Spilled Ink, page 19
Mona looks baffled.
“I thought you were at the library that night. Since when do you study at Room without us?” she adds.
Asma presses her lips together. Her bottom lip is quivering.
“What time was it?” I ask. “Did you see anyone else there?”
“It was around seven. There was no one else around. No one I recognized, I mean. When I left he was going back up to the studio to get a new string for his guitar.”
“But why . . . ?” I can’t even put my thoughts into words.
Asma’s eyes seem focused on some point beyond my head. Actually, her eyes seem anything but focused.
“I thought it would be too weird to tell you. And it wasn’t . . . We just talk sometimes. I mean, we used to talk sometimes. By the music studio.”
“Wait, you and Yusuf were . . . hanging out?” I am rewinding through every conversation to see if I missed something obvious. I remember Yusuf telling me he had run into Asma coming out of the studio a while back. He didn’t mention anything after that, but come to think of it, he had been ultra-secretive about his phone lately. “And texting?”
Asma nods.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, Yalda. But honestly, I didn’t see anything that would have been helpful and I’d told my parents I was at the library that night,” she says, her voice shaky. She’s unraveling before me.
No wonder she’s been acting so strange lately. Asma, who literally broke into hives when she forgot to turn in an essay in tenth-grade English, must be a hot mess to have kept their relationship, whatever that means, and her being with him that night to herself.
“Think back, Asma. Are you sure you didn’t notice anything? Do you remember any of the cars in the parking lot? Anything?” There are strong undertones of desperation in my voice.
“Honest, Yalda, I’ve gone over it in my head a thousand times a day and if I could think of any little detail I would have already said it. I’ll meet with the police officer and tell them exactly what I told you, but that’s everything. I hate that I left him there. If I would have just stuck around, maybe I could have seen something or stopped something or at least helped him. Or if I hadn’t hung out with him, maybe he would have gone home before anyone could hurt him. I . . . I . . .”
I take Asma in my arms because I can see what’s tearing her up is not a fear of what others will say she did wrong. She’s had to live with the unforgiving voice in her head since she found out about Yusuf. My eyes well with tears that I wipe away with the back of my hand.
“What a goddamn mess,” Mona assesses as she pushes away from the table. She goes over to the condiment table and comes back with a fistful of brown recycled napkins that are rough on our noses but better than nothing. Asma insists that I call the police officer who gave me his card, but that card is now in my desk drawer. I could call the police station and ask for him if I remembered his name, which is lost in the forest of all the names I’ve heard since we burst into the emergency room.
“Let’s just go to the police station,” Asma says. “I’ll tell them right now.”
“What about your parents, Asma?” It is one thing for parents to find out you’ve been talking to a guy and a whole other thing for them to find out you’ve been talking to a guy who caused controversy in town and ended up in a hospital.
Asma shakes her head. “Let me just figure out one conversation at a time.”
I text my mom and dad that I’m still with the girls and I’ll be home in about an hour. I don’t need them worrying about me with Ama Leeda tsk-tsking in the corner.
“Where is the police station?” Mona asks, tapping the map icon on her phone. “Do you guys know?”
I don’t know. I’ve seen police cars driving around but never needed to know where they came from or where they went back to. Though it turns out the station is only ten minutes away, the drive there feels like an eternity. Asma stares out the window. Her tears have dried and she looks oddly relieved, like she needed to get this off her chest.
I, on the other hand, feel like I’m turning my best friend in to the authorities. If Asma didn’t see anything that night, there’s not much she’s going to be able to tell the police.
The GPS voice on Mona’s phone cheerfully instructs her to make a left in twenty feet. Then she announces that we have arrived at our destination as if the police station is a five-star hotel. The first thing I notice are the seven police cars in the lot in front of the building. Along the side, there are even more black-and-white vehicles. There’s a whole row of SUVs and something as big as an RV. I can almost picture a team of masked figures dressed head to toe in black jumping out the back doors with guns blazing. My phone rings just as I’m about to exit the car. It’s my mom. I don’t pick up but I text her even though I know it’ll be read with a huff because it has already been established that texting is not a real form of communication.
We’re dropping Asma off now. Be home soon. Love you.
Asma’s already out of the car. She looks so out of place here, in front of a two-story brick building that is all corners and metal trim. The glass double-door entrance is framed in blue and the front is a perimeter of gravel, not a single plant.
“Asma, wait,” I say, hopping out of the car. She turns and looks at me, blinking rapidly, waiting for me to speak. What will they get out of Asma’s report that she was there that night? What if they don’t believe her?
The glass door swings open and an officer steps out, his phone pressed to his ear. Asma looks startled, like he’s come out for her, but because we’re mostly hidden by the car, he doesn’t seem to notice us. I recognize him, though. He’s the officer who came to the hospital that night. He walks to a car in the parking lot, opens the trunk, and retrieves a bag. When he slams the trunk closed, he spots me and Asma standing by Mona’s car, our breath forming small clouds in the cool air.
He says something to the person on the phone and then slides the phone into the pocket of his shirt. He scans the parking lot and then starts walking toward us.
“Why is he . . . ,” Asma asks.
“Hey. You’re . . . you’re the sister,” he says. He’s clearly forgotten my name. That’s all right. I’ve forgotten his name, too.
“Yeah,” I confirm, nodding.
“And you two. Cousins or something?”
“They’re my friends,” I reply.
He nods and introduces himself as Officer Song to Asma and Mona, who is still sitting in the driver’s seat with her hands primly on the steering wheel. She smiles broadly, like she’s been pulled over and is trying to convince Officer Song that she should be let off with a warning. He peers into the car.
“Right. What brings you all to the station?” he asks. “Did someone call you?”
I’m about to say no when I wonder why he’s asking. Was someone supposed to call me?
“I thought if there were updates, we would hear directly from you,” I say.
“I’m sorry, I should have made the call myself. I’m not the only one involved, though, and there’s a process,” he says, but I can hardly hear over my heart pounding. Something has happened.
Asma swallows hard. Mona opens the car door and stands with us, watchful.
“What’s the process?” I ask.
“It’s best if I go over this with your parents as well. Where are they now?”
“They’re on their way over,” I say with surprising ease given that they are most certainly not on their way over.
Officer Song puts his hands on his hips and exhales.
“All right, let’s go inside and wait on them,” he says, and turns toward the station entrance.
Mona has been doing a remarkable job of controlling her facial expressions, but as soon as Officer Song turns his back, she looks right at me with bewilderment. Asma looks frozen. I shrug and nod toward the station, a signal they should follow me. We’ve hardly taken two steps before he whirls around and realizes my friends are practically connected to me.
“Ladies, I appreciate you want to be with your friend, but I think it’s best if you two went home,” he says.
“Well, the thing is, I was going to—” Asma protests, but stops when I give her wrist a squeeze.
“We can talk more later, Asma. I need to do this now,” I say. Asma chews her lip, obviously conflicted. I know she’s steeled herself to do the right thing but is also relieved not to be entering the police station.
“Yalda.” Asma says my name softly.
Mona looks from her to me through her kohl-lined eyes.
“Please,” I tell her, so that she doesn’t have to wonder if she’s reading me right. I don’t want her distracting the officer right now when he’s on the verge of sharing information important enough that he wants my parents here before he opens up. “It’s fine. You guys can go home.”
My friends stay where they are, with Mona’s arm around Asma’s shoulders, until Officer Song and I have entered the station. A woman with her hair pulled back in a severe bun looks us over curiously when we enter. She raises an eyebrow at the officer.
“She’s the sister,” he replies. “Parents are on their way over—the Jamalis. I need to get them into a room. Call me when they get here and I’ll walk them up.”
She nods.
“Sure thing,” she says. “You’re going to take her up that way?”
“Yup,” he says. “We’ll be down the hall.”
He leads me up a flight of stairs and down a corridor with doors on either side. Some are offices with glass windows; one has blinds drawn so I can’t see inside. My mind is racing. Maybe when we get to wherever we’re going, I can call my parents and tell them to come down here, but I also wish I could prepare them. I’m hoping with all my heart that this officer is about to tell us they’ve arrested the person who did this. But I’m also nervous that he’s about to unload some news that will only break us more.
We make a left and the officer leads me into a small room with a gray metal table in the center and two chairs on either side. The blinds are drawn so there’s no natural light coming into the room. The walls are a stark white and the flooring is light brown, mottled with scuff marks. It feels a solid five degrees colder in here than the hallway.
“Have a seat,” the officer says. “How long do you think it’ll be before your parents get here?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply honestly.
“Okay,” he replies. He clears his throat and checks his watch. “Are you . . . Do you want some water or something?”
“I’m fine,” I say, and he nods.
“I hear your brother’s feeling a little better.”
Better?
“He still can’t speak so I don’t know if he’s feeling better.”
He nods, looking chastened, but being smart with him is misplaced spite and won’t get me anywhere, so I forgive his poor word choice and recalibrate.
“It’s going to be a very long recovery. That’s what they tell us. It’s still hard to believe this happened, so any information you have about that night or who did this to him would really help. Did anyone come forward with information? Or did you find a suspect?”
I scan his face for any reaction, a tell that will give away what they want to reveal to us.
“It’s best we wait for your parents,” he replies. “You said they’d be here soon, right?”
“I should check on them,” I say, taking my phone out.
“Sure. I’ll be back in a few,” he says as he steps back into the hallway, leaving the door open. Do I call my mom or my dad? What do I tell them? I stand up, suddenly feeling the room shrinking in on me. I walk to the windows and find the metal wand to open the blinds. I peek through to see if Mona and Asma are still in the parking lot, but the edge of the blinds poke into my face. I pull the cord and raise the blinds altogether.
Mona’s car is gone. I tap my phone again and decide I’ll call my dad first. The phone rings once, twice, and then a third time.
“Hello?” he says.
But I don’t answer.
“Yalda? Yalda, can you hear me?”
My eyes are transfixed on the parking lot—on the sight of two police officers standing on either side of a figure. I recognize the coat—a gray puffer with a red-lined hood. It’s Chris.
“Yalda, are you okay?”
Chris is standing between two police officers, his head hanging low. Even from this distance I can see the tension in him, his shoulders pulled up close to his ears. My stomach knots. Chris? I think back to the conversation I had with Chris on the phone when Yusuf was still in the ICU. What had he said?
I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.
Sorry that Yusuf was hurt? Sorry he hadn’t helped Yusuf? Or was he sorry for something worse?
“Yalda, where are you? What’s happening?” my father demands. The controlled panic in his voice shakes me back to here and now.
“Dad? I’m here. Dad, you and Mom need to come to the police station now,” I say, then repeat myself because he’s not sure he heard me right. I press my face to the cool glass. Maybe the movement catches Christopher’s attention because his eyes climb the side of the building and find me in the window above. When he sees me, his jaw goes slack. I look from him to the pavement, all the while imagining what it would be like to be pushed from this height to the cold ground below.
26
I am in the hall, then bounding down the stairs. I hold on to the handrail because I don’t trust my legs right now. I collide with Officer Song as I round the corner.
“Whoa, whoa!” he shouts. “What’s happening?”
“Chris is here. I saw him. I want to talk to him!” I reply, looking past Officer Song. I’m two doors away from the parking lot. Why is Chris here? Why does he look so devastated, so . . . guilty?
The officer from the front desk joins Officer Song. They each take me by an elbow and ask me to go back upstairs to the conference room. They tell me I can’t talk to Chris right now. When I demand a reason, I’m ushered to a metal chair and asked to take some deep breaths and relax. This feels more like punishment than comfort.
“Can you cover this for a minute?” Officer Song asks.
“You go ahead and I’ll sit with this young lady here,” the woman says, and closes the door behind Officer Song.
“I’m Officer Janae,” she says. “Emotions run really high anytime there’s an arrest.”
“So Chris is under arrest?” I ask.
She looks surprised.
“Chris? No. Did Officer Song not explain already? He’s not . . .” Her words trail off as she shakes her head. She draws in a deep breath as if she’s going to need extra air for the plunge she’s about to take.
“Chris,” she begins, speaking slowly, which is frustrating because I want to know everything right now, but also helpful because it’s harder to hear over the noise in my head. “Chris contacted us to share information. Now, I know you’re eager to hear more, but let’s wait for your parents to get here so we can talk about this with them. It’s probably best we do this once and all together.”
I let out a breath. Of course it wasn’t Chris. The thought of Chris harming Yusuf had rocked me hard, and I need a moment to gather myself before I can even guess at what information Chris might have shared with the police and who might be under arrest.
My parents must have broken some speed limits because they are at the station thirteen minutes later. We are seated together, my dad’s face tense and stony and my mother’s arm holding me close to her, when Officer Song returns and finally starts telling us what they’ve learned from Chris.
“He called and let us know that we should look into his stepfather’s whereabouts that evening. Seems when Chris was talking to the owner of Crescendo about the security cameras, his stepfather overheard the conversation. He started acting spooked, as Chris put it. He asked Chris a lot of questions about the camera setup at the studio.”
“But they told us the cameras weren’t on,” my father says, his voice guarded.
“That’s right. They weren’t. We still don’t have any footage from the music studio, but we checked the traffic cameras,” Officer Song explains. “We followed Chris’s tip and were able to confirm that his stepfather’s vehicle was near the studio around the time Yusuf left.”
“Oh my God,” Mom says, her body angled forward to catch every word the officer speaks. She’s sitting between me and my dad with her feet flat on the cold, tiled floor. She squeezes my hand and my father’s knee. “Why would he do this to a boy? I don’t understand.”
My dad stands.
“I want to see him,” he says, each word measured and deliberate.
Officer Song gets up slowly, after I spot he and Officer Janae exchange a look. My dad doesn’t look tired or worn down right now. He looks like he could walk through a wall if it would put him face-to-face with Chris’s stepfather.
“Sir, at this point, we’re going to handle this matter according to our protocols. We don’t want to have a situation here that we all regret.”
“Regret?” my dad repeats, wanting to confirm what he heard. “Here we will have a situation we regret? I want to know if he regrets what he did to my son.”
“I understand, but there is a process that we must follow. It’s in everyone’s best interests—”
“But I just want to talk to—”
“As difficult as it is,” Officer Janae says, “we’re going to have to ask you to be patient.”
Sometimes it’s hard to work up the courage to do something. Other times it takes superhuman strength to do nothing. On the drive home, the car is an ark carrying every feeling that ever existed. Outrage. Relief. Confusion. Frustration. Fresh sadness.
Ama Leeda is standing in the living room when we enter the house, her face a question mark.
“They arrested someone,” my mother says. Ama Leeda throws her arm around my mother and softly praises God. I slip into my room and pull out my phone. Mona and Asma have both texted me but I want to talk to Chris first.
