Truth, by Omission Read online

  The past nine months have been difficult: physically, mentally, on our relationship, on our jobs. We need a reset. I’ve always been the one more prone to burnout and flirting on the edge of depression while Anna is more able to let things go. She doesn’t get bogged down worrying about the small stuff, she’s much better than I about leaving work at work and not bringing it everywhere in her mind. But even these traits can only carry one so far during the sort of year we’ve had. Anna has arranged the three weeks off from work. She’s paid by billable hours and they’ll miss her, but they are as sympathetic to our situation as the staff at my clinic.

  One of the things that first attracted Anna and me to each other was our view of the world and our desire to do our small part to make it a little better. We’re both fortunate that we’ve been able to work ourselves into careers with firms that have philosophies similar to our own personal beliefs. Tierney, Thomas, and May are the legal equivalents to my medical clinic, the Sun Valley Family Health Center. Both firms are small and have developed niches in the Denver market. And both do a lot of pro bono work in the community, often with the immigrant population.

  If things go well on the vacation I have been thinking I might try to broach the idea of us adopting. We wouldn’t have to start over with a baby, there are plenty of older kids in Denver who need a home and family. Maybe we could even adopt two siblings and keep them from being separated. We tossed around the idea years ago but got busy raising Stephanie and growing our careers, and it all seemed to slip by the wayside. Neither of us has dared to raise the topic since Steph passed, and it might still be too early, but it might also be good for us. I’ll see how it goes on the vacation. Anna might like the idea.

  With less than a week left until Christmas I need to call Anna’s mom, Ruth, and see what she wants us to bring. My agenda is full, trying to squeeze in all the extra patient visits before the holidays, but I’ll have to make time to grab whatever she needs. Anna and I have kind of fallen into this routine over the years where I look after our share of the family dinners and Anna takes care of the other things like presents and scheduling. It’s not going to be a particularly joyous Christmas, having just buried a daughter and granddaughter and niece, but it will be good for us all to be together to get through it. Anna’s brother, Rob, will be there with his wife, Eva, and two kids, Sam and Eric. The boys will be missing their cousin, Stephanie. They’ve never known a Christmas without her. We’ll all miss her.

  Finding a few minutes between patients I squeeze in a call to Ruth.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Alfred!” Ruth’s always happy when I call. “How are you? We can’t wait to see you.”

  “We’re looking forward to seeing you guys, too, and having a bit of downtime,” I say. “It’s going to be different this year.” This puts a bit of a downer on our conversation, so I add quickly, “What can we bring?”

  “Nothing, we don’t need anything.” I knew she’d say this—she always does.

  “You’ve probably already got the turkey?”

  “Yes, we’re fine. Really, we don’t need anything.”

  “What about a ham? Can we bring a small ham?”

  “No, nothing. Really, we’re all covered. Just you and Anna. Bring you and Anna,” she says.

  “Okay. Don’t buy any wine. We’ll bring the wine … and rum for Eldon,” I say. “How is Eldon? Store crazy busy?” Eldon and Ruth were once ranchers. Anna and her brother grew up in the countryside until Eldon injured his back in a machinery accident. After that he bought a small hardware store on the edge of town, and as the city grew, so did his business.

  There’s a pause in the conversation. I can sense emotion from Ruth through the cell.

  “Oh, Alfred, he’s not doing so great. You know how much he adored Stephie,” Ruth says.

  It’s true, Steph was the apple of her grandpa’s eye, his only granddaughter, his first grandchild. She was on his heels in the store every school holiday, and he just loved it. They spent a lot of time together.

  “It’ll be good for him to have you around,” she says. “You’re a calming influence on him.”

  “I might need him around more than he needs me,” I say. We’ve only seen them a few times since the funeral, and Ruth doesn’t realize the wreck that I’ve been for the last two months.

  “You’ll be good for each other,” Ruth says. “We all need the time together, Alfred. Anna says you can stay until New Year’s?”

  “Yes, the whole week. It’ll be nice. And then the day after we leave for Saint Martin.”

  “That’ll be good for Anna. The vacation will be nice for her,” Ruth says. “I don’t know what she’d do without you. Thank you, for looking after our little girl, Alfred.”

  God, why do they all think I’m the rock? I need to move this conversation. “Hate to run, Mom, but I’ve got a patient. See you on Saturday, probably early afternoon if I can get Anna up by then. Love you, Mom.”

  It was natural for me to call Ruth “Mom” right from the beginning. It felt good to me, all my life without one, and then this woman opened her family and heart to me like I was her own child. I got along right away with Anna’s dad, too. Eldon accepted me because his daughter did. He loved her and trusted her judgment, plain and simple. Still I could never bring myself to call him “Dad,” even though he surely felt like one. I’d been around grown adult men for too long, ever since I was eight, and always called them by their names. Eldon and I, and Ruth for that matter, couldn’t have been from worlds further apart, him from white-bread Middle America and me from the deepest jungle of Africa, but we had a mutual respect and a mutual bond—Anna. And that’s exactly what we did, we bonded into one loving family.

  Two days later, Thursday, just as I arrive at my office, Anna’s brother calls me. It’s technically the first day of winter, December 21, and we’ve been spared so far in Denver. Up until now only a few light flurries, but usually by this time of the year we’d have had a major dump or two of snow already.

  “Bro,” Rob says. “Just wanted to remind you to bring your racket down to Mom’s. We can get a few games in.”

  “If you think you’re up to it. We’re there the whole week, so go ahead and book a couple of court times for us,” I say.

  Rob’s a schoolteacher in the Springs, and he got me started playing squash with him years ago. It’s our indoor winter activity together. Whenever Anna and I can get down to her parents’ during the other months, Rob and I usually do a couple of long bike rides or backcountry hikes. I haven’t played squash since last year; it’ll be good to get on a court again. I’m sure he’s been practicing with his other buddies at the Y.

  “What about hiking shoes?” I ask. “Should I bring them?”

  “Too late for that around here; you’d need snowshoes.” He chuckles into the phone.

  “How’s school been? You must be ready for a break,” I say.

  “Big time,” he replies, and then his tone turns somber and cautious. “How are you and Sis holding up?”

  “We’re doing okay, Rob. Thanks. Can hardly wait for this vacation though, especially now that it’s almost here. We’ve got the whole week with Eldon and Mom and you guys, and then we’re flying out on the second for three more weeks.”

  “You two deserve it.”

  “Anna deserves it.”

  “You both deserve it,” Rob says. “Okay, I’ll let you get to work, and we’ll see you in two days. Don’t forget the racket.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  I set my cell on the desk and reach into the in-basket the girls have left for me. There’s an especially big pile here this morning. With just two days left before the office closes for Christmas break everyone is trying to get things wrapped up. I’ve asked several of my patients whom I know will need special following while I’m away to come in over these last two days. I want to touch base with t
hem and assure them that they will be in good hands while I’m gone. Ricky and Pina are among them, and this will be my last chance to see them.

  The day is flying by, midafternoon already, when Abi slips into my exam room between patients.

  “Dr. Olyontombo, there are two men from the Denver Police Department here to see you. I’ve told them you’re really busy today, but they say it’s important.”

  “That’s okay, Abi. Ask them into my office. I’ll be right there.”

  It’s not common for police officers to ask to see me, but it’s not exactly uncommon, either. It’s usually to ask if I’ve had any contact with someone they are looking for. In this neighborhood the police and I often have mutual clients. Once in a while they’ll show up with a warrant to collect a patient’s records.

  Entering my office I find the two gentlemen dressed in civilian clothes. Detectives, I assume. They haven’t sat down and are actually facing the door waiting for me when I step in.

  “Good afternoon, Officers,” I say. “Please take a seat. What can I help you with?”

  When neither of them makes any move to sit I am stalled from going around behind my desk.

  “Dr. Olyontombo? Azikiwe Olyontombo?” one of them asks.

  “Alfred Olyontombo,” I say, offering a gentle correction.

  “Azikiwe, alias Alfred Olyontombo.” He reads from a paper he’s holding. “We’re here to place you under arrest. We have an arrest warrant from the office of the US Secretary of State. Would you please remove your lab coat and put your hands out in front of you, sir?”

  I’m totally dumbfounded, shocked, too much so to even ask a question. No one has called me Azikiwe for more than twenty years. I obediently do as he asked, and one of them clasps my wrists with a set of handcuffs. The other pats my torso, all around, my arms, my legs.

  “Gentlemen, there must be some mistake,” I say. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “We’re sorry, sir. You’ll have to come with us.”

  “I need to call my wife. My wife … she’s a lawyer. There has to be some mistake.”

  “Sir, we’re going to escort you out of your office. For your own good, please follow our instructions. Please step out, sir.”

  One of them opens the door and stands back for me to walk through. I’m trying to process what’s going on, but I’m confused. It’s all happened so suddenly. I step out into the hallway. Mark is there, having just come out of another doorway, and sees me. Bewilderment glazes his eyes.

  “Alfred, what’s going on?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, Mark. I have no idea.” I can’t think straight, I feel like I’m in a trance, and I keep walking ahead, stepping into the waiting room. I stop there. It’s full, packed; all four of us doctors have complete schedules today. Looking around I can see that everyone has stopped what they were doing, and the babble of noise hushes to a few infants crying. They stare at me, asking me with their eyes, What’s going on?

  “Move ahead, sir.” The order comes from behind me.

  “Abi, would you please call Anna for me?” is all I can think to say, and I move ahead.

  Ricky Nunez is there with his mother, and he jumps up and confronts the officer behind me. “What the fuck is this? Who are you?”

  “Step back, son; the doctor is under arrest.”

  “Fuck you. That’s Dr. Olyontombo. He hasn’t done anything,” Ricky shouts, too close in the officer’s space.

  The officer pushes Ricky roughly, and he falls backward onto the floor but springs up as quickly as a cat. I make an attempt to diffuse things. “It’s okay, Ricky. There’s some kind of misunderstanding. We’ll figure it out.”

  The full, busy waiting room is suddenly entirely silent—even the babies fall mute—one of those surreal moments that simply stands still. Or perhaps my mind is just computing it that way; I know I am not thinking properly. They don’t need to tell me, I just walk out of the office, one of them holding the door, the other behind me. They have their unmarked car parked right at the front step and I am put in the back. They both get into the front, separated from me by a metal screen.

  Azikiwe? Azikiwe? I try to think of the last time that anyone called me that. I can’t pin it down exactly, not since my youth anyhow. Have the sins of a past life finally caught up with me? It seems like the city is moving by our stationary car. I somehow know it is the other way around, but my brain is mixing it up at the moment. The confusion of the whole situation is rendering me dazed, and I let myself slip further into the trance. One part of my brain wants to just give in and be swallowed up, but another part is still operating on some intellectual plane and is trying to tell me to get control of myself. I’m torn between giving up on the situation and taking charge of it. Azikiwe? Azikiwe?

  The car pulls up to a large gate at the back of what I recognize as the police station but I’ve never been here before. The gate opens automatically, and we drive into an enclosed parking area. Entering another, more secure area of the garage a second gate opens and then closes behind us. I am escorted out of the car to a windowless steel door. One of the officers looks into a camera, flashes his ID to the camera and speaks to it, “Prisoner transfer.” He taps his ID on an electronic reader and the door gives a loud click, opening on its own. Once inside, the bright lights and activity wake me from the daze that I’ve allowed myself to settle into, and my conscious mind begins to finally take over again.

  “Officers, can you please tell me what is happening?” I ask.

  One of them says, “Doctor, we have an arrest warrant based on a federal extradition request instructing us to place you under immediate arrest. It’s from the office of the US Secretary of State. It was faxed to us this morning, says that formal indictments will arrive later today. That’s all we know, I’m afraid. We’re to have you processed here and someone from the US Attorney’s Office will take it from there.”

  “Should I have a lawyer?” I ask. “My wife will be coming soon. She’s a lawyer. Can I see her?”

  “We’re sorry, Doctor. We really don’t know any more than this. We’re turning you over here for processing.”

  A uniformed policeman, one of half a dozen in the area, an older guy, limping, approaches us and takes the paper that the detective hands him. He looks at me and then the paper. “Azikiwe Olyontombo?”

  “Alfred Olyontombo,” I respond instinctively.

  “Alias, Alfred Olyontombo,” he says, reading from the paper. “Come with me.”

  He leads me into another room with no door, leaving the detectives behind. “Give me your hands.”

  No “Doctor,” no “please.” I suppose that to him I am just another black criminal for processing, one of a regular stream passing through. He takes my hands, still cuffed, and presses each finger individually to a scanner. I am reminded of the last, and only other time, that I was ever fingerprinted. That time an army officer was very gentle with me. He carefully took each of my small fingers and rolled them over a blotter of ink and then again onto little squares on an official form.

  “Stand in front of that wall. Look straight into the camera. Lift your head a bit. Turn your whole body to the right. Look straight ahead at the square in front of you. Turn fully to the left. Look at the square. Over here. Open your mouth.”

  He puts on a rubber glove, looks in my mouth, and then wipes the inside with a swab, dropping it into a small plastic container, which he labels.

  “Turn around.” I am patted down again.

  “Face me. Okay, I’m going to remove these handcuffs. Give me your hands. Now, empty your pockets. Put everything in this bag. Take off your belt. Shoes. Put them in here. All right, back out there and turn right, follow the blue line on the floor.”

  I do as he says and he follows behind me. The line takes me toward another door, which clicks open automatically as I approach. Looking around I see that there are
cameras everywhere with no attempt to hide or disguise them. The blue line leads down a hallway with three doors, three rooms, three windows on each side.

  “Last doorway on the left.”

  It’s open, so I walk in. He shuts the door, leaving me alone. There’s a single, solitary chair, and three cameras inside protective covers positioned in the corners of the ceiling. I take a seat in the chair, lean forward with my elbows on my knees, resting my forehead in my hands.

  I have no idea how much time passes. Minutes? Hours? It’s slow. At last I hear the door click and Anna comes in. I stand up but I am very heavy, hardly able to lift my own weight. Everything sags—my shoulders, my head, my face—I can feel it all weighed down.

  “Alfred.” Anna moves quickly to hug me, and I wrap my arms around her limply. Now that she’s here I feel my eyes watering. She steps back. “Freddie, what kind of mistake is this? What’s going on?”

  I hang my head and shake it. “I don’t know, Anna.” I resort to my standard tactic, another lie of omission. I have a pretty good idea what’s going on, I just don’t want to admit it to Anna. At least not yet. I can barely admit it to myself.

  “Well, they can’t just arrest you for no reason,” Anna says. “They must have told you something. What did they say? It’s got to be a mistake.”

  “They said they have a federal extradition warrant. The US Attorney’s Office is supposed to come or something. I don’t understand any of it.”

  “A federal extradition warrant?” she repeats. “Something is badly mixed up here.”

  I sort of hope she’s right, that it’s a big mistake, but I also sort of hope she’s wrong. This is my due, at long last, finally arrived.

  Anna takes charge, and I remember that this is her element; she works in this stuff. “A federal extradition warrant,” she says again. “I’ve got to get ahold of Steve. He’ll get them at the US Attorney’s Office, maybe tonight. My phone’s at the desk. I’ve got to go call him.”

  Anna signals the camera facing her and the door clicks. She leaves me alone again. Steve is Steve May, one of the principals at her firm, a family friend, really. Anna’s firm is small, like my practice. I feel terrible now that I start to think of my practice and Anna’s firm. How is this going to impact them? And there are others: Anna’s family, our friends … mostly though, Anna. What a mess.