“You are coming with me,” he told Yovanna in Spanish. “You are thirteen years old, your family has no idea where you are, and whether you believe me or not, your life is in danger if you turn over that DVD.”
He thought the people inside EZ Clean would give up once he hit the street. He thought the cold and snow would be enough to keep the two dozen or so patrons inside. But they were worked up now. And the crowd was getting bigger. The commotion had attracted the attention of two guys drinking outside a bodega on the opposite corner. Soon several more people from the bodega joined in. Word had started to spread that Vega wasn’t just any cop. He was the cop who’d shot a dishwasher from the neighborhood. “Let-her-go!” was soon replaced by the chant, “Kill-er-cop!”
Things were escalating—and fast.
Vega backed up toward the school. Torres owned the laundromat. People around here respected him. Surely he could calm them down. But would he even know what was happening right now? God forbid Joy should walk out into this.
“I’m trying to save your life,” Vega hissed at Yovanna. Crash. Somebody tried to throw a beer bottle at his head and missed. People had their fists raised in the air. Their mouths were hard and angry. Vega wasn’t sure he could hold the crowd off much longer. He tried to speak but his voice was drowned out by the chanting.
“Let me go!” Yovanna shouted. “This has nothing to do with you!”
“That DVD has evidence of a murderer on it. My mother’s murderer!” Vega shouted.
“You’re lying,” she insisted.
“I’m not.” Vega tried to maneuver her up the steps of the school. He heard the click of a push bar behind him. A door opened.
“Everyone! Please! Stay cool. We can work this out.” Vega had never been so happy in all his life to hear Freddy Torres’s voice.
Chapter 36
The gathering was supposed to kick off with cocktails at five, followed by Adele’s keynote speech at five-thirty followed by dinner at six. It was an awkward arrangement, sandwiching Adele between the buzz of booze and the rumble of empty stomachs. Normally these events were a clubby affair, more akin to a college reunion than a political caucus But not this year.
Adele saw the news vans as she nosed her Prius off the main tree-lined roadway of Fordham University and into the parking lot of Keating Hall, a fortresslike building with turrets befitting a medieval castle. At first Adele thought the media presence had to do with the fact that Ricardo Luis had planned to attend. But Luis wouldn’t be a household name to the mostly white student body.
Adele got out of her car, already cursing her little open-toed red sandals, which scooped up the falling snow with every step. The sky was skillet black but the building’s security lights were bright enough for Adele to pick out a small gathering of what looked like students on the front steps. It had to be students. They were all carrying backpacks and wearing ridiculous wool hats with pom-poms and fringe. At least they were dressed for the weather, unlike Adele. Ruben Tate-Rivera was at the center. Not only was he hijacking the event, he was bringing his own media entourage to make sure he got top billing.
Adele bundled her coat around her and ducked past the crowd. She wasn’t about to give Tate the satisfaction of being pulled into his interview.
The lobby of Keating Hall had marble floors and a high, arched ceiling with dark beams cutting across it. It did not hold heat well. Adele was freezing. She had chosen to wear a sleeveless cinched-waist chiffon in a dazzling shade of ruby red. The choice had been deliberate—to show the audience she wasn’t hiding and didn’t intend to. But at the last minute, she’d grabbed a red-and-tan silk scarf to mute the effect.
Already, she was chickening out.
She’d scrapped her speech on the way over. She had no idea what she was going to replace it with. The symposium’s theme this year was “Healing a Divided Nation.” How could she talk about healing a divided nation when she couldn’t even come to terms with her divided self? She didn’t believe that Vega had executed Hector Ponce—not after getting a near-fatal firsthand glimpse of Margaret Behring’s night vision. But that didn’t mean she thought Vega was innocent, either. He was still a police officer who’d shot and killed an unarmed man. She couldn’t go against her conscience and sweep that under the rug. In time she’d come to hate herself—and hate him, too—for such a decision.
So where did that leave her? She had no idea.
She followed the crowd down a long marble corridor. She felt relieved when she couldn’t place any of their faces. The annual event drew immigrant advocacy groups from all across the state. Adele was hopeful that the shooting wasn’t as big a news item in Buffalo or Schenectady.
At the door to the reception room, a pretty young Latina was checking in guests.
“Can I have your name?” the young woman asked Adele, checking her roster.
“Adele Figueroa.” It came out as a near whisper.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”