* Prologue & Chapter One
Sing Sing Correctional Facility … Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Disjointed memories haunt me, as they do every night, shattering my once great expectations and leaving me to share a cold clammy cell listening to a guy named Spider jerk off.
The darkness emits a rumbling undercurrent of sounds, pierced randomly by eerie howls. Inmates yell obscenities to one another, or worse, to no one.
Doors clang, footsteps echo and fade away, angry music blares in short bursts. Odors of urine, decaying food, stale smoke, and sweaty unwashed bodies assault the air. Mice and roaches scurry.
The longer I’m here, the harder it is to imagine being anywhere else.
Giving in and allowing myself to cry would be suicidal. Others would observe my fear, and act on it. Predatory others. “Hey, white boy, they gonna’ love you’ ass in here.”
How long before I lose my mind? And will that be better or worse? Is it already happening? Every day, the person who was Joshua Blake recedes further from reality. Is this process irreversible? Will there be a point when I can never again be who I was?
There’s a sudden movement close to me and I cringe. I’m going to be hurt. Relief. It’s just my cellmate, stirring in the bunk below me. The fact that his presence is actually comforting shows how much my life has changed.
Spider rolls out of his bunk and slides into view. In the dim light, I make out hairy legs, dark crotch, gray prison shirt. He settles his muscled bulk onto the toilet. More sounds and smells. When he’s done, I roll off the upper bunk, take his place, feel his sweat. I remember what it used to be like in a bathroom with a door and a seat on the toilet.
I climb up, careful not to step on Spider’s arm, crawl under my thin blanket, shiver in the chill. Spider’s bulk shifts in the bunk below me. He settles into a slow steady rhythm which pulses my bunk as well as his. Spider is once again masturbating.
I strain for diversion.
A familiar burr grinds at the edges of my mind. I force myself to focus, visualizing each distinct moment of my arrest and trial.
I see a look in a man’s eye. I grab for it, but once again it slips away, and I’m sinking, gasping, a deep eternal coldness filling my body.
Spider finishes with a grunt and a sudden lurch just as I slide into my personal bottomless lake of despair.
Deep in the murky water, the man’s face reappears, staring at me intently, a puzzled expression in his eyes.
And – finally – I know the face.
Eight months earlier …
“Next and last station stop, New York Penn Station.”
I had been day dreaming. My friends were sitting around the table in Mom’s house, always Mom’s house even after she passed away, just another night like hundreds before it. But this time, we all knew it was the last time. Sure we’d always be friends and we’d get together now and then, but it would never be like it is right now, like it has always been.
I sold the house a month or so after Mom died. Closing was last Friday, the day after graduation. I spent the weekend with Tom and Barb before taking the train to New York.
At just past 5:00 pm the Amtrak regional train emerged from the Hudson River tunnel into the dim light of the underground approach yard and gradually slowed to a stop. Duffel on shoulder, suitcase in each hand, I followed the crowd up an escalator into a maelstrom of walking, running, and standing-still-looking-confused people. I joined the standing-still-looking-confused group and let it soak in.
My destination for the next three nights was the Broadway Big Apple Hotel, selected from the web as the least expensive choice near Penn Station, and also because of its magical name. What could be more New York?
I walked north on Seventh Avenue, maneuvering my way through the crowded sidewalks, dodged a hot dog cart flying across the sidewalk, and reached the corner of 38th Street and Seventh Avenue. There was no Broadway Big Apple Hotel. Another block. Nothing. Back to Thirty-eighth and east toward Broadway. Still nothing. Some hot stuff, can’t even find your hotel.
Looking back the way I had come, I saw a tiny vertical sign hanging crookedly on the front of an undistinguished five-story graystone building. Broadway Hotel. An even smaller sign said Broadway Big Apple Hotel, and below that, a hand lettered piece of cardboard proclaimed an Internet Café.
I peeked in. The description on the web was “charming boutique hotel.” They lied.
Above the desk, taped to a column, a sign said “Directions for Showers,” with a large arrow pointing to a diagram. While I was trying to guess why such directions might be needed, a round oriental face popped up from behind an ancient printer and stared at me.
On the train, I had allowed myself to fantasize a hotel desk clerk saying, in an elegant tone, “Welcome to the Broadway Big Apple. How may I help you?”
But those words, or indeed any words, did not materialize.
“Uh, I have a reservation,” I said.
The round face offered no sign of comprehension.
“My name is Joshua Blake,” I said.
After a pause, I asked, “Do you work here?”
There was some shuffling of paper, and a single page appeared on the counter between us. It had my name on it, which was encouraging. On the other hand, I glanced quickly at the stairs to my right – there was no elevator – and wondered if I really wanted to go any further into this not charming, not boutique, decidedly seedy place.
I signed my name and looked at the clerk for my next instruction. “Credit card,” he said, wasting not a single word. I produced my Visa card, he took an imprint. He returned the card along with a key to room 301. He pointed to the stairs and promptly disappeared.
I had expected to feel important checking into my first New York hotel. On my own! Ready to conquer New York! I shuddered at my naiveté, forced down the panic, and unpacked. I hung my blue blazer, pants and shirts, and threw the rest of the clothes in a drawer, wondering if I would ever see them again. The room was filthy. Was there maid service? Was there thief service?
No matter how nervous I felt about this disappointing hotel, I couldn’t just stay in my room. I left my possessions to their fate and descended the stairs.
On Eighth Avenue, I passed a deli and a depressing place advertising “Girls, Girls, Girls.” A bus pulled up next to me, and Michael Kay’s smiling face on the side of the bus changed my mood. Remarkably, his picture made me feel I had a friend in New York.
Michael had been the radio voice of the New York Yankees for several years, before switching to television, and I had listened to so many Yankee games I felt I knew him. I smiled at the bus, happy to be in Michael’s city, and a little jauntiness returned to my stride.
At 42nd Street, I entered a different world. Long hailed as the worst and most dangerous street in “tourist” New York, it now proudly featured a new Disney Store, a huge 25 screen cinema, and Madame Toussaud’s wax museum. I did a double-take when I saw Whoopi Goldberg standing near me on the sidewalk, but she wasn’t moving and not likely to.
I chose a Mexican restaurant and ordered chicken quesadillas with a Corona. It cost $16.38, and I reminded myself I had to make my law school fund last for three years.
When I returned to the Broadway Big Apple, there were two women in the bar, obviously prostitutes. I hurried past, looking the other way. Safe in my room, behind the double locked door, with all of my clothes still in place, I sat at a small table and reviewed a paper headed “Law Firms.” I had contacted four firms, and sort of had appointments for summer job interviews at each. “Stop by, we’ll see what we can do.”
Referring to what the Metropolitan Transit Authority calls “The Map,” I noted the locations already marked, and thought again how I would get to each. My plan was to visit all four firms the next day.
But it was still early, and I was fidgety.
I decided to learn more about the law firms I was going to see the next day. I had started to study their web sites several weeks before, but then with finals and graduation and everything, I hadn’t done the follow-up.
My laptop was in the suitcase at Penn Station, so what good luck there was an Internet Café at the Broadway Big Apple. I pulled on a clean polo and headed downstairs.
“Hi, honey,” one of the ladies said as I approached the bar. Swiveling on the barstool and flashing an exciting expanse of inner thigh, she added, “Can we help you?”
She was blond, with long hair tied up in some sort of bun. Her breasts spilled over a tight orange wrap that left her flat belly exposed. Low cut white satin shorts and white high-heeled shoes with sequins completed the outfit.
She looked to be in her early twenties, but it was hard to tell. The overall impact was flabbergasting, my life experience to date having given me no clue how to talk to such a person.
“I need to use the computer,” I said. “Go on the internet.”
“Ooh, a smart one,” she said. “What’s your name, honey?”
“Josh.”
“I’m Darlene.”
“Do you know about the computer?” I asked.
Darlene laughed and turned to her partner, “Do we know how to surf the web?”
They laughed together, and then Darlene said, “We are web surfers extraordinaire, honey, but you have to open an account first. The bartender will explain. He’ll be back soon. This is my friend Annabelle.”
Annabelle had dark hair and dark clothes, and looked Hispanic, despite her name. She was heavier and at least several years older than Darlene, and her ample bottom spilled out over both sides of the barstool.
“Hi, Josh,” Annabelle said sweetly in a pleasantly accented voice.
“Hi, Annabelle,” I said very cautiously.
“Where are you from?” Annabelle asked.
“Baltimore.”
“What are you going to do on the computer?”
“I’m meeting with law firms tomorrow, about a job for the summer, and I want to learn more about the firms from their web sites.”
How weird was this, explaining my plans to the two prostitutes?
“We have a web site,” said Darlene, her voice suddenly very businesslike.
“You have a web site?”
“How do you think we get business, honey?” asked Annabelle. “Since Mr. Gardino became mayor, certain marketing options are no longer available to us.”
Before I could learn more about their web site, the bartender appeared, and Darlene asked him to set me up with a web account.
Daryl was a small black man with slicked back hair and very large teeth, one of which was gold. He was wearing a shirt open in the front, with a heavy gold necklace on his skinny chest.
“That’ll be ten bucks,” Daryl mumbled.
“For what?” I asked.
“For one hour,” he answered.
“How much for a half hour?”
“Ten bucks.”
I sprung for the hour, and nervously took a seat at one of the flat black screens, with Annabelle and Darlene staring at me. Daryl’s unseen command brought the screen to life. I clicked on the Internet Explorer icon, and was soon at the web site of the first firm I was planning to visit.
“Can I print something?” I asked.
“Twenty five cents,” Daryl answered.
I printed, scanned some more, looked at the other sites, printed more, and in 45 minutes I was finished. I checked my email and was disappointed to find no new messages. While I had been on the computer, Darlene had gone and returned, and now Annabelle was gone. Darlene came over to see what I was doing.
“Want to see our web site,” she asked. I nodded.
“It’s www.darleneandannabelle.com. Go ahead, it won’t hurt.”
I typed in the address and hit enter. Full-screen images of Darlene and Annabelle exploded into view. Each was wearing nothing more than pasties, the tiniest g-string, and a sultry look. My mouth dropped.
“Scroll down,” Darlene said.
The text was like nothing I had ever seen. It sounded like an attorney had written it.
We are Independent Escorts and in no way connected to an agency. We are available for outcall most anytime in New York. We are also available for travel. Sexy, Intelligent, Classy and sometimes Naughty is the best way to describe us. We prefer contact through e-mail initially until we are confident we have made a connection. Serious gentlemen only.
At the bottom of the page was a declaration. Services offered on this site are legal adult escort services. Donations are for our time and companionship ONLY! Anything that may happen during that time is a matter of personal choice and consent between two adults and is not negotiated for nor compensated for in any manner. THIS IS NOT AN OFFER OF PROSTITUTION.
I closed the site and the computer, and approached the bar to settle my $4.25 printing bill.
“Are there any other services you’ll be requiring this evening,” Darlene asked, and her choice of words, along with the unexpected refinement of her diction, reminded me of the elegant hotel experience I had originally expected.
“No,” I said, and then, not wanting to be impolite, added “No, thank you.”
My eyes, completely on their own accord, slipped from her face to the hard ridges of her nipples bursting against the fabric of her orange top. Darlene smiled, and pulled her shoulders back just a bit more. Under the heavy makeup, she was pretty.
I turned and ran up the stairs. I changed into boxer shorts and a t-shirt, and set my travel alarm. Car horns, alarms, sirens, and violent shouts soon lulled me to sleep.
I woke before the alarm, showered without reference to any diagrams, and dressed quickly. While dressing, I looked at myself in the cracked mirror, and, egotistical as it sounds, I liked what I saw. I practiced my smile, which would be on display repeatedly today. Okay!
The stairs were cool and quiet; all of the occupants either sleeping or dead, and the morning air was brisk. I bought a bagel with butter and coffee at a deli on Eighth Avenue, and felt like a real New Yorker standing on the street with my breakfast, watching the early morning traffic.
The day passed quickly and just before 3:00 pm, I approached my fourth and last prospect, on Sixth Avenue in the fifties, an impressive high rise. Two of the previous three firms had indicated they probably had “go-fer” positions. They would get back to me in a few days. I left my cell number and email address with each.
Passing through the post 9-11 security procedures, my name on a list provided by Morgan, Heffer, and Stone, I rode the elevator to the 44th floor and walked across an elegant lobby to a reception desk.
“My name is Joshua Blake. I have an appointment with Ms. Barbara Coleman.”
“I’ll let her know you’re here. Would you like to take a seat?”
I sank into a deep leather armchair. On the coffee table in front of me were the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, the Economist, and Fortune. It seems all law firms have the same newspapers and magazines in their waiting rooms. Maybe it’s required by the Bar Association.
“You must be Josh,” a pleasant middle aged woman sang out as she crossed the room toward me. I nodded and stood.
“Follow me,” she said, turning before I could say a word. We walked down a long hallway. The lawyer’s offices on either side were small and each was filled with files precariously perched on every available surface. The secretarial alcoves were far neater.
“Come in. Sit down.” she said, taking her chair behind the desk. “Josh, I have your letter here,” she began. “You’re looking for a summer job?”
“Yes, until school starts at the end of August.”
“Hmm, top 10% of your class at UMBC. NYU Law in September?”
“Yes.”
“Good school,” she said. “Many of our attorneys graduated from NYU. Is this your first time in New York?”
“I’ve been here to see Yankee games and to visit NYU, but this is the first time I’m actually living here and getting to see the city.”
“Well, let’s see,” she said, “you’re looking for an entry level job?”
“Anything, really. I just want to be inside a law firm, so I can learn something about the actual practice of law before I start classes.”
“You say here you have good computer skills, and you worked on developing several web sites at college. We’re in the middle of revising our web site, and we have a summer opening for another person on that project. That job would give you a pretty good idea what our firm is all about. How does it sound?”
“It sounds perfect,” I said.
“It doesn’t pay much, only $400 per week, no benefits.”
Four hundred dollars a week was more than I had ever earned in my life. I gulped and said, “That would be fine.”
“I just need to make sure the position is still open,” she said, reaching for the phone. She left a message with someone.
“Where can I reach you?” I gave her my cell number and email address.
“You have email here already?”
“There’s an Internet Café in my hotel.”
Images of my new associates Darlene, Annabelle and Daryl flashed through my mind, but I chose not to share these with Ms. Coleman.
“Good,” she said, rising. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I think this’ll work out nicely. We like to form relationships with law students early. It helps later when we’re recruiting.”
Ms. Coleman escorted me back to the elevator. I was jumping for joy at the prospect of useful employment and unexpected riches. Emerging at street level, I bounced into a sunny afternoon, and decided to walk to the hotel. New York City on a beautiful May afternoon was breathtaking. My eyes were drawn to high rise buildings of glass and steel, and to older buildings with distinctive water towers on their roofs. Even the dirt was exciting.
When I reached 38th Street, I found my earlier concerns about the Broadway Big Apple had receded. The hotel still wasn’t boutique, but it wasn’t scary either. I nodded pleasantly to Daryl, who, surprisingly, smiled back.
It was way too early for Darlene and Annabelle to have made their appearance. I changed my clothes, walked over to the AMC, and ate two hot dogs while I watched a movie.
Darlene was at the bar when I returned and she insisted on a full report of my day’s activities. Actually, we had a fairly normal conversation, to the extent I could focus on anything but her magnificent breasts. She again asked if I had an interest, and I again declined, but, I have to admit, less strongly than the night before.
In the morning, I took the subway to Washington Square Park and the Law School’s Office of Residential Life. A bulletin board was chock full of notices for summer sublets, including three that seemed to fit my needs.
The first was a sun-filled apartment on LaGuardia Place near West 3rd Street, a third floor walkup with one bedroom, a small living room, and a view of a tiny corner of the park. I ran two blocks back to Residential Life, wrote a check for two months rent in advance, and made arrangements to move in the next day.
I walked back to the hotel, heading up Broadway as it passes diagonally through midtown Manhattan. My cell rang as I was looking sadly over the remnants of 9-11 memorials at Union Square. It was Ms. Coleman.
“You start Monday at 8:30 am.”
In only two days, I had achieved my objectives. I had a more interesting summer job than I had dared to expect and a really nice furnished apartment for the summer. The sun was shining and life was great.
I packed my belongings, spent several hours wandering in the Times Square area, and returned to the hotel around seven o’clock.
Darlene was in the bar. She beckoned to me and I sat next to her. As before, she wanted to know everything about my day, and I found it perfectly normal and actually quite pleasant to have someone to tell.
“Don’t you want to know about me?” she asked when I was done.
“Well, yes, I guess so,” I stammered. “I am curious. You seem so intelligent and nice.”
“So how did I get into this line of work?” she asked for me, and then answered her own question. “I started while I was still in high school, in West Orange, New Jersey. Mom lost her job, Dad was long gone, and I needed some extra money.
“It was easy. Lots of girls did it. Mostly businessmen, in their BMWs and Mercedes, cruising near the school on their way back to fancy homes in Livingston and Mendham. In the beginning we did it right there on Conforti Avenue, right in their cars, but that was way too risky, so we started making dates. They paid for motel rooms. Sometimes we even went to their homes, when the wife was away.
“I wanted to go to college, but we couldn’t afford much, and I didn’t get a scholarship, so I decided to keep on ‘the life’ until I had enough to pay tuition. I had a few different jobs, still hooking on the side, and then I moved to New York. I met Annabelle, and we decided to work together. It’s much safer that way. We look out for each other. We started the web site the day after Christmas in 2001, and business has been great ever since.”
I was flooded with questions but totally tongue-tied. No matter. Darlene just kept on going.
“Pimps and drugs. Two things to avoid. We do not do drugs. And we are not managed by any low-life pimp slimes. With the web site, we can be independent. We even have our own support group. It’s called PONY, Prostitutes of New York. PONY provides legal and health referrals to sex workers, and advocates for the decriminalization of prostitution.”
“You can avoid the pimps?” I asked. “They just let you say no?”
“Actually, the mayor’s crackdown on crime has made the pimps less aggressive than they might have been before. I think they’re afraid. So it’s been good for us.”
I didn’t quite understand, and was going to ask more when Annabelle returned. A few minutes later, Darlene had to go and we said goodbye.
It was absolutely surreal to be saying goodbye to these prostitutes who had become my first friends in New York, not counting Michael Kay on the side of the bus. But there I was, talking to Darlene and Annabelle like they were den mothers. The funny thing was they had become people to me, despite their appearance and profession.
“Now that you know our web address,” Darlene said, “do promise to keep in touch.” She leaned forward to give me a kiss, which, after a slight hesitation, involved her tongue.
On Thursday morning, I retrieved the rest of my luggage from Penn Station and spent the day setting up my apartment and exploring the neighborhood around Washington Square Park. I called my friend Tom Kaplan in Baltimore to tell him I was coming down, and could I stay with him and Barb for the weekend. They were storing some of my clothes and other things in their house. Since I didn’t start work until Monday, I would have time to retrieve more clothes and bring them back to the City.
I took my first shower in my new apartment, put on my new white polo shirt, and went out to celebrate.The best pizza in New York, a city justifiably proud of its outstanding pizza, can be had at John’s Pizza on the Upper West Side.
I had eaten there with my UMBC friends after a trip to New York to see a Yankee game in April, and I had a clear memory of the pizza, which was great, and the bartender, whose name was Bonnie.
I popped a tape in the VCR to catch the parts of the Yankee game I would miss while I was out, chose the cream colored Yankee cap I had bought outside the Stadium and set out from my summer apartment to the Mecca of New York City pizza.
Do you know how sometimes there’s a little extra swagger in your walk, a little cool? Your heels click the sidewalk, even if you’re wearing running shoes and can’t hear the sound. That’s how I felt when I emerged from the subway at Columbus Circle and stared at the huge silver globe next to one of Donald Trump’s many towers.
I had a New York City job, I was going to law school, and I was on my way to check out Bonnie the bartender.
Just past Sixty-second on Broadway is one of New York’s movie houses that specializes in “art” films. I was attracted by a little courtyard behind the movie entrance. I had already learned to expect surprises in the big city, and here was another one.
A pocket park, small waterfall, benches and chairs, old people sitting, kids running, two large borzois on leashes, and a lingerie shop displaying a poster of a spectacular woman wearing a thong.
Back to Broadway. Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Opera were across the street to my left, and I thought how ridiculous one of those large opera singers would look in a thong. I think I laughed out loud.
John’s Pizza is on 65th Street, but I remembered a Disney Store a block ahead, and decided to get a present for my God-daughter Katie, Barb and Tom’s daughter.
At the corner of Sixty-sixth and Columbus, I waited for a red light. The light changed and I started across.
An elderly woman also started forward from the opposite side of the street, but she slipped off the curb and fell forward. I rushed over.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, reaching down to steady her as she knelt in the street.
She seemed a little dazed, but answered, “I think I’m all right.”
She was small and very thin, but stronger than she appeared. When I helped her up, she grabbed my shirt on both sides and pulled herself to her feet. I retrieved her pocketbook and gave it to her.
She was flustered and a little embarrassed. Her knee was skinned and her hands were scraped, but otherwise she didn’t seem too badly damaged. I smiled at her and she smiled back.
“You’re a nice young man,” she said. “Thank you.”
The light changed again, and I watched her cross the street to make sure she was all right. There was a newsstand on the corner, and I bought some mints, preparation in case I got close enough to Bonnie.
The elderly guy in the newsstand had seen me help the old woman, and he said, with a big smile and a heavy Spanish accent, “That was nice. What you did.” I thanked him, paid for the mints, and entered the Disney Store.
I found a great Eeyore doll for Tom and Barb’s daughter Katie. The clerk said Eeyore was her favorite, I said mine too, and told her how pleased I thought my God-daughter would be. I paid with my Visa card and hustled back to John’s.
Luck was with me. Bonnie was working, so I went to the bar, hoping for a conversation.
“What can I get you?” Bonnie asked.
“What’s on tap?”
“Guinness, Bass, Bud Light …”
“Bud.”
She served the beer and went off. So much for my big conversation. I had done better with Darlene and Annabelle, but of course that was their doing, not mine. I sipped the Bud Light, and tried to think of something else to say.
Bonnie came to my rescue, tossing a smile over her shoulder while serving a beer to another customer.
“Are you new here?” she said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“I was here in April, after a Yankee game.” Pause. Take the plunge. “I sure noticed you.”
“You noticed, huh?” she said in her great New York accent, and my heart jumped. Was she flirting? Another dazzling smile.
“Are you a big Yankee fan?” she asked, taking in my cap.
“I’ve always rooted for the Yankees. Even though I’m from Baltimore.”
“Has that been a problem for you?”
“Sometimes.”
“They play tonight.”
“I know. I set my VCR. Don’t want to miss anything.”
“I’ll put the game on in a few minutes. Would you like a table where you can watch?”
“That would be great.”
“What’s your name?”“Josh.”
“I’m Bonnie.”
“I know,” I said, and was rewarded with another spectacular smile.
She went to the end of the bar and whispered something to the hostess, and I was soon seated, watching the Yankees on TV and Bonnie behind the bar.
The Yanks were playing the Tigers in Detroit. In the top of the first, Derek Jeter bounced one up the middle and Jason Giambi hit a line drive over the fence in right center field. Andy Pettitte retired the A’s in order in the bottom of the first, finishing the inning by striking out Dmitri Young on a wicked slider.
My pizza arrived and no more runs scored while I ate. The pizza was as great as I remembered. After three innings, it was still Yankees two, Tigers nothing. I got one more great smile from Bonnie as I was leaving.
Before going to the subway, I walked a block the other way on Columbus to get a magazine for my trip to Baltimore.
“How much for Sports Illustrated?”
“$3.95.”
When I paid for the magazine, the newsstand guy recognized me.
“Hey, you’re the guy who helped the old lady … but it’s still $3.95.”
He laughed and gave me my change. He said something else, but his words were drowned out by the scream of sirens from an ambulance and two police cars flying around the corner.
I walked back to Columbus Circle, jumped on a waiting downtown subway, and twenty minutes later I was back in my apartment. I put on the TV, switched off the VCR, and watched the Yankees complete what became a relatively easy victory.
I set the alarm for 6:00 am, and went to sleep. It turned out to be the only night I ever slept in that apartment.
“Help me.”
Kim Scott heard the weak voice as she neared Central Park West at 63rd Street, having completed a brisk six-mile run around the outer loop of the park. She stopped, but saw no one.
“Help,” she heard again, and this time she realized the voice was coming from the bottom of an embankment to the left of the footpath. She leaned over and looked down.
“Oh my God,” she said when she saw the old woman crumpled on the ground. She scrambled down and knelt next to the woman, recoiling at the blood streaming from her head.
“I’ll get help,” Kim said, but the woman’s bony hand grabbed her arm in a fierce grip and held on tight.
“… nice young man … helped me … robbed me.”
“Who?” Kim said. “Do you know who did this?”
“… white baseball cap,” she said.
She mumbled a few more words, and then her hand released its grip and slid away to the ground. Kim climbed up the slope to call for help, but she knew it was too late.
