Woman on the Edge(9)
We pass various offices. In one, I see an officer taking a call. He rushes up to close his door as we pass. Could he be calling the woman’s partner or family? I know what it’s like to be the person on the other end of the line. I got that same call from the hospital after my father died. I can almost feel the fall to the floor, the hunching over with knees to chest, the shivering, the despair. I know the voracity of blame and guilt, the emptiness of regret. No one forgets the moment when your entire life is ripped apart, crushed by the shocking truth. I feel a rush of empathy for the family the woman has left behind, especially her beautiful little baby girl. Then it occurs to me: If the woman had a family, why did she give her baby to me?
If anything ever happened to me, the police would have no family to call. My mother lives in Florida, and we barely speak. I actually can’t remember the last time we talked. We saw each other six months ago, after my father’s funeral. We sat awkwardly in the living room of my childhood home, cups of lukewarm tea in our hands.
“I’m moving to Miami to live with Aunt Irene. I have to sell the house, now that your dad is gone.”
I understood the unspoken message. She couldn’t afford the mortgage because my husband had stolen all their money, investing it in his corrupt hedge fund without their knowledge. My father’s massive heart attack was, according to my mother, all my fault.
“I didn’t know anything about what he was doing,” I told her, hundreds of times. I’d said it to so many people. I repeated it by rote every time suspicion clouded the eyes of my friends, colleagues, and loved ones, all of whom had trusted Ryan with their investments. The only one who ever believed I had nothing to do with it was my father. But he’s gone now. Gone forever.
Officer Campbell leads me through the station until we arrive at an unremarkable interview room, thankfully one that’s new to me. Before dismissing himself, he says, “A detective will be with you shortly to get your statement. Do you want a coffee? Water?”
I take a seat in a hard swivel chair and shake my head. He leaves, and a few moments later, I hear footsteps and look up. I recognize the woman at the door. And from the look that registers on her face, she recognizes me, too. It’s Detective Karina Martinez, the same detective who came to the crime scene in my home as I sat trembling beside Ryan’s lifeless body. She was the one who led me away and questioned me about why he’d killed himself and about the millions of dollars he’d stolen.
She puts a Chicago Tribune and an open bottle of water next to a Kleenex box on the scratched laminate table. Then she takes the seat across from me and pushes her bangs off her high forehead. Her round face is smooth, not a single wrinkle. I wonder if she’s still the youngest detective in this district. I’m aware of the camera blinking red from the corner of the ceiling, recording my every gesture. I cross my legs, then uncross them. I don’t know how I’m supposed to behave. I feel guilty, even though I’ve done nothing wrong.
I clamp my lips shut.
Martinez pushes the bottle of water toward me. Then she leans closer. “So here you are. Again.” She locks eyes with me, as though she’s exhausted by the very sight of me.
Her demeanor is alarming. My palms start to sweat.
“Morgan, how have you been?”
I don’t know what to tell her. Jessica would tell me not to say anything until she arrives, but surely I have to answer her. “I’m okay. Hanging in.”
Martinez nods. “Can you state your name and address for the record, please?”
My hands quiver. “I think I should wait for my attorney.”
“Your attorney is on her way? Interesting. You realize this is just a witness statement.”
That’s what I thought, too. So why is she acting like I’m guilty? I relent under the pressure. I give my name and address.
“Can you tell me exactly what happened today on the Grand/State platform?” she continues.
I swallow hard to buy myself some time, hoping Jessica will walk through the door and help me. Martinez trains her brown eyes on me and pulls her ponytail tighter.
I remind myself that the truth is on my side. What do I have to be worried about? Martinez just wants to know what happened. And there were so many witnesses. So many people must have seen that woman give me her baby and then jump.
I take a deep breath, open my mouth, and it all comes pouring out. “I was taking the train home at the same time I always do. I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, so I was surprised when a woman grabbed my arm and asked me to take her baby.”
Martinez arches her perfectly tweezed eyebrows. “Did you know who she was?”
I shake my head. “No. I’d never seen her before in my life. She seemed … not okay. I pulled my arm away, because she was scaring me. We were so close to the edge I was afraid for her and for the baby, but I didn’t know what to do.”
“Did you walk away? Or ask anyone for help?”
I shiver. I wish I had. “It all happened so fast. She was in front of me, and her eyes were darting every which way, like she was looking for someone on the platform. Like she was scared. Then she told me not to let anyone hurt her baby.” I pull my purse closer to me. I won’t tell her the woman said my name. I won’t tell her about the note with the name “Amanda” on it.
“How did the baby end up in your arms before the woman landed on the tracks?”