Bank Robbers (30 page)

She slid down onto the backseat and was just about to close the door when it was pulled back open and Arthur swung into the backseat beside her.

The car lurched away from the curb, and she sat still and quiet, glancing over at him.

“Don't say I never did anything for you,” he grunted, and sat chewing on an unlit cigar.

After a moment she slid her arm through his and leaned against him. Her eyes looked forward, and she watched the skyline of Manhattan appear on the horizon.

By the time the cab pulled up to the address Sid had given her the day before, Dottie was a shaky mess. Arthur handed the driver a hundred-dollar bill and got out. She stared at the granite building and walked inside.

“Arnowitz,” Arthur said to the guard, and stared at the granite table.

The guard picked up a phone and called up to the office. He nodded to Arthur.

He slipped his arm through Dottie's easily and they rode the elevator up to the Thirty-third floor.

Sid was waiting at the elevator bank. He silently walked them down the corridor to the law-firm offices. It was quiet in the office. The air was motionless and stuffy from a lack of circulation. He led them into a large corner office and shut the door.

“Well, it seems we have a situation here that I need to be filled in on,” he said, sinking into a large leather chair. Behind him was a view of Lower Manhattan and New Jersey.

“Who is this woman?” he began and stared at Dottie.

*   *   *

C
LACK
, clack, clack. The sound of Tracy's heels pounding up the stone stairs of the building echoed through the hallways. She threw open the door to the apartment, and ignoring her husband and brother, marched over to the telephone.

“Did you find Mom?” Fred asked, and she glared at him as she dialed the phone.

“Hello, I need to speak to Don Goldstein,” Tracy barked into the phone, and she watched her husband stand up and look worried. She placed the palm of her hand over the receiver.

“Turn on the television,” she ordered.

“Where's Mom?” Fred repeated, as he flicked on the set.

“Why are you calling our lawyer?” Brian asked.

“Because,” she began, looked at the television, and pointed to it.

She turned away as Fred and Brian walked over and stood in front of the screen. She put her finger in her other ear and strained to hear.

“I don't care where he is, this is an emergency. I need him on the phone, right away.”

Behind her she heard Brian whistle low and say, “Oh, my God, it's your mother.”

*   *   *

“W
ELL
, we can't do anything today.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's Sunday at five. No one's going to hear this today. I'm afraid your friend is going to spend the night in MCC,” Sid said and looked at her.

“Are you sure this is all you have to tell me? There are no other surprises?”

Dottie grimaced at him. “No, I told you everything,” she snapped.

Sid stood up and walked over to a coat rack. He took a black raincoat off it and put it on.

“Well, there's nothing to be done until morning. I'll find out where the arraignment is and when and”—he glanced at Arthur—“I guess we'll post bail.”

“Of course we'll post bail. Honestly—” Dottie shook her head.

*   *   *

T
ERESA
followed a guard down a long noisy hallway. On each side were cells. Women moved about inside the cells, some hollered out as she passed. Blaring sounds of television sets and music fought for attention as they echoed off the tiled walls, intensifying the din.

For the first time she was afraid. This was not the picture Dottie had painted for her. Teresa began to curse her, as she came to a cell, and the guard punched in a number and the door unlatched. She carried her blanket, sheets, and pillowcase inside the empty room, and heard the guard push the door closed behind her.

Teresa sank down on her cot and listened to the springs heave and squeak under her. Well, at least she'd been given her own cell, she thought, and looked at the barren walls.

She was very tired all of a sudden. She'd spread an angry scowl across her face just before she'd entered the building, and all her energy seemed to have gone to keeping it there, as she walked through the cesspool of the floor she was on.

Never let anybody think they can get over on you or take advantage of you; that was what Teresa had been taught her whole life. And in an odd way, it was as if she'd been in preparation for this.

She couldn't imagine Dottie holding up under the pressure.

Dottie.

She wondered where she was, and what she was doing. Probably in another country somewhere. Boy, would she get a laugh out of this …

Teresa slowly stood up, gave a large yawn, and began to go about making up her bed. Well, it could be worse, she thought, she could've been stuck with some loudmouth roommate, or some kind of loony, but they'd given her her own room.

She smoothed the fitted sheet over the blue-striped mattress.

It was probably because of her age, or maybe they didn't think a fifty-seven-year-old was going to fit in. Or maybe Dottie was going to turn out to be right about this whole thing, and she was going to wind up holding all the cards.

Whatever it was, Teresa thought as she tucked the top sheet under, making neat hospital corners as she went, all she had to do was survive one bad meal and one night's sleep until nine 'clock tomorrow morning. Then there'd be the arraignment, and then it was going to be her turn.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
ERESA'D
slept like a baby.

It was the last thing she'd thought would happen when they had brought her in the evening before, but she'd slept. Maybe there was something about the noise and the music and the jail sounds which sounded as if she'd left the television on, but for the first time in almost a year she'd gotten twelve complete hours of pure rest. She'd been woken by a buzzer or bell kind of sound at six in the morning; the crack of dawn, and she didn't even feel tired. She ate an enormous breakfast, instead of the tiny bowl of cornflakes that was usually the only thing she had the energy to make for herself. She had three cups of lousy coffee, showered, and dressed. She wore the same suit.

There were crowds lining the hallways in the court building as they brought Teresa, now in small plastic handcuffs which almost looked like Hefty bag ties, into the courtroom. Her eyes scanned the room, and then, dazed from the photographers' flashes, she closed them for a moment, and felt them fill with soothing tears.

As she opened her eyes again, and wiped them with the back of both her hands, the thin, twitchy face of her daughter suddenly materialized in the middle of the crowd. Her eyes were still shaded by her big sunglasses, but her mouth was moving back and forth in overdrive. Teresa knew she was glaring beneath those glasses. Tracy's hair was all disheveled, and Teresa wondered who was watching the kids so she could be there.

Behind Tracy was the emotionless face of her husband, who looked more stunned than anything by this, and lastly, her youngest, Fred, who looked just plain worried. Teresa felt a brief wave of guilt for worrying them, but that vanished immediately and was replaced by what she had felt coursing through her veins for twenty-four straight hours, and that was
excitement.
It was as if someone had given her a shot of Adrenalin; she loved this, and she kept her head high and dignified and smiled at every reporter or anyone with a microphone or camera.

She was led to the front of the courtroom. A guard held open the low swinging gate that separated the players from the spectators, as Teresa smugly thought. She kept her eyes straight ahead, staring at the light oak-paneled walls, the matching judge's chair, and the guards who stood motionless in front of a door on the right. A large American flag hung limply on a staff next to the judge's bench.

Behind her she could hear the strange clicking of fingers on laptop keys, and the indistinguishable din of voices all talking at the same time. Flashes of light bounced off the paneling in front of her.

Jeez, the amount of film they were wasting on the back of her head, she thought for a moment, and then suddenly turned around and faced the courtroom. She gave them all a smile, slowly turning her head from one side to the other. Click, click, click, and they went crazy.

People started shouting questions right and left, lights, held by news camera crews, went off, creating an unpleasant blinding glare, and still Teresa DeNunzio Newhouse kept smiling. Behind her there was the sound of a gavel hitting whatever that thing is that they put up there and Teresa turned around to see a youngish man with jet-black hair who was the judge. One of the guards started yelling for order, and quickly everyone quieted and then they all sat.

There was all sorts of echoey mumbo-jumbo from the judge, to which Teresa didn't pay the slightest bit of attention, but kept her chair at an angle so she could keep an eye on the spectators.

Tracy looked as if she was either going to be sick or blow her top at any minute.

“Mrs. Newhouse? Mrs. Newhouse! You may be interested in what I'm saying up here!” A voice rang out and Teresa turned around and squinted at the judge.

“Good, now the question was, do you have legal counsel?” he asked crisply.

Teresa stood up and was just about to say no, when she heard not one but two voices ring out behind her.

“Yes, your honor! He'll be here in—” Tracy's voice rang out, and was interrupted by another, a man's voice.

“I have been retained as legal counsel to Mrs. Newhouse.” A man, heavyset, balding on top, but impeccably dressed, pushed his way through.

Teresa's eyes darted over to Tracy, who looked as stunned as she was, and they both looked at the lawyer. But it was who was behind the lawyer who made Teresa's mouth drop open.

It was Dottie.

Dottie Weist, her lips pursed sideways into a half-frown, half-grin, which said, “When I get my hands on you…” and her arms crossed over her chest, was staring straight into her eyes, and Teresa felt a slight chill go across her. She was wearing pants and a silk blouse, and her hair and makeup were different, but it was Dottie. Teresa turned around quickly and let a thousand thoughts and questions, and some half-thoughts, whiz through her head, and she suddenly felt that she was trapped.

Her eyes slid suspiciously over to this lawyer, who was busy unpacking his briefcase on the table next to her.

Dottie. Here in the courtroom. What was she going to do? Teresa's heart was beginning to pound, she felt hot and sweaty all of a sudden.

Was Dottie going to confess? Or had Teresa unwittingly tripped up their big plan? Was she going to … she turned her head around, almost against her will, and again stared at Dottie. Behind her was a tall, very fat man in a windbreaker, with thick glasses and a cap, and Dottie was whispering to him.

Teresa turned back quickly, and she felt her chest begin to tense. It had to be
him.
Arthur MacGregor. She felt herself begin to panic as the thought that she had actually screwed up a perfectly executed robbery occurred to her. She looked at the man behind Dottie again.

Jeez, if that was Arthur MacGregor, he'd let himself go, she thought, and turned back around. So what was Dottie here for? What were they here for? She bet it was to find out what she'd told the FBI. And if that was the case, then Teresa was in the catbird seat; she exhaled and relaxed. And then she thought, but if it wasn't, she could be in big trouble. Teresa looked back at the judge.

“You are credentialed to practice law in the state of New York?” the kid judge was saying.

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Are you prepared to enter a plea?”

“Not at this time. I am requesting that bail be waived as my client has no known priors—”

“Your Honor,” the district attorney interrupted, “this woman is accused of holding up a bank with a gun, and shooting a guard.”

“Yes, yes,” the judge mumbled, and then they all mumbled some more, but all Teresa could think of was Dottie and Arthur MacGregor standing silently behind her, ready, it seemed, to blow her whole story.

“Bail is set at a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars; next court date will be in three weeks”—the judge thumbed through a roster—“at ten
A.M
.” And with that he hit the gavel.

Teresa looked at Sid and blinked.

“Mrs. Newhouse, I am Sidney Arnowitz; I have been retained by Mrs. Dorothy Weist and a third party as your attorney.” He held out his hand, and she slowly took it. He gave a relaxed shake and immediately dropped her hand. “It should take half an hour or so to post bail, and then I suggest we go back to my office so I may take your statement.”

She nodded up and down, and felt herself sinking into the chair.

*   *   *

“M
OTHER
, do you realize what you've done? Do you realize everyone knows about this now? I mean, what were you thinking of!” Tracy's voice was high and raspy, and she was pacing back and forth, her hands on her hips. She almost reminded Teresa of a caged lion, the way her permed black hair framed her face.

They had been waiting in this room in this fancy law office for what seemed like an eternity. A long, dark conference table dominated the room, whose walls were lined with bookcases of matching dark wood that were filled with thick, expensively bound legal books. There were two doors, one on each side of the conference room. They had entered the room through one door, and Teresa figured that Dottie was behind the other. Through her mind flashed the ending of that movie,
The African Queen,
when the camera focused on this torpedo, just lying in wait for the big German ship, to ram it and blow it to smithereens.

Only Dottie was the torpedo and she, Teresa, was the German ship.