No Witness But the Moon(73)
“No. I’ll give it a try,” said Vega. “I was just thinking about this teenage girl I met last night at Lake Holly Hospital. She just arrived here from Honduras. Her mother’s undocumented and the girl . . . Let’s just say it probably wasn’t the easiest of journeys.”
“That’s a brutal trip, especially for a child on her own.”
Vega nodded. “She seemed so . . . I don’t know—”
“Traumatized?”
“Yeah.” His heart ached for her. The shooting had rubbed all his nerve endings raw. He felt everything acutely now—even other people’s pain.
“I keep thinking that that girl needs therapy even more than I do,” said Vega. “She’s thirteen years old and in a strange country. She doesn’t speak the language. She hasn’t seen her mom in ten years. And God only knows what her journey across Central America and Mexico was like.”
“I’ve worked with some of those children,” said Cantor. “And you’re right. Many of them are suffering from PTSD. They’ve endured terrible traumas. It’s no wonder they have nightmares and can’t concentrate.”
“What’s the prognosis for a girl like that?” asked Vega.
“I haven’t met her so it’s difficult to say,” said Cantor. “But I’m guessing she’s having adjustment issues being away from her mother for so long. If there’s a new husband and children, that can add further burdens. There are the language barriers and the fact that she’s likely behind in school. Then of course there’s the fact that she’s undocumented so her future here is uncertain at best. It’s easy for a child like that to feel overwhelmed and fall into depression and self-destructive behavior.”
“And if she got the services she needed?”
“The prognosis would be much better, certainly. She can’t focus in school until she feels safe and she can’t feel safe until her PTSD is addressed.” Cantor studied him. “Jimmy, I’d love to say I could help every child. But without some framework in place, one or two therapy sessions would do nothing for a child like that.”
“I understand,” said Vega. “I’m just—”
“Trying to help.” She smiled. “Because that’s why you do what you do. So we’re going to concentrate on getting you well again. And then you can use that energy to help others.”
Chapter 27
“Mom! Hurry up! I’m going to miss Hayley’s birthday party!” Sophia cried. Fortunately, Sophia’s friend’s ninth birthday was a movie-and-pizza affair, not an ice-skating or rock-climbing event. Adele had already had enough guilt from her ex-husband, Peter, last night about Sophia’s sprained ankle. She didn’t need her daughter adding more.
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” asked Adele, glancing down at the soft cast on her daughter’s foot.
“I’m fine.”
The party was being held at a small movie theater in downtown Wickford in a beautiful old landmark building that had yet to succumb to the megaplex syndrome of all the other movie houses in the area. It had the look and feel of an old concert hall of the 1800s, with large white columns in front and a chandelier in the lobby. Hayley’s parents had taken over the theater for the latest Disney release and the pizza party afterward. Adele didn’t even want to guess what such a party had cost the family or what they would do for an encore when Hayley got into the double digits.
Adele dropped Sophia off at the party. Then she sat in her car and tried to quiet her nerves for what she was about to do. She picked up her cell phone and dialed. A woman’s voice—breathy and confident—answered on the second ring. It turned brittle as soon as Adele said her name.
“Unless this has to do with food pantry business, my attorney says I can’t talk.”
“I understand your situation, Margaret,” Adele replied. “And I’m not asking you to alter any statement you’ve made to the police. I’m just asking if—given our previous relationship—you might at least walk me through what you saw Friday night.”
Adele had known Margaret Behring about five years—ever since Margaret and her husband moved north from Manhattan. She’d been a bond trader at Goldman Sachs before she had her two children, and she brought her brains and organizational skills to the food pantry and a host of other charities in the area. Adele respected her. That was one of the reasons this was so difficult.
“You’re not a disinterested party, Adele.”
“I know I’m not. But I’m about to walk on a stage this evening and set the tone for how every major immigrant group in this state regards this shooting. Detective Vega won’t say a word to me. If you won’t talk to me, what do I have to go on?”
“You’re not going to like anything I have to say.”
“I’m prepared.”
Silence. Adele’s car was cold and yet she felt sweat gathering on her skin.
“There’s a shipment of canned corn and carrots coming into the pantry around four this afternoon,” said Margaret. “No one else is going to be there to receive it but me.”
“So if I show up, you’ll talk to me?”
“We never had this conversation. Is that understood?” Margaret hung up.