Authors: Sara Paretsky
Lotty had gone back inside to lock up drugs and equipment. She brought Mrs. Coltrain and Carol back out with her, stopping at the alley door to set the code for the electronic alarm. When the crowd saw we were leaving, they swarmed up again, chanting and jeering. The seven of us formed a tight wedge and pushed our way through.
“Go home, baby killers, and don’t come back!” one of them screamed, and the others took up the chant.
They moved closer, brandishing boards and bottles they’d found in the alley. Before any of us could stop him, Mr. Contreras took out his pipe wrench and headed at the nearest heckler. Sokolowski and Kruger happily followed suit. It was almost funny to see the three old men wheezing into battle, as happy as if they had sense. It would have been comical but for the animal fury of the mob. They rushed to surround the old men, wielding boards and rocks.
The alley quickly seethed with battle. I tried hauling Mrs. Coltrain to one side, but lost my balance on a loose rock. Her hand was wrenched from mine as I fell.
I moved quickly to get out of the way of pounding feet. Protecting my face with my hands, I bulldozed my way to the side of the melee. I scanned the crowd worriedly, but couldn’t see Lotty or Mr. Contreras.
I prudently kept my Smith & Wesson tucked into my belt and pushed my way to the front of the building. A couple of uniformed men in riot helmets were standing talking to each other as Dieter Monkfish continued his tireless work with the bullhorn. He was loud enough that the cops were paying no heed to the rising roar from the alley.
“Three old men are being beaten up by the mob in back.” I was panting, uneasily aware of a damp oozing on my cheek.
One of them looked at me suspiciously. “You sure about this?”
“All you have to do is come look, and you’ll see for yourself. Lieutenant Mallory promised to come if things turned to homicide—want to wait until this is his business?”
The one who’d spoken first reluctantly unhooked his remote radio from his belt and spoke into it.
“You stay here with her, Carl—I’ll go around back and see.”
He sauntered down the narrow walk separating the clinic from a neighboring house. In a few seconds Carl’s radio squawked to life. Carl spoke into it, got the news, and radioed for reinforcements. In a few minutes, the area was alive with police in riot helmets.
When Dieter Monkfish saw the riot police, he went wild. He shouted through the bullhorn to his avid followers that they were under attack and took off for the alley.
If I hadn’t been concerned about Lotty and Mr. Contreras, I would have fled in the other direction. I’ve been once or twice in the middle of a berserk crowd the police are trying to contain. Everyone panics, the police use their sticks indiscriminately, and you are as likely to be hurt by your friends as your enemies.
I put my hand protectively to the wound on my face and thought frantically. If I was stopped with the gun in my possession, they wouldn’t take time to ask for the permit and my license. And I didn’t want to take any more battering than I had to just now.
The TV camera crews, excited by the possibility of real action after a long, dull day, followed Monkfish
happily. I got in step with a Channel 5 cameraman and used him as an escort to return to the alley.
Nineteen sixty-eight in Grant Park was being re-enacted. The police had formed a tight cordon at the north end and were pushing everyone down toward Cornelia Street to the south where their paddy wagons waited. People screamed. Bricks and boards flew through the air. A can of Coke came hurling out of the mob and hit a policeman in his helmet. Coke poured down his face. He flailed blindly in front of himself. A surge of people knocked him over. The narrow space in the alley left no room for any maneuvering; police and mob got hopelessly mixed.
I scanned the crowd helplessly, not daring to try to enter it, but still could see no sign of Lotty. I pushed myself close against the side of the building to keep from being swept into the fray. Over the howl of the animals, I heard the building alarm go off. Or maybe felt its vibrations—no one could hear anything except mayhem.
I shoved my way through the camera crews to the front of the clinic. People were hurling rocks and tire irons at the glass storefront; the alarm howled ominously. In a total rage I seized one young man’s arm as he reached back to throw. I slammed the side of my fist into his wrist, jarring the bone and making him drop the rock. I kneed him in the stomach hard enough to make him gag and turned to a middle-aged woman at his left. The flab on her arms swallowed my hand but I shook a piece of brick loose from her.
“You want your grandchildren to see you on TV, drooling hate and throwing bricks?” I spat at her.
My one-woman show was hopeless. The mob was bigger, stronger, and more mindless than I. They smashed down the storefront and streamed inside. I leaned against a parked car, gasping for air and shaking.
“I guess you were right, Warshawski. Should have had the troops here sooner.”
The voice, heavy, somewhat amused, belonged to Detective Rawlings. He had come up beside me without my noticing.
“So what happens now?” I said bitterly. “A few disorderly conducts, several disturbing the peace—low bail—no prosecution?”
“Probably. Although we’ve got several for assaulting an officer. Man was kind of hurt back in the alley.”
“Well, that’s good news. Pity more police weren’t attacked—maybe we’d have some real arrests instead of a few taps on the wrist.”
“Don’t be so angry, Warshawski. You know the story—beginning, ending, middle, how justice works in this town.”
“Oh, yeah. I know the entire plot. I do hope and pray you have not come to me with the news that Sergio is under arrest, because I’m not at my most cooperative right now.”
Two police personnel carriers with blue lights flashing squealed to a stop in front of us. Several dozen cops in riot helmets leaped out of the back before the wheels
had stopped moving. They raced into the clinic, riot sticks at the ready. After a few moments they began reappearing with handcuffed rioters. The prisoners, all white, mostly young men and older women, appeared dazed by the turn of events. But when the television crews reappeared in front of them, they raised a ragged cheer and made the victory sign.
I left Rawlings and went over to one of the cameramen. “Be sure to get a good shot of the clinic. This is where poor women and children have come for seven years to be treated for nominal fees by one of Chicago’s top physicians. Make sure your viewers see that these righteous people have destroyed a major source of health care for Chicago’s poor.”
Someone stuck a microphone under my mouth. Mary Sherrod from Channel 13.
“Do you work here?”
“I’m one of Dr. Herschel’s attorneys. I stopped by here on routine business earlier today and found the place under siege. We tried hard to continue to operate the clinic and treat the poor women and children who depend on it. One pregnant woman, badly in need of help, was attacked by the mob and was lucky to escape without injury to herself or her fetus.
“Before you present this mayhem in such a way that your viewers think they’re watching vigilance in favor of unborn fetuses, please focus on the damage. Show them what really happened.” I stopped talking, overwhelmed by the thought of my small voice trying
to outweigh three hundred mad fanatics, and turned abruptly away.
The crowd had dispersed. Most of the police were gone. Except for the gaping windows leading into the clinic and the mess, the whole episode might have never occurred. The street was strewn with broken glass, bricks, rocks, leaflets, empty cans of soda pop and the detritus of sack lunches—McDonald’s wrappers, candy-bar remains, potato-chip bags. So the city would incur some cost—they’d have to send a crew around to clean up the mess. Eventually. In this neighborhood it wouldn’t happen right away.
Rawlings had disappeared, but a couple of policemen were stationed outside the clinic. I felt a bit conspicuous and vulnerable hanging around. I thought I should go find a phone and call a board-up service and was starting to walk away when Lotty reappeared. Her white lab coat was streaked with dirt and torn in several places. She had a scrape on her right arm but was otherwise unharmed.
“Thank God you’re still here, Vic. I was afraid you’d been hauled away with the mob. Your valiant friend Mr. Contreras was, his head gaping open. There was no way I could get to him and do something for it before they shoved him into one of their paddy wagons. Just like 1938 all over again. Terrible, terrible. I can’t believe it.”
I took her hand, but there wasn’t anything I could say to her. “Where’re Carol and Mrs. Coltrain?” I asked instead.
“They got away—I made sure they slid out between a couple of houses to go home. Poor Mrs. Coltrain—she tries bravely to accept my ideas of medicine, which she doesn’t share. And now to be subjected to this.” She shook her head, wincing.
“I guess I should find out where they were taking people and go spring Mr. Contreras,” I said. “Are you going to press charges? If you don’t, these outlaws will get away with a fine and a slap on the wrist.”
Her face screwed up with uncertainty. “I don’t know—I’ll talk to my lawyer—my real lawyer—and see how much time it will take. What can I do for these windows?”
I told her we should call an emergency window-boarding service and get them covered. She went over to the policemen to explain who she was and that she wanted to go inside the building. They were starting to argue with her when Rawlings reappeared.
“It’s okay, Officer. I know the doc. Let her go inside,” he told them.
I followed Lotty into the building, Rawlings trailing on our heels. The inside was unbearable. In Lotty’s place I would have been tempted to shut the clinic and start over again someplace else. All the furniture in the waiting area was topsy-turvy, covered with glass. Inside the offices, the shambles was indescribable. Filing cabinets had been pulled down, patient files dumped willy-nilly on the floor; medical instruments lay broken on top of them. Lotty, scrounging around in the rubble
for a phone, picked a stethoscope out from under a jumbled mess of paper sheets and rubbed it over and over against her dress.
“We’d better take pictures for the insurance before you get it cleaned up,” I warned her. “In fact, why don’t you give me your agent’s name and number and I’ll call—they’ll take care of getting the place boarded up.”
“Yes, fine. If you do that, Vic, it will be very fine.” Her voice cracked a little around the edges.
I turned to Rawlings. “Be a sport, Detective. Give Dr. Herschel a ride home. She doesn’t need to be exposed to this shit anymore. I’ll wait here for them to take care of the windows.”
“Certainly, Ms. Warshawski.” The gold tooth gleamed in an ironic smile. “We in the Chicago police department are here to serve and protect.” He turned to Lotty and persuaded her to go with him.
“I’ll be over tonight,” I promised her. “Now just go home, take a hot bath, and relax for a little while.”
It was four-thirty before the emergency service finished covering the gaping front window frames. Lotty’s insurance agent, Claudia Fisher, had come by to view the damage as soon as I called her. A middle-aged woman, a bit on the heavy side, she brought a Polaroid and took numerous shots both of the interior and of the outside streets.
“This is really shocking,” she said. “Absolutely unwarranted. I’ll get the company to pay for cleaning it up, but Dr. Herschel better find some qualified help. Someone who understands medical records and medical supplies and can get them back into shape—otherwise she’ll likely have a worse mess on her hands.”
I nodded. “I’ve thought about that. I’m going to suggest she call someone at Beth Israel, see if she can get a group of nurses and interns to come over. They could take care of it in a day, I suppose.”
When the boards were finally in place, I dug Lotty’s
answering machine out of the carnage and left a simple message: The clinic would be closed for the rest of the week. If there were any emergencies, people should call Lotty at home.
I took Claudia Fisher out through the back door and went off to find Mr. Contreras. My first stop was home—to bathe, get some supper, and use my phone. By the time I reached my apartment, the adrenaline-based energy of the afternoon had worn off. I moved on cement feet to the front door and up the stairs.
I ran the bath as hot as I could bear it and lay back in the tub, slowly flexing cramped muscles. The steam softened the stiff left side of my face and I could smile and frown without worrying that the stitches were pulling apart.
I dozed off in the soothing water and lay half sleeping when the ringing phone roused me. I climbed slowly from the tub, wrapping myself in a bath towel, and picked up the extension next to my bed. It was Burgoyne. He’d seen the protest on the news and was anxious about Lotty’s and my welfare.
“We’re okay,” I assured him. “The clinic is a royal mess, though. And poor old Mr. Contreras got his head beaten in and was hauled off in a paddy wagon. I’m on my way now to find him and rescue him.”
“Would you be willing to drive out to Barrington tomorrow night? Have dinner in suburbia?”
“I’ll have to call you,” I said. “After what I’ve been through today I’m not up to thinking past the next task.”
“Want me to come in and spend some time with you?” he asked anxiously.
“Thanks. But I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to manage the legal mess at this end. I’ll try to call you during the day tomorrow—want to give me your office number?”
I took it down and hung up. Putting on a gold cotton dress that looked professional enough for night court, I started on an array of phone calls. First to the local precinct, then the district command, where I was switched around five or six times. Mr. Contreras had been taken to Cook County to have his head stitched up, I finally learned, and would be brought over to night court from the hospital. After hanging up I phoned an old friend who was still hanging on in Legal Aid. Fortunately, she was at home.