Olivia Goldsmith - Young Wives

“Johnson!” The woman officer—McCourt, or whoever she was—yelled out in a tough voice down the hall stairs. The sound of glass smashing obscured the response. “Johnson!” McCourt yelled again. Behind McCourt, Jenna was being pushed out of her bedroom, still almost sleepwalking.

“They have Pinkie,” she said. The whole group at Michelle’s back was blocked from moving forward because of her. She couldn’t hold the blanket on, conceal the handcuffs from her children, and grab them all at the same time. She didn’t know what to do. She was still on her knees. She had no idea what was going on. It took all of her willpower not to break into sobs louder than Frankie’s.

“They have Pinkie!” Jenna cried again and as Michelle was pushed past Jenna’s door, she saw a policeman tearing off the back of the stuffed animal, pulling out the kapok, and scattering it. “No! No!” Jenna shrieked, lunging for her rabbit. Someone behind him was beginning the destruction of Jenna’s room.

“Get up,” someone behind Michelle commanded, and she felt herself lifted by her hair. Just then another uniformed woman ran up the stairs, took Michelle’s daughter by the shoulder, and moved her around the banister and onto the stairwell.

“Let’s go,” she said. The policewoman looked up at the screaming Frankie, struggling against McCourt. “I’ll take him, too,” she said, and flashed a look at Michelle. It was a look of compassionate concern, the only human thing about this nightmare. “It’ll be all right,” she said. “It’ll be all right. Tell them to go downstairs,” she told Michelle. “We’ll all come downstairs.”

Michelle, on her feet now but still panicked, nodded automatically. “It’s okay,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if Frankie could hear her—or anything. “It’s okay,” she said to Jenna. “Let’s all go downstairs.”

But it wasn’t okay. Not downstairs or outside, not now or anytime soon. The Russo living room had been transformed in moments from a showplace to a scene from hell. There were more than a dozen men tearing books from the bookshelves, pulling the sofa cushions apart, tearing up the carpet. The desecration was so shocking that Michelle herself shrieked.

Somebody put her into a coat, taking the handcuffs off her to do so, but recuffing her afterward. “Frank!” she yelled. “Frank!” Her Lalique vase was smashed, Frank’s flowers tracked across the floor. “Watch out for the glass,” she called out. “Be careful of the children. They’re barefoot.”

“Get some shoes on them,” someone yelled.

“Pookie! Here Pookie!” Frankie was calling out.

“Frank! Frank! ” Michelle screamed again. There was a lot of noise going on overhead and then, faster than she could believe possible, Frank’s bloody face moved past her down the stairs and out the door, surrounded by a coven of police.

“It’ll be okay, Michelle. It’s okay,” Frank called. Behind him the cop who had given her the blanket was again issuing orders.

“Get the kids into a car,” he barked to Johnson. “Get them some warm clothes. We’ll take them over to Child Welfare.”

Michelle’s eyes opened wider. “No! Please!” she said. “Please. I don’t know what this is. But please, can’t I leave the children with my neighbor?”

“Sorry. No.” He turned away. “Get her clothes. Put her in my car. Keep her away from Russo.”

“What is going on?” she managed to scream to him as her children were hustled out the door. “This is against the law. What is going on? ” A line from some television show came to her. “I demand my rights!” she screamed.

“Oh Christ.” In a tired voice someone began a drone. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right …”

This was like a bad television show, Michelle thought, as if she were at the movies, or in some kind of daze, watching the news. It couldn’t be real. But Michelle was read her rights, forced into shoes, and walked out into the cold night air. The children were already gone, but other people, neighbors, were standing staring at her. Her neighbors! The Joyces. The Shribers. And strangers! What was happening?

Flashes went off. Who the hell could be taking pictures? She turned her head toward the garage only to see the lawn furniture strewn around. The driveway was filled with unmarked vans and men dressed in black wearing headsets. Six, maybe more, cruisers and troopers cars were pulled up around the house, their lights flashing. Lights were being turned on in houses farther down the street, and more people were gathering. Michelle even thought she saw Jada. She put her hand up to block the lights and get a better view. But before she could call out to her friend, she felt a hand press on the top of her head and force her into the police car waiting at the side of the curb.

Wherein Jada increases her already heavy workload

Jada sat at her desk, the office door closed. That was unusual: when she had to work Saturday mornings, Jada liked to keep an eye on what was happening on the bank floor. But today her own state of mind was unusual. Last night—well, at 2:10 this morning, to be precise—she had opened her eyes and gone to the window to see her friend’s life being destroyed: police two-tones, unmarked cars, ominous gray vans, all with lights flashing and gun racks, had surrounded Michelle’s house. Jada, shocked, had roughly shook Clinton awake and flung on her coat. She was at the Russos’ gate in time to see both Jenna and Frankie being dragged off by a uniformed woman. When she had shouted out to them, Jenna had managed to look up, but Frankie was way beyond noticing a friendly face.

Jada had turned back to the crowd when the car drove the children away. The other faces around her were anything but friendly. Neighbors from the block and even one street over had assembled. If the night was colder, Jada wondered whether they would have rushed out into it so quickly to share Michelle’s tragedy. Such alacrity, when with advance notice you couldn’t get them out for recycling.

But what the hell was going on? Jada overheard a few nasty murmurs and then some even more unpleasant rumors. “A kiddie porn ring,” Mr. Shriber said, and his wife, a pleasant plump woman whom Jada had always liked before, nodded her head knowingly. “There were always a lot of kids around,” she intoned.

“That was because their children were popular,” Jada snapped. “And because Michelle let the whole neighborhood play in her yard.” The Shribers were notorious for the perfection of their lawn and flowerbeds. No one was allowed on their property, ever. They had once put in a formal complaint about the mailman when he stepped off the walk. “You better watch out you don’t get sued for slander and lose your landscaping.”

Jada had then struggled through the rest of the crowd, wondering what the hell could be so wrong. What really had worried her was that there wasn’t an ambulance in sight. The irony that seeing an ambulance would be good news was not lost on Jada. At least there wasn’t a van from the morgue. She had stood there helpless a few more minutes. Finally, after she—and all the damned locals—had seen a handcuffed Michelle put into a police car and driven away, she had asked one of the black cops, one of only two she’d seen among the dozens there, what the hell was going on.

“Drug bust,” he had said. “Big dealer. We’ll get a couple of new cruisers out of this.” Jada’s mouth had fallen open.

It was still open. She sat at her desk, the memo that needed correction unmarked in front of her. She could barely take it in. A drug bust—a big one—on her safe street, and happening to her friends. Not that she believed Michelle was involved or guilty. Just that it could happen, that wealthy, working white people who owned their home could have their lives—and their furniture—wrecked and left on public display.

This morning, as she drove past the house, roped off with yellow crime scene tape, she’d seen two of Michelle’s dining chairs, the upholstery torn, the filling ripped out of them, sitting forlornly on the drifts of leaves in front of her house. All sorts of other household goods were strewn over and among the leaves: throw pillows, Frank’s footstool, the lamp filled with shells that Michelle loved and Jada had always thought was a little tacky.

Seeing Michelle’s things strewn like garbage in an abandoned lot had given her such a pang, such a sense of doom and the inevitability of death, that it was almost as bad as seeing corpses out there. Jada knew just how often Michelle polished the wood of those dining room chairs. She’d even been with her when she picked out the rose and ivy fabric they’d been reupholstered in, fabric that was now slashed and flapping like torn eyelids in half a dozen places.

Her elbow on the desk, Jada put her forehead against her hand and rested it there, closing her eyes for a moment. She could feel her long fingers pressed against her skull through the thin skin at the top of her head.

When she’d come home last night, Clinton had been standing in the front doorway holding the baby. He hadn’t asked her a single question. He’d only admonished her.

“You shouldn’t be out there,” he’d said as she walked up the steps.

“Why the hell not?” Jada had asked, thinking he was criticizing her for rubbernecking like the others. “I was trying to see if I could help. She’s my best friend.”

“You shouldn’t be out there because we don’t want to be attached to this thing.” She had walked inside and Clinton had closed the door behind her. “Frank Russo has always dealt from the bottom of the deck. How do you think he got those county contracts?” For years Clinton had been anti-Frank. Jada had never been able to figure out if it was because Frank was so successful and Clinton was jealous, or if there really was something to Clinton’s concerns.

Last night, Jada had snapped at him. “It’s not about a damn contracting dispute,” she told him bitterly. “It’s about drugs.”

“That motherfucker’s been dealing drugs?” Clinton had exploded. “Unbelievable.” The baby started, woke, and began to cry. Clinton began to pace and handed Sherrilee off to Jada. “I told you not to mess with them. Cops will be all over us, questioning us tomorrow. They see drugs, they see niggers. Jesus! How dare he? That greasy little fuck puts our whole family in jeopardy.”

“Not quite as much as he jeopardized his own family,” Jada had said coldly and had begun to stomp upstairs, soothing the baby but not knowing how to soothe herself. “If it was a black man, you wouldn’t think he was dealing. You would think he was framed,” she flung at Clinton from the stairs. “We don’t know what the story is.”

Of course, Michelle hadn’t come in to work and Jada had said nothing about last night to anyone. She’d made more than a dozen calls to police stations and to the courthouse. She’d also checked her answering machine twice to see if Michelle had, by any chance, called. But there was no message.

When Anne, Jada’s secretary, gave her little double knock on the door, Jada quickly lifted her head from her hands and picked up a pen. “Yes?” she asked and Anne came in, her eyes so big they seemed to precede her.

She carried a newspaper, not the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal , which Jada had learned to look through for business news every day, but the local county rag. “Look,” Anne said and flapped the newspaper onto Jada’s obsessively neat desk. Jada didn’t want to, but Anne was going to make her look at the scene of the crime. Trust jealous Anne to gloat at someone’s misery. Jada sighed. This woman needed a lot of churching.