Chapter 8
“I can go?”
Surely there is some mistake. The officer shrugs as he twirls the cuffs in his hand, not offering me any answers. He’s just following someone else’s orders.
After changing back into my clothes, I walk out through the courtroom, past the judge, the same way I was previously paraded in front of the cameras.
The judge doesn’t look at me, engrossed as he is on his cell phone, occasionally looking up at the prosecutor or defense attorney discussing the case before him.
I am grateful to be walking out, though I can’t fully accept that I’m free, worried that at any second I’ll be told there’s been a mistake and I’ll be promptly handcuffed again and dragged away.
Innocent until proven guilty is a farce.
All the times I watched the news and, by simply seeing someone in handcuffs, I came to my own—possibly very wrong—conclusions.
People will absolutely assume I’m the Taxicab Killer, or whatever nickname the New York Post will surely give me.
Trying to convince them I haven’t killed anyone will be a fruitless endeavor.
I will deal with all of that later. For now, for just a minute, I will try to enjoy my liberty.
I walk out the double doors to the street while looking for my parents; instead, I see Amaya.
My stomach unclenches a little at finally being out of the courtroom and seeing a friend.
Well, more than a friend. The person responsible for my freedom.
I hadn’t been able to see Amaya in the light of day, or really focus on her appearance while my head spun in the dark of the short-term parking.
I was too busy focusing on getting out amid the grime of the cell and too nervous to look at her when I stood in the courtroom as she argued for my freedom.
Now, I can see the details of her appearance clearly.
She has jet-black hair, thick eyebrows, and large, beautiful eyes.
She looks both familiar and different, like me but also so completely unlike me.
To see Sri Lankans outside of Sri Lanka is almost always a unique occurrence.
She is wearing minimal makeup, and her hair is pulled back away from her face in a loose bun.
She looks put together in a way I never could.
Probably because I never try anymore. It’s an effortless look, but even that requires a fair amount of work as I’ve learned from those “Look Like You’re Wearing No Makeup” YouTube tutorials.
She begins quickly, passing by any pleasantries one may expect at a moment like this.
“Okay, so I sent your parents home because they were exhausted. However, I told them I would wait for you. I know they took your wallet and whatnot, so I have a MetroCard for you to get home. I need to start the investigation.”
My mind is swimming, and I’m slowly drowning in everything Amaya is telling me in what seems to be her trademark rapid-fire fashion.
She speaks as if she is about to run out of air, as if everything has to be said before the clock runs out.
I think about the numerous other cases she probably has on her plate and the limited amount of time she can spend on each one.
Then I see another familiar face. Alex. Relief washes over me when I see him.
Seeing Alex is like a cup of hot cocoa (maybe spiked with booze) on a cold day—warm, comforting, and takes the edge off of any bad situation.
Alex and I became friends because of a common enemy—a motley gang of kids who used good old-fashioned burn books and other means to terrorize us—but remained friends through a shared love of Food Network, board games that took a minimum of three hours to finish, and my mother’s rice and curry.
My mother would never turn away a hungry mouth—especially one that was so complimentary of her chicken curry.
Before I knew it, Alex was showing up at my house all the time.
He would be at most weeknight dinners that would turn into nights too late for my mother to allow him to trek back into Manhattan alone—so he’d sleep over in my brother’s bedroom.
Alex won the genetic lottery. He’s grown into the features that he always resented as a child.
He could be on the cover of one of those romance novels I’ve seen Ammi read when she thinks no one is looking.
He has an angular jaw, wavy brown hair, and a tall stature.
I can’t even imagine being attracted to him though. He’s basically another brother.
“God, the bail payment system here is so archaic. I had to go get a cashier’s check.
I don’t think I’ve ever paid for anything with a cashier’s check…
” Alex says as he wraps his arms around me.
As we hug, I realize how good Alex smells and how bad I do.
Alex doesn’t pull away. What I wouldn’t do for a shower and an endless supply of deodorant right now.
“Y-You paid my bail?” I stutter.
“Of course,” Alex responds casually, as if he’s used to dropping thousands of dollars in mere seconds.
Alex could have been a stereotypical rich asshole, but—partially through a combination of being mostly raised by his extremely polite and kind German nanny and my mother—he’s always had a heart of gold, to me, at least.
“Along with some of your family friends and members of the South Asian community…” Amaya adds.
“They don’t have that kind of money.” My community is rich in many ways. Monetarily isn’t one of them.
“A lot of people chipped in what they could and gave it to your parents. Some people only had fifty dollars or one hundred dollars. Everyone mobilized quickly. But Alex paid the lion’s share. You’re clearly very loved by a lot of people, Siriwathi.”
“Thank you, Alex.” His generosity is overwhelming. For nearly our whole lives, Alex and I have had each other’s backs, including my honestly vouching for him as a genuinely good guy to women he’s interested in—a statement he continues to prove true. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to top this.
I feel heat rise in my face and slowly reach every part of my body like I am still engulfed in Alex’s tight hug.
As long as I come back to court, everyone will get their money back.
There will be no running away, despite nearly every fiber of my being screaming that now is the time to become one of those expats in Bali never to return to America again.
In fact, does Bali have an extradition?…
No. I have to face this situation. If I run, Alex and my community are on the hook for the rest of the $500,000.
While they only had to pay 10 percent up front, they’re on the hook for the entire amount if I don’t show up to my court dates.
I want to say something more poignant to express my immense gratitude, only yet again I don’t have the words. Instead, I ask another question. “You said an investigation?”
“Yes, we just have five days before the grand jury presentation. The prosecutor will present your case to determine if it can move forward. I can’t even be there, unfair as it is; it’s done under seal and in secret proceedings.”
I didn’t realize such secrecy existed in a court of law, which I’ve always viewed as open to the public.
Open courtrooms are a hallmark of the court system.
I’m again finding the disconnect in how the legal system really works from how I’ve seen it presented.
This isn’t how it played out on Law it’s too personal for them,” Amaya responds. “You could even be accused of witness intimidation or—”
“We’re a package deal. I can help too…I mean, how hard can it be?” Alex interrupts.
Amaya glowers at him. “Alex. Absolutely not. Go home.”
I feel instantly defensive of Alex, although I know Amaya is right.
“Thank you for paying bail, Alex. There’s something called attorney-client privilege.
It means what I say to Siriwathi is protected as long as what I say stays between the two of us.
” Amaya takes what I imagine is a rare conciliatory tone.
She still sounds like a schoolteacher about to put a misbehaving student in time-out.
“Siri…” Alex begins to protest.
“Alex. Thank you for everything. I love you. Go home and get sleep. You’ve done more than enough,” I respond.
“Fine. Okay. Keep me updated on everything. On every part of the investigation. Do you know who could have done this?” Alex asks.
If I were in Alex’s shoes, I’d be asking the same questions, only it annoys me still. “If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be here.”
“No leads at all?” he asks gently, concern etched on his face.
“No, Alex. I promise to keep you updated.” Instantly, I soften again. I’m so lucky to have someone who cares about me this much. It reminds me of the times he’d always take the blame when we got in trouble with my parents, because he knew they’d never yell at him…only at me.
Alex shuffles out the door, and once it closes, I turn to Amaya.
“I can still help you investigate.” I realize how desperate I must sound, but I don’t care.
“Fine. Just for today. And only because you have important information. I lead the investigation, you’ll have to follow my lead,” Amaya says firmly.
“Okay. I got it.”
She looks at me now with a furrowed brow, and I prepare myself for another set of instructions and commands to stay quiet. Little does she know how good I am at fading into the background.
Instead she asks, “So, how was a man killed in a locked and moving taxi?”