Lying close, p.23
Lying Close, page 23
But I was alone, and black, and Muslim, and shunned by my family, in St. Cloud. Stop! I need to stop thinking like that! Our doors and windows had secure locks. Clay wanted me to feel safe. I still had some Somali friends who supported me, but they had their families to tend to. Okay, maybe watching something mindless and light, like Jane the Virgin, would distract me.
I took some deep breaths and was trying to relax on the couch when I heard Bang! Bang! Bang! It sounded like someone was pounding on an anvil with a steel mallet in our front yard. I peeked out the shade. What in Allah’s name? There was a man standing under the street light in front of our house, hitting the metal lamp post with a hammer. He was not only staring at our house, his eyes were fixed on me.
My phone slipped out of my sweaty hand, but I immediately picked it up and dialed 911. “Help! You’ve got to get here as fast as you can. Wilson Avenue and Second Street, northeast St. Cloud. We’re the gray, two-story house. Someone’s standing in front of my house staring at me, pounding on the light post with a hammer. There’s a second man sitting on the curb in front of him. Please hurry . . . Okay, I’ll stay on the phone.”
And then the man stopped hammering and started walking directly toward the house. I yelled, “He’s coming to my house and he’s still holding the hammer! Help!”
He was soon on the doorstep and started bludgeoning the door, trying to bust it open. I ran upstairs, quickly scanning the rooms for a safe place to hide. I slid into our bedroom closet. Clay had long raingear hanging in the closet, so I hid between it and my chadors, pulling the full-length dresses around me. Clay’s hunting gear was on metal hangers that were strong enough to hang an animal. I could still hear the hammering, but to my great relief, I could also hear sirens closing in on our house.
Terrified, I whispered in the phone, “Please, get here.” The dispatcher told me the officers were pulling up.
The police shouted outside, “Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air!” They repeated again, “Drop the weapon! Put your hands in the air!”
I heard a scuffle on the porch and I worked my way out of the closet and down the steps. I looked out the window and the police had the man lying face-down on the ground.
I was still terrified, but felt I could breathe again. I stepped outside and an officer asked, “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
The operator ended the call.
He asked, “Do you know this man?”
I looked at the wild-haired man cuffed on the ground. “No.”
“He’s a homeless man,” the second officer commented. “I’ve seen him on the bridge.”
We were only a couple blocks away from the Mississippi River, and there were always homeless people milling around the bridge. I asked the man, “Why me?”
He smiled crazily, but didn’t say a word. He looked drunk. The first officer asked, “Did he get into the house?”
“He never entered the house.”
The officer walked me back to the front door. “The knob looks intact. He was so drunk he didn’t do any serious damage.”
There were dents in the doorframe, but the doorknob was fine.
The officer was kind and comforting. He sat with me on the front steps, while his partner stuffed the prowler into the back of their squad car. After I went over my statement with him a couple times, he asked, “Are you here by yourself?”
“Yes, but my man should be home soon.” The officer suggested, “Call him.”
“Okay . . .”
So, I called Clay. He was at Bad Habit Brewing in St. Joseph, about twenty miles away, but promised to immediately return home.
The officers left and I felt okay. I hadn’t been imagining things.
After several minutes had passed and I was trying calm my nerves, I got a call back from the dispatcher. “I was just reviewing your call. What happened to the man sitting on the curb?”
Before I could process the question, a forearm hooked around my neck, constricting my throat. In my effort to hang on to the phone, I accidently ended the call.
I tried pulling his chokehold away from my neck, but he leaned back and squeezed so hard, he lifted me off my feet. I was getting dizzy and I couldn’t breathe.
He grunted, “Where’s the money?”
I choked out, “Money?”
“I know Chad left you his money. I want it. All of it.”
I tried to say I didn’t know a Chad, but all that squeaked out was, “Know Chad.” On the verge of passing out, I nodded like I knew what he was talking about.
He loosened his grip and my feet touched the floor once again. This man was a beast. His biceps constricted my airway like a giant anaconda.
I gasped for breath and told him, “I don’t know a Chad, but I’ll give you everything I have.”
He started to squeeze again, but I turned my chin into the crook of his arm and dropped down, pushing his arm over my head. Almost on all fours, I scrambled in the only direction that allowed me to elude his grasp—upstairs. I immediately ran back to the closet. I slid into Clay’s raincoat and gripped the hanger, pulling my legs up so I would be completely hidden in the coat.
His footsteps thumped a methodical death march up the steps. He was in no hurry. He had me.
And then the stomping stopped. With pained fingers, I held my breath as I waited for him to enter. What was he waiting for? Still blanketed in darkness, I finally peeked up through the neck of Clay’s coat. The shadow of evil stood in the doorway. I quietly slipped back into my rabbit hole. Allah, I have indeed believed. Forgive me my sins and save me from the agony of fire.
The room brightened as he turned on the light. I could hear the dresser drawers being dumped. He was swearing as he threw items around. And then he stopped. The closet door slammed open violently and he shouted, “Where’s the damn money?”
My stomach muscles were on fire from holding my legs up off the floor. My hands burned in pain as I continued to grasp the thin metal bar of the hanger as tightly as I could. My body was rebelling; I was slipping.
He pushed clothing around and nudged me, but didn’t seem aware I was there. He stomped the wall behind me to make sure it was solid.
I pleaded with my body, Please hang on. My hold weakened and the metal seared across my fingers as I slid to the floor. If he was surprised by my body pouring out of racks of clothing, he didn’t show it. The fury in his eyes was beyond anything I’d ever witnessed, even in Somalia.
He kicked me hard in the ribs, as if I was a sack of rubbish, and scoffed, “Look, desert rat, if you don’t give me the money, I’ll take you.”
Defying him, I glared and said, “Allahu Akbar. Allah is greatest!”
To my great relief, Clay appeared, standing strong in the doorway. Before I could roll to my feet, Clay was on the man, thumping punches that sounded like the back of a cleaver pounding a steak. The brutal assault that followed was merciless. The intruder had no chance to counter the rapid-fire beating Clay was delivering. Clay had the man pinned against the wall and I could barely track the speed with which his fists were pummeling the man’s torso and head. Each time the man tried to push himself off the wall, he was quickly slammed back into it. He flailed about wildly as Clay got ahold of his jacket and began slamming the man into the dresser.
I could hear sirens above the melee, followed by the screech of tires as squad cars slid into the driveway. I ran down the stairs to get help. I turned as I was descending to see the man buckled to his knees and drop to the floor. This threw Clay off for a moment, and the man made a break for the stairs, right on my heels. Clay was soon back on him and the two tumbled down the steps, nearly crashing into me.
I got to the door and flung it open, yelling, “Help!” Officers came running.
When they entered, Clay had the man back on his feet and was slamming him ruthlessly against the wall.
An officer ordered, “Let go!”
But Clay continued, his beautiful face twisted into a mask of rage. He pinned the man with his left hand and drove his right fist into the man’s ribs.
Before I could reason with Clay, he pulled back to throw another punch, and the officer tased him. Clay’s body arched violently with the impact and, now rendered powerless, he crumbled to the floor. He landed hard and curled on his side, his body looking like a broken doll.
I yelled, “No! Not him!”
The intruder took advantage of the confusion and bolted out the back door.
I pointed after him. “That’s the burglar!” I dropped to my knees beside Clay, smoothing his hair off his forehead. His eyes were wild and his breathing heavy and rapid. His jaw was clenched so tightly, I was afraid he would break his teeth.
One officer pursued the man while the other stayed with us. Clay rolled onto his back and held his chest.
I asked, “Are you okay?”
He slowly sat up and nodded. “Yeah.” I hugged him tight.
He whispered, “The thought of that man touching you, even making you fearful in our home, made me crazy. I’m dead serious—I was going to smash him through the wall.”
Adrenaline was still racing through my body, too. I told him, “I saw a side of you tonight that scares me . . .”
Eventually, the officer returned alone. He couldn’t find the man.
It was a long night, and finally all of the investigators, except for Jon Frederick, had gone. Clay and I went through the entire scenario one more time with Jon. I assured him I had never seen the man Jon referred to as Kaiko ever before.
Jon offered, “Do you two want to stay with Serena and me tonight? We have an extra bedroom. You can’t stay here; it’s going to be processed as a crime scene.”
“Thank you,” Clay said appreciatively. “Let me grab a few things first. We’ll meet you there.” Clay looked at the back door, “How the hell did he get in?”
“Kaiko has a blunt key. You can tap it into door locks and it opens the tumblers.”
Clay told Jon, “So that’s why you have the metal bars on the inside of your doors.”
“Yes. It’s a way to lock the doors that can’t be manipulated by any type of technology. This was a well-thought-out break-in. Kaiko paid a homeless man to draw attention away from what he intended to do. When the police arrive, Hani walks out, so he knows she’s home alone. While the focus is on the homeless man, he enters the back door.” Jon looked at Clay, “But why would Kaiko think Hani had Chad’s money?”
Clay was lost in thought, still pale from the ordeal. Deciding to rescue him, I told Jon, “Thank you. You and Serena have been so kind and respectful to me.”
Jon replied, “When I’m at Catholic Mass and I look around, I see hard-working, salt of the earth people who go out of their way to be kind. Then I think about how the news only talks about slimy priests and their bad administration and it makes me angry. But then I realize this has got to be what if feels like to be Muslim in the US. So, I won’t judge you by the slimeballs who claim to be Muslim, if you don’t judge me by the slimeballs who claim to be Christian.” He smiled kindly. “How you treat others is what matters.” He receded into deep thought.
The pleasant twinkle had returned to Clay’s eyes. Feigning exasperation, he said, “Jon, I know that look. What’s on your mind?”
Jon’s lips twitched into a half-smile and I could see this wasn’t the first of such exchanges. “Fermat’s theory of reflection. In physics, the quickest and longest paths are the same—aberrations of the norm. Maybe it’s the same way with religion. At the extremes, you have the nonreligious and the overzealous hypocrites—the two groups most likely to be cruel.”
Clay had a blank look on his face; I understood what he meant when he told me Jon would go to places he didn’t understand.
I responded, “I think Allah loves us for the kind things we do, whatever uniform he wears.”
43
The Recalibrational Theory of Anger =
The function of anger is to recalibrate a relationship by an individual who places an inordinate priority on his own immediate welfare. Anger is a negotiative tactic by an aggressive individual, targeting someone viewed as potentially vulnerable. The tactic is intended to recalibrate the relationship between two people, raising the value of the aggressor. The tactic can range from withdrawal of love to violent aggression. The impact on the victim is seldom considered.
Aaron Sell
Center for Evolutionary Psychology University of California, 2011
Clay Roberts
6:05 Am, Monday, June 17, 2019
Pierz
I felt bad that my anger scared Hani last night. Even when I was trying to do the right thing, I still disappointed people. She was still sleeping when I rolled over to answer my phone. Oh hell, it was Brooke Lange-- mom. It was as good a time as any to be tormented by her. Mom had friends in law enforcement, so I imagined she’d heard about the fiasco at my home last night.
I took it into the bathroom.
As usual, Mommie Dearest started out the conversation relatively kind. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately, the bastard got away. If they wouldn’t have tased me, escape wouldn’t have been an option for him.”
“Is our house okay?”
Mom had fronted me some of the money to buy the house. My initial intention was to turn it and pay her back with interest. “Our house is fine.”
“They say you were living with a black Muslim.” The rancor in her voice was the fruit of deeply rooted bitterness.
I retaliated, “You almost woke her up.”
“Clay, are you kidding me? Get that queen of darkness out of my house.”
“It’s my house. And anyway, we aren’t there now.”
Mom jibed, “It’s not your house as long as I have money invested in it.”
“I’ll sell my home in Edina and get you your money.”
“Even you aren’t that idiotic! It will be worth a fortune in a couple years.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to have this conversation. Our discussions rarely left me feeling anything but angry and inadequate.
Performing as the serpentine hydra she was, she tried a new approach. “Clay, this isn’t about the money. Why do you think she’s with you?”
“We love each other,” I said quietly. It was a thought I’d yet to share with Hani.
“Will she be the next Mia Khalifa?”
My blood boiled. “If you make another comment like that, I swear I will never speak to you again. I’m sure Hani has no idea who Mia Khalifa even is. It’s a sin that I do. Khalifa may have been born in Lebanon, but she was raised Christian. She was dressed in the hajib for porn just to sell more to Middle Eastern men.” Mia Khalifa porn videos were some of the most popular videos online. I wasn’t about that anymore. Porn clean for over a year.
“Clay, you don’t know what love is. You have the Lange curse. We’re beautiful, so people are attracted to us. They pretend to be what they’re not, just to be with us, but their true colors eventually shine through. Your dad—”
I cut her off. “Don’t you dare rip on Dad. He raised me when you bailed, Brooke.” I couldn’t help it. Every time she took things too far, I resorted to the dig.
“Oh, come on, Clay. Not that old song again. I hate when you do that. I am your mother.”
“That’s been debatable.”
“You need to check yourself; you’re exactly like me. I left back then because I needed to be happy. You’d have done the same thing—I know you.”
I prayed she was wrong. Please don’t let me be like her.
She mistook my silence for agreement, so continued with her screwed-up rationale. “The Muslims are here to destroy Christianity.”
“Hani came here as a child.”
“The Quran tells them not to take Christians or Jews as friends. They’ve placed Christians in cages and burned them to death. Don’t turn your back on us.”
“The Old Testament condoned violence, too, but the best Christians I know say that doesn’t make it okay. Jesus said it isn’t okay.”
“Clay, they’re infiltrating our country to destroy Christianity. Imagine the power you give her. I’d bet she’s smart. You were, at best, an average student. What do you honestly think you have to offer her? I’d bet she insists that you’re just a passive little pet of hers. Am I right?” My silence cranked up her aggressiveness. Sensing victory, she twisted the knife, “They’re laughing at you behind your back.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Listen, the only other person I’ve felt this strongly about is married.”
“It would be easier for me to forgive you being with a married Christian than a Muslim. For once in your life, just listen to me. Eternity is forever. Make the right decision.”
Mama Lange made my head throb. Hani did say her initial attraction was to my looks. I threw on jeans and a t-shirt and made my way down the steps to the kitchen.
Serena was standing by the cupboard looking like an angel. The morning sun was shining through her thin pajamas, giving her skin a warm glow. Some couples allowed their partners a free pass if they got the chance to sleep with their favorite celebrity. I would take my free pass with Serena.
Surprised to see me, she said quietly, “I thought I’d sneak down and put some coffee on. I didn’t expect you’d be up already. Jon’s already left for work.” She dumped a couple scoops of grounds into the filter, snapped it closed, and pressed the start button. She turned to me and said, “This case has been hard on him. He blames himself for failing to recognize Mia’s betrayal sooner. Jon called Sean twice and asked him to transfer Mia, but he wouldn’t. I don’t know if that girl will ever be able to grasp the damage she’s done. People are dead. Jon could lose his job.”
