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Fleet was back two days later, looking bleached but alive. She was all one color, yellowish white skin, light brown eyes, strawberry hair, which together made it look like she’d disappeared. We brought her a sack of clothes from the free basket at the shelter. Black striped leggings, a red filmy shirt and a purple hoodie that said Star Power on the back. We figured the clown costume would make her feel better, especially when we had to tell her about Tiny. Hope had discovered him under the shopping cart at the bottom of the hill and put him in a plastic grocery bag. Fleet reacted better than we thought. Maybe she was too tired to throw a fit. We found a shoebox in the dumpster and buried him near our spot. Fleet wrote a note and dropped it into the box before we patted it down into the ground. It was the first funeral I’d been to. I had a knot in my throat that dissolved and then I was crying. I’d seen Shane and that didn’t do it to me, but I didn’t see him buried. Ash played his guitar for a few minutes afterward and then it was over.
“You cry less than any girl I ever met,” he told me later, when we were wrapped in a pair of sleeping bags not far from Tiny’s grave.
I turned away and kept my elbows at my sides so he couldn’t get near. I told him how stupid it was to think that girls cry more than anyone else. I hardly ever cried, but I got ripped up harder inside because of it. He said he was sorry and I told him it was okay. I made him promise he would be there if the guy who killed Shane got out of jail. I didn’t want to be alone if that happened.
chapter 17
“Look who’s here,” Ash said.
We were sitting in a tree near our sleeping spot, legs wrapped around the lowest branch. He jumped down and kept his hands by his sides, let the cop see he didn’t have anything on him he was trying to hide, which was pointless. They all knew what he had.
I slid down next to him and faced Officer Patz. Small tufts of bark clung to my jeans. None of us had paid the fine for blocking the sidewalk, so he could take us in and keep us locked up until we had a hearing. In my head, I was rehearsing what to say. It wasn’t a crime to sit down in public. I wasn’t bothering anyone. We weren’t camping. We weren’t lying down.
“Maddy,” said Patz, “we’ve arrested the man you identified, the one we believe killed Shane. We’re calling on you to come testify about what you saw.”
He handed me a piece of paper and all I read was you are commanded to appear at the top, and a line with my name. And then below it his name, Jeremiah Wakefield. Patz said they were holding him for drinking out of an open bottle on the street, but that was just until they could get the details to charge him with murder. He said all I had to do was show up so they could make it official. He said not to let the summons scare me. They would hold a preliminary hearing next week to gather all the evidence and make sure they had a good case. That’s where I would come in, telling them everything I’d seen. Then they could lock Jeremiah Wakefield up for a long time. Patz probably forgot that he could arrest all of us for drinking out of open bottles, carrying a blade or smoking weed on the street, for living and breathing out there. I stood there looking at the paper like it was the first thing I’d ever read in my life.
The day of the hearing it was raining and I felt bad leaving Root with Fleet, but she said she didn’t mind. I thought Root might cheer her up. She was quieter since she’d gotten sick. She said she was thinking of getting a rabbit. Ash so far had talked her out of it, saying it would make every dog go crazy. It would be like putting out dinner on a big tray.
“Root wouldn’t go after a rabbit,” Fleet said, kneeling and putting an arm around his muscled neck. He licked her on the mouth.
It took us an hour to get to the courthouse, walking all the way down Haight to where the street was lined with new concrete and glass buildings that fit together like a giant puzzle. You could see people in their apartments, sitting on long couches, watching screens flickering light across the wall. We passed around the back of the gleaming gold dome at city hall. A guy standing on the steps tapped out a dope dance, hopping from foot to foot while his hit took hold. The rain glued strands of his hair to his head.
We crossed under the freeway and walked past a row of tents on the sidewalk crowded with suitcases, bikes, and shopping carts. Ash nodded at a group sitting in canvas chairs.
“Pack up while you can,” said a guy with a red knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows, his feet on a cardboard box. He pointed at a garbage truck parked a block away. “They say you’ll get everything back if you tag it, but you won’t. It’ll all end up in the trash.”
It happened every week, the guy said. He’d move around the corner, then come back after the truck went by. One week they put giant rocks on the sidewalk, like that was going to keep people away. The rocks actually blocked the wind that gusted under the freeway.
“Can you help us out?” said a lady with a long ponytail, sitting next to him. She had a pile of folded blankets on her lap.
Ash said he didn’t have anything, that we were on our way to court. He pulled his pockets inside out to show her. Not money, the woman said. She needed us to carry her stuff over to the parking lot of a computer store across the street, where she could sit in peace. They didn’t bother people over there. I told her maybe later, we had to go. I hoped Ash wasn’t going to start talking about the guy in the park and how I had to be at a hearing.
“There won’t be no later,” said the woman.
The garbage truck started moving toward us. Two workers in yellow vests stood on a metal bumper in back, then jumped down when they reached the tents. They tossed mounds of cardboard, plastic jugs and clothes into the back of the truck, which opened like a giant mouth to accept it all. “Hello,” one yelled into a deserted tent, before knocking it over. The woman put her blankets and bags into a shopping cart.
“I have grandkids your age,” she said, looking at us. “They all moved back to Missouri to be with their mom.” She pushed her cart away, down the street. The guy in the knit cap walked behind with his box.
Why did people keep asking me for things I couldn’t do? I shouldn’t have to go to court, not for someone I didn’t even know. I’d put on a clean pair of pants from the shelter box that morning. I thought it might be better to show up looking fresh, but I couldn’t figure out why I’d bothered.
There was a line of people waiting to get inside the courthouse, past a security gate. We inched our way up to the x-ray machines. There were two ladies in red and yellow saris, their heads draped with filmy scarves, some guys speaking in a language I didn’t know, a teenage kid with the beginnings of fuzz and pimples, headphones stuck in his ears. Some of us would end up in jail and some of us would help send other people to jail. We dropped our packs on the conveyer belt and a sheriff waved a wand around our bodies, a little too close. Then we went to the cop station on the first floor, just like they’d told us, to find out where to go.
“People versus Jeremiah Wakefield,” said the clerk. “Fifth floor. Wait outside until you’re called.”
We sat on a wood bench outside the courtroom, our packs against our knees. I tried to remember what Jeremiah looked like in the park but could only call up the picture in the line-up. Maybe I’d picked out the wrong guy. My mouth was dry. I would have trouble speaking with my tongue stuck up against my teeth. Was Jeremiah going to be in there? I pulled my hair back and wiped my face with my hands. Ash tugged on my ponytail and rubbed his thumb on my chin. We sat like that until the door opened and a guy in a beige uniform announced my full name, where it echoed down the hallway. “Miss Madlynne Donaldo.”
I waved and he said Ash could come with me. I grabbed his hand, even though I’d avoided it when we were on the street, under the freeway where people were all wandering like ghosts. I was more scared of the room, the seating area that looked like a cheap movie theater where, raised on a platform, a lady judge in a black robe stared at me.
The man who’d led me in guided me to a seat on the platform by her side. He
told me to raise my right hand and say my name and then spell it. He asked if I promised to tell the truth. I barely got out a whisper of an answer and he made me say it again. “Yes,” I said. It came out a strange peep, but loud enough for the judge to hear.
She asked me if I knew why I was there. I nodded. She said it was a preliminary hearing to decide if the case would proceed. She told me to answer out loud because the recorder couldn’t pick up gestures and did I understand that? I said I did. She had a firm but soft voice, same as her face and hair, which was molded into a low bun. She said there was nothing to worry about, that I just had to tell the truth. I was breathing fast and my heart was pounding, like I was going to spew onto her desk. But I said yes to everything, as if I knew how what happened out in the park ended up in this room.
I searched the seating section for Ash and saw Dave and Marva, sitting in the middle. Dave smiled at me, but I ignored him. Ash was on the other side of the aisle from them. I breathed a little more slowly seeing him, his eyes fixed on me. I would pretend I was talking to him.
But then I saw Jeremiah Wakefield, up front at a table next to a woman in a suit as tight as a bandage. His hair was almost shaved off and his beard was gone. He looked skinnier and older, but it must have been him. Even sitting, hunched in his jumpsuit, he was hulking tall. His hands were pressed together in a knot on the table. He looked at me and blinked, but otherwise had no expression. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. This guy had put a knife through Shane’s heart, even if I didn’t see him do it. I’d only seen him standing next to Shane. Maybe Shane had done something to start a fight. How did I know?
“Good morning, Madlynne,” said a man in a black suit standing at a microphone in front of the judge’s platform. “Can I call you Maddy?”
I nodded and the judge told me I had to use my voice. “Yes,” I said.
He said he was a lawyer for the people, and that he wanted to know what happened in the park the morning Shane Golden was killed. He pointed and asked if I’d seen the man in the orange jumpsuit before. I told him I had. Then he asked me where I’d seen him and I looked down.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Tell the court where you saw the man you just identified, who, for the record, is Jeremiah Wakefield.” He asked me where I’d been on some Wednesday, at some specific time. I looked down. How was I supposed to know that? I twisted in the chair, crossed and uncrossed my legs.
“I’m not sure what day it was or what time,” I said.
“But you were in the park when you saw Mr. Wakefield, who is sitting here now?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Sorry, but can you speak more clearly?” he said.
“Yes,” I shouted.
He said it was okay, not to worry, and asked me to explain how I happened to see Mr. Wakefield. I told him about running after Root and finding Shane lying on the ground. Actually, I didn’t know if Shane was alive or dead. I couldn’t see if he kept breathing. And, of course, I didn’t know who Shane was then. He was just a kid in the park. But then I saw this guy standing there. He yelled at me and told me to control my dog, so I took off.
He kept asking me questions. How many steps away was Jeremiah Wakefield? Did I see a knife? Was it pointed up or down? I didn’t know about any knife, I told him. Then he said he was done and the woman in the tight suit got up. She said she was Mr. Wakefield’s lawyer and she looked at me like I was the saddest thing she’d ever seen. She asked me where I came from and how long I’d been in the park and if I associated with other homeless people there. The people’s guy jumped up and said he objected, what difference did that make, and the judge told him to sit down. “Continue,” she said to the woman, who kept asking me questions. She wanted to know how often I used drugs. How much did I drink? Was I high the day I saw Jeremiah Wakefield?
“Objection!” The people’s guy yelled. The judge told me I didn’t have to answer.
“Did you notice anything else about the defendant? Did he have any wounds?” said Jeremiah Wakefield’s lawyer. “Was he bleeding?”
“There was a little blood on his face, but I didn’t stick around long enough to see where it came from,” I said.
“No, of course not,” she said. “But you did see blood?”
“Yes,” I said. “A little bit. And it seemed like he was out of it or wrecked. Or something. He said he knew where to find me, but I’d never seen him before.”
I could hear Dave and Marva shifting in their chairs and then the sound of Dave crying. Jeremiah Wakefield looked at me again.
“Little shit didn’t see anything.” I knew the voice. That is something that doesn’t change.
“Mr. Wakefield, you will refrain from speaking while the witness is in the box or I will hold you in contempt of court,” said the judge.
Then she told me not to blurt anything out, to wait for the questions. I told her I would try. The judge said we were almost done and she thanked me again. Then a guy in a sheriff uniform snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and held up a knife. The lawyer in the tight suit wanted to know if I recognized it. I almost laughed. I picked Jeremiah Wakefield out after he’d cut off his hair, taken a shower, and changed clothes, but no way did I remember seeing a knife. It seemed like they wanted me to lie and say I did.
The sheriff dropped the knife in a plastic bag and made a big show of sealing it up. Jeremiah Wakefield’s lawyer walked to the microphone. She asked me how I was doing, as if she hadn’t heard my answer the first time. I looked up at the ceiling, small squares of off-white tiles covered with tiny black dots, all lined up. I could probably figure out how many there were. Count the number on one side, then the other and multiply.
“Your Honor,” she said, in the most suck-up voice. “I’d like to point out the defendant had a defensive wound on his forehead and this witness can’t even say if he had a knife. She did not see any confrontation. He was clearly acting to protect himself against Shane Golden, who attacked him with no provocation.”
“Is that all for this witness?” said the judge.
She said it was and she sat down next to Jeremiah Wakefield. He ignored her and kept looking down at his hands. The judge told me I could go sit in the courtroom or leave, it was up to me. My part of the proceeding was over. I sat down next to Ash. “He looks guilty as shit,” he whispered. The people’s lawyer stood up and said he knew it was out of the ordinary for a preliminary hearing, but he was moving to admit into testimony a statement from Shane Golden’s parents. Jeremiah’s lawyer yelled out that she objected, but the judge said she’d allow it because it might shed light on Shane’s state of mind. Dave walked to the front of the room and unfolded a sheet of paper from the pocket of his gray blazer, which looked brand new. You could see the lines of dried tears on his face.
“We did not know what Shane wanted or why he came here,” he said. It was clear he hadn’t shown his speech to Marva because he looked at her uncertainly while he read and then suddenly he stopped. “Excuse me,” he said, and swallowed loud a few times as if he had something in his mouth that was about to choke him. The sheriff came over and gave him a small paper cone of water. Dave gulped it and held up a hand to the judge. She’d probably seen fathers lose it before.
“I’m okay,” he mouthed silently and then he started again. “I know he got into trouble out here, he probably did things he shouldn’t have. What I can tell you is that he had a good heart. He did not deserve to die. We loved him, even when he withdrew and wouldn’t talk to us. And he loved his family, particularly his older brother and his two nephews, who will never get to know him. Our lives will never be the same. Whatever this fellow goes on and does,” and he pointed at Jeremiah Wakefield, who still looked down at the table like he didn’t hear, “Shane’s life is over. And we are staring at a blank wall that will block out every last thing.”
Dave kept reading, but I walked out, along with Ash, and sat on the bench next to the door. I couldn’t take Dave going on about Shane and the holes in everyone
’s hearts. How was he going to explain why Shane was in the park? I felt cold and spacy. Ash leaned against the wall and shimmied back and forth, like he had an itch. He didn’t say anything about Dave’s speech, but I kept thinking how Dave must have written it at the kitchen table where he’d served me the chili, scribbling onto a piece of paper as pale as the rest of the room. Ash and I sat outside the courtroom for another half hour, until the door opened.
“He’s going free,” said Dave.
“What?” Ash balled his hands together and then he punched the wall.
Dave said the judge had given a speech about senseless loss of life, about people who prey on others and never face consequences, and then said there was nothing she could do because there were no witnesses to the death, besides Jeremiah Wakefield. She said something about reasonable doubt. And that it was plausible that he acted in self-defense. There was no way to build a credible case against him. Dave had his arm around Marva but looked like he might collapse.
He said the judge ordered that Jeremiah Wakefield could not come near me, that he would go to jail if he did. If anyone caught him before he stabbed me, I thought. He’d already been ordered to stay away from his ex-wife, Dave said, and he had violated that more than once. The judge said she had considered that, but there wasn’t enough evidence to bring charges and she couldn’t keep him in jail. He had already served his time for drinking out of an open container.
Marva looked blank, dried up inside. Dave was burning with anger. His cheeks were red and he kept clasping and relaxing his jaw. Each time his lips gave off a little popping sound, small explosions of fury. I wanted to get out of there before Dave said anything else.
At the Edge of the Haight Page 14
