Brian Newell caught his reflection in City Hall’s double glass doors. Straightening his bowtie, he reassured himself that its red and navy stripes achieved a classic look — a handsome pairing with his blue on white seersucker suit — his old-school homage to a more elegant past. That he’d sweat through the shirt at the collar, jacket at the arm pits and pants at the crotch, didn’t detract from the effort. Men’s clothing choices should be stylish, to bring a little sophistication to the daily grind.
Brian took pride in his efforts as he stepped from Miami’s hot, humid morning into City Hall’s hyper air-conditioned lobby. Frigid-as-a cold-plunge, he inhaled sharply, and exhaled, expecting to see his breath. He shivered, teeth chattering. The sweat dampening his skin and clothes vaporized, flash freezing his body as it evaporated. He quaked and quivered. Muscles tightened; his scrotum shriveled. He blinked and looked around, expecting to see ice sheeting the walls. Brian hugged himself, flapped his arms and hugged himself again.
On his left, a clear plastic sign on a smooth wooden countertop read, SECURITY, SEGURIDAD, SEKIRITE. On the counter’s far side, beneath a blue and white quilt, a seated figure snored softly as riffled playing cards. Before him a metal detector, its smooth, anodyne gray surface conjured dental office equipment and CIA interrogation rooms. A hand scrawled note, red Sharpie on a white piece of eight by ten, taped above the detector’s entrance, read Abandon all hope… To his right, eye level on an aluminum folding ladder, a pair of black alligator shoes, high on toe tips, shifted from left to right. The repeating red handcuff motif on black socks suggested the wearer’s sense of whimsy.
Brian looked past the socks and up black trousers legs to a man in a canary yellow guayabera, adjusting a wall mounted camera. “And, now?” he asked. “Bueno,” he said, nodding as he gave the camera a “thumbs up,” and began down the rungs. His cologne arrived before he reached the floor; a potent musk squeezed from the anal glands of endangered Brazilian river otters. Its testosterone-rich scent stirred Brian’s primordial essence. His right hand curled into a fist.
The man alighted the ladder and hitched his crotch. His head came to Brian’s chest. When he noticed Brian beside him, he did a startled upward double take. Black earbuds plugged both his lobes. Short black hair curled in on itself, weaving a thick mat across his head. He had five o’clock shadow at nine a.m. He stared unblinking into Brian’s eyes. He exhaled coffee breath. Without changing his gaze, he thrust his right hand up, pointing at the sign on the metal detector. “You do that?”
“I just got here.”
“Answer the question.”
“No, I didn’t do that.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I just got here.”
“I don’t like your answers.”
“I don’t like your questions.”
“Get used to them.” He lifted the hem of his guayabera, revealing a Glock nine holstered inside the trousers on his right hip and a gold badge clipped to his belt on the left. “Lieutenant Marcos Rivas, head of intelligence, Miami PD.”
“Brian Newell, Stobo de Pas Park.” He held out his hand to shake.
The man looked down at the hand, then back up to Brian. “I knew that.”
“Then you know, I didn’t put that sign there.”
“It’s an open investigation. I can’t comment.”
“Didn’t you just asked me if I did it?”
“I’ll ask the questions here.”
“Ask me again, I’ll give you the same answer.”
“Do you think I’m stupid? I’m head of intelligence. I’ve seen your file.”
“File? What file?”
“Who said anything about a file?”
“You did. Just now.”
“Forget the file.” Marcos poked a finger in Brian’s face. “You’re a civilian. Get me? I am the professional in this conversation. A sworn officer of the law. Part of a large department, where we decide what’s….” Marcos did air quotes, as he said, “authorized under discretionary rules implemented day one of the Trump Presidency.”
Brian held ups his hands, “Who,” he did air quotes, “authorized these discretionary rules?”
“I do the air quotes here.”
“Part of the new discretionary rules?”
“Do you have any idea how close we are to Guantanamo?” Marcos held up his right hand and moved thumb and index finger together, peering up at Brian through the ever-narrowing gap. “Keep it up. I’ll have you tagged, bagged and rendered before lunch.”
“Rendered?”
“Renditioned. Bag over your head. Made to kneel for hours on the tarmac of a secret airstrip in the Everglades. Flown like cargo.” He shook his head. “No, worse than cargo, cause who’s going to care? No one will ever find you or any trace of you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Promising.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Heard that before.”
“The Constitution won’t allow it.”
“That’s right. Call the Constitution.”
“I can’t call the Constitution.”
“Maybe you want a lawyer.”
“A lawyer? For what? I haven’t done anything. I have an appointment in Commissioner Carpenter’s office.”
“With J.J.? He’s on his way to the federal courthouse and his aide is in Santa Clara. That’s in Cuba if you didn’t know, looking after her,” he did air quotes again, “Tio Alberto.”
“I’ll just stick my head in to see who’s there.”
“His receptionist and his legislative aide. That would be Nelly Sheridan and Gustavo ‘Gus’ Nogura.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“You didn’t hear it from me.”
Marcos lifted the ladder onto his right shoulder, walked to the metal detector. He leaned the ladder against the portal and rose up on tip toes. He failed to reach the sign. Knees bent; he jumped. His right hand flailed just short of its target. He leapt again, missed and began opening the ladder.
Brian stepped forward and grabbed the sign between thumb and forefinger. “Here,” he said, smiling, holding the note before Marcos’ face.
“A smart guy, huh?” Marcos snatched the paper from him. “You’ve put your fingers all over my evidence. Ruined chain of custody. You trying to kill this investigation before it starts?”
“I was trying to be helpful.”
“Helpful? Helpful to who?”
“Whom,” Brian said. “Helpful to whom.”
Marcos turned his gaze up to the camera. “You get that?” He touched his right ear and nodded. “Keep an eye on him.” Marcos balanced the ladder on his left shoulder and walked through the metal detector — red lights flashed, sirens wailed, horns blared. Marcos raised his right hand and snapped his fingers. The lights and sirens ceased.
