7. The Raid
IT WAS PAUL’S turn for night watch. Since the rumor of last weekend hadn’t shown any indication of coming true, he felt more relaxed than he had during the other two watches he’d covered. At least he didn’t expect a pack of Bergman’s goons to come crashing through the windows any moment.
Some of the others were still pretty uptight – Elsa and Jimmy, especially. Elsa must’ve told him four times tonight to make sure all the windows were latched and the cross-beam on the back door. She was sincere enough, her heart was in the right place, but she went overboard. She was too uptight. Bossy, sometimes. As if he was so dumb he’d forget to lock the doors! She worked real hard but she had an attitude that she was more on top of her shit than everyone else. Kenny, and Lucky when he’d been here, said the same thing. They realized she wasn’t trying to be that way, she was just concerned about the rent strike, but she sure was hard to get along with sometimes. But women were often like that when they were in charge of things.
He was wide awake; he’d slept for several hours earlier and he’d just had a large mug of strong coffee. This was the two to eight AM shift, the least popular but Paul’s personal favorite because he was a night owl. He never needed much sleep, either. He didn’t have to get to work until noon, so he could catch a few hours of sleep after the shift.
The streets were at their most peaceful after two. Paul could get some reading in, and if something started coming down there was no way to miss it. Not like the earlier shifts, with activity and noise both inside and out. And Paul didn’t want to have to discern whether noise was friendly or hostile.
He sat in the foyer in front of the window, lights out; the chair was hard and uncomfortable, certainly not seductive to sleep. A few people came home from bars and cars occasionally drove past.
About three, Paul’s friend Jason dropped over. Earlier that day Paul had invited him, mentioning that he would be on watch. He figured Jason would bring a couple of joints, and Jason always had good weed.
They sat together smoking, Jason having pulled up another chair. He had also brought brandy but Paul didn’t indulge. Alcohol dulled his senses.
Their conversation, as usual, leaned heavily on comparisons of recently smoked dope, music, women, and even a little sports. They had only a few friends in common. Jason was aware of the situation in the building, of course. He always asked Paul what was going on and had volunteered to be a witness during crises. In fact, he’d been a witness during the police raid to evict the so-called trespassers. But he showed no inclination to resist authority himself. To him, politics was just a different trip that some people got into, but not a part of one’s life except by choice. He lived around the corner in a studio apartment and dealt marijuana and cocaine for a living. Politics would have meant giving up dealing, and that would have meant giving up a lifestyle he’d come to expect and enjoy. Still, his support of the rent strike, even to the small extent that he gave it, was more than most dope dealers would do.
After they’d smoked the joint, Jason asked, “You interested in a little blow?”
“Naw, I don’t have money for that these days,” Paul replied. “Besides, we’re keeping the place clean.”
Jason nodded, and grinned. “Too bad, it’s real pure stuff. I tooted a few grams last night.”
“I don’t know how you ever make any money, you’re always snorting and smoking up your profits.”
“Sometimes I wonder myself,” Jason laughed.
They were silent for a few moments. Paul asked: “Did you hear that new Bad Company album?”
And so on. Several minutes later, Paul suddenly had to use the bathroom; the coffee had gone right through him. “Listen, I’ll be right back. I gotta take a leak.”
His apartment was only ten feet away. He left the apartment door open and trotted to the bathroom in the rear. As he was relieving himself there came a great commotion outside, in the foyer. He realized immediately that someone had gotten into the building. A door smashed against the wall – was it his apartment door? Heavy footsteps. A voice saying tersely: “Freeze!” Paul’s heart pounded and his body trembled so hard he couldn’t zip his pants. He forgot the drills they’d been through. He didn’t blow the whistle. He didn’t even wake Karen.
He ran into the foyer. Jason was in handcuffs, a cop shoving him out the front door. Several cops saw Paul at the same time. There weren’t more than ten of them in the foyer at that moment, but to Paul it looked like 25. The dimly lit hallway was a mass of dark blue, huge, murderous men. He had never been so terrified. He had never had a cottony dryness in his mouth so intense that it went all the way to his gut. Never had he been so sure he would die. He didn’t doubt what they had on their minds. They were grim-lipped and intent.
He stood frozen for an eternal second in mid-step as they charged toward him. Several others headed for the stairs and one began battering Jimmy and Alix’s door. Finally Paul recovered, barely in time to get the whistle from his pocket into his mouth and to blow it one short but shrill time before the first cop reached him, knocked him down, and continued into his and Karen’s apartment. Karen! She was asleep in bed! “You can’t go in there!” Paul exclaimed. “Do you have a warrant?”
But they went in. He found himself pinned to the wall by a billyclub to his neck. Another cop pulled his arms behind him, snapping on handcuffs. They took the billy from his neck and he leaned over, coughing.
Some of the cops wore the jumpsuits of the TAC squad, some were ordinary patrolmen. They all acted as though Paul was just something in their way, they brushed past him as though he were nothing more than a pesky, inconsequential insect. “Do you guys have a warrant!” he tried again, but none of them even looked at him. He heard Karen’s frightened voice protesting, “What are you doing? Stop it!”
Paul sank against the wall, overwhelmed by the realization that he was totally, completely helpless. He was powerless to prevent something horrible from happening. They were doing what you read about the Nazis doing, and there was no way to stop them. Jesus, they could even kill him and get away with it! They were armed government agents, and they could do whatever they wanted. There couldn’t be anything more terrible.
“You have no right to do this!” he cried with a rage born of impotence. He had to say something, like he’d had to grab at scaffolding that wasn’t there when that board had broken under him. But this time there was no one to pull him to safety.
“Fuck you, punk,” said a large cop, more automatically than maliciously, pulling Paul toward the door by the upper arm. His shackled wrists twisted unnaturally and pain shot up his arms. The thudding of their feet overhead was uncommonly loud, echoing through empty hallways. He was still half-expecting them to yell: “This is the police! Come out with your hands up!” Too many TV shows. But he wasn’t naïve, he just hadn’t known it would be like this, this many of them, this blatantly illegal, this frightening, this cruel, this thorough. He used to figure they all moved as one force – the CIA, the FBI, the DEA, the local cops, all of them – but never had he realized what it would be like to have that power materialize in his own house, in the middle of the night, and cart people off and pull his girlfriend out of bed. The SWAT team sent to get tenants out because they were resisting!
As he was being shoved down the front steps toward the paddy wagon, Paul heard thin apartment doors being crashed open, locks splintering off obligingly. He heard thumps and furniture overturning in Jimmy’s apartment. He heard moans, cries, a scream. He heard Jimmy’s dog barking, then suddenly squealing. And as they shoved Paul into the wagon, he heard the gunshot.
ELSA AWOKE already feeling fear. Her subconscious had forced her awake, dreams now unremembered relenting to the reality of pounding feet, sharp voices, terse commands, and the pervasive aura of terror. She had her gun in her hand even as her eyes flew open. She ran to the front door, throat constricting. What could’ve happened? How had they gotten in? Was Paul hurt – or dead?
At that moment, a whistle blew, a warning too late. Then Paul must be alive. She slid the chain lock on, and ran to activate the phone emergency lines. Was it too late? The receiver at the Clayton Street house rang once. How long five seconds felt when an army was invading and coming closer to her door. Twice. She could see police cars all over the street. They must’ve sent a battalion. In the next apartment Mitch cried out “Oh God, what’s happening?” the fear in his voice answering his rhetorical question. Third ring. What fate had made this happen on the night it was Michelle’s turn to stay down the street with the children? Jimmy’s dog began barking. She heard a grunt of pain, it sounded like Jimmy, and thumping noises. Fourth ring.
And then, the crash of a heavy body against her door! ANSWER THE PHONE, GODDAMNIT! I HAVEN’T GOT ANY TIME LEFT! Wood cracked on the first smash, easily relenting to the force on the other side. How many seconds left? Fifth ring. She choked down the fear rising like bile in her throat. Suddenly the dog’s bark turned into a high squeal of pain.
And there came a sleepy voice: “Hello?”
“Listen close. It’s Elsa, we’re being raided. We need a camera and witnesses, lots of witnesses, and call the lawyer,” and her voice rose to a high pitch as the second crash hit her door, “hurry, they’re already inside!” She didn’t wait for an answer, but hung up. The door wouldn’t last much longer. “Do you have a warrant?” she shouted, leveling the revolver. Something dark and heavy closed over her. It was the rush of her own blood or adrenalin or fear.
“Open up!” he yelled.
“Don’t come in here without a warrant!” Her voice somehow was not shaking, although her stomach churned and hands trembled. “And if you have one, you better let me see it before you come in!”
“We’re looking for drugs, lady. Open the door.”
“Do you have a warrant!” she almost screamed. He was pausing, but she sensed he was only gearing up for another charge. Michelle – I’m so glad you’re safe but it’s you I want beside me – I’m so afraid –
“No, and I don’t need one!” he snarled. Another crash. The door slammed open three inches, torn from the bolt but catching, barely, on the chain lock. Elsa gripped her revolver with both hands, moving closer to the door, knowing what was going to happen –
“This .357’s all the warrant I need,” he taunted.
–knowing it was his life or hers, but pleading: “Please don’t come in. Please stop.”
But in the next moment he broke through the door, a big patrolman, gun drawn but not pointed, body off balance. She saw his eyes adjust to the darkness of the apartment and focus on her, standing ten feet in front of him with a gun pointed at him. He yelled “NOOO!” She cocked the hammer. He began to aim his gun at her. She pulled the trigger.
The shot was true. A black hole appeared on his throat, and a half-second later blood poured out. His body fell back against the door he had just forced open, slamming it shut again. His .357 dropped to the floor. Desperately he grabbed his throat, but the blood poured through his fingers. All the while his eyes watched her with utter disbelief. Elsa was weeping, partly with fear of what was to come, but mostly with despair. “I told you!” she cried. “I told you not to come in here!”
The wide, horrified eyes did not waver from hers. He sank down, finally collapsing in a heap on the floor. His hands sprawled out limply, covered with dark blood. His eyes glazed over in eerie slowness. She knew he was dead.
At first, after the report rang through the building, there had been a moment of absolute silence – maybe in her own mind, maybe in reality. Now she heard a hundred footsteps converging outside her door. They would kill her! No, they wouldn’t know who shot who. Then a man yelled frantically, “Carl? Carl?”
OH GOD, WHAT SHOULD I DO, I DON’T WANT TO DIE! She swallowed the rising hysteria. His body blocked the door; they would not be able to get in, not right away. She dropped onto the floor and lay flat. “Don’t shoot!” she shouted, but expected a barrage of gunfire when they heard her voice instead of his. No gunfire, but hammers were cocked and a rifle bolt snapped forward and back. “You’d better call an ambulance.”
Another man screamed shrilly, “You bitch! You dirty, fucking bitch!” Another voice: “Mason, no! Get away from the door!” There was fear in their voices. “You in there. Open the door slowly and come out with your hands up.”
Time. I need time for the witnesses to get here. “I can’t. He’s laying in front of the door.”
Someone gingerly pushed from the other side; the door wouldn’t budge. A dilemma: if they forced it, he might be further injured. They would have to come in through the back door. But she was armed and she might finish him off, or shoot another one of them.
She could hear their brusque murmuring. Someone gave orders; she could not make out what was said, but there was the sound of feet running away and downstairs.
“Is he alive?” the calmer voice asked.
She was still pressed flat on the floor, no more than ten feet from him, and was certain that he was dead – or near enough that nothing could save him now. There was no movement from his body, no rising and falling of breath. “I think so,” she said.
Faintly she could hear one of them calling on the radio for an ambulance and more police. Her heart began to beat slightly more slowly; she knew there were dozens of them outside, waiting and anxious to fire hot lead into her. But they were afraid. She had the upper hand.
For a minute (more? less?) they didn’t say anything to her. Upstairs, someone was being handcuffed She heard Sue weeping. “Get all the rest of them out of here,” a rough voice ordered from the stairs. How had they gotten in without so much as a peep from Paul until it was too late?
Her head was heavy with rushing blood. She was beginning to feel an overwhelming sense of anguish and regret. Her life might very well be over in minutes. Undoubtedly her freedom was something of the past. The tension of not knowing what they were planning outside her door, how she would die or whether she would – it was unbearable. Lying in the dark waiting to be killed.
She heard someone on the third floor put a foot onto the creaky fire escape. But as any of the tenants could have told him, it was too weak to actually hold someone. The metal pulled away from the wall with a groan of protest and a voice softly swore.
She had five rounds left. Maybe she should just go out and take a few cops with her. But no, she was no lunatic or terrorist. If she killed any more of them, that’s how it would seem. He had broken into her apartment without a warrant, gun drawn, intent on throwing her out of her home without due process. He was like some Third Reich henchman, ready to kill her because she was resisting her landlord. She hadn’t wanted to kill him! Or to kill anyone! But he’d broken in like any other criminal–
Another voice, another part of her consciousness, protested: It can’t happen like this. My life is more important than this building, than the rent strike. Don’t give it up. My god, I’m only 23 and I don’t want to die.
Keep calm. I can’t change what I’ve already done. I can’t bring back that cop. There are two choices for me: go out firing, or try and get out of it alive; but it’s too late to worry about giving up my life.
Yes, but I didn’t realize it meant this, lying on the floor with a dead cop and a whole fucking army outside ready to blast me to bits, and even if they don’t, I’ll never get out of jail and never make love with Michelle again and never take Juliet to the park and – Oh, I didn’t want to be a martyr!
“Listen to me.” The voice broke into her thoughts. “There are police officers coming up the back stairs. Stay where you are, and keep your hands up. If you make a move when they enter, you will be shot. Is that clear?”
Her mind raced. This man had just told her he was sending in men to kill her. Somehow she had to prevent more shots from being fired, by them or by herself. She crawled to the front window and, concealing her head behind the heavy curtain, peered out to the street. Police cars were everywhere, red lights from their roofs making the black night a grotesque carnival. Cops knelt on the sidewalk, behind trash cans and mailboxes and cars; cops stood beside chimneys and air ducts on rooftops. Every one of them was aiming a rifle at her windows. And there, near the corner, were people in bathrobes or bare-chested in Levi’s; wearing slippers or in their bare feet. Witnesses.
She crawled back toward the door. “That’s not good enough,” she called to the cop outside her door. “The first person through that door will have to be a civilian witness.”
Several angry curses. “The nerve of that bitch!” But they knew she had nothing to lose by trying to hold them off for as long as possible.
Sirens screamed closer. That would wake up anyone in the neighborhood still asleep. She crawled back to the window. An ambulance had arrived. “Bring in the ambulance attendants with the civilian witness,” she called out. “And you tell your men to be careful coming in here. Keep their guns in their holsters.”
The negotiating officer spoke again. “Why don’t you just come out the back door voluntarily and make it easier on all of us?”
“Officer, the first person in here has to be a civilian witness. Otherwise I’m not coming out.” He didn’t respond, and she called: “Is that agreed?”
“All right. But I have men stationed everywhere. If you make one false move–“
She crawled to the kitchen. Two interminable minutes later, she heard footsteps on the back stairs. A small opaque window in the tiny pantry overlooked the back stairs; it was not possible to see through, but there was a small hole in one corner. Elsa put her eye to the hole. Several cops wearing jumpsuits and carrying rifles led the way. Right behind them: Cynthia. And then three ambulance attendants, all in white, carrying a stretcher.
I might make it alive.
She quietly unlocked the back door and returned to the living room. She set her revolver on the floor, retreated as far away as she could and put her hands behind her neck and waited. They began kicking at the door. If she’d been less rational their approach would have triggered panic, and she would’ve begun to fire.
Footsteps in the kitchen. She didn’t move except for the heaving of her chest. Cynthia came in, her eyes so wide that the whites showed all around, her body shaking. Right behind her were cops, then the ambulance attendants. One of the cops grabbed Cynthia’s arm, as though to prevent Elsa taking her hostage, or perhaps afraid she would join Elsa.
Another one aimed his rifle at Elsa. “Don’t move! Stay right where you are!” He waved behind himself. Three officers ran into the room. One snapped handcuffs on Elsa. One took her gun. The ambulance attendants were already beside the cop on the floor. “Is he alive?” asked the patrolman holding Elsa’s arm, his voice hoarse, his grip tight.
“I can’t get a pulse. He got it right in the jugular.”
Another of the cops was bent over the one she’d shot. “Carl, oh God, Carl, he’s dead, oh Jesus he’s dead–“ his voice broke. The officer behind Elsa sent a fist into her kidneys. She doubled over involuntarily, agony bolting through her body. He hit her again, this time in the ribs. Cynthia cried out and another cop warned, “Not now, damn it!”
She felt dizzy with pain; he must’ve broken her rib. One of the ambulance attendants, a young black man, came toward her. He said quietly, “I’ll walk with you down the stairs.” He was speaking to the officer holding her arms. She realized when she looked up that Cynthia had already been taken out and he was her only witness.
Sirens continued to blast the early morning air. Someone turned on the lights, flooding the room with unnatural brightness. They prodded her toward the back stairs. She couldn’t tell how far behind them the attendant was. They got to the first landing and something seemed to be on the stairs, or was it one of their feet? She tripped and rolled down to the next landing, and someone’s fist and a boot were striking her. She curled up to protect her midsection and began to scream, over and over, as loud as she could, but she didn’t know if it was loud enough. “Shut up!” one of them hissed, grabbing her shirt with one hand and pulling her up. His fist met her cheek. Blood poured into her mouth and she nearly blacked out, sagging limply and almost falling except for his hand holding her up roughly. Another voice said: “Officer, I realize you’re very upset but it’s not going to look good if you beat this girl.”
“I don’t care. I don’t–“ he said hysterically, and pulled his fist back again, but another cop said: “He’s right, Mike. Just take her out to the car. Jesus, did you have to hit her face? Look at her.” He indicated the blood coming from her mouth where she was sure some teeth had come out and her already-swollen nose and cheek. The skin had split open and her nose was bleeding, too. One eye was swelling shut. He had hit her very hard.
Two of them took her arms and dragged her out of the building. She wanted to say something to the medic, but he was running toward the ambulance. She could hardly walk. Her head felt weighted and her eyes took a while to focus. Cops were stationed around the building, on the street and sidewalk. People had gathered and were being kept back maybe twenty-five feet, but they must’ve been able to see her face even at that distance; she heard their gasps and cries. Several flashbulbs went off. She couldn’t think anymore, she was merely feeling. The pain in her head, her side, her stomach made her have to use all of her concentration just to stay on her feet.
Elsa looked at the stars, as the quarter moon hiding behind wispy bay fog, the silhouettes of trees down in the Panhandle, the faces all watching her. She licked at the blood on her mouth and got unprotestingly into the waiting police car.