The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door

by Preston Pairo

  Mary Schmidt, it seemed, was as concerned as Arnold about having a student in the public school system who had “escaped” a murder charge—that’s how Arnold referred to it somewhere around the third minute of his six minute dissertation: that Miles Peterson had “escaped a murder charge in Florida,” sounding as if he’d broken out of prison, scaled a barbed-wire fence, and outrun a team of bloodhounds through the Everglades. Not that the charges against him had been dismissed.

  Arnold insisted that Miles’ case had turned into a “Florida” political issue, and the prosecutor who’d dropped the case had run for office by claiming that Miles was wrongly charged. “Once he was sworn in,” Arnold alleged, “what choice did he have? He had to make good on that promise even though there was evidence in the file—of which he’d been unaware until he was in office—that more than supported bringing the case to trial.”

  Debra Vance—who had read all of Arnold’s file on Miles—assumed the elfin lawyer’s “evidence” referred to the grand jury witness who claimed to have seen Miles drag the dead man’s body behind a dumpster. The same witness who disappeared shortly after presenting her testimony, and who Arnold now wanted Vance to find. But even if the newly-elected prosecutor hadn’t been aware of this particular witness prior to taking office, wouldn’t that discovery have been enough to stop him from dropping the case?

  Mary Schmidt may have been thinking the same thing when Arnold added: “You know how they do things in Florida.” That statement seemed to sway the County Solicitor. Because what Arnold knew that Vance did not was that Mary Schmidt was a devout Democrat, and still held a rabid grudge against Floridians because of the 1988 election turmoil surrounding the Bush-Gore Presidential race.

  “Just because Florida,” Arnold added, hitting hard on the word, Florida, as if mocking its right to exist, “didn’t see fit to try Miles Peterson for killing someone, that doesn’t mean we have to allow him to stay in our schools.”

  Mary Schmidt considered Arnold with hard eyes. Arnold did not move. And Debra Vance felt as if watching a falcon fix its gaze on a patch of grass trying determine whether that rustling was the wind or a field mouse that might be lunch.

  “Explain how,” Schmidt inquired of Arnold, “having Corporal Vance pretend to be a teacher’s aide accomplishes any of this?”

  Arnold, now in full ass-kissing mode, responded: “I appreciate you have not withdrawn that this is unprecedented—which I also acknowledge. But my strategy is to have the corporal—who has already established communications with Peterson either directly or through overhearing his conversations with other students—continue to gather information that will provide enough to bring an SCSSB case for expulsion.” Referring to the Student Code of Safety, Standards, and Behavior he played a primary role in drafting. “All I need is one glib comment. Peterson brags to someone, ‘Yeah, that old guy I killed got what he had coming.’ Or anything that raises suspicion of what he did by just this much…” Arnold measured an inch of air between his short fingers. “…and I can argue extracurricular conduct unbecoming.”

  Conduct unbecoming was another Arnold military term, the definition of which filled nearly five pages of the already lengthy SCSSB, a document yet tested in court. But the beauty of school proceedings—at least from Arnold’s point of view—was this: by the time any appeals could be undertaken, half if not all of the school year would be over, and no judge was going to risk staying a decision about student expulsion absent a complete lack of evidence. Not to mention that expulsion hearings were civil proceedings, not criminal cases, so an accused student didn’t have access to the Public Defender’s Office. Which meant the kid’s family was facing thousands of dollars to cover legal fees. Which was why expulsion cases were rarely appealed and the student usually just went away, either staying out of school entirely, moving to a different county, or getting into private school. All of which were wins for Arnold.

  Mary Schmidt, after an unblinking moment, decreed: “All right.” Then qualified, “For now. If this boy is a danger let’s get him out.”

  Debra Vance wasn’t sure she heard correctly. Arnold hadn’t said anything about Miles being a danger. It was all about some set of initials that made up some code of conduct that apparently included what kids did outside of school. And if that was the case—if they really started applying that policy…? She imagined most classrooms would be half empty by mid-terms. What the hell was “conduct unbecoming” anyway? In high school?

  The answer was apparently not relevant for her to know because no reference was made to that phrase over the next 45 minutes, time during which the meeting became a briefing for Vance.

  Arnold seemed almost gleeful telling her that student disciplinary cases were conducted before a civilian hearing board. No judge. No jury. And evidence that may have been illegally obtained—the term “unconstitutionally obtained” was purposefully avoided—was admissible. As was hearsay.

  Throughout this discourse, Vance took notes while Lt. Marin remained quiet. Her boss shifted uncomfortably a few times, reacting as though someone had farted, the stink was obvious, and he was trying not to reveal he could smell it.

  At the meeting’s conclusion, Lt. Marin shook the lawyers’ hands, accepted their thanks for his cooperation, then walked alongside Vance down the hall and into the elevator. Once the doors slid shut and they were alone, he said, “What a crock of horseshit.”

  Which surprised Vance because her lieutenant was very much a law-and-order type who, like most everyone she knew on the force, was willing to look a little sideways when it came to catching criminals. But it wasn’t Miles Peterson who Lt. Marin was referring to. It was Arnold Baylor. “That little shit lied to me,” Marin said, staring at the digital indicator counting them down from the 5th floor.

  Debra Vance, a moment later, said, “Elfin Arnold.”

  Which caused Marin to chuckle appreciatively. “Don’t let that little squirt give you any crap,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once outside, freed from the low-bid walls of the county office building and its confines of bureaucracy, Debra Vance walked to her car, having parked on one of Rockville’s tree-lined streets a few blocks away.

  In the middle of lunch hour, the sidewalks were busy. In addition to county office workers, there were court personnel, lawyers, and support staff who patronized hundreds of businesses—big and small—with addresses in a city center of a county so prosperous as to have been ranked by Forbes magazine as one of the ten wealthiest in the entire nation (an economic reality that caused Vance to drive a Honda Fit and be looking—although not that hard—for a roommate).

  Getting into her car, Vance was glad to be going back to Kensington High. Elfin Arnold’s plan was ludicrous, although not the most ridiculous assignment she’d ever been given. Like many government workers whose duties involved policymaking, Arnold Baylor was so insulated from the people he was paid to serve, he existed in his own fantasy world where life rolled around as he imagined. What started as having Vance watch a student to make sure he wasn’t going to kill someone had quickly turned into a preposterous investigation of something that happened in Florida two years ago. And this was not for the purpose of prosecuting Miles Peterson criminally but merely to expel him from Kensington County public schools.

  Nonetheless, Debra Vance had come to enjoy her current duty. She liked getting paid to watch Miles and have more conversations with him.

  Last Friday morning he’d greeted her with, “Hey, Ms. Bordeaux,” using the French city’s name after she’d told him she always wanted to go to Paris. And later that same day referred to her as “Ms. Lyon”—a different city in France—and asked if she’d bought those plane tickets yet.

  She wondered what he might call her this afternoon. Because in her mind—in her own fantasy world—Debra Vance believed Miles was flirting with her. Maybe even had a crush on her. Not considering it might actually be the other way around.

  Thinking about Miles, Vance turned
onto Rockville Pike, where an earlier accident had traffic backed up and none of the side streets got her back to school any sooner because everyone was trying the same alternate routes.

  Had it not been for that accident, had Vance gotten to Kensington High half an hour sooner, Elfin Arnold’s plan—ludicrous or not—might have caught a break.

  13.

  Miles and Juan Arroyo were heading down the stairs to meet Juan’s mother, who delivered lunch to any of Juan’s friends who paid $2 a day for her homemade meals—a customer list that now included Miles. Today was going to be pulled chicken, yellow rice, black beans, plantain, slices of pickled jalapeno, and two homemade tortillas, all kept warm from the stove by individual containers wrapped in aluminum foil.

  On the landing between floors, Miles said to Juan, “Turdo Grande”—a purposefully-mangled Spanglish heads-up that Rusty Bremmer and his entourage were coming toward them.

  Juan laughed. Which Bremmer didn’t like, so along with two of his broad-shouldered football teammates formed a blockade of bulk to keep Miles and Juan from getting by. “If it isn’t Missy Milesy and Jew-Ann.” Bremmer stared down at the Hispanic boy, standing a full head and shoulders taller. “So what’s so funny, Jew-Ann?” When Juan set his jaw and stared back, Bremmer chuckled: “What’re you going to do, Taco? Fight me?”

  Other students, their paths blocked, retreated to find another way between floors although some stood back to watch. One of them encouraged: “Mess him up, Rusty!”

  When Juan muttered an ugly Spanish phrase at Bremmer’s square head, another kid yelled, “Speak English, douche bag!”

  And Miles remembered Speak English, like the laundry owner used to tell Mr. K. He grabbed Juan’s arm. “Come on, man. He’s not going to do anything. He’d have done it by now if he was. Right, Rusty?”

  Bremmer pivoted a menacing half-turn toward Miles, who stood almost eye to eye with him but was outweighed by at least 30 pounds.

  “You’re not going to hit him unless he hits you first,” Miles calmly told the school’s football star. “Then beg Mr. Davies not to throw you out of school—make you miss any games because you got into a fight. You want to be a tough guy,” Miles added, “you’ve got take the first swing. And not here—out on the street. And pendejo…” Purposefully using a Spanish word. “…you’re not that tough. So cut the bullshit.”

  Miles waited for Bremmer to make that first move—which he did, but only to jerk a finger toward Miles’ face, stopping inches short of his eyes, hoping Miles might react, only he didn’t flinch.

  Bremmer spat, “You homos are dead,” and stomped away.

  #

  That night, Miles was in bed reading when Jennifer texted: I told U to watch out for him.

  Miles figured she’d heard what happened in the stairwell with Bremmer.

  Her text continued: He’s talking about beating the shit out of U.

  Miles looked out his window toward Cara Blakely’s house. The upstairs light in the space he assumed was her bedroom had not yet come on tonight. He’s not going to do that, he texted back to Jennifer.

  How do U know? He’s huge stupid probably a sociopath.

  He’s a punk.

  I’m scared for U.

  Bremmer called Juan Jew-Ann. I thought he was talking to me and thought I was Jewish.

  It’s not funny.

  Nothing’s going to happen.

  You need to stay away from him.

  OK.

  Good. See you tomorrow.

  Once they stopped texting, Miles went back to his book, read a few pages, then set it down and got out of bed.

  His dad’s bedroom door was closed at the end of the hall, the television on. Miles went down the stairs, out the kitchen door into the cool night in his sweat shorts and t-shirt, no shoes. He called Juan’s cell, which Juan picked up on the third ring.

  In Spanish, Miles asked, “You hearing this shit?”

  “Bremmer?” Juan replied. “Yeah, I’m hearing shit.”

  Miles, continuing their conversation in Spanish, told Juan, “All right, man, the hell with it. Tomorrow after school.”

  “Yeah, my friend,” Juan responded.

  They both hung up.

  14.

  Miles smelled sweat and adrenaline as soon as Juan opened the steel door.

  The warehouse, in a rundown industrial park not far from the Maryland town that proclaimed Sugar Ray Leonard as a native son, had no windows, no air-conditioning, no heat. Just 10,000 square feet of bare-bones space under a metal roof with rows of high bay lights suspended from the rafters. Yellow striping painted onto concrete floors by a previous tenant mapped an interior roadway that now meant nothing. Large cardboard boxes filled with donated clothing lined one wall, awaiting shipment to Central America.

  The building was being used as a fighters’ gym, with three homemade boxing rings, a couple of beat-up speed and heavy bags, and a large section of floor covered in worn gym mats.

  As an old-school boombox blasted upbeat Latino music, ten guys ranging in age from teens to 30 worked out on their own. Two lightweights in one of the rings jabbed at one another without headgear, throwing fast quick punches, mostly body blows that landed sharply on tight stomachs and exposed ribs. Three others trained on the bags, whipped a jump rope, or did endless numbers of crunches.

  Over on the mats, guys in their late teens were hanging out as much as working on any moves—and when they did, it wasn’t following any specific practice as far as Miles could tell. They looked more like mixed-martial-arts wannabes, inspired by those brutal pay-per-view matches that had become so popular no one under 35 seemed to follow boxing any more.

  There wasn’t a coach or trainer in sight. It wasn’t that kind of place.

  Miles said to Juan, “I like it.” And he did. It felt like a long time since he was in a place like this. His heart beat a little faster and he had that metallic taste in his mouth he always used to get before a match.

  He followed Juan to the young guys on the mats—the MMA wannabes in ragged t-shirts and sweat shorts or pants.

  Speaking Spanish, Juan introduced everyone by first names, sometimes a nickname, and as Miles shook their hands, one kid assumed, “You the dude from Florida?”

  Miles confirmed he was—keeping the conversation in Spanish. None of the five looked like they were sizing him up or wanted to challenge him. Nor was there any fear in their eyes or sign of intimidation to their postures. Then again, Miles didn’t think these were the sort of guys who scared easily. Two had similar tattoos on their necks—a snake curling around a knife—and maybe were gang members, although some of the guys he’d known in Florida just copied one another’s ink out of a certain respect.

  One of the snake-tat duo, with a nasty four-inch scar above his left eye, grinned and asked Miles what translated roughly to English as: “You gonna teach this sissy to fight?” Referring to Juan, who the other snake guy gave a friendly shove.

  Miles appreciated the familiar ease among the group—how they looked to accept and trust one another—and that since Juan had brought him in, those feelings seemed to extend to him.

  The warehouse didn’t have locker rooms, just a place along the back wall where guys dropped their stuff and changed. Miles pulled a pair of grey sweats out of his knapsack, pretty sure his karate attire hadn’t made the trip north—it may not have even survived his time in jail awaiting trial. That’s what happened when an overly-dramatic prosecutor told the newspapers your hands and feet were “lethal weapons,” and Miles, being “expertly trained in karate” had to have known the blow he’d directed to a man almost forty years his elder would kill him.

  Since that night, Miles hadn’t been to a martial arts class, let alone the tournaments he’d dominated since he was 12. His workouts—what they were—had continued in secret and on his own, and were limited to a series of strength and quickness conditioning isometrics and drills Mr. K had written out in a notebook and delivered in one of his weekly visits to Miles in
prison.

  Before coming here with Juan, Miles had explained to his new friend that he wouldn’t spar with him, because he’d told his parents there wouldn’t be any more karate, and if he ended up with any marks on his face his father would know.

  Juan understood. Like many of Miles’ Hispanic friends, Juan respected his parents, even if that didn’t always mean doing what they said.

  The other guys got it, too, but as Miles worked with Juan, matching him against the largest of the other four—the only one close to Rusty Bremmer’s size but still inches and at least 40 pounds lighter—it didn’t take long before the urge to get at it again become irresistible and Miles ended up taking on every one of the five, putting them each on the mat in less than two minutes. And barely raised a sweat in the process.

  It was all good-spirited, but Miles realized he’d slipped a little. None of Juan’s friends were that skilled. They were basically street scrapers looking to do damage to someone in the crudest, quickest way, which made them easy to take down. They hadn’t been learning anything coming to this warehouse gym—but they wanted that to change. It wasn’t just Juan who wanted Miles to teach them. They all wanted to be able to handle Rusty Bremmer, or pendejos like him—although Bremmer’s name kept coming up as a common antagonizing thread.

  #

  “So how do those guys know Bremmer?” Miles asked Juan.

  After two hours in the gym, they were back in Miles’ truck, changed from their workout clothes and on their way into D.C. for Miles to drop Juan at one of his father’s food trucks.

  “Ernesto and Carlos—”

  “The cousins with the matching tats,” Miles interjected, making sure he had everyone’s name right.

  “Yeah, cousins.”