There were a handful of reporters outside the police station. Print media, she thought; they weren’t made-up and had no microphones. They knew her name, which meant that they had contacts inside who gave up the name of the lawyer who had signed in to visit the cop killer. She begged off comment, which was tougher than she’d have thought.
She eventually crossed the street to the parking garage. She had parked on the ground level and saw, even before she entered, two men sitting in a car with their eyes on her. They eased out of their sedan and moved near her car.
Shelly sized them up, their build, any infirmities, which hand was dominant, her proximity to cars, people, a weapon. One was tall with thinning blond hair, a soft stomach, wouldn’t withstand a kick to the midsection. The shorter guy was muscle-bound, stronger than Shelly; she’d have to go for the face. She looked into her car quickly, then unlocked the driver-side door for easy access. Her fingers laced through her keys until her fist held several metal spikes. Then she straightened up and looked them in the eye. Always look them in the eye.
But they were no threat. They were two grim-looking men but they weren’t looking for a fight. The taller one, in fact, seemed to sense Shelly’s trepidation and raised a hand. He even addressed her by name, which told her all she needed to know. They knew her name and knew she was here.
“Special Agent Donovan Peters,” said the tall man. He nodded toward his shorter colleague, the weight lifter. “This is Assistant United States Attorney Jerod Romero.”
She held out her hand for their credentials. After she verified their authenticity-as best she could, anyway-she looked up at them. “Okay. What do you want?”
But she knew the answer, and she was beginning to understand more than a few things. They wanted to talk about Alex. She was about to learn why she hadn’t heard from Alex for the last several months.
4
See the perfect family. She sees it from the threshold of the kitchen, looking in on the family after she has excused herself from dinner. Not feeling well, she told them, which was certainly true, but instead of taking the stairs to her room, she has sneaked back to look in on them.
How can she tell them?
The four of them are there. Edgar, the eldest, seven years her senior, who has graduated from school out east and is now completing a master’s degree in public policy, looking more like Daddy every day, the same thick, cereal-colored hair, prominent nose, squared jaw. He sounds like Daddy, too, if you close your eyes and listen. Thomas, still an undergraduate out east as well, takes after Mother, a smaller nose, darker eyes, wispy light hair. Mother is there as well-Abby is her name-her sweet, round face and soothing voice, her blond cropped hair, watching Daddy with such dreams in her sparkling green eyes.
And Daddy, so proud as he watches his boys, as he dreams of greater things. He is a strong man raising strong men-and a lovely young daughter, a sweet, innocent little daughter! So aggressive and confident in all he does, the conviction with which he speaks, the old-school discipline with the boys, even the way he eats-mixing all of his food together, “like a dog’s breakfast,” before shoveling it all into his mouth.
It has been four weeks since it happened. Twenty-eight days. The incident in the city. The rape, yes, it was rape, no matter what anyone said! And now this. Four weeks, two positive home tests, one missed period. She is only sixteen years old and this.
How can she tell them? How, when her brothers are talking about master’s degrees and girlfriends, her father has some exciting news of his own, her mother is so proud of all the men in her family?
The answer is obvious. She can’t tell them. Not ever. They will never, they can never, ever know that the baby girl of the family, the darling princess, is pregnant.
5
“We picked up Alex Baniewicz in December of last year.” Special Agent Donovan Peters pushed a file in front of Shelly. They were sitting in the federal building downtown, in a small conference room with a view of the state courthouse. The room, she thought, was quintessentially government-cheap furniture, modest artwork that seemingly was placed there only because something was supposed to go on the wall, thin carpeting of no discernible color.
Shelly opened the manila file before her. Her heart sank as she viewed a mug shot of Alex, a black-and-white photo clipped to one side of the file. A summary report written by another federal agent was on the opposite page, explaining that, on December 5, 2003, Alex Gerhard Baniewicz was arrested in possession of seventy-four grams of powder cocaine.
She closed her eyes. Oh, how it must look to the government. Seventy-four grams of cocaine! He looked like your run-of-the-mill purveyor of drugs. She wanted to come forth with excuses, that Alex only sold small quantities to some wealthy professionals, not children or junkies. She imagined that Alex had made the same excuses to the federal authorities. The excuses, of course, were no excuses at all. And worse yet, Shelly realized with a shot to her gut, she couldn’t even be sure they were true.
“You didn’t know,” Peters said to Shelly.
No, she certainly did not know. She thought back to the time she had spent with Alex over the last year, tried to connect conversations and dinners to specific dates. It all made sense. Beginning of December, end of November-that had been when Alex cut off contact with her. She could recall nothing since December 5, with the exception of her trip to his house in early January this year, after she hadn’t heard from him for six weeks. She could see from the way he had looked at her then-or rather, hadn’t looked at her, had cast his eyes downward, stuffed his hands in his pocket, as he’d stood in the doorway of his house. Something had happened. He wouldn’t tell her what. Just some things I gotta take care of, he’d said then. You shouldn’t be here, he’d warned. What could Shelly do? She couldn’t make him tell her. All she could do was offer to help.
“I take it he cut a deal,” she said, realizing that she was exposing her ignorance. But that was the least of her worries. She felt so many things at the moment, including a betrayal that these men seemed to know more about Alex than she did.
The prosecutor, Jerod Romero, looked stronger with his coat off. He was an intense man. He was standing behind Peters with his arms folded. “He cooperated, yes.”
That was common enough. Catch a drug dealer and flip him, use him to catch people higher up on the chain. She looked through the file and found it, the letter of cooperation. In a circumstance like this, the U.S. Attorney’s office didn’t usually arrest and charge the suspect, because if they did, they would be required to put him before a judge in less than twenty-four hours for an initial appearance. That would expose the arrestee publicly, which was precisely the opposite of what the federal government wanted if they were going to use the suspect as an undercover informant. Instead, the U.S. Attorney’s office had signed Alex to a letter of cooperation, in which he was informed that he was the target of a federal investigation and that he might later be arrested and charged with possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance. Alex, through the letter, agreed to cooperate and was guaranteed only that such cooperation, if it came to fruition, would be made known to the judge at his sentencing. Alex also had to agree not to violate any local, state, or federal law during this time-except, of course, under circumstances controlled by the feds-and to inform the federal government if he was going to leave the jurisdiction.