Sam Baedes took a keen interest in the Hammond Street case from the moment it became a case. He was in his garage when the call came in. In the foreground, a grinding wheel scraping against a welding joint; tiny, glowing, splaying shards, showering onto the floor; ozone and hot steel and burnt flux. In the background, as always, a police scanner interjecting intermittent reports.
Baedes did not have what people called an artistic personality. His art was not designed to please art lovers, even though it was special to him, unique to him. He worked with diamond-edge saw blades, grinding wheels, blow torch, solder, arc welder, and other tools of the metal worker’s trade. His medium was scrap metal, culled from the riches of the junkyard. His sculptures did not represent machinery. Nor did they make statements about life in the industrial age. Nor did they dwell on the high concepts of love and enmity, of time and eternity, of peace and war. Baedes simply took what had been junk and transformed it into meaning. He took what was chaos and turned it into order.
Baedes released the trigger of his hand drill and listened to the grinding wheel spin down. With his other hand, through heavy work glove, he adjusted his thick protective goggles and inspected his work. The welds that had previously bulged from each joint now could nigh be noticed. The police scanner came to life, dispatching an officer to investigate a 211S, a silent robbery alarm, at a location on Hammond Street. Baedes quietly ambled to his workbench and set down his tools, but inside he was burning. He hated criminals with a passion that made him insane. He hated bullies and thieves and aggressors and anyone else who abused his neighbor.
If there was anything his art represented, it was this, his life’s work, taking the raw material of evil man, cutting it, shaping it, fitting it into ordered society. It created civilization out of barbarism, safety out of danger.
Baedes washed up, changed his clothes, and drove out to the station. As he walked in, he saw the man they had picked up and charged with the robbery, being handcuffed to a bench. He strode up to the arresting officer.
“What do you got?” Baedes asked him.
“Arrested this guy for robbing the liquor store over on Hammond Street.”
“Right. Heard about it on the radio. What evidence?”
“He was in the immediate area at the time, and meets the description of the perp, right down to the costume.”
“Did you find the gun?”
“He must have stashed it somewhere.”
“What about the money?”
“Ditto.”
“The D.A.,” Baedes noted, “will need that evidence to convict him. Find it.”
The cop shook his head and was about to speak, when the chief continued.
“And just before Trick-or-Treat day?”
“It’s the right guy,” the cop said.
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
“Good,” Baedes said. “Convince the D.A. Do whatever it takes.”
“By the way,” the cop interjected, “Ted Jackson is in on this. I think Jayson tipped him off.”
That got Baedes’s attention. He thought for a moment. This is the first time she’s poked her nose into my business since the leak. This guy might know something. And if she’s involved, she’ll make it personal. And political. It doesn’t matter the merits of the case.
Then Baedes asked, “Did you let Jackson talk to the prisoner?”
“No. He wanted to. I told him to wait until we processed him.”
“Hmm. Think carefully. Who’s Jackson representing?”
“I assume this guy.”
“Don’t assume. What did he say? Did he tell you this guy was under representation?”
“No, he didn’t. He just wanted to talk to him, called him by name, even. ‘Osama,’ by the way, if you can believe it.”
“So no one’s asked this guy any questions?”
“No. I was just—“
“Thank you,” Baedes said.
Before he disappeared, he ordered that husband, father of three, and falsely-accused prisoner Hashim Osama be brought to an interrogation room. Then Baedes quietly stopped by the armory for a stun gun and joined him.
Ted rushed over to the police station, making only a brief stop to check in with Hashim’s wife and children and another brief stop to pick up some cash.
As it turned out, Hashim’s family had sincere friends in the neighbors, those to whose home the Hashims had been heading when terror struck, a family whose father had the unlikely but real name of Marvin Kelton Mooney. He had been named after his father and grandfather, and he was the man who had so adamantly intervened in the Hashims’ plight. Ted’s head filled with silly visions of Mr. Mooney’s tenaciousness and of angry antagonists shouting, “Will you please go, now!”
Funny, Ted thought, how the stories you hear in childhood stay with you for your entire life.
If this was a costume party, however, the two things conspicuously missing were the costumes and the party. Aside from Fatima’s daughters, no one was any longer wearing celebratory garb of any sort.
Hashim and his kin had moved from Pakistan only a few months earlier, when Hashim’s employer had offered him a position in the U.S. Ted met his son Habid, his daughters Atiya and Salma, and his wife Fatima, whom he made the mistake of calling “Mrs. Osama.” She explained that they took her husband’s first name as their family name, because they are part of his family, a common naming convention in her country. So she is Fatima Hashim, even though he is Hashim Osama.
As Ted expected, they didn’t have any legal representation. But since Ted had proven himself by sorting out the situation, and after talking for a few minutes and hearing his story, they all accepted him, at least tentatively. And of course, Mira fell right in with the group, as though she were a part of the family. Ted explained that he would arrange bail. It could take several hours, but he would call when he knew more.
Little Habid looked up at him and said, “Tell daddy to come home quick.”
Ted said, “I’ll do that.”
And Fatima added, “And tell him we love him.”
Ted nodded.
From there, he drove straight home, because that’s where the safe was, and the cash. He could smell dinner as he approached the house, from all the way down the walk. It was a shame he wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy his wife’s stupendous cooking.
As he opened the front door, Clyde came to meet him. He had just barely gotten through it when she thrust her arms around him, planted a long, wet kiss on his lips, sighed, and said, “I missed you.”
“I’m here for bail,” he said.
Her countenance fell. “Anyone we know?”
“I just met him,” Ted said, “but Mira has a feeling about him.”
“Okay. Do you want a pork chop and some potatoes to go?”
Ted suddenly realized how hungry he was. “Yes, actually, I think I would.”
“I’ll put it together. You grab the money.”
Ted walked all the way to the back of the office. Under a stack of papers was a free-standing safe with a combination lock. He worked the combination for a minute, then opened the door. From one of the shelves inside he pulled an envelope and a ledger. Moving to the desk, he counted out a thousand dollars from the envelope. He picked up a pen and recorded the withdrawal in the ledger. Then he inserted the thousand into another envelope, which he had extracted from a desk drawer, and stashed it in his suit breast pocket. He returned the remaining materials to the safe, closed it up, and returned to the kitchen to meet Clydene.
She had prepared two segmented Tupperware containers full of food: pork chops (already cut into bite-sized pieces) and applesauce, red and yellow mashed potatoes with pan gravy, and green beans. She also carried two forks and was wearing her jacket.
Ted looked at her. “You’re going somewhere?”
“I’m going with you.”
“You’ll be waiting around, probably for hours.”
“I don’t care.”
“It’s a long, boring process.”
“Hey, you,” she cooed, “I’ve been cooped up here all day without my husband, and I’m at least going to enjoy the 10-minute ride to the police station with him.” She thrust both dinners at him.
“I only need one,” he said.
“Yeah, but I need free hands to carry my book and my purse.”
“Right. I guess I should have known that.” He took the dinners. They were warm on his hands. “What are you reading?”
She showed him. “Dancing on the Edge of the Roof, by Sheila Williams.” She was about half done.
“Another recommendation from Mira? Is it any good?”
“Yeah, it is. I don’t know where she finds all these obscure gems.”
Ted thought a second. Mira was always encountering obscure gems of every sort in every life category. “Maybe they find her,” he said.
The two drove together to the police station. Or more accurately, Clyde drove while Ted ate. And inbetween bites, he told Clyde the entire story, from beginning to end, in as much detail as he could remember.
As he finished the story, Clyde remarked, “You were right. It is Lando Benitez all over again.”
Ted still didn’t understand what that meant.
To Mira it was one of those moments in which time slows, like in the movies. Her senses became more acute. For a few horrifying minutes, she lived to make her heart bleed. She had been scribbling furiously, sitting in her car, for what seemed like a week. In reality, it was only a few minutes. But in those few minutes, she had filled her notebook with page after page of first-hand testimony of events she loathed to witness, much less to recount. She was greatly relieved when Ted finally showed up and she could think again.
I’d better call Ike.
She needed to devise a suitable story for why she would not be meeting him as planned. She didn’t feel like going into the real story with him. Then she opened her cell phone and dialed Ike’s number. He answered.
“I’m running a little late,” she said.
“Is everything alright?” He sounded concerned.
“I just got distracted. Committee business.” That wasn’t a lie.
“Oh,” he said. “Nothing serious I hope.”
“No. I’ll see you in 15 or 20 minutes?”
“So you’re not at home?”
“Uh, no— What do you mean?”
“If you were just getting ready to leave,” he joshed, “it would take you another hour to get ready.”
“Very funny,” she said.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I, uh— I’m on my way. I got a phone call in the car.”
“You answered the phone while you were driving?”
“Well…”
“You know, that’s dangerous. Not to mention illegal.”
“Well, I pulled over.”
“You pulled over to answer the phone while you were driving?” He made it sound like it was a silly thing to do.
“No, I— Well— I just thought it might be important.“
“You know, sometimes you let committee business take over your life. How can you do that? How?”
How? Mira remembered the strong, worn hand of a man thrust into Baedes’s face, like a poorly staged native greeting. Baedes seized it with one hand, twisting it around in a well-practiced motion, grabbing his handcuffs with the other. Mira looked on in terror.
She shook her head to clear it of the memory.
“Mira?” Ike said through the phone. “You there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“I’m just saying that maybe you should take it easy sometimes, throttle it back. You can’t save the world. You’ll burn yourself out trying.”
Mira was silent. She knew Ike was only saying this out of his own frustration. Now she not only had heartburn, from all that she had been witnessing, she also felt like crying. Because someone needed to save the world. Or at least someone needed to do the right thing. And it was she.
Mira just sat there and breathed heavily.
Ike broke the silence. “So, if you still want to hang out, you can meet me at home. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Her voice squeaked a little. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Mira was hungry and tired and depressed. She rested her head on the steering wheel again and breathed deeply. She tried to think happy thoughts, to go to a happy place like the yoga people do. Mira didn’t know anything about yoga. But this is something her father used to say to her as a little girl when she couldn’t get to sleep at night, to go to a happy place. Her mind churning with thoughts and ideas, she could barely sleep. And her father would pad into her room and sit next to her on her bed and speak to her tenderly.
“What’s wrong, Little One?” he’d ask.
“I can’t sleep,” she’d say.
“Are you scared?”
“No,” she’d say.
“Are you sad?”
“Maybe,” she’d answer.
“What are you sad about?”
“Just nothing.”
“Well, you know, happy thoughts chase away the sad thoughts, if you think of happy things. What happy things would you like to think about?”
They’d compile a list of happy things that Mira could think about. And before they would finish the list, Mira would roll over and fall fast asleep.
Mira loved her father very, very much.
That was not a happy thought, was it?
Mira’s thoughts were interrupted when someone touched her shoulder. She started.
“I want you to meet these people,” Ted said, as if nothing was wrong.
“Uh… Yeah, okay.”
Mira collected herself as best she could. Much of what transpired next she immediately forgot. Only a few key pieces. Ted introduced her to the family and neighbors. Five minutes later, Mira wouldn’t be able to remember anyone’s name, except those of Fatima and the children.
Fatima slouched on the couch, her son in one arm, her daughter in the other. The little boy wore a T-shirt and tights. His mother had washed off her makeup. The elder daughter sat at attention beside her sister. Mira stared at the girls’ outfits. That was a happy thought.
“Why did you both decide to dress up like princesses?” she asked the two sisters.
The taller, elder sister shrugged. “Because we wanted to.”
“No other reason?”
“No. We just both like to be princesses.”
“Well, it looks like you put a lot of work into your outfits. They’re wonderful.” Mira smiled.
The younger daughter said, “I wanted green, but we could only find pink and purple and blue.”
“Well,” said Mira, “pink is a nice color, too. Pink is my favorite color.” She sat down on the floor.
“Pink is nice,” the little girl said. “But I like green better.”
“Like grass?”
“Like trees,” she replied.
The neighbor’s wife and two sons entered, carrying refreshments.
Mira nodded. “Trees are nice.” She looked at the younger sister. “Your name is Salma?”
The little girl nodded.
“And yours is Atiya.” she turned to the elder.
“Where’s my daddy?” Salma asked.
Mira glanced at the little girl’s mother, who carefully and subtly shook her head.
“Well,” Mira said, “he just has to talk to some people. It’s an emergency.” Then she changed the subject.
“Do you know how much I like trees? When I was a little girl, about your age”—she pointed to the elder sister—“I really wanted to climb the tree in our back yard. But my daddy told me not to, because the third branch was too thin. That’s what he said. He told me it was too thin for me to climb on, and it wouldn’t hold me up, and I’d fall and get hurt. But you know what? I really wanted to climb that tree, and I thought I could grab onto the third branch close to the tree, where it was thicker, so I wouldn’t fall.
“So one summer afternoon, when no one was looking, I started to climb that tree. Do you think that was a good idea?”
Salma, wide-eyed, said, “No.”
“So what happened?” asked Atiya.
“Well,” Mira continued, grinning, “I actually made it most of the way up the tree. I held on to the third branch, just as I had planned, and pulled myself up. I was excited, because I was actually making it. Then when I tried to reach higher, that tiny branch slipped out from under my foot, and I fell all the way to the bottom. I broke my wrist.” She held out her right arm, as though it were wrapped in a cast. “The doctor had to put a wire in my bone to keep it from healing the wrong way.” She pointed up and down her wrist. “I had to wear a big cast for months.” She mimed stroking the cast with her left hand. “And my wrist hurt all through the summer and almost until the next summer, even after the doctor took the cast off.”
“Did you cry?” asked Salma.
Mira nodded. “Yes, I did. I cried a lot. My daddy was inside the house, and he heard me fall, and he heard me crying. So he rushed out, and I was afraid he was going to yell at me. But do you know what he did?”
The girls were speechless.
“He put a splint on my arm, and then he carried me to the car and drove me to the hospital. And in the car, while he was driving, he told me about how when he was a boy, he tried to climb a tree just like that, and he fell the same way I had, and he broke his leg.”
“I bet you never climbed that tree again!” one of the Mooney boys interjected.
Mira paused. “Actually, years later, after college, I did climb that tree.”
Now everyone paid attention.
“One of my friends helped me, and I actually made it almost to the very top. But that’s a different story. I was much older then.”
“Maybe your daddy will try to climb his tree now,” said Salma.
Mira paused. “Well, years ago my mommy and daddy had an accident, and they died.”
Throughout all this, little Habid had been holding onto his mother, but listening to every word. Now to everyone’s surprise, out of him came a tiny voice.
“Were you scared?” he said.
Mira looked at him. “Oh, honey,” she said passionately. “No, it’s not like that. Your daddy is just fine. He just had to—“ She took a breath. “He’ll be right back. I promise.”
Clydene awoke in a stupor. She reached around with her left hand and massaged her crooked-feeling neck on the right side. For a moment, she wondered where she was. Then she remembered. She had fallen asleep on her husband’s shoulder, waiting for Godot, or someone.
She had apparently awoken when Ted shifted her off of him and stood. He walked up to a man with olive skin.
“Hashim, I’m Ted Jackson.”
The man seemed not to hear him.
“Hashim Osama?”
He looked at Ted knowingly, but said nothing.
“I paid your bail, and I can give you a ride back home.”
He began to pass Ted by.
“We need to talk,” Ted said sternly.
Hashim swung around, and right in Ted’s face, he whispered angrily, “Why do you talk to me?” He seemed more scared than upset.
“Because you need me to help you.”
“I do not want your help.” He walked toward the door.
“Fatima sends word that she loves you,” Ted said.
Hashim stopped in his tracks for a moment.
Ted continued, “And little Habid says to come home soon.”
The man paused for a few seconds, then he nodded and continued out the door.
Clyde approached her husband. “Nice client you got there,” she whispered.
“I don’t get it,” he replied.
“He’s scared,” she said. “He’s scared to talk to anyone, to do anything. Must have been a horrifying experience for him, getting arrested. God only knows what police in his country do.” She scoffed, then lowered her voice. “They might even be as bad as here.”
There was a moment’s pause. Clyde wondered what Ted was thinking.
Clyde said, “I bet Michael’s having more fun than this on a Saturday night. Want to share some of your angst with him?”
“No. Let’s let him enjoy his evening,” Ted replied. “I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon.”
Clyde finished the thought. “Maybe by then, Hashim will feel more like talking.”
