The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) (11 page)

              “Anyway, what can you tell me about Esteban?”  While he went into his spiel about how bad Esteban was and how he felt sorry for the home life kids like Esteban are subjected to, I took in every one of Klein’s facial expressions, gestures, and body movements while clinging to his every word.  Klein continued to ramble, almost as if he strongly disliked kids. 

              “Esteban is a very troubled boy,” Klein said.  “He doesn’t follow directions and constantly wants to fight with other students, which we do not tolerate here.  We tried to accommodate him here but it just didn’t work in our favor so we felt Esteban was better fit at a program like Right Step.” 

              All of Klein’s over exaggerated hand gestures led me to believe that he should be campaigning for senator rather than attempting to molding the world’s future. 

              I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character and can see when people are putting up a façade either to hide something or to impress others.  I nodded along just to keep him talking.

              “I don’t know how familiar you are with the way the educational system works but there is a level of order we have to maintain within a school building while doing our due diligence of providing a fair and equal opportunity for each child to succeed.  However, when a student takes advantage of the opportunities they are given, other arrangements need to be made.  Esteban is one of those students that required other arrangements.”  He said it as if Esteban were an insubordinate employee being laterally transferred to an out- of- country branch rather than a student.  I could almost see a flash of anger in Klein’s eyes.  “Some of these kids just never learn.”  Now he was starting to sound like an after- school special.

              As a cop when asking questions to perps we take in, throwing curveballs was a key in giving me a chance to gauge what type of person I was dealing with.  I hoped it worked here as well.  “How long have you been a principal, Mr. Klein?”

              He didn’t seem too thrown off by the question.  “Uh, let’s see.  I’ve been here going on three years.  Before that I taught for ten.  High school English in South Jersey.”  Klein was talking like he was responding to a job interview question. 

              “Have you ever met Esteban’s parents?  What are they like?” I asked.

              “I’ve never met Esteban’s father, but I have met Ms. Cruz on several occasions.  When Esteban was in his early primary grades, first and second, Ms. Cruz was a member of the PTA and quite involved.  But then something happened.  When Esteban was in third and fourth grades he began to become, for lack of a better term, a troublemaker.  The fighting, the cursing, the defiance began and continued to grow.  He became a bigger problem to handle.  In fourth grade, Esteban was evaluated by our child study team and was labeled with a behavior disorder.  As previously mentioned, we attempted to keep him here but we were unable to accommodate him.”

              Something happened.  What did Klein mean by that?  Did he know what happened?  And what about the father?  Why was the mother so involved at one time but the father was virtually nonexistent throughout?  I was beginning to think there wasn’t even a father at all.

              What had happened to Esteban Machado?

TWENTY SIX

Paterson’s Main Street is like many other Main Streets in America, offering a smorgasbord of shops, eateries, value stores, high and low- end clothing.  You name it, Paterson’s Main Street has it.  It was after two in the afternoon and I was getting hungry so I decided to roam the immediate vicinity to see if I could find something quick to eat while I got a feel for how Esteban lived.  

Immediately next to School 5 was a computer repair store, naturally offering the best deals in town.  I nearly walked into a telephone pole when I saw what was next to the computer store.  What every elementary school in America needs within arm’s length, a gun shop.  I couldn’t believe that the city of Paterson- any city for that matter, but especially Paterson- would allow a gun shop to be anywhere in the vicinity of an elementary school.  Hundreds of kids walk by on a daily basis, staring at the neon signs luring them in for handguns and ammo.  Hunting rifles lined the front windows like they were G.I. Joe accessories and not deadly weapons.  The city was begging for a school shooting.  And Paterson wonders why it receives the reputation it clearly deserves.  And the country wonders why we have to suffer through a never ending string of deadly mass shootings.  Malls.  Movie theaters.  Public town hall meetings.  Schools. 

Society enjoys blaming the increased level of violence and the increased desensitization of our human behavior on the realistic nature of video games and movies.  I partially agree with that but the majority of my belief says the amount of guns that are available is way too many and the ease with which people can purchase a gun is absurd.  Now I can add proximity to my list of discrepancies related to gun control.  Is there really need to place a gun shop anywhere near a school let alone next door?

             
I bet you’d like another chance, wouldn’t you?

             
“Shut up!” I said a little too loudly but not enough to draw strange looks.

C’mon, you son of a bitch.  I’m sure you’d feel really good about seeing more die like Jake. 

The voice has always had a slight variation of my own and always speaks in a commanding whisper with a deep sinister undertone.  Talking the way I do sometimes the morning after a night of hard drinking.  Raspy, worn out, and hung over. 

I’d been out on my own for just a couple of days and wasn’t ready to carry my gun.  I hadn’t held a gun since the incident and hoped that I’d never have to again.  I continued my walk, a little more quickly this time.  It didn’t take me very long to realize that Paterson must have a lot of people that needed their hair done.  Nearly every corner on the block was occupied by either a beauty salon or a barbershop.  Both serve the same function but apparently are gender specific. 

              Passing a store called, “G’s Spot,” I became very intrigued.  I window shopped.  It appeared to be a clothing store, not a sex shop as originally assumed.  Very creative.  A little further down I found the Passaic County Jail neatly tucked away, just like School 5, in the middle of Paterson’s social life.  Another reason why Paterson deserves its reputation.  I finally found a safe place to eat, “A Taste of Italy.”  I ordered a pepperoni and a black olive slice and sat at a corner table facing the street.  I grabbed a Snapple out of the refrigerator.  School wasn’t out yet so the place was empty, which gave me a chance to run through everything I’d gathered so far on Esteban Machado. 

              I took out a pen from my pocket and began making notes on a brown paper napkin.  I had: (1) Esteban into drugs?, (2) Crazy house/home life, (3) Older brother in jail for drugs, (4) Reported missing by mother, where’s dad? (5) Fights in school, (6) Klein shady?  It was a longer list than I anticipated but it was still worth shit.  Nothing connected or even casually intertwined the way I’d hoped they would.  Javier, Esteban’s older brother, and Esteban’s incident reports at school indicating his knowledge and possible experience with drugs was the only possible connection I had.  I kept attempting to convince myself that it’d only been a couple of days.  But just a couple of days to me was an eternity to someone unwillingly on the lam like Esteban.

              Then I thought about Klein, School 5’s principal, and whether or not he was putting up a façade, a show to hide something, or he was just that much of a douche bag and simply rubbed me the wrong way.  I added another line under number six on my list, to pay Klein another visit.

TWENTY SEVEN

            
 
Esteban was tied to a chair with nylon rope intertwining his wrists behind him.  The tough image had dissolved faster than an Alka- Seltzer in a glass of water.  His street knowledge seemed to be outdone.  His bullying impulses were no more.  Esteban was in way over his head and he was finally starting to realize it.  He was beginning to think this was one of those scared straight programs his mother and teachers kept talking about.  A farce to get him to behave better but his mind wavered back and forth from fiction to reality.

He wasn’t sure if he was in some sort of cage but it was a dimly lit box.  Dimensions and square footage weren’t Esteban’s motif so he had no idea how big the space was but started feeling claustrophobic.  The space was empty except for the chair he was sitting in and the two thugs he was pretty sure were the ones who had picked him up from the baseball field last night.  He had no idea if these were the same two that had originally snatched him up and chained him to the backstop or they were part of a small army. 

              Esteban didn’t remember getting from the parking lot of Checkers to where he was now.  Last thing he recalled was lying on his back attempting to shake loose the ropes that bound his wrists.  Then everything suddenly went blank.  He watched the two guys talking to each other as they leaned on opposite sides of the opening to the storage unit.  Esteban thought they looked like the bouncers that worked at the bar his brother used to take him to. 

              All was quiet until the sound of a slow, steady beat began to echo the desolate halls of where ever he was.  The sound was dress shoes steadily marching down the cement- floor corridor.  They echoed louder and louder in Esteban’s ears the closer they got.  His head thumped as if a drummer was banging away at the flesh of his brain.  They suddenly stopped in front of the opening and the two thugs, once casually leaning, now stood at military- style attention.  Esteban could see a well- dressed Italian looking man suddenly appear.  He only guessed Italian because he looked like someone he knew.  His neighbors were Italian, straight from the heart of Sicily.  The old man next door used to try and tell Esteban stories about his childhood and being in the war until Esteban broke his window.  But this wasn’t his neighbor.  One of his old teachers was Italian.  He remembered because Mr. Anzino assigned the class a project on different regions of Italy.  Esteban didn’t do it.  And this wasn’t Mr. Anzino. 

              This guy was more recent in Esteban’s memory.  Maybe it was the extravagant, pricy sunglasses the man wore indoors.  Maybe it was the dapper suit the man sported.  Maybe it was the shiny shoes.  The limited amount of light skewed his vision then the guy slowly walked into the storage unit, towards where Esteban was held captive.  The closer the man approached, the clearer his face became.   Esteban nearly threw up on himself when he recognized it was Principal Klein.

TWENTY EIGHT

“Hello, Esteban,” Klein, a.k.a. “The Chooch” smugly stated.  Esteban didn’t reply.  Klein wore his most expensive Movado watch, diamond studded bracelets, one on each wrist, and large pinky rings on each hand.  Esteban’s head hung to his chest while Klein crouched down, putting his left hand on the ground to steady himself, in front of Esteban and lifted his chin with his right hand so they could look face to face.   “Hello, Esteban,’” he stated firmly. 

              “Hi,” Esteban whispered.  He suddenly became a weak, powerless little boy that could barely find his voice to say hello.  It was even beginning to surprise Esteban how weak his own voice sounded.  Like an injured baby bird without his mother.

              “My, my, my.  I can’t believe this is the Esteban that once ran the halls of my school, wreaking havoc.  Now look at you.  Quiet as a mouse.  Nothing to say?” Klein laughed and waited.

              “Fuck you,” Esteban said.  His voice deepened and grew strong, albeit temporarily, but still couldn’t lift his eyes off his own feet.  Klein laughed again.

              “Atta, boy.  There it is.”  Barry Klein was one of the most adamant persons against bullying.  In his tenure at School 5, Klein had instilled a variety of buddy programs, character education activities, and severe consequences to curb as much bullying in the school as possible and here he was bullying a teen himself.  Lindsey always said that educators could be the biggest hypocrites and here was a prime example.  She always said that teachers became the biggest kids when they suddenly were the students at professional development meetings, staff meetings, or conferences.  They showed the least amount of patience and were more preoccupied with games and texting on their phones or whispering the latest gossip to one another rather than improving their craft. 

              While Klein was still in his crouched position, the lapel of his suit jacket fell forward and Esteban’s eyes grew wide when he saw a gun resting in a holster pressed against his ribs.  Klein noticed Esteban’s facial expression.  “Don’t worry about that.  I won’t need to use it if you are willing to be a good boy and cooperate.”  He stood up and stretched his arms high above his head, contorted his lower back and turned his back on Esteban.  Klein let out a groan with his stretch as if he’d just risen from several lazy hours on the couch.  He walked towards his two thugs and the three of them spoke in hushed tones for several minutes.  Esteban attempted to crane his neck without being blatantly obvious but couldn’t hear what they were saying.  He thought he heard his name mentioned every few words or so but he wasn’t completely sure.  Sweat began to tickle the insides of his forearms and run down his palms.  His hands couldn’t help but be cupped together from the way his wrists were tied.  Esteban tried to use the sweat to lubricate the ropes enough to shake him loose, again without being too obvious.  His chair skidded a couple of times against the cement but didn’t draw any attention from Klein and his cronies.