for anything that his actions had been premeditated and mine had not?
I was rehearsing what I’d say to the police when I noticed a pay phone on the corner where the gas station used to be. I decided to use it instead of my cell phone, so my number wouldn’t show up on caller ID. I got out and crossed the street. The customer was leaving the body shop. Lighting a cigar, the Suburban guy opened a newspaper on the counter. I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher I had an anonymous tip. When she realized I was talking about something that had happened the week before, she told me to call the department’s nonemergency number.
“That or Crimestoppers,” she said.
There was no phone book, so I dialed information and asked the operator to connect me. While I was waiting, the Suburban guy closed the paper and made his way into the garage.
“Essex County Crimestoppers,” a voice said. “Sergeant Carrera speaking.”
“I don’t have to give my name, right?”
“No, sir. At no point will I ask your name.”
The sergeant said I’d be assigned a code number, which I could then use to call back for updates on the case and to collect my reward if my information led to an arrest. I said I wasn’t after a reward, I just wanted to report someone, and proceeded to tell him what had happened, minus the part about flipping off the cop. I told him the reason I was calling anonymously was that I wanted to protect my family. He said he understood.
“But a case like this,” he said, “where there’s no crime in progress, where it’s just going to be your word against his, I’m sorry—you’ve got to file a complaint before we can do anything.”
“Then couldn’t you just leave me out of it altogether? Get him for an illegal handgun?”
“You know it’s illegal?”
I’d been hoping so, just as I’d been hoping they’d find drugs if they searched the Suburban. “Can’t you run a check?”
“Sir, we don’t even have a name.”
“I could get it.”
“Look,” he said, “we can’t just show up and search the guy without probable cause. We’d still need a complaint.”
I told him I’d think it over and hung up. The Suburban guy was talking to a mechanic in the garage. Possibly therewas a business card with his name on it back at the register. But it still wasn’t worth filing a complaint. He hadn’t cared that there was a child in the car when he’d shown me his gun. It was hard to imagine him having any compunction about coming after me or my family. What was to stop him from driving by the house one night, shooting it up?
By now he’d noticed me at the pay phone, watching him. He stopped talking to the mechanic and fixed me with a stare. He didn’t seem to recognize me, though. I returned his stare long enough to convince myself I wasn’t afraid of him, and then I went home.
When I picked Sara up, I told Warren I needed to switch to the afternoon, like I’d promised Liz; the fringe benefit was that I probably wouldn’t be crossing paths with the Suburban guy at that hour. I made sure not to drive past his shop on the way home. I didn’t drive past the cemetery, either.
Sara asked why I’d changed shifts.
“So we’ll have more time with Mom in the morning,” I said.
“Is she going to quit her job?”
Liz hadn’t said anything else about quitting to me. “Did she tell you she was?”
“No. She just asked me would I like it if she worked at home.”
“Would you?”
“I think you both should.”
I said that would be great, but one of us needed a regular job. I was starting to explain health insurance when she interrupted.
“Hey, isn’t that the mom from the funeral?”
We’d just passed a woman on the sidewalk that led into our neighborhood. I slowed down and looked back, a knot already forming in my stomach. After the funeral, I’d been hoping never to see Tawana again, but here she was, in jeans and a too-big sweater that might have been Juwan’s, carrying a
I was rehearsing what I’d say to the police when I noticed a pay phone on the corner where the gas station used to be. I decided to use it instead of my cell phone, so my number wouldn’t show up on caller ID. I got out and crossed the street. The customer was leaving the body shop. Lighting a cigar, the Suburban guy opened a newspaper on the counter. I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher I had an anonymous tip. When she realized I was talking about something that had happened the week before, she told me to call the department’s nonemergency number.
“That or Crimestoppers,” she said.
There was no phone book, so I dialed information and asked the operator to connect me. While I was waiting, the Suburban guy closed the paper and made his way into the garage.
“Essex County Crimestoppers,” a voice said. “Sergeant Carrera speaking.”
“I don’t have to give my name, right?”
“No, sir. At no point will I ask your name.”
The sergeant said I’d be assigned a code number, which I could then use to call back for updates on the case and to collect my reward if my information led to an arrest. I said I wasn’t after a reward, I just wanted to report someone, and proceeded to tell him what had happened, minus the part about flipping off the cop. I told him the reason I was calling anonymously was that I wanted to protect my family. He said he understood.
“But a case like this,” he said, “where there’s no crime in progress, where it’s just going to be your word against his, I’m sorry—you’ve got to file a complaint before we can do anything.”
“Then couldn’t you just leave me out of it altogether? Get him for an illegal handgun?”
“You know it’s illegal?”
I’d been hoping so, just as I’d been hoping they’d find drugs if they searched the Suburban. “Can’t you run a check?”
“Sir, we don’t even have a name.”
“I could get it.”
“Look,” he said, “we can’t just show up and search the guy without probable cause. We’d still need a complaint.”
I told him I’d think it over and hung up. The Suburban guy was talking to a mechanic in the garage. Possibly therewas a business card with his name on it back at the register. But it still wasn’t worth filing a complaint. He hadn’t cared that there was a child in the car when he’d shown me his gun. It was hard to imagine him having any compunction about coming after me or my family. What was to stop him from driving by the house one night, shooting it up?
By now he’d noticed me at the pay phone, watching him. He stopped talking to the mechanic and fixed me with a stare. He didn’t seem to recognize me, though. I returned his stare long enough to convince myself I wasn’t afraid of him, and then I went home.
When I picked Sara up, I told Warren I needed to switch to the afternoon, like I’d promised Liz; the fringe benefit was that I probably wouldn’t be crossing paths with the Suburban guy at that hour. I made sure not to drive past his shop on the way home. I didn’t drive past the cemetery, either.
Sara asked why I’d changed shifts.
“So we’ll have more time with Mom in the morning,” I said.
“Is she going to quit her job?”
Liz hadn’t said anything else about quitting to me. “Did she tell you she was?”
“No. She just asked me would I like it if she worked at home.”
“Would you?”
“I think you both should.”
I said that would be great, but one of us needed a regular job. I was starting to explain health insurance when she interrupted.
“Hey, isn’t that the mom from the funeral?”
We’d just passed a woman on the sidewalk that led into our neighborhood. I slowed down and looked back, a knot already forming in my stomach. After the funeral, I’d been hoping never to see Tawana again, but here she was, in jeans and a too-big sweater that might have been Juwan’s, carrying a
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