Chapter 5 - An Arrest With the Wrong Date
The younger officer kept his hand on his belt as I stepped out. Customers pushed grocery carts around us, pretending they couldn't hear.
"Am I being arrested?" I asked.
"You're being detained regarding a workplace assault and felony theft," he said.
"May I see the warrant?"
The older officer held out a folded sheet. It had my name and address, a judge's signature, and a filing date of October 18.
Yesterday.
The incident in Aisle Seventeen had happened this morning.
"This was filed before the alleged crime," I said.
The younger officer frowned. He checked the paper himself. Then he looked at his partner.
"Dispatch," the older man muttered into his radio, "confirm the status on a warrant for Torres, Elena."
The radio crackled. Silence stretched. Ruth sat frozen in my passenger seat.
A voice finally answered, "No active warrant on that name. Document number invalid."
The older officer lowered the radio and stared at the paper as though it might burst into flames.
"Who gave you that?" I asked.
"Anonymous tip and an electronic attachment." His face tightened. "You need to contact an attorney."
They took the false document as evidence and let us leave. My relief lasted until I noticed the older officer's body camera was switched off. Had that been a mistake, or another lie I would have to prove?
I drove Ruth to a church where she said a friend would shelter her. Before she got out, she gave me the second notebook.
"Sofia trusted a man named David Kessler," she said. "He worked in payroll, and he kept copies of everything."
"Where is he now?"
"Prison. Convicted of stealing from Whitcomb."
"Did he?"
"Your mother believed he was innocent. So do I."
She squeezed my hand. "Don't go looking for a hero in this mess, Elena. Look for records. People lie. Records can be altered, too, but the alterations leave tracks."
At home I found my apartment door slightly open. I knew I'd locked it before my shift. I didn't go inside. I called 911 from the stairwell and waited outside until patrol arrived.
Nothing appeared stolen. The officers found drawers pulled out, books tipped sideways, my mattress cut along one seam. Someone had searched carefully and angrily.
On the kitchen counter sat a sheet of company stationery with three words typed across the center.
LAST WARNING, ELENA.
May you like
And below it, in handwriting I recognized from old birthday cards:
I AM SORRY. —MOM
