Steve Martini - The Arraignment

Several more seconds pass, then footsteps inside. I hear crying. This time it’s the child. Then hobbled footsteps. A man’s voice, something in Spanish. The sounds getting closer to the door. I tighten my grip on the tire iron in my right hand. The dead bolt is turned on the inside, and the door opens. I press my back against the wall.

“Who’s there?” It’s a woman’s voice, scared, faltering. “Who is out there?”

They listen for a second. Saldado’s probably looking through the peephole, while he holds a pistol to her head.

“See who it is.” A whispered, harsh voice, accented. “And remember I have your baby in here. The door closes for a second. Then I hear the security chain slide off, and it opens again. He pushes her out into the hallway and closes the door behind her quickly. I hear the dead bolt snap closed and the security chain slide back in place.

I peep, one-eyed, around the corner of my hiding place. She doesn’t see me. Robin Watkins already has her back to me as she focuses on the only visible item out of place in the hallway, my abandoned briefcase on the stairs. I had hoped Espinoza would go for this, giving me a one-time shot from behind with the tire iron.

Instead Watkins stands at the top of the stairs looking down. “Hello. Are you there?”

No answer as I hide in the alcove. If she sees me, with her child held by Saldado inside, I’m afraid she will panic and give me up. She starts down the stairs, slowly, calling out as she goes.

As she nears the bottom, I lose the sound of her footfalls, periodically picking her up from the sound of her voice as she calls out. I hear the squeak of the front door, followed by the wooden screen as it opens and slams closed.

If the cops drive up now, there is no telling what she will do; run to them or run back upstairs to the apartment to save her baby.

But it doesn’t happen. I check my watch. The cops are taking their time. A few seconds later I hear the doors down below again, first the screen then the front door closing. Her footsteps moving, not up the stairs but down the hallway below, toward the rear of the building. She is checking carefully, every place I may have gone, calling out. I hear the back door open and close, then silence. I wait and listen, wondering what Saldado is doing inside. Probably looking out the windows. If a patrol car pulls up, all hell could break loose.

For a few seconds, I wonder if perhaps fear hasn’t over-taken maternal instincts, causing Watkins to take off through the backyard. I hear the baby crying inconsolably inside. Watkins can no doubt hear this as well.

Just about the time I think she has taken off, I hear the rattle of the knob at the back door, not down below this time but at the back porch on the second story, five feet away and down the hall to my right. I press back as deep as I can into the shadows as I hear the door open.

She is coming. Back to the apartment. Watkins will have to walk right past me to get there. The door closes behind her. I hear her breathing, sniffling back tears, her feet shuffling on the old wooden-planked floor. Her face is bruised, one eye closed from the swelling. Her nose is bleeding. I can’t tell if it’s broken. Her gaze cast down at the floor, she doesn’t see me until she looks up.

I put a finger to my lips, gesture of silence. Robin looks toward the door down the hall, then back to me. She sees the tire iron in my hand and shakes her head quickly. Robin Watkins knows what lies behind that door. Knowing this, she has little confidence in me or the weapon in my hand.

Before she can say anything, I reach out and grab her, pulling her toward the wall.

“My baby’s in there,” she whispers.

“I know. Besides Saldado, how many are there inside?”

She looks at me like she doesn’t recognize the name or understand the question.

“The man inside with your baby, is he alone?”

She nods slowly, in a trance. I’m wondering if she’s drugged or just in shock.

“Where’s your husband?”

She points toward the door.

The child is crying again.

“My baby. I need to get my baby,” she says.

I have to hold her by one arm to keep her from going. “Does he have a gun? The man inside?”

She shakes her head, shrugs. She doesn’t know. “A knife,” she says. “It’s all I saw.”

“We have to figure some way to get him to come out,” I tell her.

She shakes her head and tries to pull away again.

“Listen, if you don’t help me, I can’t get your baby out of there.”

This seems to focus her attention.

We don’t have much time. Saldado had to hear her when she opened and closed the back door. He’ll be watching through the prism right now, wondering what she’s doing out of view.

“Walk past the door as fast as you can,” I cup my hand over her ear and whisper. “Get the briefcase and take it back to the apartment door. When you get to the door hold it up for him to see. He’ll be watching you through the peephole. Tell him I went to my car to get some papers for your husband to sign, but the money is in the case. Understand? The money is in the case. Then put it on the floor right outside the door. Whatever you do, when he opens the door, don’t go inside.”

“My baby’s inside.”

“I know. I’ll get your baby for you. Do you understand?”

She turns her head and looks up at me. I’m not sure she does.

“Will my baby be all right?” She almost says it out loud.

I put my hand over her mouth.

“I’ll take care of your baby. When he opens up you just step to the other side of the door and stay out of the way.”

She nods.

Before she can ask another question, I send her on her way. She looks back at me over her shoulder, now clearly in the visual compass of the prism. I motion for her to look the other way. She does it, making it appear as if someone is pulling the strings on a marionette. She is in shock. My fear is, after she gets the briefcase and returns to the door, she will have forgotten everything else.

But before she gets there, she stops in front of the door. I hold my breath. If he opens the door and pulls her in, there is nothing I can do. My mind wants to send her telepathic messages to move.

I hear the chain slide on the door from the inside. I start to move, trying to close the distance to the door. The noise from the chain seems to jar her back to reality. Her feet begin to move, a kind of slow shuffle on down the hall toward the stairs and my attache case.

I take a deep breath and settle into my hiding place. I can pray that Saldado is alone and without a gun. If not, he’s gonna be pissed when he gets the drop and finds out I only have sixty bucks in my wallet and some change in my pocket.

She picks up the briefcase and turns this way. Robot in a trance. I’m nodding, motioning for her to come this way, back to the door.

She walks like a zombie. She is in shock. She could be suffering a concussion from the blows to her head. She carries the empty briefcase in her left hand. When she gets to the door, she turns and stands there looking straight ahead at the blank wooden door.

Saldado has to be watching her through the prism right now. I motion to her, grip one wrist with my hand, and raise the other hand still holding the tire iron. “Lift the briefcase and show it to him.” I do everything but say the words.

Finally she does it, hesitates for a moment, then says: “The money’s inside.”

I hear the security chain come off. Then he pauses. “Where is he?”

She shakes her head a little. Clears the fog. “Went to his car,” she says. “Some papers to sign.”

He thinks about this for a second. Then the dead bolt turns. Open sesame. I work my way around the pilaster, and hugging the wall with my back, I’m at the door in three long sideways steps. Watkins is still standing there in front of it holding the briefcase. She’s in a daze.