?” I asked.

  “You’re that one from the News, aren’t you?” The woman shifted the file to the far side of her body as if to protect it from my prying eyes. “This is a confidential matter.” She studied me disapprovingly over the rims of her eyeglasses.

  “Murder isn’t confidential,” I said sweetly.

  She shot an angry glance at Bliss, who looked more rumpled and weary than ever, and marched off.

  “Where did Angel go?” I asked him, as we walked out together.

  “To the pharmacy to fill a prescription and then home, I guess,” he said morosely. “I shouldn’t’ve jumped the gun, I shoulda had a patrolman check this out before I wasted my time.” He squinted at his watch for a long moment.

  The child was suffering from an earache and fever. Angel got scared when the fever reached 102 and brought her to the ER. Doctors found no signs of neglect or abuse and HRS saw no reason to take action, despite the family history.

  “This shift is killing me.” Bliss walked like his feet hurt.

  “I thought working days for a change would agree with you.”

  “My body clock is all screwed up, dunno if it’s two A.M. or two P.M.” He sighed. “Can’t get used to it, and it’s messing up my off-duty jobs.”

  On the way back to the newsroom I thought about all the child-related cases that end badly and resented more than ever the cloak of confidentiality that inept social workers often use to cover their mistakes. They, I thought, are the biggest dangers to kids in jeopardy. I decided to see whether anybody at the top was ever aware of the Oliver children or if they had slipped between the cracks.

  But, first, a message to see Fred. I marched back to his office. Had to be heat about the Atwater story Sure enough, I knew it. A printout of my story lay on his desk. I was tired of all this shit, special treatment for people with friends in high places.

  “What’s the problem?” I began, coming on strong. “What about the ‘aggressive, take-no-prisoners, kickass journalism’ you always preach?”

  He looked up, puzzled, and slowly removed his glasses. “What about it?”

  “You see a problem with the Atwater story?” I sat in front of his desk, looked him right in the eye.

  “No.” He grinned. “Nice work. I just can’t believe what jackasses those people are.”

  I leaned forward. “Is that why you called me in here?”

  “No. The director, Phillip Hodges, called. He would like you to be available, on hand while they’re shooting, for technical advice, local stuff, and so on.”

  I relaxed in my seat and crossed my legs. “Do I get on-screen credit?”

  “I doubt it.” He smirked. “Why don’t you have your agent call him?”

  I smiled. “My beat’s pretty busy. I don’t think I’ll have the time.”

  “Evidently they appreciated the time you spent with Lance and want you around.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  I shook my head.

  “Well, Britt.” He pushed his chair forward as though getting back to work. “I don’t have to tell you about all the people who would cheerfully murder for the opportunity, or remind you how important the success of this project is to the community, to all of us. This may be Miami’s chance to join the Hollywood big leagues.” He studied the schedule on his desk. “I could have Barbara DeWitt or Howie Janowitz help them out. They both know the city well.” He looked up. “Which do you think would do a better job?”

  “But they’ve never worked the police beat.” I heard the indignation in my voice, alarm bells sounding in my brain. Did I really hate the idea of another reporter hanging out with Lance and the film crew instead of me? Yes, I did. That surprised me.

  Fred looked smug. “Well, Britt, why don’t you play it by ear? They’ll start shooting in the newsroom soon. I’ll tell the desk you’re free to work with the film crew whenever you like. You’ll be under no pressure from them. So I can tell Hodges you’re available?”

  “I guess so,” I said casually. “When I’m not busy.”

  I returned to my desk, knowing I’d been had and wondering what, if anything Lance had to do with it. Then I called Linda Shapiro, the HRS regional director. We had butted heads in the past, especially when she was Youth Hall administrator. Recently promoted, she was committed to avoiding the scandals that ousted her predecessor. Her bosses in the state capitol wanted no more bad press or dead children, most likely in that order. She reviewed the file and called me back.

  “I’ve talked to the father of most of them, and he’s genuinely worried about the kids,” I told her.

  “We’ve heard from Darnell Oliver ourselves,” she said, shuffling papers. She did not sound impressed, either by his concerns or mine. “All I can tell you is that we’ve thoroughly investigated this case and checked out the mother’s home three ways from Sunday. Our caseworkers have determined that the children are clean, well nourished
, and apparently well cared for. We found no evidence of abuse or neglect and we have no plans, unless something unexpected occurs, to move them out of the home. Future custody, of course, depends on the outcome of the mother’s case. We’re keeping tabs on it until it’s adjudicated. I suggest you do the same,” she said. “I can’t discuss the case any further.”

  Same old runaround. “So you’ll wait until something terrible happens,” I said coldly.

  “Don’t you try to scare me, Britt, I’m already scared. Working with kids is very scary. That’s what I do all day every day, and between you and me, sometimes I just look at the whole damn system and I’m overwhelmed by fear that we’ve failed. There’s a multitude of children out there who are totally lost. What’s worse is, nobody even knows or cares that they’re lost.”

  The unexpected revelation, a rare personal glimpse, caught me by surprise and I quit sniping. As we said goodbye, Gloria, the city desk clerk, waved frantically. “You have a call!”

  She looked excited, unusual for her. I answered with a feeling of dread, hoping it wasn’t a cop shot or a plane down. I was feeling weary and depressed myself, as though it were contagious.

  “What’s happening?” Lance asked cheerfully.

  My stomach did a back flip. “You’re starting to sound like a reporter.”

  “I miss the police beat. What’s going on?”

  His tone was casual. Relieved, I filled him in on the homicidal grandson, Angel Oliver, and the Atwater saga. He chortled at the last one. “What a coincidence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Monica and Wally. I met them recently, at the advisory committee meeting.”

  “Right. Friends of yours, huh?”

  “I hope so. I promised to lend them my house for a fund-raiser, an AIDS benefit.”

  “Eeeuuuwh. You should have asked me first.”

  “Not a good cause?”

  “A good cause,” I conceded. “But these people are not truly altruistic, they’re just out to promote themselves and see their pictures in the newspaper.”