Karma's a Killer (8 page)

“What happened, Dharma?”

Delusional Kate hoped that Dharma's answer would be a surprise. Maybe she'd been arrested for some minor pet-activist crime, like chaining herself to an Animal Control vehicle or stealing some poor unsuspecting pit bull from inside its own yard.

“Kate, I—” Her voice caught. “I can't say it. I can't even believe it.” When she spoke again, her voice was so soft, it was almost a whisper. “Kate, I need you to come see me. I've been arrested for murder.”

Nine

For the record, telling
your boyfriend that your not-as-dead-as-you-might-have-implied mother has been arrested for murder doesn't go over well. At least it didn't in my case.

Michael was still fuming the next morning. He road-raged his way through downtown Seattle's Monday morning traffic, gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. His jaw trembled. A small vein pulsed high on the side of his forehand. His face glowed so red I was afraid he might have a stroke.

“Explain this to me again. You told Rene that your mother was alive and in town when?”

“Saturday.”

“A full day before you told me.”

“It was less than a day, Michael. More like twenty-two hours.”

Michael's look would have soured milk.

“I swear, I wasn't going to hide it from you forever. I was planning to talk to you after Dharma and I met yesterday, but as you know, I never saw her.” I cringed and tried to look innocent. “It could have been worse. I didn't tell you about Dharma right away, but at least I didn't lie to you.”

“Only because you didn't get the chance. You came home so late on Saturday night that … ” His shoulders, already tense to begin with, shot up to his ears.

Busted.

He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “
That's
why you came home so late, isn't it? You were avoiding me.”

“Michael, I—”

“Enough, Kate,” he interrupted. “I don't want to hear it.” He reached over and cranked up the radio's volume, clearly ending the conversation.

The safest response was to let him sulk in silence. I didn't have a good explanation for my behavior, anyway. Michael was right. I'd already kept way too many secrets from him. I knew he'd calm down eventually; Michael wasn't the type to hold a grudge. I also knew that each time he caught me in an evasion—and each time he blew his stack at me for shutting him out—it chipped away at the foundation of our relationship. If we were going to work as a couple, we'd have to figure out a compromise.

I glanced at Michael's anger-rigid body. Necessary or not, today wasn't the day to begin negotiating a peace treaty.

Instead, I stared out the passenger-side window, watched the skyscrapers go by, and made up fairytales about Dharma's arrest. Imagined scenarios were all I had to work with. Other than telling me she'd been accused of killing Raven, Dharma had refused to discuss the charges against her unless I came to see her in person. She claimed that her lawyer warned her not to talk on the jail's phone system, but I suspected that the decision to hold back was hers. Information was the only bait she had to lure me into her lair.

At first, I was torn. Dharma should be making nice with her lawyer right now, not her estranged daughter. But my old nemeses—curiosity and guilt—drew me toward Dharma like a mosquito to a bug zapper, with the same likely outcome. Within minutes of hanging up the phone, I was back on it with John O'Connell, my father's old partner at the Seattle Police Department, begging him to expedite my background check so I could secure a coveted spot on Dharma's approved visitors list.

All of which led to this—me having to endure the silent treatment from Michael as we drove to the King County Jail for the first of two weekly visiting times. I had a gazillion questions for Dharma, and I intended to get answers to all of them. Two prime examples:
Why do the police think you killed Raven?
And, more importantly,
Did you do it?

Twenty minutes later, Michael and I opened the double glass doors of the King County Jail, passed through the metal detectors, and submitted to a brief and minimally invasive pat-down. We signed in at the front desk and handed a bored-looking officer our photo IDs. She scowled over the top of her glasses at Michael.

“You're not on the inmate's approved visitors list.”

Michael's mumbled response was unintelligible, which was probably a good thing. There were children in the room, after all.

I smiled and did my best impersonation of a trustworthy yoga teacher. “We were hoping to go in together. Can't you make an exception?”

“Listen, Ms. … ” She peered down at my ID. “Ms. Davidson.” She wrinkled her nose as if the name were somehow distasteful. “There is only one way your friend here is getting into the jail today, and it is
not
as a visitor. Would you like to accompany him?”

I sensed it was a rhetorical question, so I didn't answer. I turned to Michael as she handed him back his driver's license. “Don't take it personally, Michael. I didn't tell Dharma about you, and—”

Wrong answer.

“Of course you didn't,” he growled. “But I'll bet you told her all about Rene.”

I hadn't, actually, but now wasn't the time to argue.

He shoved his wallet into his back pocket. “I'll wait in the chairs with the rest of the chauffeurs.”

I turned back to the police woman/receptionist. “I guess it will be just me.”

She recited the rules in a perfect monotone.

“Thirty minutes maximum per visit. The clock starts as soon as the inmate sits down. No cell phones, keys, or other personal items. Inappropriate attire, profanity, or disruptive behavior will not be tolerated. Shoes must be worn at all times.”

“Seriously? Who goes inside a jail barefoot?” As a yoga teacher, I spent most of my workday in bare feet. But tiptoeing shoeless through a space that housed prostitutes, drunks, and IV drug addicts? Well, that seemed like a poor hygiene choice, even to me.

Officer Friendly gave me a droll look and continued. “Any attempt to smuggle in contraband materials will result in expulsion and further sanctions.” She pointed to the crowded waiting area. “Have a seat and wait until your name is called.”

I turned away from the desk and stared across the dismal room. Screaming children, exhausted-looking mothers, well-dressed professionals, broken-hearted grandparents. All loitered together in the suffocating space, waiting for the chance to spend thirty no-contact, monitored minutes with their loved ones.

I claimed the orange plastic chair bolted to the floor next to Michael, closed my eyes, and tried to numb myself to the energy around me. Like many yoga teachers, I had become highly attuned to energy. I wasn't psychic, simply sensitive to the subtle energies of people and places. Sometimes horrifically so. This room was one of the worst. Anxiety, anger, hopelessness, and depression rippled through the air, as suffocating as the heat waves rising off a Death Valley freeway.

I'd spent more than a few hours at the West Precinct with Dad, but the closest I'd been to this side of the American justice system was my arrest on Orcas. At the time, I'd thought nothing could feel as claustrophobic as the baby-vomit-green inquisition room they'd used to detain me.

I was wrong.

This was worse.

Much worse.

I passed the next several minutes emptying my pockets. Cell phone, change, keys, and dog treats all went into my purse, which I set on the floor next to Michael. He refused to make eye contact, so I spoke to the side of his head.

“I'm sorry you didn't make Dharma's visitors list, but I'm glad that you're here. I couldn't have faced coming alone.” I placed my hand on his forearm. “You know I adore you, right?”

Michael continued looking forward. “I love you, too, but I'm still angry. You shut me out. Again.”

“I know.” I didn't promise that it would be the last time; lying would have made the situation worse. I interlaced my fingers with his and we waited in silence.

Officer Friendly droned out several names. Mine was among them. She pointed to an elevator. “You can go up now.”

Michael squeezed my hand. “Be strong. I'll be here when you get back.”

I smiled. “If you haven't picked up a better girlfriend.”

He gripped my hand tighter. “I mean it. I'll always be here for you. No matter how hard you try to push me away.”

I believed him. I'd be there for him, too. I backed toward the elevator and winked. “Then I guess you're stuck with me, buddy.”

The other visitors and I rode the elevator upstairs in silence. When the door opened, we walked together, expressions grim, like a herd of cattle en route to the slaughter. Our shoes clicked a syncopated rhythm down the stark, hospital-like hallway. The stench of disinfectant-laced body odor permeated the air.

A grumpy-looking male officer directed us to a fluorescent-lit room, which was divided in two by a Plexiglas wall of half-enclosed phone booths. Each booth contained a wooden, bar-stool-like chair that was bolted to the floor and a black phone receiver affixed to a metal partition. A sign across the top of the divider read
Keep hands in plain view at all times
. I considered asking Officer Chuckles what I could possibly pass to a prisoner through bulletproof plastic, but I opted to sit in the uncomfortable seat he assigned me and wait quietly instead.

Dharma and several other female prisoners were escorted through a door on the opposite side of the partition. She sat on the stool across from me and picked up her handset.

“Thank you for coming.”

Granted, I didn't know Dharma well, but I doubted that she'd ever looked worse. A bright red rash had erupted across her forehead. Her formerly braided hair hung in greasy-looking clumps, and the pale skin under her eyes was accented by dark purple half circles. Dharma hadn't just aged in dog years since I'd seen her last; she'd aged in dog decades.

She gave me a tentative smile. “Did you have any trouble finding parking?”

“Really? That's what you want to spend our thirty minutes talking about? Parking?”

Dharma flinched at my response. She took off her glasses, closed her eyes, and slowly rubbed the bridge of her nose. When she looked up, her eyes were wet.

“You're right, Kate. We have much more important things to discuss.” She slid her glasses back on and gripped the receiver. “I'm sorry about missing yesterday. I'm sorry about … everything. When you were a baby—”

I held up my hand in the universal
stop
sign. “Not now, Dharma.” I took a deep breath to steady my emotions. “We can talk about the past later. Let's focus on now. You don't look well. Are you doing okay in here?”

“This isn't summer camp, but I'll survive. It's better than the Juarez jail I was stuck in for six weeks.” She shuddered. “The worst part is the food. Jail isn't exactly vegetarian friendly.”

Dharma was vegetarian, too? It shouldn't have surprised me. She was, after all, an animal rights activist. Still, it hadn't occurred to me that Dharma and I might have a lot in common. The insight felt dangerous. Keeping a healthy distance would be significantly more challenging if I actually liked her.

She kept rambling, whether from nervousness or guilt I couldn't tell. “There was some sort of desiccated meat patty on my plate this morning. I gave it to my crazy-eyed roommate and traded my reconstituted eggs for the heroine addict's apple. No one wanted the watered-down orange drink. I would kill for a cup of coffee.” She looked over her shoulder, as if expecting an espresso cart to magically appear.

“Enough about the accommodations, Dharma. Why do the police think you killed Raven?”

Dharma's lips tensed. “I don't want to talk about my arrest, Kate.”

“Then why am I here?”

“I need you to do me a favor.”

A favor? Seriously?

Thirty years' worth of bitterness spewed from my throat.

“A favor? You disappear from my life for three decades, then con me into visiting you in jail just so I can do you a favor?” I stood up, preparing to smash down the phone and leave Dharma behind once and for all. But not without getting in three final words: “Go to—”

Dharma jumped to her feet and slammed her palms against the partition. “Stop!”

The officer behind Dharma grabbed his walkie-talkie and took three quick steps forward, ready to call in reinforcements. Officer Chuckles appeared behind me.

Dharma's eyes locked on mine. “Please, Kate. Please. I'm begging you. Don't leave.”

Two overwhelming sensations hit me at once. The first was staggering empathy. Not with Dharma; not even with my murdered friend, George. With George's daughter. I finally understood why she was so hostile to George the day he tried to make amends. Some wounds—especially those inflicted in childhood—couldn't be bandaged. Not even stitched. Sometimes, in order to save the patient, you had to cut off the limb.

I almost walked out the door. I
should
have walked out the door. But I couldn't. The second sensation froze me in place.

Connection.

To Dharma.

In spite of the bulletproof wall separating us, in spite of the other gaping visitors, in spite of Officer Chuckles's glaring stare, I felt Dharma's energy.

She was trapped. She was terrified. She was vulnerable.

She might even be innocent.

And she needed my help.

The insight into Dharma's psyche hit me like a blow to the sternum. Bitter or not—morally justified or not—I was supposedly a yogi. Yogis showed active compassion whenever they saw suffering. Telling Dharma to go to Hades while marching out of the room would never pass muster. I had to choose: I could live by my values, or I could walk away. I couldn't do both.

I slowly sat down and motioned for her to do the same. The two officers backed away.

“Okay, Dharma. I'm listening.”

“I need you to go to my motel and pick up my belongings.”

“Your belongings?”

“It's not much. I only brought one suitcase. It's all worthless to anyone else, but if I don't get out of here soon, the motel will get rid of it. My attorney says I can sign a release and they'll give you my key card. Can you please go to the motel, pack up my stuff, and keep it for me?”