The Stranger Beside You (2 page)

“Oh my God.”  I made an effort to dodge around a barrel-chested agent standing in the way of the front door.

He put out an arm to roadblock me.  “Sorry.”

“This can’t be happening.”  I strained to see.  Chapman had Tom by the arm.  They loaded him into one of the government vehicles.  I battled to get to the door, to call to him, but again they formed a roadblock.

Several agents gathered at the open door of the vehicle.  They talked and pointed and gestured.  Chapman slammed the rear door.  I caught a glimpse of Tom in the backseat in the dim momentary glow of the overhead map light.

The commotion had stirred a few neighbors from bed.  The presence of law enforcement and flashing lights was more excitement than our boring stretch of New Jersey was generally treated to.  This would provide juicy gossip for months.  

Chapman climbed in and slammed the door.  They were riding in the second of the three SUV’s.  The first of the three pulled out of the drive, then the one carrying Tom followed closely behind.  I watched them drive away until they were lost to sight.

The nightmare had begun.

2

I sat at the kitchen table staring into a cup of coffee.  Special Agent Byron was seated across from me, scribbling on a notepad with a pen.  Special Agent Welsh leaned against a wall beside a kitchen window.  He stared at me without blinking and it gave me the creeps.  They were asking questions.

I knew enough to keep my mouth shut.  I had no idea what was going on, but I wouldn’t say a word without a lawyer present, and I had already made that call.  Our attorney was Clive Rozzell, friend of the family and hotshot defense attorney at a mega-firm in Manhattan.  I woke him up.  He told me to put a sock in it and he’d meet me in the city in half an hour.

The next call I made was to my best friend, Sadie Jones.  She and her husband Marcus lived nearby, so I explained the situation and asked her to take the kids for the night because I needed to drive into the city to find Tom. 

She told me she had a better idea.  “I’ll do the driving,” she said.  She was at the door by the time I’d hung up the phone. 

Sadie is a beautiful black woman.  We met ten years ago at the school where I teach when she enrolled the first of her kids in my class.  All three of her kids had passed through my class and I had loved them as students even more than they had loved having me as a teacher.  Sadie and I became fast friends.  Tom and Marcus are best buddies too.  They often played basketball until late into the night, running each other into the ground.  Every couple of years they’d fly to some remote lake in Canada and fish for a week.  Long story short, our families are tight.

I spotted their Escalade.  Marcus was with her.  They parked at the top of the drive.  It was a mess getting through the feds at the door.  A team of agents had barnstormed the house with cell phones and laptops, boxing up so-called evidence, rushing in and out through the front door, loading who-knows-what into the remaining black SUV.

I fought with the feds to let them through.  Sadie looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Brynn, baby, what’d you do?”

I could barely talk through my tears.

“They took Tom.”

“Girl, this is insane.”

Marcus asked, “Where are the kids?”  He is built like a tank, with muscles stacked on muscles and a smile that lights up any room. 

“Upstairs.”

“They must be scared out of their little minds.”

We rounded up the kids and I stuffed a change of clothes into an overnight bag as Marcus hustled them down the stairs.  

I didn’t know what to say.  My brain was scattered.  All I could think about was Tom in those handcuffs.

“These boys are in good hands,” Marcus kept saying.  “One less thing for you to worry about.”

I nodded and hugged him.  “Just make sure they get to school.”

Sadie took my face in her hands.  “Listen to me.  Tom is an angel.  He’s one of the good guys, and we all know that.  There’s obviously been a mix up and I’m sure whatever it is, it will get straightened out in a few hours.  Tom will probably be home for dinner and you guys will have a great story to tell for the rest of your lives.”

“I’ll just feel better when I see Clive.  I will call you when I know something,” I said.

Marcus threaded through the crowd with my boys.  I pulled on a pair of jeans and a cashmere V-neck sweater and hustled to my Volvo wagon.  Sadie took the wheel.  The garage door was barely up before she squealed the tires and tore off down the road.  I was numb, watching the lights of Manhattan twinkle on the horizon ahead of us.

•  •  •

We were crossing the George Washington Bridge when my cell phone rang.  It was Clive.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“We’re driving into the city.”

“They have him at 26 Federal Plaza.”

He gave some quick and dirty directions.

“We will be there in ten minutes.”

“Who is with you?”

“Sadie Jones is with me.”

“Why?”

“I needed a friend.”

“They won’t let her in.”

“Okay…whatever.  There are still agents at the house.”

“What have you told them?”

“Nothing.  What would I say?”

“Good.”

“Have they let you see Tom?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.”

I felt a small relief.

“See you in a minute,” I said, and closed my cell.

Sadie sped through an intersection and parked on the street at Federal Plaza.  We entered the big glass doors at the entrance and the guy at the desk made a call.  A couple of minutes later an elevator opened and Clive stepped out.  His hair was still wet from the shower.  He was tall and lean and looked very Italian.

“Please tell me something positive,” I said, struggling to keep it together.

He was calm but told Sadie to wait in the lobby as he ushered me into the elevator.

“They have him on murder one,” Clive said as soon as the door closed.

“That’s impossible.  You told them that’s impossible, right?”

“They have a dead federal agent, and they say they have tons of evidence linking Tom to the murder.”

His words rattled me.  Coming from Clive, the accusation carried significant gravitas.  What I had wanted was for him to hug me and laugh and say he had talked to them and everyone finally realized what a silly, embarrassing misunderstanding this had all been.  I needed to sit down, and even more than that I needed to vomit.  I felt nauseous.

The door opened and Clive led me through a corridor.  I recognized Special Agent Price and he escorted us into the room where they were holding my husband.  Tom was handcuffed and seated in a folding chair at a table.  I rushed to him and kissed him on the mouth. 

“Have they hurt you?” I asked.

“No.”

Clive and I sat facing him.  It was a struggle to hold back my tears.  We spoke in hushed tones.

“Tell them you had nothing to do with that murder,” I pleaded.

Tom looked dazed. 

“First thing we need to do is post bail and get him out of here,” Clive said. 

“How soon?”

“I hope to get a bond hearing in a few hours.  The judge may view Tom as a flight risk, in which case they will want to keep him under lock and key.”

Tom said nothing.

I stared into his eyes.  I wanted to protect him, to wrap my arms around him and shield him from those men with badges and guns, but all I could do was sit across the table and slowly fill with fear. 

The door opened and Chapman came in with a folder of papers under one arm and a cup of coffee.  Price stood at the door and glared at us. 

“Mrs. Nelson, I’m going to ask you to wait in another room.  We have a few questions we’d like to ask you.”

I shook my head. 

“I’m not leaving my husband.”

“I’m afraid you have no choice.  Your husband is under arrest and will remain in our custody until a judge says otherwise.”  Chapman could barely mask a smirk.

I wanted to slap him.  “My husband is innocent.”

“He’ll get his day in court.”

“Whatever you think he did, you’re wrong!”

“I would suggest, Mrs. Nelson, that you go with Special Agent Price.  He has a few questions, and then you are free to go.”

I could feel the panic rising.  The room started to spin.  I stared hard at Chapman then glanced up at Price waiting at the door.  I pleaded with my eyes for Tom to say something,
anything
, but he remained silent.  Perhaps that was best.  Perhaps Clive had coached him and told him to keep his mouth shut. 

I stood up and walked around the table toward the door.  Price waited.  Clive pulled Chapman aside for a quick word.  I stood beside Tom for a long moment.

“I won’t sleep until you’re home,” I said.

He simply stared ahead at the wall of two-way glass.  We all knew there was someone behind there watching, observing, and recording every word for later use.

I touched his hair and kissed him.  He sat rigid.

“I love you,” I said.

No response.

“Please talk to me.”

Still nothing.  I felt chilled.  I turned to go.  I took two steps toward the door, and then heard him whisper my name.  I paused, turned, lowered my face to him.

“What is it, baby?” I asked.

There was still nothing in his face.

“Closer,” he whispered.

Our faces brushed together.  I could feel the warmth of his lips against my ear.

The room was reflected in the wall of glass so that we could see everyone in the room with us.  I could see Tom’s unblinking eyes in the reflection.  He was looking at me, and I saw his lips barely move as he spoke.  He whispered in a hush that was barely audible.  “Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, I will fearlessly make known the mystery for which I am an ambassador in chains.”

I pulled away and looked down at him.  He glanced at me, for only a second, and then his eyes fell dead again.

Price said, “Let’s go.” 

I followed him out into the corridor.  At a table in a conference room I listened to Price’s absurd questions until my lawyer told me to go home.  It was 1:30 a.m. when I found Sadie in the lobby.  She had questions that I couldn’t answer.  It was early Monday morning and the lights of midtown blurred around us.  I sat in the Volvo and closed my eyes.  Tom’s cryptic words echoed in my head.  I had never seen him behave this way.  There was something so different about him.  It was enough to make me wonder:
How well do I really know my husband?

3

We stopped at Sadie’s house.  She came around the front of the car and opened my door for me.  I stood.  We hugged there on the sidewalk.

“Get some sleep,” she said.

“Not a chance.”

I drove like a zombie, turned at our mailbox, and parked the Volvo in the driveway.  I cut the engine and sat in the stillness.  All the lights in the house were on like everyone was home and life was normal.  Life was definitely not normal.  I left the car in the drive and staggered up the front steps.  I rummaged through my purse, found the keys, and brushed away tears as I fumbled with the lock.  But the front door was already unlocked and stood open a couple of inches.  I felt totally violated.  The FBI had invaded my home, taken what they needed, and then had failed to secure it upon exit.  I made a mental note to bring this up the next time I spoke with Clive Rozzell.

It was spooky coming home to an empty house.  The lights were all on but the place was as silent as a crypt.  Gooseflesh spread up the back of my neck as I locked the door behind me.

It was instinctual to check every room.  Maybe its something primal, or maybe it’s just a childhood thing we never quite shake that makes us need to inspect every room and every closet in the house, and to check under every bed to make certain nobody’s hiding, waiting to grab us.  I went room by room, cautiously and methodically, and when I was done I sat on a sofa in the den and put my face in my hands. 

My nerves were shot.  Things had happened so fast.  We’d had a normal family dinner, watched some TV, went to bed, and then at twelve sharp the doorbell rang.

I found a pad and pen and sat on one end of the sofa, sipping red wine and jotting notes.  I wanted to capture as many details from those initial moments as possible before the memories turned fuzzy.

Next I wanted to inventory the house.  The swarm of federal agents had boxed stuff up and taken it.  Our possessions are physical representations of our lives, so when I saw the condition the feds had left our home in, it broke my heart, but it also made me livid.  The place had been tossed.  They’d gone through everything, as if to leave no stone unturned.  Clothes had been stripped from closets and left strewn on the floor.  Dresser drawers had been yanked open and pillaged, contents left spilling out.  Mattresses from the beds had been pushed aside, and bookshelves had been emptied, the books forming haphazard piles, pages torn. 

I went to our master bedroom and found Tom’s digital camera stowed in his sock drawer.  I wanted to document the damage, so I started taking photos of everything in every room.  The tears came as the flash popped.  The memory card in the camera had a lot of room, so I kept going, taking hundreds of shots, clicking the little silver button like a woman possessed.  I wanted heads to roll, and I didn’t want anyone to be able to deny what had happened.

My hands were shaking.  I leaned against a wall in Ashton’s bedroom.  I wanted to lie on the floor and cry myself to sleep but there wasn’t time because my husband was in jail.

Then I remembered his words.  I went back downstairs, sat on the sofa with my pad and pen, and struggled to piece together what he’d said.

Pray also for me, for I am an ambassador in chains
.

What did that mean?

I closed my eyes, putting myself back inside the interrogation room withTom seated at the table, his eyes on the two-way glass.

Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, I will fearlessly make known the mystery for which I am an ambassador in chains.