Read Online The Borzoi Killings by Paul Batista - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Batista
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man with red hair, his hat off, leaned near him and shouted in his ear, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you. You have a right to a lawyer. If you can’t afford a lawyer, you’ll fucking get one for free, you spic.”
Juan’s head was pressed so forcefully against the window that he couldn’t say anything. He was choking. He was less than a foot away from Joan Richardson. A cop yelled, “Is this him?”
She shook her head up and down: the silent yes .
Juan was jerked away toward another cruiser. It had a wire mesh between the front and rear seats. The rear door opened. A powerful hand on the top of his head pushed him down and into the cruiser. A woman in uniform sat to his left. She held a wet towel and wiped his face to clean off the blood and dirt. She didn’t want his face smeared with blood or visibly bruised when he was led into the red brick Southampton police station, where television news trucks would be filming him on the short walk from the cruiser to the door of the station. The police had already announced his arrest and he had already been endowed with a name.
Juan the Knife .
10.
Mariana’s favorite work at the supermarket was stacking cans. With the gift of her agile hands, she loved removing them from the cardboard boxes in which they were delivered and placing them in gleaming, colorful rows along the shelves for all the world to see. They formed a bright mosaic.
Mariana was in the second aisle arranging the oval-shaped cans of sardines when Alfonso, a man with a limp whom she sometimes jokingly rebuffed when he tried to kiss her, approached. He spoke in Spanish: “Juan’s been picked up.” Fear washed over her like a sudden infusion of cold water. Picked up : to her and all the people she knew, the words meant you disappeared, you entered the endless maze of prisons and detention centers. No one ever returned from a pick up .
Mariana walked to a storage room at the rear of the store, put on her hooded sweatshirt, and picked up her small knapsack. She left nothing behind; she knew she would never return. In the clear autumn air, she made her way through the curving, quaint heart of the village, passing the Sag Harbor Cinema with its big 1930s-style marquee, the antique stores, the stone-and-brick library with its green dome, and the stately houses along Main Street. At the end of the Village, where Main Street became the old turnpike and the houses became more and morerun-down, she broke into a trot. The ranch house was less than a mile away.
Mariana stopped when she came close enough to see the house. Three police cruisers and a large van were in the driveway. She was afraid, almost panicked, as she had often been when she sensed that immigration police were poised to arrest her. As soon as she saw men carrying Juan’s bicycle out of the house, she knew what she had to do. She walked back to the village, went into the library, found the bathroom, and stayed there for the two hours until her children would arrive on their school bus at three. It was the first day of school in the new year.
When the bright yellow bus came to a halt at a corner several stops before her children’s usual drop-off place, Mariana held the door open and said to the woman driver, who recognized her: “I want my kids. We walk today. It’s nice out.”
The boy and girl strapped on their colorful knapsacks, looking happily at their mother. They were smart, outgoing kids, well-liked in the pretty grammar school in Bridgehampton. When Mariana told them they were not going home, they became quiet. She said they were going to Celia’s house. They referred to Celia, a 65-year-old kindly Salvadoran, as “aunt” even though she was not related to them. Celia’s house was closer to Bridgehampton and the Montauk Highway than Mariana’s now-abandoned ranch house.
Over the next three days, Mariana and her children stayed inside Celia’s neat home. Mariana kept
Juan’s head was pressed so forcefully against the window that he couldn’t say anything. He was choking. He was less than a foot away from Joan Richardson. A cop yelled, “Is this him?”
She shook her head up and down: the silent yes .
Juan was jerked away toward another cruiser. It had a wire mesh between the front and rear seats. The rear door opened. A powerful hand on the top of his head pushed him down and into the cruiser. A woman in uniform sat to his left. She held a wet towel and wiped his face to clean off the blood and dirt. She didn’t want his face smeared with blood or visibly bruised when he was led into the red brick Southampton police station, where television news trucks would be filming him on the short walk from the cruiser to the door of the station. The police had already announced his arrest and he had already been endowed with a name.
Juan the Knife .
10.
Mariana’s favorite work at the supermarket was stacking cans. With the gift of her agile hands, she loved removing them from the cardboard boxes in which they were delivered and placing them in gleaming, colorful rows along the shelves for all the world to see. They formed a bright mosaic.
Mariana was in the second aisle arranging the oval-shaped cans of sardines when Alfonso, a man with a limp whom she sometimes jokingly rebuffed when he tried to kiss her, approached. He spoke in Spanish: “Juan’s been picked up.” Fear washed over her like a sudden infusion of cold water. Picked up : to her and all the people she knew, the words meant you disappeared, you entered the endless maze of prisons and detention centers. No one ever returned from a pick up .
Mariana walked to a storage room at the rear of the store, put on her hooded sweatshirt, and picked up her small knapsack. She left nothing behind; she knew she would never return. In the clear autumn air, she made her way through the curving, quaint heart of the village, passing the Sag Harbor Cinema with its big 1930s-style marquee, the antique stores, the stone-and-brick library with its green dome, and the stately houses along Main Street. At the end of the Village, where Main Street became the old turnpike and the houses became more and morerun-down, she broke into a trot. The ranch house was less than a mile away.
Mariana stopped when she came close enough to see the house. Three police cruisers and a large van were in the driveway. She was afraid, almost panicked, as she had often been when she sensed that immigration police were poised to arrest her. As soon as she saw men carrying Juan’s bicycle out of the house, she knew what she had to do. She walked back to the village, went into the library, found the bathroom, and stayed there for the two hours until her children would arrive on their school bus at three. It was the first day of school in the new year.
When the bright yellow bus came to a halt at a corner several stops before her children’s usual drop-off place, Mariana held the door open and said to the woman driver, who recognized her: “I want my kids. We walk today. It’s nice out.”
The boy and girl strapped on their colorful knapsacks, looking happily at their mother. They were smart, outgoing kids, well-liked in the pretty grammar school in Bridgehampton. When Mariana told them they were not going home, they became quiet. She said they were going to Celia’s house. They referred to Celia, a 65-year-old kindly Salvadoran, as “aunt” even though she was not related to them. Celia’s house was closer to Bridgehampton and the Montauk Highway than Mariana’s now-abandoned ranch house.
Over the next three days, Mariana and her children stayed inside Celia’s neat home. Mariana kept
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