Owning Up, page 4
Williams came out of the offices, a spring in his step. He spotted the Kia, walked to it, opened the door, and dropped into the passenger seat.
“Congratulations,” said Rubin.
“Big day for me,” said Williams.
“You get paid above the rate when you have a line, right?”
“I think it’s eight hundred dollars, something like that. Plus residuals. But that’s not even the point, Ira, it’s not about the money. I got a speaking part. I’m on my way.”
Rubin heard footsteps on pavement and looked in his side-view mirror. A man was coming up alongside their vehicle. Before he had time to register the situation, the man was leaning into the driver’s window. He had produced a revolver and he pressed its muzzle with aggression into the flesh behind Rubin’s ear.
“Don’t say nothin,” said the man. He stank of perspiration. His lank hair touched his shoulders and he had a long beard. “Move funny and I’ll use this.”
“We don’t have any money,” said Rubin, the stability in his own voice surprising him. “Neither of us do.”
“Told you not to speak. I’m going to get in the back seat and we’re going to take a drive. Don’t do something stupid and try to take off without me. Unlock my door.”
Rubin hit a button. All of the doors unlocked. Quickly, the man, Robert Taylor, who went by RT, got into the back seat of the Kia and shut the door.
“Drive this Korean piece of shit,” said Taylor. “I’ll tell you where.”
They left the lot. It was a short drive. Rubin and Williams were silent as Taylor directed them to an isolated area under the stretch of O’Donnell Street that bridged the railroad tracks. He told them to park beside a thick concrete support pile that was off the road. Rubin noticed that Williams had laced his fingers together in his lap to steady his hands.
“Let it run,” said Taylor. “Now I’ll cut to the chase. You stole something the other day. I’m speaking to you, Pedro. Or Ach-med. Whatever you are.”
Rubin knew that the long-bearded man was talking to him. He looked into the rearview mirror. The man was white, his blue eyes pink and watery. He was holding the gun low, still pointed at Rubin.
“He wasn’t involved,” said Rubin, evenly, making a slight nod toward Williams. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
“I don’t care,” said Taylor.
“Look, if you had a check in that package, I apologize,” said Rubin. “I didn’t know—”
“I didn’t have any check in that package, Slick. I had eyes on that package. I’d been scoping that situation out. The day you stole it was the day I was about to get it my own self.”
“I’ll give it to you,” said Rubin. “All of it.”
“I know you will. But I’m gonna use this situation we got to my advantage. I’m gonna let you do my work for me. So what I want you to do is, I want you to take one of those checks, pick one from one of the big banks, and make me some blanks. Get yourself some check paper and a laser printer—”
“I know how to do it,” said Rubin.
“Say it again?”
“I’ll do it,” said Rubin. “I know how it’s done.”
He didn’t tell Taylor that it was already in the works.
“Okay. How long?”
“I’ll need a couple of days.”
“Ain’t no couple of days about it,” said Taylor. “It’ll be tomorrow night. Now give me your phones. The both of you. Come on.”
Rubin and Williams handed their phones over the back seat. Taylor took them and got to work. On Rubin’s phone, in the home screen of the Settings file, Taylor got Rubin’s name and cell number. In the Favorites file, he found the Home notation, and there he obtained the address of the apartment Rubin shared with Maria. Taylor made screenshots of all of this and sent them to his own phone. The tall Black man in the passenger seat had been more careful; he had wisely entered his name but not his home address into his own phone. Taylor didn’t need it. He owned the thief. Taylor returned their phones to them.
“Drive me back,” said Taylor.
They stopped in the lot of the production offices. Taylor slipped the revolver into his jacket pocket.
“I’ll text you, Ira,” said Taylor. “I know you won’t go to the law, because you’d be putting yourself in for this, too. But don’t even bother to have my number traced. The phone I’ll be texting you from is a throwaway.”
“I’ll wait for your text,” said Rubin.
“Remember, I know where you live,” said Taylor. “When I get out this car, drive.”
Taylor stepped out of the car and closed its door. Rubin drove off the lot. He didn’t look in the mirrors to see where Taylor was headed. He only wanted to get away.
“You’re a low person,” said Williams, quietly, as they neared the Harbor Tunnel.
“I’m sorry,” said Rubin.
“Knew I shouldn’t have got involved with you. I knew. Stupid, man. Stupid.”
“I’m sorry, Jerrod.”
“Don’t speak to me.”
The rest of the trip was spent in silence. As they neared the Rhode Island Avenue Metro station, the street crowded with pedestrians, Williams said, “I’ll get out here.”
“I can drive you to your door.”
Williams didn’t look at Rubin. “I don’t want you to know where I live.”
Williams got out of the car and walked down the block, toward the apartments. Rubin drove home.
The next day, Rubin was scheduled to work for Maria’s cousin Julito on the landscaping gig, but he didn’t show up. He didn’t call Julito to give him a bullshit excuse. Rubin was preoccupied.
He phoned Doc Ellis, who told Rubin that he had gotten busy with wife-and-children matters, and that the checks were not yet done. Ellis promised Rubin that the checks would be ready the next day.
Rubin got a call from Julito but he let it go to message.
Late in the day, he received a text from the man with the long beard. It was only a question mark. Rubin replied, Tomorrow. The man replied, No, tonight. Rubin blocked the text number and shut off his phone.
Maria came home from school. She said to him, “How was work with Julito today?” and he said, “It went fine.”
Her eyes said she knew he was lying. She must have gotten a call from her cousin, asking why her boyfriend had not shown up for work. But she didn’t confront him. The look of disappointment on her face was worse than an accusation.
Midevening, Linda Rodriguez entered the apartment. Rubin and Maria were on the couch, watching a television show about British royalty that Maria had chosen and Rubin was tolerating. Linda didn’t look at Rubin. She said to Maria, “I just ordered some food for delivery, Maria. It’s paid for and tipped out. When it comes, will you bring it inside?”
“Sure,” said Maria.
“I’ll be in my room.”
Linda drifted. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
“That was fast,” said Maria.
“I’ll get it,” said Rubin.
He went to the door, turned the knob. The man with the long beard pushed on the door violently. Rubin stumbled back. Taylor walked in, closing the door behind him. Maria screamed.
“Shut your mouth,” said Taylor to Maria. To Rubin he pointed and said, “You.”
Taylor rushed Rubin, gathered his shirt up in his fists, and danced Rubin back until he hit the wall. Maria froze, unable to speak.
Taylor, up in Rubin’s face, said, “I told you, tonight. Where is it?”
“I won’t have it until tomorrow,” said Rubin.
“That wasn’t our deal.”
The rack of a slide silenced the room.
“Hands up,” said Linda Rodriguez. “I have a gun. I’m pointing it at the back of your head.”
“Easy, lady,” said Taylor. He released his grip on Rubin and raised his hands.
“Don’t move and don’t speak,” said Linda. She was three feet away from him. The gun, a Glock 17, the same MPD service weapon that her father had trained her on, the one that she had become proficient with at area ranges, now had a live round in the chamber. The safety was off.
“You gonna shoot someone in here?”
“I would.”
“I’m not even armed.”
“You’re an intruder. I have another gun in my bedroom. After I shoot you, I’ll put the throw-down in your cold hand.”
“Jesus. All right.”
“Turn around and walk out of here. Keep your eyes on the floor and your hands up until you reach the door. Don’t look back or say anything. Go ahead.”
Taylor did as he was told. But he did mutter, “Tomorrow,” before he left.
“Thank you,” said Rubin to Linda. And: “I’m sorry.”
Linda turned to Maria. “I want this fucking lowlife out of my apartment.”
Linda safetied her weapon and walked back into her room, shutting the door behind her.
“Maria…”
“You need to go,” said Maria, dry-eyed and resolute. “You bring this to where we live? You lie to me? You screw my cousin Julito, which you promised you would never do? Ira, I don’t want you here anymore.”
“Okay,” said Rubin. “Okay. Let me get my things. But tomorrow, can I borrow your car?”
“Ira.”
“Just one more time.”
There was a knock on the front door. A muffled voice behind the door said, “Food delivery.”
Maria crossed her arms tightly across her chest. Rubin shrugged.
As hurt as Maria was, she was not the type to put Rubin out on the street, so she let him spend the night behind the closed door of her bedroom. In the morning, when he was certain that Linda Rodriguez had left for work, Rubin gathered his things, which consisted of some clothing, his shaving kit, and the original shipping package with the remaining checks, still stashed under Maria’s dresser. Maria was not about to loan Rubin her Kia, but she did drive him to a small rental-car outfit on Sligo Avenue in Silver Spring. She had to use her credit card to rent a compact car for him, as he was without one and the business wouldn’t accept cash. Rubin vowed to pay her back, a promise that Maria knew he’d never keep.
“You’re a good person,” said Rubin. “I’m sorry for everything. I don’t deserve you.”
Maria did not disagree. Rubin tried to kiss her on the mouth but she gave him her cheek.
He drove the rental, a Nissan Something-Or-Other, down to Doc Ellis’s apartment, where he picked up the blank checks. They looked real. Rubin didn’t have the heart to tell Ellis there would be no future earnings.
Rubin texted Taylor and told him he was ready to meet. Taylor’s reply text read, Under O’Donnell Street, same spot.
Rubin drove to Baltimore, parked idling by the concrete pile supporting the bridge. It was an overcast day of light, steady rain.
Fifteen minutes later Taylor’s black Jeep approached. As it neared him, Rubin read its Maryland license-plate number and punched the letters and numbers into the Notes app of his iPhone, balanced on his leg.
Taylor pulled alongside him, his window down, the vehicles nose to ass, police-style. Taylor was wearing the same jacket from the night before and there were crumbs in his beard.
Rubin passed the freight package through the open windows. Taylor opened it, examined the contents. He didn’t comment beyond a satisfied nod.
“We good?” said Rubin.
“Let me remind you of something. If you were to go to the law with any of this, you’d be in a whole world of trouble. You committed a rack of serious crimes here. If anyone with a badge comes calling on me, I’ll put you in for it. Your tall dark friend, too.”
“I have no doubt.”
After Taylor drove away, Rubin went directly to Baltimore’s Eastern District Police Station on Edison Highway. He entered the station house and spoke to the desk sergeant.
“I want to report a kidnapping,” said Rubin.
After a while a uniformed officer came out to the lobby and spoke to Rubin. Rubin gave the uniformed officer a few more details and was told to wait where he sat. Soon a middle-aged detective wearing a sport jacket and tie appeared. Rubin was screened, then led back to a small room, where he and the detective sat at a table. There was a yellow notebook pad on the table along with a pen.
“You say you were kidnapped,” said the detective, dubiously. His name was Ross.
“Yes. The kidnapper had a gun, I don’t know what kind. It was a revolver. I have the license-plate number of his vehicle. I don’t know his name.”
“Can you tell me why you were taken?” said Ross, looking Rubin over. “Was it, like, a ransom situation?”
“I stole a freight package of checks that were left outside a retail store off Ponca Street. A place called Charm City Valueland. The man who kidnapped me had intended to steal the checks himself, so he jacked me up.”
Ross had been taking notes. He laid the pen down on the pad.
“You realize,” said Ross, “you’re going to be charged for the theft.”
“Yes, I know.”
When Robert Taylor was arrested without incident, he gave the police the names of Ira Rubin and Jerrod Williams. Upon questioning, Rubin told the law that Williams, though he too had been kidnapped, had not been involved in the theft and had no knowledge of it at the time that Rubin had committed the crime. A Charm City Valueland camera, mounted on the building (yes, there had been a camera), had shown a masked, average-sized white man walking across the parking lot, package in hand, to his car, a compact import, license plate obscured. Shortly thereafter, a tall Black man, Jerrod Williams, emerged from the on-site production offices of a television show and got into the same car with Rubin. Williams, when picked up and questioned, denied any knowledge of the theft at the time of its commission, saying that he learned about it only two days later, when he was taken by a man, at gunpoint, for a ride. The police officer who interviewed Williams believed him, and in any case there was insufficient evidence to charge him with a crime. He was more valuable as a witness, and, deemed credible, he testified at the trial of Robert Taylor, who had multiple priors. Taylor took a long fall.
Rubin was given an eighteen-month sentence for his crimes due to the egregious violation of the terms of his probation. He did a year of soft time at the Central Maryland Correctional Facility in Sykesville, a minimum security unit. There he worked in the Central Laundry, which processed clothing and towels for numerous other correctional institutions in the state. His father visited him twice a month on Tuesdays.
Ira Rubin came out with a little more weight on him. His hair was flecked with gray. His beard, when he went unshaved for a couple of days, had gray in it as well.
He was less cocky than he had been in the past. The rooster had lost its strut.
He was living, “temporarily” he said, in his parents’ house in Barnaby Woods, on the D.C. side of Chevy Chase. He stayed in his old bedroom, which, thankfully, his folks had converted into a guest room, absent of any evidence of his youth. He was thirty-four years old.
One day he walked outside and talked to the owner of a landscaping business whose crew serviced the houses in the neighborhood. The owner, Odell, was a stout Latino fellow wearing a curly-W baseball cap. He worked alongside his crew. Rubin introduced himself and asked Odell if he had any openings.
“You serious?” said Odell.
“Very,” said Rubin. “I had a job on a crew a couple of years ago. I was on the blower. I’m motivated. I won’t let you down.”
“Well…” said Odell. Rubin’s parents had been clients for a couple of years, and they had been good to him. “Sometimes my guys don’t show up. Give me your phone number. Maybe I let you pick up a day here and there.”
The work was sporadic, at best. Rubin got with the crew two times over the course of the next month. But it was a fortuitous connection. At a work picnic thrown by Odell, he met a young Nicaraguan named Bianca, dark, compact, and shapely (his type), with a sly sense of humor (also compulsory). Rubin, though now a bit long in the tooth, still had charm and he worked it well.
In the meantime, one of the do-gooder, reentry outfits in the District offered to help him find a job. When he told the nice earnest woman his interests, she made a phone call for him. He interviewed at the AFI Theater and was given a part-time position as a ticket-taker there in the lobby.
Bianca lived with her extended family in a spacious, ramshackle bungalow in Manor Park, Northwest. Her room was in the basement, where others in the family shared a downstairs kitchen. Upstairs lived the matriarch—Bianca’s grandmother, Almara—a tiny unsmiling woman who ran a catering business out of the house and used no English, if she knew any at all. There were many adults and children living there, some blood-related, some not, and three small dogs. Religious imagery was prevalent on the walls. Almara the matriarch was a devout Catholic.
Rubin and Bianca’s relationship had deepened and he moved into the house. A handsome and fit young Nicaraguan named Max, who lived in the basement with another granddaughter and their toddler son, was an independent contractor, and when he wasn’t on a paid job he built creative play equipment in the backyard for the children, and coops for chickens, who supplied Almara with eggs.
Max and Rubin became friendly. Max taught Rubin rudimentary carpentry and took him along as an occasional helper on jobs. On the weekends, there were parties at night in the yard with music, and Christmas lights strung between the trees. The dogs and children chased the chickens but did not harm them.
At the AFI Theater, the manager allowed Rubin to introduce some of the old black-and-white films when they ran. On those nights, Bianca came and sat in the auditorium. He missed her terribly when she was at her job in a nail salon. For Rubin, it was a happy time.
It’s hard to say, exactly, why he couldn’t manage to make it last.
If he had been asked, Rubin would have said that he only wanted to buy Bianca something nice, a piece of jewelry that would symbolize their bond. He’d take her out to dinner, something better than fast casual, where he would give her the present, as he had done with Maria. But he was broke and he needed to fund his plans. So he enlisted Ellis to print some blank checks, who had bet unwisely, once again, on the promised income. Then Rubin went to a bank and successfully cashed one of the checks. And then he went to a second bank and covered the first with another check. This worked, so he tried it again. And again. He got greedy, and the last check he wrote was for over ten thousand dollars. This put him in the gunsights of the Feds.
