Destiny Lingers (4 page)

Chapter
Four

I
am not sure how many hours have passed, but the stinging pain shooting down my thighs lets me know that we have been crouched here in this long dark hallway, negotiating with the crazed man through the hole in the bottom of the door, for quite some time now. Emergency crews, cops, and news crews across New York City are calling him “the perp.” The distraught father of five tells me his name is Thomas.

Holding his own three-year-old child hostage at the glistening and deadly point of a two-foot machete for several hours has indeed earned Thomas the role of horrid perpetrator in this story. But Thomas argues that the city also perpetrated when officials snatched his kids two weeks ago. More than a perp, Thomas is also a father of five in a family in crisis.

He tells me that he’s been a night watchman for various midtown corporations for almost thirty years, but earlier this year he had to take a sudden sick leave. “I had to take time off ’cause of my sugah,” he explains. “I have too much sugah in my blood, see?”

“Diabetes?’

“Hm-mm. Yes, ma’am. Di-beetis.” Thomas leans over and slowly lifts his pant leg, exposing a horribly grotesque open wound. The festering sore is located just above his ankle, which is swollen to the size of a cantaloupe. Thomas shakes his head. “See there. The sugah won’t let my sore heal. Doctor say he want to cut my whole foot off.”

Hospitalized when an arsonist set fire to his apartment building three months ago, Thomas has yet to forgive himself for not being at home to protect his family at the time of the fire. His wife, Irene, was trapped inside the burning building when it collapsed, burying her in flames.

Fire officials say that initially, Irene and all five kids had escaped unharmed along with dozens of other residents, but when Irene couldn’t find three-year-old Malakhai, who had gotten lost in the melee, she ran back into the burning building in a desperate search to save her baby boy. She never made it back out alive.

Firefighters later found little Malakhai wandering lost in the crowd.

Sadly, today he is lost in a hostage situation.

“I shoulda been there to help Irene take care of them kids.” Thomas rocks back and forth, clutching his son and shaking his head downward in shame. “I shoulda been there!”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” I offer with compassion, leaning deeper inside the hole.

“I shoulda been there to help her,” Thomas sobs, beating his fist down on his bum leg, cursing his powerlessness on his disability.

Thomas has no insurance, no job, no home, and no kids after Social Service officials deemed him physically and financially unfit to father his five children alone. It’s one thing to lose your foot; it’s a whole other thing to lose your family.

“Seems like the city could at least try to help a po’ cripple man like myself. I don’t want to jus’ gi’ my kids away. Don’t nobody understand
that
?”

I remain crouched here, unmoving and still kneeling on numb knees in this filthy hallway because I really do care about what happens to Thomas and to his children. I hear the echo of the thump-thump-thump-thump-ing of helicopter blades circling above, and I know police are buzzing about everywhere, having long surrounded the area. All of New York City continues to be held at bay, waiting for Thomas to surrender, as more news teams flood the Harlem hostage area.

While I’ve lost all track of time, I seem to have somehow found a connection with Thomas. At this point, it seems, I’m all he has to the outside world, where millions of people are right now waiting to hear his story on the evening news. It’s a horrible situation from every angle. My hearts hurts for the mad man with the machete and the whimpering child at his mercy.

“Thomas, would you like some water? Something to eat?” I keep my tone soothing, calm, and supportive. It’s like gently coaxing a small, scared animal out of its hiding place with a tiny morsel of food between your fingers.

“I’m all right.” Thomas nods my way. “Thank you for askin’, though.” He blinks.

“What about your boy?” I press on. “He looks hungry. Why don’t we get him something to eat?”

Thomas looks down at his son. Both are trembling, exhausted, and covered with fear. I feel it won’t be long before Thomas finally surrenders.

I look back to see the cops have allowed Fred and Butch through. We are a team in these mean streets, especially on days like today. Fred catches my eye, winks, and gives me a solid thumbs-up. He then leans over, swooping up his camera on his shoulder with the agility of a true pro. I know by the courageous look in his big brown eyes that Fred fears big trouble on the other side of that door.

The cops open up a human alley for my guys to move through with their heavy equipment. Butch slips his headphones around his neck and wraps his audio cable around his hand a few times to make their two-man band more compact. He grabs his audio unit and checks the levels as the two continue to head my way down the darkened corridor.

I slowly turn back to the hole where Thomas looks even more worn out and weary. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his dingy sleeve. The sharp blade of his machete sweeps dangerously close to his child, and I gasp involuntarily. An officer swiftly crouches down behind me, gently placing his steady hand on my back out of concern, but I motion to him that I’m okay.

“You gotta camera witchu?” Thomas’s voice has dwindled down to a deep and hoarse whisper now, due to his many hours of ranting and wailing. I pray he is too depleted to be any more of a threat to his child, to me, or to himself. Still, madness has an uncanny way of pumping enough adrenaline through a man’s veins to turn him into an animal. So I continue cautiously as I wait for surrender.

Separated from the phone back in the van, I’m disconnected from time and a newsroom that may be sending up smoke signals by now. After all, we have the biggest story of the day, but we also face a looming deadline, and our asses are on the line. I know our news director, Barry Grossman, is already gunning for a lead story and a live shot at the top of WNBC’s five o’clock local news. This guy runs our newsroom like it’s World War III. He is one of the most brilliant newsmen in the business, but he is also a relentless and demanding bully.

I have to think fast. I continue to reason with Thomas. “Everybody sees how important your family is to you. I’ll help you get your message out, so people also understand your side of the story. Maybe we can get you and your family some help.”

Thomas slowly nods, not taking his eyes off mine.

“Maybe your story will help people understand what happened to you. Millions of people watch our newscasts—lawyers, city child-care officials, the mayor, regular people … everybody. Maybe we can drum up some help for you, Thomas.”

Slowly, Thomas bows his head.

“I want to tell my story … but only to
you
.” He looks back into my eyes, searching my soul for a promise.

“Only me,” I agree. “Only me.”

“Tell ’em I don’t want my chil’ren growin’ up in different homes all over the city,” Thomas continues. “One over here, one over there—
no
!” he yells with a frenzied passion growing in his wild eyes. “
We’s a family!”
he shouts. “My wife and me—we works real hard to have a
family
. These chil’ren deserves that. And won’t
nobody
downtown listen to me!”

The boy screeches a high-pitched squeal.

“I’m listening,” I quickly interject, deeply concerned about the boy. “My cameramen, Fred and Butch—two
good
brothers—are here. We want you to tell us your story. It might make a difference.”

And again, I pray.

Thomas hesitates, and then … “All right. Bring ’em in.”

I don’t know whether to jump for joy or head for the hills. After all, this could be Thomas’s last-ditch ploy to take more hostages, for all I know. While the risky idea of entering the same room where a man is holding his child hostage seems awfully dangerous, I am the only one who has built a rapport with Thomas. I seem to be the only one he trusts right now. Whether we like it or not, it looks like it’s up to me.

“Hey, hey, wait a minute! You can’t go in there.”

I am startled by a young, muscular sergeant as he steps in front of me, blocking my way to the door, through which Thomas waits for me.

“But Thomas wants to talk to us,” I explain, motioning to Fred and Butch.

“Well,
Thomas
ain’t runnin’ this show,” the officer snaps back as he shields the door with his strong arm, “and
you
ain’t goin’ in nere.”

I take a deep breath and look at the officer straight in his eye. “Officer, with all due respect, Thomas
is
running this show right now, and looks like
I’m
all you’ve got. Plus, Chief Pulaski sent me here.”

The officer and I continue locking eyes like rams’ horns for what seems like an eternity.

“Move outta the way! Let her in!” The chief’s voice booms as he marches down the hallway, swinging a huge NYPD bullhorn.

Heart pounding, I kneel back down to the hole. “We’re coming in, Thomas. You okay with that? No problems?”

“Yeah, yeah …” Thomas’s breath is hoarse and heavy as he clings to the machete and to his son. His huge, broad shoulders are slumped; he seems deflated and defeated. Thomas’s boy desperately holds fast to his daddy’s dungaree suspender strap with one hand, while desperately sucking the thumb on his other hand. His tiny, tear-filled eyes show his inner terror.

Chief Pulaski moves past the sergeant and kneels down, nudging me out of the way with his big burly elbows. He carefully peers through the door hole at Thomas as he lifts the ominous police bullhorn to his mouth.

“
Sir, before you talk to this reporter, you must first drop the machete and release the child. If you create any further disturbance—if you try to harm your child, this reporter, her cameramen, or yourself—we remind you that you are surrounded. My officers
will
shoot to kill. Do you understand that,
sir
?”

I’m not sure if this really helps, but it certainly startles Thomas. Surprisingly, he drops the machete on the dull, dusty wooden floor and then kicks the huge blade across the room. It twirls across the floor until it hits the bottom of the opposite wall with a loud clunk. The once life-threatening weapon, used for hours to hold a small child and a big city at bay, now lies there, lifeless.

“I don’t want to hurt nobody! I won’t hurt
no
-body,” Thomas promises as he cries uncontrollably in deep, heavy, heaving pain, while still dangerously gripping and jerking about his small child. “I just want to tell my side of the story.”

The child reaches for his father and whimpers. My gut tells me that no matter how deep a threat Thomas may appear, he would never hurt his own baby boy. But how can anyone be sure?

I approach carefully, opening the abandoned apartment’s door so as not to further startle Thomas. We move in slowly, keeping our distance, just in case. Fred’s camera continues to roll, capturing all the drama on videotape. I can feel Fred’s breath on the back of my neck as he sticks close to me, one steady eye through the viewfinder, his other sharp eye alert, protective, and targeted on the unpredictable perp, Thomas.

“It took a lot of guts to do what you did today, Thomas,” I say in a soothing tone, moving in closer, inch by careful inch.

Thomas nods his head and looks down at his son. He seems to recognize the child’s distress and gently releases the boy, who crawls into a corner and curls up in a fetal position, sucking his thumb and whimpering. It is a shame that this child has had to endure so many traumas in only three years of life. What effect will all of this have on his future? What will happen to little Malakhai and his siblings after the authorities surely take Thomas away at the end of this day—either in handcuffs or a body bag. Either way, it’s not looking good for either of them, no matter what Thomas has to tell me.

Then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, Thomas leaps to his feet in a big burst of energy, thrashing his huge black arms up in the air. He looks like a looming, angry giant. He must be six foot eight, far larger than I had imagined. He is flailing his massive arms, swaying back and forth, and yelling. “I want my kids! Tell them people down der wi’ the city to gi’ me my kids!” Thomas pounds his heart with his fists, stomping his feet in a marching motion as he screams, “
I want my chil’ren! Tell dem peoples I want my chil
’ren
!”

“Get back! Get back!” Fred and Butch are yelling. I don’t know if they are talking to me or to Thomas or the cops. Everything is happening fast and furious.

“Sit down, Thomas,” I say. “Please … sit down!”

“Get back!” yells the chief.

Malakhai starts to wail.

I hear the crash of breaking glass and three pops. Thomas jerks and then turns into a wild animal. His eyes dart back and forth until they finally roll back in his head. With a look of shock and pain etched on his face, Thomas makes a gurgling sound, takes two steps forward, abruptly stops, and then falls flat on his face on the hard wood floor with a loud thud. From across the room, Thomas looks like a big felled oak tree. Blood begins to seep from three bullet holes in Thomas’s back.