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Bobby has been home for less than ten minutes when his phone rings. He groans just a little when he sees the caller ID: Mary S. (cell). When Mary calls, no good seems to ever come from it. Something is always up, or she’s stonewalling him about one of her friends, or bullshitting him about whatever case he’s working. She’s never once called just to say “Hey, thanks for everything,” or “Come help me beat Marshall at darts,” or “We’re going out for drinks, wanna come?” or anything of the sort. He presses the talk button and answers, “Dershowitz.”
“Dershowitz, it’s Mary,” Mary starts. “Is there someone you can talk to for me over there? I called in a civilian complaint about drug dealers and vandalism a few hours ago. But, judging by the noise level and continuing drug activity, I’m guessing no one’s shown up. Is there a reason it takes so long to get a cruiser to roll by?”
Bobby listens to Mary’s rambling rant, a small part of him thinking she spends far too much time around Marshall, and nods in places even though she can’t see him. Sarcastically, he says, “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe there’s more than one drug deal going down in Albuquerque?” Done with making jokes, he asks, “Where are you?”
“7384 Mesa Ridge,” Mary tells him.
Christ, Bobby thinks. That’s the worst neighborhood in the whole damn county. He’s already putting his jacket and shoes back on when Mary continues. “Is it possible to light a fire under someone’s ass? All I want is a black and white to roll by, flash its lights. Just to scare some of the unfriendlies away.”
Bobby’s checking his holster on his way out the door to his car. “I’ll see what I can do. But it is a busy night.” Mary doesn’t need to know he’s already planning to forgo a patrol car and come himself.
“All right. Thanks.” Mary sounds relieved, which just makes Bobby more worried than he already was. Something is definitely wrong.
Bobby’s in the car and on his way. The closer he gets to the neighborhood, the more worried he gets. He flips the lights and sirens on and speeds up, hoping to get there before something goes down. He rolls up less than five minutes after he got off the phone with Mary. He’s out of the car to sounds of gang bangers shouting “5-0! 5-0!”
He’s somewhat less concerned about the gang bangers across the street than he is about the one on the porch of the house he assumes Mary’s in with one of her witnesses. “Albuquerque Police!” Bobby shouts at the man. “Off the porch, now! Hands where I can see them!”
The guy on the porch turns away from the door of the house to face Bobby. He sneers at Bobby. “Could you say that a little bit louder, holmes? I don’t think my friends heard you.”
Suddenly, the door opens and Mary comes out, pissed as ever. “You heard the man, Mario. Get off the damn porch!”
Bobby keeps half an eye on the gang bangers across the street and the other on Mary and Mario. This guy Mario is pissed as hell and his friends are clearly itching to get into a fight with them.
“You called the cops, bitch?” Mario hisses at Mary.
“You think I need the cops to handle a cabrón like you?” Mary taunts, shoving him off the porch. “Go!” If the situation weren’t so damn tense, Bobby would laugh. Mary pushing a gang banger around with no fear at all is quite a sight.
Bobby can hear the other bangers taunting Mario, as well. One of them exclaims, “Ooh, pushed by a girl!” Mario turns towards his friends and says something to them in Spanish. Bobby’s Spanish is pretty rusty, so for all he knows, Mario could be telling them to go order pizzas. He’s so focused on keeping his eyes on Mario, since he seems to be the instigator of this whole situation, he doesn’t notice the others cross the street until he hears Mary shout, “Crossing the street!”
Bobby turns to watch the other bangers while he listens to Mary dealing with Mario. He’s focusing on them just enough to make sure he knows when, or if, Mary needs backup. He can hear Mario egging Mary on, trying to get her to fight him, and Mary’s trying to talk him down, obviously not wanting to get into a fight with a likely armed gang banger and his pals. The others are starting to move on him again and Bobby tells them, “Everybody stop! Keep your hands where I can see ‘em!”
Smugly, Mario tells them, “Seven to two. Sounds like bad odds to me.”
Bobby knows they’re outnumbered pretty badly, so he does the only thing he can to make the bangers think twice--he pulls out his gun and aims it at the six men advancing on him. “I’m not gonna say it again,” he warns them. Fortunately, they’re smart enough to put their hands up and back off slightly.
“Go! Join your friends,” he hears Mary yell at Mario.
“All right! Back to the fence!” Bobby yells, covering the six of them. “Back up towards the fence!” Wisely, they all start backing up. “Turn around! Turn around!” To Bobby, it feels like the first time in his career that gang bangers actually listen to a cop even when they outnumber said cops by more than three to one. “Put your hands behind your neck.”
All of a sudden, Mary screams, “Gun!”
Everything is happening too fast. Time is speeding up and nothing that can slow it down. Instinctively, Bobby turns on Mario. In his peripheral vision, he can see the rest of the bangers scatter. He hears the first shot, he thinks it comes from Mario, but he doesn’t see it. He hears a second shot, this time from Mary’s position, and even before the sound dies down in his ears, he’s running toward her, an overwhelming sense of dread settling in his gut. “Mary!” Bobby shouts, hoping she’s fine and his senses are playing tricks on him. “Mary!” There’s nothing from her, no snappy retort, no sarcastic comments about worrying like a mother hen. Nothing. For the first time since he’s met her, she’s absolutely silent. She’s down on the ground, and the light from her porch bathes her in an eerie, yellow glow. Bobby’s almost to her side when he sees it. The spreading patch of red stands out in stark contrast to the white of her shirt. He’s down on one knee at her side, covering her while the bangers keep running. He’s on his phone with the dispatcher as fast as he can dial. “This is Detective Dershowitz, Albuquerque Police. I’ve got a Code 108. Officer down! I repeat, officer down! Officer down!” As soon as he’s sure enough in threat from the bangers isn’t imminent, Bobby’s pressing his hand to Mary’s abdomen in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding.
“An ambulance is on it’s way, Detective,” the dispatcher informs him. “They’re two minutes out.”
“Get some cruisers and crime scene techs down here, too,” Bobby says, knowing there’s a lot of work that needs to be done here before anything else.
As soon as he hangs up, Bobby pulls his jacket off and uses it to try to stop the bleeding. Now that he has to sit and wait, time slows back down, past normal speed and into a slow, meandering crawl. Adrenaline is still coursing through Bobby’s veins and he can feel his hands shaking. In the distance, he hears sirens and they’re getting closer. Mary’s breathing gets worse as the seconds tick by. It’s shallow and labored and Bobby’s worried she may not make it. “Come on, Mary,” he whispers to her. “Stay with me, girl.” Without thinking about it, he runs his free hand through her hair.
“Is Mary going to be all right?”
Bobby looks up to see a young woman in a blue dress coming down from the porch of the house toward him and Mary. “Who’re you?” Bobby asks her, even though he basically knows the answer already.
“Francesca Leandra. I live here.”
“Mmhmm,” Bobby says noncommittally. She has to be one of Mary’s witnesses. “Considering everything that’s happened, you should probably stay inside until backup gets here.”
Francesca rolls her eyes and heaves a sigh. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing dangerous out here now. I just want to see if Mary is okay.”
Something about her makes Bobby hate her. Maybe it’s her complete disregard for authority, or her insistence that there’s nothing dangerous out here, or the sense that she did something that precipitated this whole situation. Whatever the reason, Bobby definitely can’t stand her already.
“Ma’am, I cannot protect you while I’m trying to keep Mary from bleeding to death on this damn sidewalk! Get back in the house. Now.” Bobby doesn’t have time to put up with a snotty witness while he’s worrying about whether or not Mary will make it through the next ten minutes. He doesn’t seem to need to worry too much, however, because Francesca just throws up her hands and walks back into the house.
“Come on, Mary,” Bobby tells her. “You cannot die. Don’t give those bastards the satisfaction.”
The sirens are getting louder and louder, and Bobby estimates they’re maybe thirty seconds out. He hopes he’s right, because Mary’s breathing is getting worse every second. He reaches up to check her pulse, and he can barely feel it. Bobby can feel something warm and sticky on his hand and he realizes that blood is seeping through his jacket. He presses harder, hoping that will help with the bleeding, but he’s pretty sure it won’t. Time starts to speed back up to normal as the sirens close in. The next few seconds go by in a blur and before Bobby knows it, there are paramedics and patrol officers surrounding him and the paramedics are asking questions and pushing him out of the way.
“What can you tell me about her, Detective?” One of the paramedics asks Bobby.
“US Marshal Mary Shannon, 34, she was shot two and a half minutes ago and she’s been unconscious the whole time. Her breathing’s shallow and uneven and her pulse is barely detectable,” Bobby tells them, backing off to deal with the crime scene.
“Thanks, Detective.”
“Yeah,” Bobby says. He turns to the patrol officers who are busy cordoning off the scene. “You guys got this?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bobby nods and goes back to hovering near the paramedics. He watches them attempt to stabilize Mary. They’ve got her in the ambulance less than two minutes later and they go tearing out of the neighborhood, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Bobby pulls out his phone, scrolls through his contacts and dials Marshall. Marshall answers on the second ring. “Marshall.”
“Marshall, it’s Bobby. Mary’s been shot. They’re taking her to Albuquerque General. And Marshall--it’s bad.”
“Jesus,” Marshall whispers. “I’ll be right there. Have you called Stan?”
“He’s my next call,” Bobby says.
“Thanks, Bobby.”
“I’ll see you in a while, Marshall.”
Bobby hangs up with Marshall and dials Stan. “You got Stan.”
“It’s Bobby D. We’ve got a problem. Mary’s been shot.”
“What?” Stan shouts. “Where are you?”
“7384 Mesa Ridge. Stan, it’s bad. They’re taking her to General right now.”
“What about Francesca?” Stan asks.
“She’s still here, she’s fine.”
“Good. Okay. I’m sending people over to take care of her. I want this case, but we’ll work with you guys on it.”
“Don’t worry, Chief, we’re all over this with you. Just...take care of Mary, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. Have you called her family yet?”
“No. Just you and Marshall. The ambulance just barely took off with her.”
“Okay, I’ll call them. Listen, thanks for calling.”
“Yeah.”
Bobby hangs up and goes over to one of the patrol officers. “Okay, the Marshal Service will be here shortly. We’re going to be working this with them jointly. There’s a woman in the house, her statement will need to be taken at some point.”
The officer nods. “Yes, sir. They’ll, um, need your statement as well, Detective.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Black government-issue SUVs roll up and several people in suits file out. Bobby frowns, he doesn’t think they look much like Marshals at all. Of course, the only Marshals he’s ever really worked with are Mary, Marshall and Stan. One of them comes over to Bobby and flashes a badge. Bobby glances at it, and instead of seeing the insignia of the Marshal Service, it turns out this guy is from the State Department. Bobby frowns. “Who the hell are you?”
“Scott Day, State Department. We’re here to transport Francesca Leandra.”
“Like hell,” Bobby says. “Ms. Leandra’s a material witness in the shooting of a federal marshal. We need her to give us her statement.”
“Ms. Leandra will be available to give her statement...as soon as we’re sure she’s safe,” Day replies.
Bobby glares at him. “Did Stan send you?”
“McQueen? He informed us of the situation with Inspector Shannon and Ms. Leandra.”
“Uh-huh.” Bobby nods. “Right. As long as we’re clear that she will be available for questioning.”
“Of course, Detective. I wouldn’t want to hamper your investigation.”
“Right. Of course you wouldn’t.” Bobby glares and walks away from Day.
Bobby watches as Day and his people walk into the house and then walk out again, this time with Francesca Leandra in tow.
“Detective?” One of the patrol officers comes over to him. “They want you over at Metro to give your statement and meet with the Fugitive Taskforce.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Bobby gets back into his car and is pulling away from the scene before he realizes his jacket is gone and he still has blood on his hands. The drive to Metro is fast and uneventful. He’s out of the car and into the building quickly and soon enough, he’s standing in the bullpen and everyone’s crowding him.
“Detective Dershowitz,” Captain Bell steps up to him. “We need your statement.”
“Yes sir, I know. Can it--” Bobby stops and sighs softly. “I still have blood on my hands, sir.”
Bell nods. “Go and wash up, Detective. This can wait a few minutes.”
“Thanks, sir,” Bobby says, pushing through the growing crowd toward the men’s room.
Once he’s in the bathroom, Bobby goes over to one of the sinks and turns the water on. He stares at his hands as he puts them under the water, watching the bright red blood flow into the sink, turning pink as it comes into contact with the water. Bobby stares into the sink long after the blood has washed off his hands and the water runs clear. He shakes it off after a minute and turns the water off. He looks into the mirror, and all he can see when he looks at himself is Mary getting shot. Bobby squeezes his eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. He hears Mary shout “Gun!” and he hears the shot and he sees himself running to Mary’s side, and the smell of blood in the air.
Bobby opens his eyes again and shakes his head. “Pull it together, Dershowitz,” he admonishes himself. “Fuck!” Bobby swears on his way out of the bathroom, kicking the closest garbage can for good measure. It doesn’t make him feel better, in fact, all it does is make his foot hurt really badly.
Bobby makes his way back over to his desk, where Captain Bell and a few others are waiting for him.
“You ready, Detective?” Bell asks when Bobby gets there.
“Yes, sir,” Bobby says. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Right. Detective, these are the Marshals and detectives running the Fugitive Taskforce. You already know Detectives Smith, Dunn and Marks.” Bobby nods to all of them. Yeah, he knows them, but he couldn’t pick ‘em out of a line up if he had to. “These are Marshals Baker, Cruz and Stevens. They’re from the Marshal Service’s Fugitive Apprehension Team out of Santa Fe.” Bobby nods to each of them in turn, not really caring who they are or what they look like beyond the fact that they’re here to help catch the guy who put Mary in the hospital. Jesus, Mary, Bobby thinks, making a note to call Marshall as soon as he gets a chance to see how she’s doing.
“Alright, Detective. Let’s start,” Bell says as Bobby leans up against the desk. “First, what were you doing there?”
“I received a call from Marshal Shannon this evening,” Bobby began. “She was on duty at 7384 Mesa Ridge, and several hours earlier, she had called in a civilian complaint about the crack house across the street, however, nothing had come of it at the time she called me. What Mary was hoping was that I could get something done about it, maybe have a cruiser roll by, to see if that would scare away some of the gang bangers. Instead of sending out a cruiser to her location, I went myself. When I got there, one of these bangers, he goes by the name of Mario, was on the porch of the house, harassing Mary and a woman who’s name I later discovered is Francesca Leandra. I ordered him off the porch, he was belligerent, however, Mary came out of the house and eventually shoved him off the porch. Once that happened, things escalated quickly; the rest of Mario’s gang stepped up off the other side of the street toward myself and Mary. I took out my sidearm in an effort to get them to back off. I had the other six turned around with their hands behind their heads when I heard Mary shout ‘gun’ and I turned toward Mario, and before I saw anything, I heard the shot, followed by a shot from Mary. After she fired, everyone scattered and I went to her side, after I realized she’d been shot. I immediately called dispatch for an ambulance, patrol officers and crime scene techs. After the paramedics came and took Mary to the hospital, I called the Marshal Service and spoke with Chief Inspector Stan McQueen, Mary’s direct superior. He informed me that the Marshal’s Service would work this with us jointly, and that he’d be sending some people to secure Ms. Leandra. A few minutes later, several Marshals and State Department representatives showed up. The State Department secured Ms. Leandra, and I was informed that she would be available to give her statement as soon as they could make sure she was safe--”
Bobby’s about to continue when Captain Day interrupts. “We haven’t gotten a statement from Ms. Leandra yet.”
“We haven’t?” Bobby asks.
“Not yet.”
Bobby nods. “Okay.”
“Can you I.D. the shooter, Detective?” Bell finally asks him.
Bobby frowns before answering. “I didn’t see him take the shot. But, based on the direction of the two reports, one shot sounded like it came from Marshal Shannon and the other from the one she called Mario.”
“Can you I.D. him?”
“Yes. Definitely,” Bobby tells him determinedly.
Bell turns to Detective Smith. “All right, let’s get some photos in front of him now.”
Bobby closes his eyes for a second and opens them back up when he hears a new voice. “Captain Bell.” And that’s when Stan comes into Bobby’s field of vision.
“Chief,” Bell acknowledges. “We’re debriefing the detective here. Anything you want to ask?”
Stan shakes his head. “I’ll read the report. I don’t want to slow this taskforce down. Just one question, Bobby.” Bobby knows the question Stan’s going to ask before he asks. “Who shot first?”
“Him. He definitely fired first,” Bobby tells him with conviction.
That was what Stan was looking for, a confirmation that Mary had done right by protocol. “All right.” Stan turns back to Bell. “I’ll be your contact with the Marshal Service. I’m fine with basing our Fugitive Taskforce here. Do you have a copy of Francesca Leandra’s statement?”
Bell and Bobby share a look before Bell says, “She hasn’t given it yet.”
“What?” Stan asks. “She’s at the hospital now. I assumed someone had taken her statement already.”
Bell shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“I’ll have my guys at the hospital get into it. You’ll get your statement.”
“Thank you, Chief.”
Detective Smith’s got a book in front of Bobby and they’re going through it. Bobby stops him at a page. “That’s Mario,” Bobby says, pointing to one of the pictures. “And that’s one of the other guys that was there. I think he might be their leader.”
Bell glances over at them. “Go have patrol find them.”
“Yes, sir,” Smith says and heads off.
Stan’s got his phone out and he dials. “Marshall. Is Francesca with you? How long? She hasn’t given her statement to PD yet. Yeah, okay.”
Bobby and Bell look at him expectantly. “Marshall’s gonna talk to her.”
“All right, Chief. Maybe you can shed some light on some things in Detective Dershowitz’s report,” Bell starts. “What exactly was your inspector doing in that house?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you until I’ve spoken with my superiors,” Stan tells Bell.
Bobby can see the vein on the side of Bell’s temple throbbing, and he knows Bell’s pissed. “I thought you were planning to work with us on this, Chief.”
Stan sighs. “I am, Captain, but this is way above your pay grade, and until I’m cleared to tell you more, I can’t give you anything. At the moment, all you need to know is that Inspector Shannon was on duty at the time of the incident.”
“Damn it, Chief!” Bell shouts.
Stan’s about to lay into Bell when Bobby shakes his head. “Stan. This isn’t gonna help Mary.”
“Bobby...” Stan starts.
“Dershowitz, what do you know about this?” Bell asks.
“Nothing I can tell you, sir. I can, however, tell you this: this territorial beef is not going to get any work done.” Bobby looks between them. “When Stan says he’ll tell you when he gets the OK, then he will tell you. Look, sir, I know these people. I’ve worked with them before. They are damn good at their jobs and you cannot ask them to compromise their duty for something that may have nothing to do with what happened to Mary.”
Bell’s glaring at Bobby. “Get it together, Dershowitz, and remember who the hell you work for!”
Their testosterone-laden argument is cut short when a commotion starts. Several patrol officers are bringing a very pissed off gang banger into the bullpen and escorting him to one of the interrogation rooms.
“Is that--?” Stan starts to ask when Detective Smith comes back over.
“That is Diego Jimenez, aka Lala. He’s the leader of the gang that runs the crack house at 7381 Mesa Ridge,” Smith tells them.
“Good, good. Let him sweat a bit before anyone goes in there,” Bell says. “I have to go get some paperwork filed on this.”
Bell walks away from them, leaving Bobby and Stan leaning up against Bobby’s desk. “Any word on Mary yet?” Bobby asks Stan.
Stan shakes his head. “I got nothin’ yet. I was only at the hospital for a few minutes.”
“How’s Marshall doing?” Bobby asks, already knowing the answer won’t be good.
Stan sighs, but before he has a chance to say anything, the object of their conversation comes bustling into the bullpen. “Francesca Leandra is claiming Mario isn’t the shooter and that she didn’t see who it was.”
Bobby turns and frowns at Marshall. “What? That is not possible.”
“Tell me about it,” Marshall mutters.
“All right. Let’s not worry about what we don’t have,” Stan tells them. “Whoever it is, we’ll know him when we see him.”
Marshall looks confused. “Why’s that?”
“ABQPD found a fresh trail of blood leading away from the crime scene. That son of a bitch is carrying one of Mary’s slugs around in him.” Stan seems proud of that fact. Bobby can’t really blame him.
“Okay, that’s something. That’s a start,” Marshall says.
“We brought that Lala guy in. I’m thinking he must know something.” Stan sees the look on Marshall’s face, and he hurries to cut it off at the pass. “Guy’s got no reason to give us anything, and he’s not gonna be intimidated. He’s been in that interrogation room more than you.”
“Can I talk to him?” Marshall asks Bobby.
“Fine by me,” Bobby confirms.
Marshall’s about to go to the interrogation room when Stan stops him. “Marshall. Marshall, be smart. Do not let your emotions keep you from doing your job right. I need you to be you right now. Understand?”
Marshall nods on his way to interrogation. Bobby and Stan share a look and follow, heading into the viewing room to watch Marshall. Bobby flips on the light and he and Stan watch through the two-way mirror as Marshall steps into the room and sits down across the table from Lala.
“I didn’t do nothing,” Lala says defensively as Marshall sits down. “I didn’t shoot your girl.”
“Nobody here thinks you did,” Marshall assures him.
“Then how come I’m still here? What do you want?”
“I want to know what you dream about.”
“Huh?”
Bobby tilts his head slightly. He seems nearly as confused as Lala does. “What exactly is he doing?”
Stan shrugs. “Do I ever know?”
“I saw you on your porch yesterday, running your crew, doing what I imagine you do pretty much every day. And I was just curious, when you go to sleep at night, do you dream of other places? Doing something else? Or do you dream about sitting on your porch, running your crew?” Marshall asks a very impatient Lala.
Stan smirks and Bobby frowns even more. He’s still not sure what Marshall’s up to, but he’ll go with it for a while.
“Bro, you need to get to the point.”
“The point is, everybody here knows you’re too smart to shoot a cop for no good reason...and that nothing goes on that street without you knowing about it,” Marshall explains.
“What’s that got to do with dreams?” Lala asks, and Bobby can’t help but wonder the same thing.
“Well, this kind of thing is going to be really bad for your business. And, if there were some other place you dreamed of, or something you always wanted to be...” Oh. Bobby sees where Marshall’s going with this now.
“What? You gonna wave your magic wand, and tomorrow, I’m on the beach in Hawaii?” Lala asks, completely unimpressed.
“No. But I have friends who make that sort of thing happen all the time. All we need from you is the right information. Would you like to be in Hawaii tomorrow? With a new name, whole new life?” Marshall dangles the offer in front of Lala, clearly hoping he’ll take the bait and sell out whoever shot Mary. “I can have a U.S. Attorney here in five minutes, making that happen. Just tell me who the shooter is and how to find him.”
Bobby watches Lala think about Marshall’s offer, but he knows he’ll never take it. This kind of criminal never does. “Sabes qué, cabrón? We’re born where we’re born. We is what we is. And that’s that.” Bobby thinks that’s a bit more philosophical than one would normally expect from a street thug like Lala. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, and I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’.”
Bobby and Stan wait while Marshall stares Lala down. Bobby feels like they could hear a pin drop in either of the two rooms. After a minute, Marshall tells Lala, “Well then, I expect we’ll be seeing a lot of each other until we find the shooter.” After that, he simply gets up and walks out of the interrogation room. Bobby keeps his eye on Lala after Marshall leaves, and the man’s expression cycles through several emotions: confusion, frustration, amusement and finally, out right anger. Marshall walks into the viewing room then.
“Well?” Marshall asks.
Stan smiles. “Nicely played, Marshall. He’s definitely gonna chew on that for a while.”
Marshall nods. “Yeah. Okay. Now what?”
“We let him stew for a while,” Bobby tells them. “Although, since we only have him for questioning, we’ll have to cut him loose soon.”
“Can’t you arrest him for something?” Marshall asks.
“Here’s the thing, Marshall, we’ve got a murky chain of custody on everything. We didn’t follow procedure on anything, either. The DA won’t even go near it ’cuz of that, and even if she would, any judge worth his weight in salt will throw the case out before we can say ‘probable cause,’” Bobby explains. “Don’t worry, we’ll get him on something eventually. He’ll slip up again, I promise.”
“Yeah. Right. Okay.”
“So, um, Marshall...how’s Mary doing?” Bobby finally asks.
“God, Bobby. When you said ‘it’s bad,’ I was worried she’d be in surgery for a while and she’d spend some time in the hospital recovering and then she’d be back to work after a few weeks. But, Bobby, she--” Marshall stops and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She crashed on the way to the hospital, and then, even though they got her heart started again, they’re saying they can’t even operate until they get her blood volume up, and get her heart stabilized.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Bobby breathes.
Stan puts his hand on Marshall’s arm gently. “Marshall, go home and get some sleep.”
“Stan--”
“Marshall. Go.”
“But--”
“A couple of hours, Marshall. If anything happens, you know Jinx or Brandi or Raphael will call you.”
Marshall nods. “Yeah, okay.”
Bobby sighs as he watches Marshall leave. Bobby turns to Stan. “So, this Francesca...who is she, really?”
“She’s...” Stan looks around to make sure nobody else is around. No one is, seeing as they’re standing in the viewing room. “The leader of a labor movement in Venezuela.”
“What the hell is she doing in Albuquerque?” Bobby asks in surprise.
“Well, apparently, the Venezuelan government wanted her out of the way, and the CIA or somebody, I don’t know, found out, and managed to get her out of there before anything happened. They set her up in Witness Protection while they set in motion a coup, or whatever it is they do. So, they sent her to ABQ, and we set her up with Mary as her Marshal, because, well, she’s Mary. They had her in a house, it was secured, easily protected. But somehow, Francesca decided it’d be a good idea to move herself to the worst neighborhood in the whole county. So, she moved to that damn house, with those damn bangers across the street. That’s when Mario and his pals started sniffing around.” Stan rubs his hand across the top of his head. “Yeah, and that’s it basically.”
Bobby shakes his head in amazement. “See, now why can’t you just tell that to Captain Bell so he’ll stop railing about the Feds never helping out?”
“I will,” Stan says. “Eventually. Once I get the OK from people who get paid better than me.”
“Yeah. Okay. Look, I gotta get back to work with the taskforce, so...” Bobby trails off.
“Yeah, I should get some work done too. I need to check into Mary’s witnesses, see if maybe anything like that has to do with this, though, that’s about as likely as Elvis coming back from the dead.”
Bobby nods and they both walk out of the viewing room and into the bullpen. “Hey, Stan?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you think Mary’s chances are?”
Stan’s shoulders slump and he suddenly looks ten years older. “God, I don’t know, Bobby. I’ve worked with Mary for four, almost five years now and I’ve never seen her not pull herself out of anything. I mean, you were there for the whole kidnapping thing. You know her. You know what she’s like. She can make it through anything. I just--” Stan stops. “I’m afraid of losing her, Bobby.”
Bobby nods. “We all are, Stan.”
“Yeah. I’ll make sure to keep you up to date on her condition.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Good luck, Bobby.”
Bobby goes and gets himself a cup of coffee before going back to sit at his desk to get some work done. Bobby pulls out an incident report form and starts to fill it out. Most of the time, he likes to fill out his reports on his computer, but this is something he needs to do by hand. He’s got the basics filled out pretty quickly, but, a sentence into his narrative, Bobby realizes his hands are shaking. He sets his pen down and takes a few deep breaths, trying to focus. He shakes it off and goes back to writing. “Damn it!” Bobby mutters when he looks at his report, and realizes it’s a complete mess. He crumples the paper up, throws it in the vicinity of the trashcan and gets out another form to start writing.
Bobby manages to throw out forty six versions of his report over the course of eight hours. Finally, on the forty-seventh try, he manages to write the entire report without mangling it completely. He signs it and is about to walk it over to Captain Bell’s office when the captain appears at his desk.
“Sir?”
“Detective, the crime scene techs are finally finished with the scene,” Bell tells him. “They’ve found something.”
“What’d they find, sir?” Bobby asks, hoping they’ve caught a big enough break.
“They’ve found both shell casings, the one from Inspector Shannon’s position, and they found another near a tree in the front yard. They also found gunshot residue on the same tree. This means, given where you told us Ms. Leandra was, her statement won’t really help us,” Bell says.
“Yeah, well, she’s already said she didn’t see who shot Mary.”
Bell looks over to the papers in Bobby’s hand. “That your preliminary report?”
“Yes, sir. I was just about to bring it over to you,” Bobby says, handing it over.
“Good. We’ve still got everyone out looking for this Mario character, but given what we know from the forensics...he’s not the shooter, Bobby.”
“Yeah, but right now, he’s all we’ve got,” Bobby says. “And if he’s all we can get, then I want his head on a fucking platter for what he did to her!”
“Get your head back in the game, Dershowitz. I get that you’re pissed. These guys managed to shoot a cop right in front of you, for God’s sake. But this isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it probably won’t be the last. But if you keep acting like this, I’m gonna have to pull you from the case!”
On some level, Bobby knows Bell is right, but he’s still pissed he’s getting a speech people give to rookies. “I’m not pissed they shot a cop in front of me, I’m pissed they shot my friend in front of me.”
Bobby thinks he’s lucky Bell understands where he’s coming from, otherwise, he’d probably be in a bit of trouble right about now. “Yeah, I get that. Look, take a few hours and get your shit together.”
Bobby nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Bunk room’s probably free.”
Bobby gets up from his desk. “Thank you, sir.”
Bobby walks into the bunk room and collapses onto the first bunk he comes to. He closes his eyes and tries to block out the images of Mary being shot, the blood on his hands, Mario and his crew. He’s got forty seconds of memory running around his head on an infinite loop and all he wants to do is sleep. He’s never had this much trouble falling asleep before, not even when he was a rookie and he saw his training officer shot in front of him, or the first time he had to shoot someone. He thinks he can smell blood in the air, but he’s sure that’s just his mind playing tricks on him. These are the thoughts that follow Bobby into a fitful sleep a few minutes later.
Suddenly, Bobby is startled out of a nightmare of Mary dying. “Mary!” He sits bolt upright, breathing hard. “Jesus,” he whispers as soon as he realizes it was a nightmare. He looks around the bunk room to see if he’s alone or not. He’s not. Captain Bell is standing next to the bed, and it’s pretty clear he woke Bobby up.
“Sorry to wake you, Detective--” Bell starts, but Bobby waves him off.
“Considering the nightmare I was having, I’m okay with it. So, what brought you here to wake me up in the first place?”
“We picked up that Mario character. He’s in interrogation right now.”
“What time is it?” Bobby asks.
Bell looks at his watch. “10:13.”
“In the morning?” Bobby is surprised by this. Although, his sense of time is completely screwed up right now. “What time did I come in here, anyway?”
“About six.”
Bobby nods. “Okay. They picked up Mario?”
“Yeah. They just brought him in five minutes ago.”
“You call Stan yet?”
“One of the marshals got in touch with him.”
“Okay. I want to talk to Mario.”
Bell shakes his head. “No way. You are way too close to this. I don’t need you in there screwing this up by being too emotional.”
“Fine,” Bobby says. “But I want to watch.”
Bell nods. “Yeah, okay. He’s in three.”
Bell walks out of the bunk room, leaving Bobby alone. Bobby stands up and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stretches a few times to get the kinks out of his neck and then he heads to the bathroom. Once there, he splashes some cold water on his face before he makes his way to the viewing room next door to interrogation. When he gets there, Detective Smith and Marshal Baker are in the room with Mario, and Marshals Cruz and Stevens are already in the viewing room watching.
Baker is standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Mario. Smith is sitting at the table in front of Mario, questioning him. “We know you were there, Mario.”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Mario says defiantly.
“Oh, we don’t need you to say anything. It’s only a matter of time before we find the real shooter. When we do, we’re going to hang all of you out to dry. You’re all equally guilty of the shooting,” Smith says.
“I didn’t shoot that bitch!” Mario protests. “You can’t put me away for it!”
“Actually, we can,” Baker tells him, still glaring from the corner. “Any parties involved in a felony can be charged for any crime that occurs as a direct result of said felony. And all the drugs you and your boys have been selling definitely counts as a felony. So, right now, you’re all looking at time in federal prison.”
“You can’t prove we sell drugs, man.”
“It’s only a matter of time, Mario,” Smith reminds him. “You and your boys are just too damn stupid to get away with it forever. However, if you tell us who did shoot her, then maybe we can work something out with you.”
“Yeah? Like you’ll only send me to medium security prison?” Mario sneers. “Ain’t no way I’m gonna snitch.”
“Maybe...” Baker starts deliberately. “Maybe we, oh, I don’t know...spread it around town to all the right people that you did snitch. Guys like you, others find out they snitch...well, you know what happens to snitches.”
Mario’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Just something for you to think about,” Smith says cheerfully, getting up from the table and walking out.
“Have a nice day,” Baker says, smirking. He pushes himself off the wall and walks out the door after Smith.
Smith and Baker walk into the viewing room a few seconds later.
“You think you can trick him into helping us?” Bobby asks them when they walk in.
Smith shrugs. “I dunno, Bobby. I got a bad feeling about this whole--”
“Well, we’ve got a marshal in the hospital, and she might not make it. Of course you’re gonna have a bad feeling about this!” Bobby shouts.
Smith sighs and puts his hands up defensively. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just...I dunno. I’m not sure we’re going to get anywhere with this guy.”
Bobby nods. “Yeah. He doesn’t seem to be worried about this very much. Maybe...” He just trails off without finishing his sentence.
“Maybe what, Detective?” Cruz asks.
“I don’t know,” Bobby tells them honestly.
Just then, Bobby’s cell rings. He glances at the caller ID and he swears his heart stops when he sees Marshall (cell) listed. He answers the phone, “Dershowitz.”
“Bobby, it’s Marshall. Mary’s doctor just came in. He’s saying they can’t operate for at least another ten hours.”
“They still haven’t managed to get her stabilized yet?” Bobby asks.
“Not yet. Her blood volume is still too low. They’re giving her blood as fast as they can, but it’s still taking a while.”
“Can they wait this long to do the surgery?”
“They’re going have to, but I don’t know how this is gonna turn out.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Hey, Stan says you guys figured this Mario guy wasn’t the shooter.”
“Yeah, angle was all wrong. There’s a shell casing near a tree in the front yard, as well as some gunshot residue. We’re still sweating him, though.”
“Good.”
“Listen, I’ll come by the hospital in a while, okay?”
“Yeah. See you in a while, Bobby.”
Bobby hangs up and turns to look at the expectant faces of three marshals and a detective.
“Good news?” Stevens asks after Bobby finishes.
“News, anyway,” Bobby tells them. “Marshall’s saying Mary’s doctor just told them they still can’t operate, and it’s probably gonna be at least eight hours before they can.”
That’s when Captain Bell walks into the room. “Dershowitz, there’s really nothing more you can do here right now.”
“Are you seriously taking me off this case, sir?” Bobby asks incredulously.
“Yeah, I’m taking you off the case. Like I said, you’re too emotionally involved with this. When we finally break this case, I don’t want something going wrong with the arrest, or anything else, because you’ve got a personal vendetta against these guys. Now, go home and get some rest, and when you come back, go back to work on some of your other cases, you hear me?” Bell tells Bobby.
Bobby nods. “Yes, sir.”
Bobby walks out of the room without another word to anyone. He stops at his desk long enough to grab his keys and then he’s walking through the bullpen and out the door in a moment. He gets into his car and starts driving back to his house so he can take a shower and change clothes. He gets there twenty minutes later. He gets into the shower a few minutes later, and he’s out again and dressed in another twenty. He goes into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee. While the coffee’s brewing, he goes back into his bedroom and grabs his yarmulke and siddur, tucking both into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Bobby arrives at Albuquerque General Hospital fifteen minutes later and heads up to the intensive care unit. He sees a pair of marshals standing outside a waiting room, so he assumes that where he needs to be. He’s about to walk in to the room, but the two marshals stop him before he can.
“This is a private waiting room, sir,” one of them tells him.
“Yeah, I know that,” Bobby says. He pulls out his badge to show them. “I’m Detective Robert Dershowitz, Albuquerque PD. I’m here to see Chief Inspector McQueen and Inspector Mann.”
The two marshals look at each other and one of them steps into the room, presumably to speak with Stan and Marshall. Bobby spends an awkward forty-five seconds or so standing with the other marshal until the first one returns and nods. “You can go in, Detective.”
“Thanks,” Bobby says, walking past them into the room. Stan and Marshall are there, as well as Raph and some guy he’s never seen before, but he thinks he might be Brandi’s boyfriend.
“Bobby, good, you made it,” Stan says. “I haven’t heard much from Bell or anyone on the taskforce...any ideas on how it’s going?”
Bobby shakes his head. “Bell took me off the case around the time Mary went into surgery. Said I was ‘too emotionally involved,’ whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.” He waves it off. “Anyway, they letting anyone in to see her at all?”
Marshall nods. “Yeah, Jinx and Brandi are in with her right now.”
“So, I should just get in line then?” Bobby jokes.
“Yeah. Think you might beat out Peter, though,” Marshall quips.
Bobby looks over at the man he doesn’t know. “I take it you’re Peter?”
He nods. “Yeah. Peter Alpert.” He reaches out to shake Bobby’s hand.
“Bobby Dershowitz,” Bobby says, shaking Peter’s hand. “Alpert, huh? The guy with all the car dealerships?” Bobby asks, surprised.
Peter smiles slightly. “Yeah.”
“Dating Brandi?”
“Hey, you’d make a good cop.”
“Good thing I work for Albuquerque PD, then.”
“Yeah.”
Raph finally looks up at Bobby. “Is it true? You were there when she was shot?”
Bobby nods. “Yeah, Raphael, I was.”
“How did it--” Raph stops. “Nobody’s really been able to tell me much. Just...can you maybe tell me?”
“Okay. Yeah. Um, Mary called me last night because there were some bangers around her and her--” He stops and turns to look at Stan and Marshall for confirmation. They both glance over at Peter, then back to Bobby and shake their heads slightly. “Friend, and Mary wanted a little help scaring them off. So, I showed up and things escalated pretty quickly. By the time I had several of the bangers under control, Mary saw a gun, and...I heard a shot, I don’t know from where, but then I heard a second shot, this time from Mary. Everyone scattered and I ran to her side, but she was already unconscious when I got to her. That’s...” Bobby shakes his head. “That’s it.”
Raph nods. “Okay. That’s all I--thanks.”
“Yeah, sure.”
None of them say anything for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts. After about twenty minutes or so, Peter turns to Bobby. “So, Dershowitz?”
“Yeah?” Bobby asks, assuming Peter’s about to ask him a question.
“What’s the story behind that name, anyway?”
“Yeah, Bobby, you’ve never actually said anything about it,” Marshall says.
“Not like we don’t have time, I guess,” Bobby says. “Okay. Well, Dershowitz is a Polish name, and I’m obviously not. I was born in Ethiopia.”
“Seriously?” Stan asks.
“Yeah. There’s an ethnic Jewish population, the Falasha, or Beta Israel, that comes from Ethiopia, which is what my family is. I really only know what others have told me, at least at the beginning. Anyway, it was the ‘70s, and...that was a really horrific time in Ethiopia. Almost a year before the coup in ‘74, there was a massacre in the village we lived in. I think I was about two weeks old at the time. There weren’t very many survivors, just me and maybe a dozen others. So, the few of us who survived fled. We went to some other village, I don’t know where, though. Things kept getting worse, and around the time of the coup, most of the Ethiopian Jews fled to the Sudan. I didn’t really have anyone anymore, but, traditionally, orphans are cared for by the community in situations like that. I remember...” Bobby pauses and closes his eyes for a moment, his mind on something other than Mary for the first time since the shooting. He sees the refugee camp, the one that holds all his early memories. “I never even knew my name. Everyone called me Wälaj alba hts’an, it’s Amharic, it means ‘orphan’. My first memory is of this refugee camp in the Sudan. There were thousands of us there, it was always packed. There were always people around. In ‘77, Israel’s Law of Return made it possible for Ethiopian Jews to immigrate to Israel. So, starting then, the Sudanese and Israelis worked together to fly refugees from the camps in the Sudan to Israel. And that’s when I wound up in Israel. I ended up in an orphanage for a while. But, in 1979, there was this couple from Tel Aviv, who adopted me. They figured they couldn’t call me Wälaj alba hts’an anymore, so they named me Robert, after one of the American soldiers who rescued my father’s parents from Auschwitz. We moved to the U.S. in 1985. And, at 18, I went back to Israel to do my three years of service in the IDF. I came back here at 21, went to college and then joined the Albuquerque PD.”
None of them say anything, they just stare in shock at Bobby. After a minute, Marshall just squeezes Bobby’s arm. Raph tilts his head and looks thoughtful. “Don’t you have to be an American citizen to join one of the police departments here?”
Bobby smiles. “Oh, I’m both an Israeli citizen and an American citizen.”
Peter looks at him for a moment, then drops his gaze. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have asked.”
Bobby waves him off. “Don’t worry about it, Peter. If talking about it bothered me, I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“So, let me get this straight...your family moved from Israel to...Albuquerque?” Stan asks in amazement.
“Yeah, that seems a little weird, doesn’t it? My mother was from Albuquerque. We moved back here when her father’s health deteriorated so we could help take care of him,” Bobby explains.
“Your parents still around?” Marshall asks.
“Mom died about six years ago, but Dad’s still the Rabbi over at Beth Yisrael.”
“Your dad’s a Rabbi?”
“Yeah.”
Just then, the door opens and Jinx and Brandi come back in, both looking exhausted, their eyes red and puffy from crying. Raph and Peter both get up from their seats to go over to them. Jinx pats Raph on the chest. “Thank you, dear. Why don’t you go in and see Mary now.”
“Thanks,” Raph says. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”
Jinx nods. “We’ve got Stan and Marshall and Peter...” She looks over and sees Bobby for the first time. “And Detective Dershowitz, too. We’ll be fine for a little while.”
Raph nods, gives Jinx a quick kiss on the side of her head, squeezes Brandi’s hand and then leaves the room. Jinx and Brandi go and sit down and Peter brings both of them a cup of coffee. Bobby yawns and leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, hoping for a little rest. Next thing he knows, Marshall’s shaking him.
“Bobby.”
Bobby blinks up at Marshall. “What? Did they--”
“No, no. It’s just...if you want to go in and see her for a few minutes...” Marshall says.
Bobby smiles at him. “Thanks, Marshall.”
Bobby gets up and he and Marshall walk out of the waiting room. Marshall shows Bobby to the room they’ve got Mary in. “Hey, Marshall.”
“Yeah?” Marshall asks.
“How long was I asleep?”
“About three hours or so.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
Marshall turns and was about to walk back down the hall, when Bobby calls him back, “Hey, you wanna come in too?”
Marshall smiles. “Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.”
Bobby nods and takes a deep breath before they step inside the room. He is not at all prepared for what he sees. Mary’s covered in equipment; monitors, IVs, she’s even still on a ventilator. She seems so fragile, which scares Bobby more than he wants to admit. He sits down in a chair by the bed, while Marshall stands back closer to the door. Bobby pulls out his yarmulke and sets it on his head. Next, he pulls out his siddur.
“Hey, Mary...you’d probably laugh at me for doing this, but right now, this is all I got. Maybe...I dunno, maybe it’ll help. Well, it can’t hurt, at least.” He takes a deep breath and turns to the page he wants in his siddur, taking Mary’s hand in his. Then, he starts praying, “Mi Sheberakh Avoteinu: Avraham, Yitzhak, v'Yaakov, v'Imoteinu: Sarah, Rivka, Rachel v'Leah, Hu yivarekh virapei et haholah Mary bat Jinx. HaKadosh Barukh Hu yimalei rahamim aleha, l'hahlimah, u-l'rap'otah, l'hazikah, u-l'hay-otah. V'yishlah lah bim-hera r'fuah shlemah, r'fu-at hanefesh u-r'fu-at hagoof, b'tokh sh'ar holei Yisrael v’holei yoshvei tevel, hashta ba'agalah u-vizman kariv, v'no-mar, Amen.” He closes the siddur, and kisses Mary’s hand. “Don’t die, Mary. We need you.”
“So, what’d that mean?” Marshall asks.
“May the One who blessed our ancestors -- Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Matriarchs Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah -- bless and heal the one who is ill: Mary daughter of Jinx. May the Holy Blessed One overflow with compassion upon her, to restore her, to heal her, to strengthen her, to enliven her. The One will send her, speedily, a complete healing -- healing of the soul and healing of the body -- along with all the ill, among the people of Israel and all humankind, soon, speedily, without delay, and let us all say: Amen,” Bobby recites. He takes his yarmulke off and tucks it back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Mary is--she’s gonna be okay,” he reassures Marshall, and himself. “She has to be.”
“Yeah. I--” Marshall stops and brushes a few tears away. He nods. “Yeah.”
“I think...” Bobby starts, getting up from the chair. “I’m gonna go to temple.”
“I’ll let you know when they take Mary into surgery.”
“Thanks, Marshall.”
Bobby steps out of the room and walks back down the hall to the waiting room. He steps back inside and goes over to Stan. “I’m gonna head out for a while, Stan.”
“Sure thing, Bobby. You gonna check in with the taskforce at all?”
“Probably, but first, I’ve got something else to do. Anyway, Marshall’s going to call when they take Mary into surgery. He’s still in with her now.”
Stan nods. “All right.”
“I’ll see you guys in a while,” Bobby says to everyone, as he walks back out of the room.
Bobby leaves the hospital and gets into his car. Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into the parking lot of Beth Yisrael. He checks the lot and notices his father’s car is in its usual parking spot. The rest of the lot is pretty empty, which surprises Bobby a little, considering it’s Friday afternoon. He walks up to the entrance and before going in, puts his yarmulke back on. He checks the sanctuary first, but seeing no one, walks to his father’s office. He knocks on the door.
“Come in,” a voice inside says.
Bobby opens the door and smiles, “Shalom, Rabbi Dershowitz.”
Bobby’s father looks up and breaks into a grin. “Robert!” He hurries out from behind his desk and pulls Bobby into a hug. Bobby holds onto his father and rests his forehead on his father’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, Robert?”
“Why do you think something’s wrong, Dad?”
Rabbi Dershowitz lets go of Bobby and looks at him sternly. “Bobby, I know you. You don’t come to temple in the middle of the week unless something’s happened. The last time you did, you’d had to shoot a suspect and he died. So, like I said, what’s wrong, Robert?”
“Thanks, Dad,” Bobby says, sitting down. “You been watching the news since last night?”
His father nods. “Yes, a federal marshal was shot last night.”
“Yeah, her name is Mary. And...” Bobby stops.
“And what?” Rabbi Dershowitz asks after Bobby stops talking.
“She’s my friend...and I was there when she was shot, Dad.”
“Oh, Robert,” he pulls Bobby into another hug. “My dearest child.”
“It’s been like fifteen hours since she was shot, and they still haven’t been able to operate. They--” Bobby stops, and for the first time since the shooting, he says the one thing that’s been on his mind. “What if she dies?” Bobby asks quietly.
“At some point, we all die, Robert. It’s not knowing when or how that makes life interesting.” He squeezes Bobby’s shoulder reassuringly. “Modern medicine is a wonderful thing, son. And if this friend of yours has even half the strength of will it sounds like she does, she will survive. God will watch over her.”
Bobby wipes the tears away from his eyes and takes a breath. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I’ll make sure we pray for her tomorrow. Now then, you’ll be home for Shabbat tonight?”
Bobby smiles. “When was the last time I missed Shabbat dinner, Dad?”
“That time you were in the hospital with a concussion.”
“Come to think of it, Dad,” Bobby says, checking his watch. “Shouldn’t you be at the house getting dinner ready?”
“Oh, Robert. The challah is cooling as we speak. The matzo ball soup is simmering. Everything is fine. Also, you sound just like your mother.”
“Well, I learned from the best.”
“You have friends waiting at the hospital with your marshal?”
Bobby nods. “Yeah, her family’s there, along with her partner and their boss.”
Rabbi Dershowitz smiles. “Good. Invite them to Shabbat dinner.”
Bobby knows better than to argue with his father. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see if they’d like to come.”
Rabbi Dershowitz pats Bobby gently on the cheek. “You’re a good boy, Bobby.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Bobby’s not sure if it’s the stress of Mary being shot, or talking about his childhood, but he’s thinking about his early life more than he usually does. “Hey Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you know about the village I’m from, my...other family?”
“Ah, Bobby. Your mother and I...well, the orphanage in Lod didn’t know very much about you. You were so little when your village was massacred. The people who survived with you, they all died before you went to the Sudan. All we knew was your village was near Lake Tana, and it was entirely Jewish...a group of Islamic extremists came in and...well, you were only a few days old, maybe a week, and apparently, your mother died in childbirth. Only a few people survived, and they fled to a small village about a hundred kilometers from the Sudanese border. Not long after the coup, the Derg started getting closer and closer, and people kept dying, and that’s when most of the Ethiopian Jews fled to the Sudan. I don’t really know too much more. You didn’t really have anyone raising you, just everyone, really. And when Israel evacuated the camps, the authorities put you in an orphanage.”
“I remember...there were so many other children at the orphanage, and...I was the only Ethiopian. I spent two years there, and nobody--why’d you and Mom adopt me?” Bobby asks, something, deep down, he’s always wanted to know.
“Oh, Bobby. Your mother and I wanted a child, and we’d had an appointment at the orphanage in Lod. We were going to see a little Palestinian girl. You were hovering in a doorway, and you looked up at us and--” Rabbi Dershowitz smiles nostalgically. “There was so much sorrow in your eyes, and I could tell you were resigned to living in that depressing place until you were 18. I remembered something my father told me that one of the soldiers who saved his life said: ‘no one should grow up in a place like this.’ I knew right when I saw you, you were my son. And I couldn’t let you grow up there.”
Bobby’s crying now and he just hugs his father. “Thanks, Dad. For everything. For making that appointment at the orphanage, for noticing me, and for taking me home.”
“I love you so much, Bobby, and I wouldn’t give you up for anything.”
“Yeah, me too, Dad,” Bobby tells him.
Rabbi Dershowitz squeezes Bobby’s shoulder again. “Okay, go and see your friends. Be home in time for Shabbat.”
Bobby laughs as he stands up. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Dad.”
Bobby walks out of the synagogue and heads to his car. He’s not sure if he feels better or worse after talking to his father, but it’s definitely gotten him thinking about more than just Mary. He spends the drive back to the hospital thinking, and he’s somewhat surprised when he pulls into the parking lot. It doesn’t seem like he’d been on the road for long enough. He shakes it off and parks the car, heading for the intensive care unit. This time, when he gets to the door to the waiting room, no one stops him. Six sets of eyes look up at Bobby when he walks in, each of them filled with a mix of fear and relief when they see who it is.
“Anything yet?” Bobby asks as he sits down next to Marshall.
Marshall shakes his head. “Still nothing. Last we heard, they were hoping to be able to take her into surgery around 9 or so. You all right?”
Bobby nods. “Yeah. I went to temple, talked to my dad.”
Marshall nods thoughtfully. “What day is it, Friday?”
“Yeah.”
“You doing anything for Shabbat?”
“Dinner with my dad, like always. Actually, he told me to invite all of you over for dinner this evening,” Bobby tells him.
Marshall chuckles. “Shabbat dinner with Rabbi Dershowitz? Count me in.” Marshall turns to Stan. “Hey, Stan, we got a dinner invite from Bobby’s dad for tonight.”
“Dinner with a rabbi, huh?” Stan asks. “Sounds good. Thanks, Bobby.”
Bobby nods. “Sure, Chief. Hey, how about the rest of you? My father’s making Shabbat dinner and wanted me to invite you guys.”
Jinx and Brandi look confused, having missed Bobby’s life story earlier. “He’s making what?” Brandi asks.
“Shabbat is the Jewish Sabbath. It lasts from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. The dinner Friday evening is the major meal of the day. My father’s a rabbi,” Bobby explains.
“That sounds nice, dear,” Jinx says. “But maybe we should stay here, in case there’s news about Mary.”
“We do need to eat, though, don’t we Mom?” Brandi says. “I mean, the hospital will call us if anything happens.”
“She’s right,” Raph says. “Mary wouldn’t want us just sitting around here all day long without eating. Besides, some company might do us good. I‘m in.”
“Yeah, I’ll go too,” Brandi says.
“I’ll stay here with you, if you’d like to stay, Jinx,” Peter tells her.
Jinx smiles and squeezes Peter’s hand. “Thank you, Peter.” She looks over at Bobby. “And thank you for offering, Detective, but I think I’ll stay for a while.”
Bobby nods. “Don’t worry, I understand.”
“So, what time is this dinner thing?” Brandi asks.
Bobby pulls out his phone and checks the countdown he has set up. “Well, sundown is in an hour, and the Shabbat candles need to be lit twenty minutes before sundown, so...”
“Where’s your dad’s place?” Stan asks.
“He lives over in Paradise Heights, so maybe twenty minutes away.”
“Sounds good,” Marshall says.
“I didn’t even know you were Jewish, Detective,” Jinx says after a few minutes.
“The name didn’t give it away?”
Jinx looks confused for a minute, but doesn’t say anything after that. Bobby pulls out his small notebook and writes down his father’s address and hands the paper to Marshall. “Hey, I’m gonna head over and help Dad finish setting up.”
“Yeah, okay. We’ll see you in a little while,” Marshall says. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Bobby heads down to the parking garage and gets back into his car. He drives through the back streets of Albuquerque toward the suburbs of Paradise Heights. As he drives, he remembers moving here, into the house his father still lives, so they could take care of his grandfather. He remembers the first time he saw the Sandia Mountains, it was the first time he’d ever seen mountains. Soon enough, Bobby’s pulling into the driveway of his father’s house. He gets out of the car, walks up the walkway and knocks on the door. The door opens on his father’s smiling face. “Robert!” He looks out past Bobby for a moment and then back at Bobby.
Bobby laughs. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget to bring my friends with me. They’ll be along in a while. I came early to help you finish setting up.”
Rabbi Dershowitz ushers Bobby into the house. “Well, everything’s ready. All that’s left are the candles.” He smiles at Bobby. “You want to light the candles tonight?”
“Yeah, I’d like that, Dad.” Bobby takes a deep breath and smiles. “You made pot roast?”
“Granddad’s secret recipe.”
“You ever gonna give me that recipe, Dad?”
Rabbi Dershowitz pauses and thinks about it. “Mmm...maybe. On my deathbed.”
“Oh, so I’m never getting it, then.”
“Attaboy, Robert.”
Bobby laughs and walks into the dining room. “You want me to help set the table, Dad?”
“Could you? I have to finish making the gravy.”
“Sure thing,” Bobby says, going to the china hutch behind the table. The tablecloth was already on the table, as were the candleholders. Bobby takes out place settings for the six of them. “We need bowls, Dad?” Bobby asks, looking at the bowls in the hutch.
“Matzo ball soup, Robert!” His father calls back from the kitchen.
Bobby smiles to himself and pulls out six bowls. He arranges the place settings, gets out the Kiddush cup and places the basin for hand washing on the table.
“Hey, Dad? Where are the extra yarmulkes?”
“In the drawer of the end table by the front door, Bobby.”
Bobby goes back into the entryway and took three yarmulkes out of the drawer, placing them on the end table. Just as he does, there’s a knock on the door. Bobby opens the door and sees Stan, Marshall, Raph and Brandi standing on the porch, smiling.
“Shabbat Shalom, Bobby,” Marshall says.
“Shabbat Shalom, Marshall. Come on in,” Bobby replies. He hands a yarmulke to Marshall, Stan and Raph. Marshall and Stan both put theirs on without comment before stepping into the house. Raph looks confused for a moment, but puts the yarmulke on.
Brandi looks slightly hurt. “Why don’t I get one?”
“It’s tradition for the men to wear yarmulkes.”
“Oh. Okay,” Brandi says. She smiles at Bobby and walks in past him.
“Is that everyone, Robert?”
“Yeah, Dad, we’re all here,” Bobby tells his father, closing the front door.
“Come and help me put the food on the table, Robert.”
Bobby walks into the kitchen and picks up the tureen with the matzo ball soup and takes it into the dining room, placing it on the table. His father passes him on the way back to the kitchen, carrying the pot roast.
“Uh, Bobby? Do you need help?” Marshall asks.
“Yeah, can you help get the rest of the food on the table?”
“Sure.”
Marshall follows Bobby into the kitchen and picks up a bowl of green beans while Bobby takes the mashed potatoes. The put the bowls on the table and Marshall looks over at Bobby.
“Is that all of it?”
“Just the challah loaves and the Kiddush wine, but Dad’ll grab those. Speaking of which...I haven’t actually introduced you guys yet,” Bobby says. “Hey Dad?”
“Coming, Bobby,” his father says as he walks back into the dining room, carrying the wine bottle and challah loaves. He places the loaves on the table and the challah cloth over them, and sets the bottle on the table as well.
“Dad, this is Chief Inspector Stan McQueen,” Bobby says, indicating Stan. “Inspector Marshall Mann,” pointing to Marshall. “And Brandi Shannon and Raphael Ramirez. Brandi is Mary’s sister, and Raph is her fiancée.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you,” Rabbi Dershowitz tells them. “I just wish the circumstances were better.”
“Everyone, this is my father, Rabbi Josef Dershowitz.”
Everyone shakes hands. “It’s good to meet you, Rabbi,” Marshall says.
“Please. Josef is fine. Now, come, come, everyone sit. It’s nearly time to light the candles.”
“Are there any specific places you want us to sit?” Stan asks.
“In chairs?” Josef quips. He smiles. “It doesn’t really matter where you sit.”
They sit down, and by some unspoken agreement, leave the head of the table and the seat directly to the right open.
“So, Shabbat goes like this,” Bobby explains. “We light the candles and say a prayer, Dad blesses everyone, we bless the wine, and after the Kiddush is said, no one talks until after the challah is blessed. After the Kiddush is the ritual hand-washing, then we bless the challah, and then we can eat.”
Brandi’s eyebrows go up. “That seems like a lot.”
Josef laughs. “That’s an abridged form of Shabbat, dear.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Yeah. Usually, there’s a reading from the Torah, and singing,” Josef explains.
A timer goes off. “It’s time,” Bobby says.
Bobby takes out a book of matches and strikes one and lights the two candles. He proceeds to wave his hands over the flames three times and then brings the tips of his fingers up to cover his eyes. “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam asher kidishanu b'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Shabbat.1”
Bobby takes his seat and Josef stands up. “Yevarekhekha Adonai veyishmerekha, ya'eir Adonai panav eleykha vichuneka, yissa Adonai panav eleykha, v'yeseim lekha shalom.2”
Josef uncorks the bottle of wine and pours some into the Kiddush cup and then fills each of the other glasses. Josef puts the bottle down after filling the glasses and then holds up the Kiddush cup. “Vaihi-erev, vaihi-voker yom hashishi, vaikhulu hashamayim ve-ha’aretz ve-khol tzeva’am: vaikhal Elohim bayom hashevi’i melakhto asher ‘asah vaiyishbot baiyom hashevi’i mikol melakhto asher ‘asah: vaiyvarekh Elohim et-yom hashevi’i vaikadesh oto ki vo shavat mikol melakhto asher bara Elohim la’asot. Savri maranan ve-rabanan ve-rabotai: Barukh attah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam, borei pe’ri ha-gafen. Barukh attah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam, asher kiddeshanu be-mitzvotai ve-ratza vanu, ve-shabbat kodsho be’ahavah uv’ratzon hinchilanu, zikaron le’ma’aseh ve’reishit. Ki hu yom techillah lemikra’ei kodesh, zekher litzi’at mitzrayim. Ki vanu vacharta, ve’otanu kiddashta, mikol ha-‘amim. Ve-shabat kodeshekha be-ahavah uv’ratzon hinchaltanu. Barukh attah Adonai me-kadesh ha-Shabbat. Amen.3”
“Amen,” Bobby says, raising his glass. Both Josef and Bobby take a sip from their glasses, and then so do the rest of them.
Josef puts the cup down and picks up the basin. “Barukh attah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam, asher kiddeshanu bemitzvotav vetzivanu al netilat yadayim.4” He pours water on the front of his right hand, then the back and then repeats the process with his left hand. Josef passes the basin to Bobby, who rinses his hands in the same fashion. The basin of water is passed around the table with everyone rising their hands.
Josef lifts the cloth from the challat and picks both loaves up. “Barukh attah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam, ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz.5”
“Amen,” Bobby says.
Josef sets the loaves down and takes a bread knife, cutting one of the loaves into several slices. He passes them out to everyone. Bobby dips his challah slice in a dish of kosher salt and then passes the salt. Josef sits back down and smiles at everyone. “Don’t worry, we’re done with all the ceremonies. We can eat now. Robert, start serving the soup, please.”
Before Bobby has a chance to say anything, there are six bowls stacked up at his elbow. “Nice,” he mutters, dishing up soup in a bowl and passing it to Marshall, who hands it to Brandi. Soon, everyone’s plates are filled and everyone is eating.
“Did you cook all of this, Josef?” Brandi asks.
“Absolutely, dear.”
“It’s delicious.”
“Thank you. The pot roast was my father-in-law’s secret recipe,” Josef explains.
“Which you still haven’t given to me, Dad,” Bobby tells him.
“On my deathbed, Robert,” Josef chides.
“So, Josef, Bobby mentioned your wife was from here, but that the two of you were living in Israel,” Stan starts. “How’d you two meet?”
Josef smiles. “Ah, Madeline. Well, I was born just after the war ended, and we immigrated to Israel in 1948. Madeline was studying abroad one semester in 1970 and we were in a class together. We met, fell in love and got married in ‘72. We wanted children, but couldn’t have them, so we finally decided to adopt. We had an appointment at the orphanage in Lod to meet a little Palestinian girl and that’s when I saw Bobby. And...we couldn’t not adopt him. We lived in Tel Aviv until 1985, when my mother-in-law passed away and my father-in-law’s health took a turn for the worse. We moved here to help take care of him. So that is how we got to where we are.”
The conversation stops while everyone continues to eat. Suddenly, during dinner, a cell phone rings. Everyone stops and collectively hold their breath. Brandi realizes it’s her phone ringing and she takes it out, her hands shaking when she sees it’s her mother calling. Brandi can’t answer it, so Raph takes the phone from her hand and answers it. “Jinx? What’s going on? They are? How long will it take? We’ll be there soon.” No one says anything when he closes the phone and gives it back to Brandi. “They’re taking Mary into surgery now. It should take about eight hours for them to finish.”
Marshall nods. “Okay. We should--” He pauses, looking over at Bobby and Josef apologetically. “I’m sorry for interrupting Shabbat, but--”
“Go, go,” Josef tells him. “I can think of no better place for you to be right now.”
“Thank you,” Stan says, getting up. “For everything.”
The four of them hurry out the door, Brandi and Raph throwing apologies and gratitude over their shoulders as they go. Josef turns to Bobby. “You have good friends, Robert.”
“Yeah,” Bobby says, looking at the front door. “Yeah, I do.” He gets up from the table and starts clearing the plates.
They spend the next hour cleaning up from dinner and putting the leftovers away. Bobby puts together two plates and wraps them with cellophane so he can take them with him when he goes back to the hospital and give them to Jinx and Peter. He takes his glass of wine and goes into the living room to sit with his father.
“Are you going to be all right, Robert?”
Bobby sighs and drops his head for a moment. “I don’t know, Dad. I’m worried about Mary. She’s so strong, and yet...I don’t know.”
Josef puts his arm around Bobby’s shoulders. “You remember why we celebrate Hanukkah, right?”
“Yeah. When they rededicated the Temple of Jerusalem there was only enough consecrated olive oil to burn for one day, but it kept burning for eight days, long enough for them to make more oil and consecrate it,” Bobby recalls. “What--”
“Miracles, Robert. That’s what. Now, your friend, she has God on her side, and so did the Maccabees. Just remember that,” Josef tells him.
Bobby nods. “Thanks, Dad.” Neither of them say anything for a few minutes, and Bobby leans his head back against the couch. “I want to be there with them, waiting, but...”
“But what?”
“I feel like maybe I’m intruding and their grief,” Bobby finishes.
“And have you no grief, Robert?”
“I’ve got grief for miles, Dad. I can’t close my eyes without seeing the shooting over and over again. I can still hear the gunshots, and I can still smell the blood in the air.”
“Sometimes, grief is easier to handle when one is with others. The empathic nature of humanity works to our advantage sometimes.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You should get some sleep, Robert. In a few hours, you can go to the hospital and maybe your grief will find an outlet,” Josef says.
Bobby’s about to protest, telling his father he’s already managed nearly seven hours of sleep today, but just as he’s about to open his mouth to say something, he yawns instead. He decides that’s a good enough indication that he should get some more sleep and he gets up off the couch, handing his glass to his father. He crosses the living room and walks up the staircase he knows so well he can navigate it in the dark. He walks down the hallway and into the guest bedroom, which, in his youth, was his bedroom. He lays down on the bed and closes his eyes, expecting to see the familiar images of Mary being shot. However, for the first time since the shooting, he doesn’t see Mary when he closes his eyes, instead, he sees his mother’s smiling face and hears the sound of her voice as she prays after lighting the Shabbat candles.
The house is silent when Bobby wakes up again, and there is no light streaming into his window. He checks his watch and is surprised to see that it’s been six hours since he went to bed. What surprises him even more is that he didn’t dream at all while he was asleep. He’d expected more nightmares about Mary dying, but his dreams were blissfully silent. He knows Mary should be out of surgery in about an hour or so, which gives him time to shower before going back to the hospital. He gets up and goes down the hall into the bathroom, opening a cabinet to retrieve a spare towel. Fifteen minutes later, he’s walking down the hallway and down the stairs into the kitchen. He pulls out his notebook so he can leave his father a note before going.
Dad,
It’s late and I didn’t want to wake you. I’m going to the hospital for a while, Mary should be out of surgery soon. I’m taking some of the leftovers. Thanks for everything. I’m sorry we disrupted Shabbat so much. I’ll stop by later to let you know how things are going.
Love,
Bobby
He opens the fridge and takes out the two plates he’d put in there earlier and goes to the front door. He rummages in his pockets until he finds his keys and then walks outside. As he locks the door, he notices it’s almost pitch black outside.
The streets in the neighborhood are deserted and to Bobby, it feels almost wrong to break the silence of the hour, but he starts his car anyway and drives away. It takes only fifteen minutes for him to make it to the hospital and he’s up in the intensive care unit in record time.
When Bobby opens the door to the waiting room, he expects to see at least a few of them sleeping, but everyone is awake.
“Oh, hey, Bobby,” Stan says when he looks up. “You brought leftovers?”
“Yeah, for Jinx and Peter, since they didn’t come over,” Bobby tells him, heading over to the two in question and giving them each a plate.
“Oh, Bobby!” Jinx exclaims. “Thank you, dear.”
Bobby smiles. “You should thank my father, really. He cooked it, all I did was bring it with me.”
“This looks great,” Peter says. “Thanks.”
“Hey, listen, sorry we ran out so fast at dinner,” Marshall apologizes.
“Marshall, it’s okay. You heard my father, this is where you should be right now.”
“Yeah, okay.”
No one says anything and after a few minutes, Raph stands up and starts pacing the floor. After Raph’s fourth pass, Bobby takes to counting the number of times Raph goes back and forth across the floor. He gets to 547 before the door opens and a man in surgical scrubs walks in.
Everything stops, including time. No one breathes, no one blinks. The time it takes for the man to start talking seems to last an eternity.
“We just got out of surgery a few minutes ago,” the doctor says. “The surgery went very well and she should come out of the anesthesia in the next few hours.”
“Oh thank God,” Jinx whispers.
Bobby can hear Marshall breathe a sigh of relief and he sees Stan give Marshall a quick hug. And for the first time since Mary called him about the bangers, Bobby thinks everything’s going to turn out right.