Have You Seen Luis Velez?(43)

“They think it’ll be scheduled sometime next year.”

“Next year? Why so long?”

Isabel shrugged. “Just the way the justice system works, I guess. Slowly. I’m told that’s lightning fast. The DA’s office told me a lot of defendants are waiting two and three years for their trials.”

She slid the paper across the table to him, and he picked it up and tucked it deep into a front pocket of his jeans.

“And where is that woman in the meantime? In jail?”

“Oh no. They let her out on bail. She’s comfortable at home, I’m sure.”

She stood, so he stood. They walked to the door together.

It didn’t seem fair to Raymond that the woman should be comfortable at home. But there was nothing he could do about it. Saying so out loud wouldn’t change a thing.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “I’ll walk you down. Or . . . to the subway. Would you like me to walk you to the subway?”

“Either way. I’ll be all right either way.”

He opened the door for her, and realized the flaw in their thinking.

“Oh. Wait. I have no way to lock her in. If I walk with you, she’ll be here with the door unlocked.”

“Stay with her and work that out, then. Take care of her. I’ll be fine.”

“Can I ask you a question before you go? Was there anything in the paper about it before Sunday?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “I guess a lot of people die in this city.”

“I did an internet search. But I couldn’t even find an obituary.”

“There was one,” she said. “But it only came out about a week ago. They charge a lot for that. Did you know that? I had to wait for my paycheck. I thought a newspaper did that like a public service. But no, the family has to pay.”

“I did know that,” he said. “Yeah. The family has to pay.”

She stood up on her tiptoes, placed one hand on Raymond’s forearm, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. Then she walked out.

He watched her walk down the hall, feeling that spot on his cheek burning. As if the very skin of his face were capable of embarrassment.

He closed the door again and walked through Mrs. G’s living room. Down the apartment’s hallway. Not all the way to the open door of Mrs. G’s bedroom, because she might need her privacy. But near enough that she could hear him.

“How do I lock you in?” he asked.

“You may come to my room,” she said. “It’s all right.”

He did. Hesitantly. Just to the doorway, where he leaned one hand on the jamb. Mrs. G was still fully dressed, lying on top of the bedspread. She had taken off her shoes, and pulled a crocheted afghan over herself. She looked more than exhausted. She looked helpless and lost. Utterly incapable of facing this moment.

The cat sat in a sphinxlike position on her pillow, purring. She looked up at Raymond with half-closed, contented eyes. Mrs. G’s eyes, on the other hand, remained fully closed.

“Take my keys,” she said. “Then you can lock me in and come check on me later, please. If you will. Tomorrow sometime, maybe.”

“Okay. I will. Are you really going to sleep in your clothes all night? Won’t that be uncomfortable?”

“I’m not sure. If I wake up later, and it bothers me, I’ll change into a nightgown. Right now it feels like more than I can manage.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean. I heard you ask where that woman is now. Until trial. But I couldn’t hear what Isabel said in reply.”

“Out on bail.”

“Oh. I see.”

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

“That is our system of justice,” Mrs. G said.

“But why should she get to be all comfortable in her own home while we’re going through this?”

“Oh, I doubt she is comfortable.”

“Why would you say that?”

She opened her eyes. But her face lacked the enthusiasm, the engagement, he usually saw there.

“It is a huge thing, Raymond, to take a human life. Which is not to say that I’ve ever done it. I have not. But it must weigh on a person. Guilt is a terrible thing—that I can tell you for a fact. It tears a person apart from the inside. So I feel a little pity for her. I’m not saying I have no bad feelings toward her; I have many. But also I feel a little bit sorry for her. I would rather be me, home in my bed, having had Luis taken away from me, than to be that woman and know I had been the one to take him away. If she has a conscience, then it’s a terrible thing to have to live with. If she has no conscience, then I feel sorry for her because she has no conscience. There is a saying. I think it was said by Mark Twain, but I might be wrong about that. It might have been Will Rogers. ‘I would rather be the man who buys the Brooklyn Bridge than the man who sells it.’ Words to that effect. You’re a bright young man, so I think you know what he meant by that.”

“Yeah. I think I do.”

“Good. Now, I am just very tired.”

Raymond picked up her keys on his way to the door. Then he stopped. Turned back. Realized what he had forgotten.

He hurried to the table and replaced the chair he had used, carefully aligning it with its tape marks. He replaced Isabel’s chair as best he could, in against the table where Mrs. G would not trip over it. Assuming, of course, that she got up.