Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

In Love and War
by Robert Watts Lamon

          The Clerk of the Jury, a pleasant Southern grandmother, stamped my notification letter. This granted me free parking in the municipal garage, a good place to hide my 1987 Pontiac Sunbird—an all-time lemon from a decade of bad cars. By now, the jury room was full of prospective jurors, and we all went through the mass swearing-in and sat down to watch a filmed orientation. Then we waited.

          Sizing up the room, I noticed the attractive women first and then a few people who should have been on trial. It was that kind of town—Brightown, North Carolina—once dominated by tobacco barons and now by another kind of drug baron. If I did get a trial, I thought it would involve some kid busted for drugs, or for shooting into somebody’s house just for the hell of it. The big guys never got busted—not in Brightown. The police spent most of their time chasing young black kids, or posing as junkies looking to score drugs.

          Anyway, I was sitting on one end of a sofa, gazing out a big window, watching the buzzards glide over the expressway, when I felt the upholstery bend. I turned to find a gorgeous woman on the other end of the sofa. She had lively brown eyes and, from head to toe, was a sculptor’s dream.

          “Have you done all this before?” she asked with a splendid smile.

          “Yes, a few times,” I replied.

          “Could we get a trial?”

          “Maybe—you never know.”

          We exchanged a few more words, and then she began reading a magazine. I later learned she was a nurse and a naturalized citizen, born in Argentina, though she spoke good English with just a trace of an accent.

          I was on my second cup of coffee when we got the call. The Clerk of the Jury urged us out of our chairs, and we crowded out the door and down the hall and through another door marked “Superior Court.” We sat among the spectators, while the judge introduced the defendant, explained the charges, and began the tedious process of jury selection. The twelve souls finally seated included me—and that gorgeous nurse. The defendant—black, impassive, with a touch of indifference—stood accused of murder, kidnapping, and rape. His name was Rayshawn Mims—a devoted criminal. He didn’t give a damn about the law and took pride in showing it.

          For several days, we sat through morning and afternoon sessions. Then the judge gave his little lecture and handed the case to the jury. It took us less than an hour to find the defendant guilty on all counts. He had forced the female victim into his white Lexus after shooting her boyfriend. He had brutalized her and might have killed her, too, if she hadn’t jumped out of the car as it slowed at an intersection. The female victim testified, witnesses corroborated her testimony, and experts explained the ballistic and the DNA evidence. We didn’t recommend mercy, but Rayshawn got a mere thirty years. After all, he had been denied his right to a job and an education—and he was a fatherless child.

         The twelve jurors on the Mims case were decent citizens—the indecent ones knew how to get themselves excused. One juror was a gray-haired lady who taught school. Another was a good-natured, intelligent young man—an electrical engineer. Another was a pizza delivery driver. Among the rest was one out-at-the-elbows private investigator—yours truly, Ned Bryson.

          After the trial, we chatted for a while and then said our good-byes. Before heading for the parking garage, I said a special good-bye to that very special nurse. The Sunbird started on the first try and I patted the dashboard—the car was so bad that I had developed a certain sympathy for it. I was glad to get out of there. There were some young black males hanging around. They wore baggy denim trousers with seats hanging halfway to the ground. Their enormous shirts wasted more fabric, and the diapers on their heads were like a sign that read “Trouble.” Very soon, the colors they wore, royal blue and black, along with that crazy scrawl, would be all too familiar—all part of my advanced education in the Brightown gang scene. Anyway, I drove off to my humble house, which was also my office. I could have afforded separate office, if I had simply taken the frivolous cases from rich playboys checking out prospective girlfriends, or cases from shady characters worried about being found out. I preferred working for people whose interests were worth protecting. But what the hell, I was still just a PI—a social dumpster diver.

          And this brings me to the aftermath of the Rayshawn Mims case. The first sign that something awful was afoot came like Beethoven’s Fifth. A woman who had served on the jury—the kindly school teacher—was attacked in her home and stabbed to death. Was her death connected to her jury service? That was certainly possible—though gangs weren’t mentioned at Rayshawn’s trial, I figured he was probably a gangster. He had cut off his black fusilli and worn conventional clothes, but he had that free and easy tendency to violence. Maybe his gang decided to flex its muscles—seek revenge. There was a clownish stupidity among the gangsters. They were mostly callow ignoramuses, the kind mass-produced by our system of public education.

          Anyway, the school teacher, Edna Ames, had been brutally killed and the crime scene had even the police hiding their eyes. An SUV observed at the scene was later abandoned and proved to be stolen. The killer or killers had left it near the landfill and driven away in another car. The Ames murder had to be a planned hit. And then, when the young electrical engineer, Bill Kessler, was shot dead during a carjacking, I started pacing the floor—and worrying about that beautiful, brown-eyed nurse.

          “Maynard, can you put guards on the living jurors?” I spoke these words sitting in the office of Maynard Cheek—Chief of Detectives, Brightown Police Department. He was a big, slow-moving man, honest and persistent, who pecked away at his keyboard with one finger and spoke wistfully of his days on the tobacco farm. We had been friends since I rescued a detective under attack by gangsters. Maynard thanked me personally and in writing. I framed his letter and hung it next to my PI license.

          “We’ll add a patrol to keep an eye on them.”

          “That might not be enough?”

          “We could put them up at a hotel—under guard. They’d get tired of that—what with work and raising kids.”

          “Make it voluntary—and keep an eye on their kids.”

          “Yeah—we could do that. By the way, Edna Ames and Bill Kessler were jurors one and two. You could be next.”

          “I hadn’t thought of that.”

          “And after you, there’s—”

          “Nina Estrada. I’m worried about her.”

          “Is she pretty?”

          “A knockout—and a fine girl.”

          “All right, Ned. You keep an eye on her—along with the patrol, she should be well protected.”

          “Fine with me.”

          “I swear—people don’t know how thin we’re spread. City Council won’t approve decent salaries, and we can’t keep good officers.”

          “What do you have on the Kessler case?”

          “Two subjects--escaped on foot at a traffic stop. The car was Kessler’s.”

          “Weapon?”

          “Handgun—nine millimeter.”

          “O.K., Maynard—I may be prowling around. Don’t arrest me.”

          “I’ll send May Belle Briggs. She kind of likes you.”

          “Always glad to see May Belle.”

          The Sunbird started on the third try, and I headed for the east end of town. I was looking for a uniformed police officer named Telford Jones. He knew the street gangs as well as anyone on the force. I spotted his black-and-white Crown Vic in the parking lot of a run-down shopping center. He had paused to check for drug dealing. I waved to him and stopped close to his open window.

          “Telford—I need your advice.”

          “Sure thing, Ned.” Telford’s black face bore its usual calm, no nonsense expression.

          “Rayshawn Mims—he a gangster?”

          “He’s a member of the Harlem Kings.”

          “What do they wear?”

          “Royal blue shirts—gang symbols front and back.”

          “Hoodies?”

          “Black.”

          “Dreadlocks?”

          “Mandatory dress.”

          “Two jurors from the Mims trial are dead.”

          “I heard.”

          “Would the Harlem Kings kill them?”

          “They would. They’re crummy—and their leader is worse than Mims.”

          “Where do they hang out?”

          “You’re sitting in their territory—dead center.”

          “O.K.—thanks, Telford.”

          He cruised out of the lot, while I sat and jotted a few things in my notebook. I made the mistake of turning off my engine, and when I turned the key, it wouldn’t start—not even on the sixth try. The next step was to let the engine cool all the way down. That usually worked, but it took a while. As I waited, trying to control my temper—swearing helped—a very large, very black gentleman came walking by. His enormous shirt was royal blue and had that odd gang scrawl with a crown in the middle. His jeans looked like he had an accident right in his pants. And with those Rastafarian curlicues—how silly the guy looked. He gazed at me as though he knew me and giggled—giggled like a child. Then he turned and walked away.

          What did that little laugh mean?—ha, ha, I got a better car than you? Or was it a kind of threat—telling me I would get mine? Hell—in Brightown, criminals threatened people in the courtrooms and in the adjacent hallways. And yet, thanks to the racial politics of the town and a mellifluous Chamber of Commerce, the crime and gangster problems stayed under wraps. Meanwhile the criminal population of the town grew and grew. Providing them with safe havens had become a growth industry second only to the cocaine trade. And the local government was full of opportunistic jerks looking the other way—or too dumb to see the truth wherever they looked.

          The engine cooled and, mysteriously, the Sunbird started. I drove straight to the Brightown University Medical Center, parked in the visitors’ lot, and entered the lobby. When I asked to see Nina Estrada, the frozen-faced woman at the desk looked me up and down—I must admit, I seldom dressed to impress.

          “Is this a social call?” she asked.

          “It’s strictly business,” I lied.

          “She’s working in intensive care. She’s busy.”

          What the hell—I flashed my ID. “I’m investigating a couple of murders. She may be next.”

          “All right—I’ll tell her you’re here. That’s Mr. Bryson?”

          “Right.”

          She spoke on the phone, and a few minutes later, Nina Estrada, that beautiful nurse, stepped off the elevator and came to the desk. She was dressed in white from her cap to her shoes.

          “Oh, yes—I remember you,” she said.

          “I’m Ned Bryson. Sorry to trouble you here, but your life may be in danger. Two members of our jury are dead. There’s reason to believe a local gang may be after the rest of us.”

          Her expression turned defiant. “Well—send for them. I’m a gun owner and an NRA member. Let them try something.”

          Amazing—I was more impressed than ever. “I respect your feelings. But you don’t know where or when they’ll show up.”

          “Well, what would you suggest?”

          “The police can shelter you—keep you under guard.”

          “Forget it. I’m not going to hide.”

          “Some of your own hospital staff could be gang members.”

          “What gang are you referring to?”

          “The Harlem Kings. They wear bright blue and that idiot scrawl.”

          “Oh—I’ve seen them. They’re just clowns.”

          There was a woman with character. She could be my nurse anytime—or my wife all the time. Why do I get ahead of myself with women?

          “Well, look,” she said. “I have patients to attend. I’d better get back to them. Thanks for worrying about me.”

          “O.K.—well, good-bye.”

          She smiled—really. “Bye, bye.”

          She moved toward the elevator with a prize-winning hospital walk. I observed it with wonder and then returned to the parking lot and my old Sunbird.

          When I checked the news the next morning, I learned we had lost another juror—the pizza delivery driver. The previous night, he had delivered a pizza to an address in gangland, and that was his last delivery on earth. His body and his car were found near the landfill, and, of course, his money had disappeared. But as a juror, he had sat behind me, making him number eight or nine. His death broke the pattern—if there ever was one—or it could have been unrelated to the other two. Who could tell?

          After some minutes pacing the floor, I decided to see Nina Estrada one more time. She wasn’t especially glad to see me.

          “Are you back again?”

          “We lost another juror. Can I talk you into leaving town?”

          “Why are you so interested?” She looked at me sideways. She knew why I was interested.

          “I guess I’m a slave to beauty.”

          “Am I getting a line?”

          “Perish the thought.”

          “You just want to protect me.”

          “The police could do better.”

          “Look—I’ve got a sick patient. She’s an old friend. Talk to me later.”

          I might be dead later, but I didn’t argue. “O.K.—if you need an escort, give me a call.”

          “An escort?”

          “For protection.”

          “Well—maybe. Thanks for offering.”

          As I walked back to my Sunbird, I noticed two men working in a grassy area near the parking lot. Even in the Age of Diversity, they stood out—Rastafarian locks, blue shirts with those creepy symbols, big-leg jeans dragging on the ground. They were waving weed eaters over the ground—potential weapons I wouldn’t let them touch. I didn’t like those two so close to Nina Estrada. But who could argue with the Great God Diversity. I could, of course, but who would listen to a broken-down gumshoe.

          Anyway, my Sunbird started on the first try, and I drove home, put on my shorts and tank top, and took off on my daily five-miler. Halfway through the run, a Harlem King drove by, waving a sawed-off shotgun. It did throw me a little off stride. When I got home, I showered and was about to fix my usual canned dinner, when the telephone rang.

To my amazement, the caller was Nina Estrada.

          “I don’t like the looks I’m getting from some of the orderlies,” she said. “And they’ve got friends stopping by—to have a look of their own.”

          “Did you call Campus Security?”

          “No—I don’t trust them. Some of them deal drugs.”

          She called you—you idiot. “Need an escort?”

          “Yes.”

          “Be right over.”

          Before I left, I put on a clean shirt, a pair of Wal-Mart khakis, a second-hand blazer, and my clean black Reeboks. I chose a leg holster for my Charter Arms Bulldog. The Sunbird started on the third try—adding to the tension—and I arrived at the Medical Center feeling as though I were picking up a first date. As I entered the lobby, I beheld her, all in white except for the pale-green sweater she wore over her shoulders.

          “Glad to see you,” she said with a smile that brightened the world.

          “Ready to go?”

          “Yes.”

          We walked to the fenced-off parking area reserved for the hospital staff—a reminder of the mad exercise that was campus parking.

          “I’ll drive,” I said as we approached her Chevy Cobalt.

          We had turned into traffic and were well on our way, when she asked, “How did you know where I lived?”

          “I checked your address. I was going to keep an eye on you—whether you liked it or not.”

          She looked surprised—and pleased. “How will you get back?

          “I’ll walk.”

          “I’ll pay for a cab.”

          “Forget it—I run that far. I can walk it backwards.”

          Nina lived in a broad single-story house she shared with two other nurses. It had a paved driveway, a hip roof, big yards front and back, and stood on a quiet street—the address was 23 Loblolly Lane. I parked in the driveway, and we said goodnight at her front door.

          “I’ll wait out here for a while,” I said. “In case we were followed.”

          I hung around in the twilight for twenty minutes and then walked to the street and scanned the area. Then I began the trip back to the hospital parking lot. The sweet spring air put a bounce in my step. I took off my blazer and slung it over my shoulder like a jolly vagabond. It was dark by the time I reached my Sunbird, but I could still see the gang symbol somebody painted on the rear window. It looked like the old three-ring sign—the one that meant everything was dandy.

          The car started on the third try—about average—and I drove to my little house, a square, cinder-block bungalow stuck among the trees in a tree-filled neighborhood. The house was close to gangland, though it wasn’t when it was built in the 1950s. But then, the City Fathers gave in to the urban planners and agreed to build two highways through town. In the process, traditional neighborhoods were torn down, driving their residents toward the older suburbs, pushing cruder elements to the very gates of Brightown University and its renowned medical center. And so, faculty, staff, and students, including sons and daughters of the wealthy, now risked robbery, rape, and even murder.

          And I had a front-row seat for the gangster parade. I caught on to their drug-dealing schedules, took note of their idiotic dress, and watched them mouth the words to the Rap songs emanating from their Walkmans and i-Pods—the worst filth imaginable. Some walked to their drug dealers and whores. The more mature drove, often, but not always, in fancy cars. The youngest among them—in their earliest teens—were chauffeured by an older man. He was sort of a godfather, protecting them from the prison-bred homosexual and bisexual males and the crummier whores.

          But of course, there was diversity among Brightown’s criminals. Illegal drugs were the lifeblood of the gangs—the source of their money, power, and sex. And they got their drugs from the white kingpins, whose core was a true band of brothers, former scammers and thieves, who no longer had to scam and steal. They sold drugs to the gangs and let the gangsters and their unaffiliated customers do the stealing—and the robbing and killing—while they sat home and raked in the rewards. And so, as the jails filled with black offenders, the white brothers stayed on the loose, working at legitimate jobs to appear respectable.

          Oh, well—anyway, that same night, in the wee hours, I forced myself out of bed, got dressed, and strapped on the Bulldog. I drove back to Loblolly Lane, passing Nina’s house and parking down the street. I walked around the block and across her front yard and around to her back yard. I checked the pine thicket that separated the yard from the next street. Everything was quiet, and I walked back toward the Sunbird. But on the way, I noticed a black-and-white patrol car creeping along with its lights off. It stopped next to me, and a window came down.

          “That you, Ned?” The voice belonged to Officer May Belle Briggs, a fine specimen of Southern womanhood—blond, blue-eyed, and built.

          “Hey—hi, May Belle.”

          “We got a call about a prowler.”

          “That’s me—I guess.”

          “What’s that funny-looking thing on your rear window?”

          “A gang souvenir. I’m keeping an eye on 23 Loblolly Lane.”

          “So am I, Ned. I spoke to Maynard.”

          “Good.”

          Again, the next evening, and on following evenings, I drove Nina home. She relaxed a bit and spoke of life of the Pampas, of coming to the USA, and about music—she liked the tango and Carlos Gardel and hated Argentine Rock. Fine with me—I liked Sinatra and hated any kind of Rock. And the thought of tangoing with Nina—wow. The friendlier we became, the more I worried about her safety. Soon, I was spending long, sleepless nights patrolling her neighborhood.

          Then came that one night. The spring had been dry, but on that night it poured. And as usual, the Sunbird wouldn’t start—it never did when it rained. So there I went, squishing along in my wet running shoes, under my umbrella, with my trusty Bulldog in a shoulder holster under my rain jacket. There were great claps of thunder and jagged lightning bolts that switched off the street lights. It reminded me of my Army days. I knew the storm could be a friend to a determined enemy, concealing his sounds, lessening the chances of his being seen.

          I walked past 23 Loblolly Lane and around the block. There was a white Lexus Parked on the back street. I hadn’t seen it there before. Walking along the side street, peering over the back yards, I thought I saw movement in the pine thicket. Was it my imagination? Another lightning flash snapped off the street lights. Tossing my umbrella aside, I double-timed around the corner and circled Nina’s house. When I reached the back yard, I found two large characters in black hoodies at her back door. Their long curlicues stuck out of their raised hoods, making them look like two creatures from a B-movie. I already had the Bulldog in my hand, and when one of the gangsters raised his pistol, I shot him in the chest. He fell immediately, thumping his head on the wooden floor of the porch. A gunshot came from inside the house—Nina had got her gun. The bullet came through the back-door window, missing the other gangster, but probably distracting him enough to save my life. He fired and missed me, then again, and my left shoulder went numb, and I was spun halfway round. Recovering and aiming with one hand, I squeezed off a shot and the forty-four slug hit him dead center. I watched him drop, and then the world began to swim in the rain. When the street lights came on, I could see blood dripping on my running shoes—my blood. My knees grew week. I tried a step, but fell down. The last thing I remembered was feeling the wet grass against my face.

          Nina had already called the police, of course, and I was hauled away in an ambulance, as were Jaquan Pickett and Akimshawn Taylor, both deceased. If the nine-millimeter slug in my shoulder had hit two inches lower, I would have been just as dead. But as fate would have it, I woke up in a bed at the Brightown Medical Center. When I opened my eyes—there was Nina Estrada, who bent her hourglass figure and kissed me on the forehead. I was hoping my wound would keep me there for a while.

          Maynard Cheek arrived at mid-morning, and we talked over the previous night’s adventure.

          “Was it necessary to shoot both of those young men?” he asked at one point.

          His question was a matter of form, but I wasn’t in the mood for it. “No—I should have let them fill me with lead.”

          “I take it you mean ‘yes,’” Maynard said with a no-nonsense stare.

          “That’s right—sorry Maynard.”

          “That’s all right, Ned.”

          After lunch—not all that bad, really—Nina returned, but this time, she had someone with her, a handsome, healthy-looking man, whose shirt, slacks, and manner were those of a man of means.

          Nina spoke first. “Ned, this is my fiance, Dr. Mark Howard.”

          Talk about salt on wounds—still, I forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Howard.”

          “Mark is Chief Resident at Johns Hopkins. He heard about our little shoot-out and drove straight here.”
          I had to admit—they made a terrific couple.

          “We’re grateful for your efforts, Mr. Bryson,” the doctor said. “We want to pay your usual fee—or whatever you feel is appropriate.”

          He didn’t have to say that twice. “Five hundred a day, plus expenses—including medical.”

          “Fine,” he said without batting an eye. “We’ll settle up before you leave this afternoon.”

          “So soon?”

          “Yes—you’ll need a sling for your arm until the bone knits and the surgical scar heals. Let us know if the pain is excessive.”

          If he only knew—anyway, I charged him for six days. That may have been excessive, but all’s fair in love and war, and I had a taste of both. That afternoon, with a nice check in my pocket, I got a free ride home in a hospital van. All the way home, I was mulling over the complexities of Man and Woman—and wondering what May Belle was doing Saturday night.