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Behind the Gates

Julie L. Brown

    I was anxious to see Elizabeth. As I walked out of the airport into the balmy evening, she pulled up in her silver BMW; a miracle of perfect timing bestowed by the cell phone waiting lot. She jumped out of her car and gave me a big hug. “Yay! You’re here! Look at you! You look wonderful!”
    I’ve been told I looked ten years younger than my age. The dreaded daily trip to the gym had its benefits. Being carded—a process I loathed at eighteen—was now, at forty-two, a welcome excuse to celebrate and brag to all of my friends. My brown hair had yet to show signs of gray. I pulled away slightly from Elizabeth and took in the wrinkles around her tired eyes and the strands of gray intermingled with blonde in her ponytail. My friend was starting to look old.
    “You look great,” I said.
    I had not seen Elizabeth in ten years. After spending every day in college together, then weekend nights out while she pursued a career as a government staffer and I as an accountant, we now used Facebook to keep up with each other’s lives. Since she had married and moved back to her hometown in upstate New York, we had rarely spoken. There was no need. Via Facebook photos, I witnessed the birth of her two children, their first day of school, and the family vacations to Disney World.
    When she suggested I join her at her family’s second home outside Tampa for a long weekend, I thought, why not? Dating an attorney who often worked weekends—he was too old to be called my “boyfriend”—I had nothing keeping me in D.C. A mini-vacation with my best friend seemed the perfect excuse to get away. It would be fun. A ladies-only weekend. Just the two of us. Like old times.
    On the way to her home, we stopped at a sports bar. The décor, typical: wood paneling, neon beer signs, and numerous flat-screen televisions.
    After we sat down, I asked, “So, how’s Matt?”
    Elizabeth curled a stray hair behind her ear. “He’s great. He still likes his job.” She paused as a tanned waiter took our order of hamburgers and beers and left. “The kids are doing well in school.” She hesitated. “I’m thinking about going back to work. The kids are old enough now. Senator Schuman has an opening in his district office.” She shook her head, dislodging a fleeting thought she did not share. “How’ve you been?”
    The waiter brought our beers.
    “I’m okay. Work is going well, and I’m still dating ‘The Man I Never See.’” I laughed. It seemed hollow even to me. We raised our bottles, the necks touching. At the same time, we said, “To us.” Always the same toast. We clinked bottles and drank.
    Elizabeth laughed. “I can’t believe you still peel the labels off your bottles. I remember finding pieces all over our dorm room, even in the shower.” I joined in her laughter.
    Later, we drove through the gates of her community, past the pool and tennis courts, turned right, and parked in front of her two-story townhome. Inside, she gave me a brief tour—lots of white, pastels, and wicker. When we reached the guest room, I called it a night. After working a full day, combined with the traveling and drinks, I was exhausted. The thought crossed my mind that if we were still in college, our night would be just beginning.
    The next day, after a late breakfast, we decided to go to the pool. As I started to lock the door behind me, Elizabeth said, “No need. We live in a gated community.”
    I peeked over my shoulder and looked into her green eyes to confirm that she was joking. She was not. I glanced at the knob and then back at Elizabeth. She must know that the gate and the overweight rent-a-cop who manned the adjacent booth would not stop anyone who wanted in.
    She returned my gaze, but said nothing.
    I bit back one of my lectures and shut the door.
    The pool restaurant and bar delivered to our lounge chairs. The weather was perfect. We ate and laughed and drank all day. We only moved to use the restroom or take a dip in the pool. One glorious day and just what I needed.
    That evening, we retreated to her place, tossed huge salads, and took our dinner and wine to her fenced-in backyard terrace. Palm trees provided natural privacy. We settled into the wrought-iron chairs.
    “So, do you miss D.C.?”
    “I do,” Elizabeth said, as she brought her legs up onto her chair to sit “Indian style,” as she did in college. I envied her flexibility. “Sometimes, I miss being in the middle of the action.” She smiled at me. “I miss my friends. What about you? Are you planning to stay there?”
    “Probably. My work is there. I can’t envision myself anywhere else.”
    “One thing I don’t miss is the crime.”
    “There’s crime everywhere.”
    Elizabeth circled the top of her wine glass with her finger. “Maybe, but I feel safer where we live now. It’s not only that, I guess. I’m not sure how effective I could be in this political environment.” She laughed. “I’m not sure how effective anyone could be.”
    “I know. It’s frustrating. Politicians only care about politicking, not working together to govern.”
    “That may be true, but some are more willing to face reality than others.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Take, for instance, those bleeding-heart liberals who refuse to address the need for entitlement reform.”
    I bristled. Trying to keep my tone light, I said, “Those ‘bleeding-heart liberals’ are providing a safety net for those in need.” I peered into my glass, swirling the wine within. “Including minorities.”
    Elizabeth rolled her eyes, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “This isn’t a racial thing. Really, Kara, all I’m saying is our country has some major issues we need to resolve, and we can’t continue to ignore them. People may be happy with these entitlement programs now, but when the funds run dry, then what?”

#

    That night, I prepared for bed and turned on the television to catch up on the news: the Tampa Bay Marlins won, the president gave another speech on healthcare, citizens in California protested the elimination of more public services, and a suburb north of Tampa had had a series of break-ins over the last few weeks. I stopped my preparations for bed at this last story. In communities unaccustomed to crime, the perpetrators had broken in, but had not stolen anything of material value. The story ended with a police spokesperson asking for the public’s help. I made a mental note to mention the break-ins to Elizabeth and fell asleep.
    The next day, we drove to Sarasota for a day at the beach and shopping. We stopped for lunch at a Caribbean restaurant. At a table for two on the sidewalk outside, I mentioned the news story about the break-ins. Elizabeth waved her hand, a dismissive gesture. “The community probably wasn’t gated.”
    “The crimes happened in an exclusive suburb.” I paused. “You do know that living in a gated community doesn’t protect you from crime—”
    “Do we really have to go there now?”
    I could not let it alone. “I believe it’s part of the problem with this country. More people are migrating to gated communities to insulate themselves from larger social issues, and—”
    Elizabeth, preparing to take a bite of her jerk chicken pasta, placed her fork back down on her plate. “Kara, please drop it. Okay?”
    I dropped it.
    For a few minutes, we ate in silence. But it was not one of our comfortable, companionable silences of the past. Members of the same sorority in college, Elizabeth and I had enjoyed many wild and crazy nights together with our sorority sisters. Elizabeth liked to party back then. As the level-headed and calm one in the group, I made sure we stayed out of trouble and arrived home safely. We had spent many nights—after the bars and clubs had closed—talking and debating and solving all of the world’s problems. Why couldn’t we talk now? If we can’t talk about our political differences, who could?
    We returned late to Elizabeth’s home. While taking a long, hot, relaxing shower, I vowed not to discuss politics with her and have fun the rest of the weekend. I put on shorts and a t-shirt and left the guest room. Walking down the hallway to head downstairs, I noticed a drop of red on the pristine white carpet. I bent down for a closer look. Blood. Fresh blood. Puzzled, I turned at the noise behind me.
    A man held a knife to Elizabeth’s neck.
    My stomach clenched. I gasped and brought my shaking hand to my mouth. Elizabeth stood there, her wide eyes pleading for me to do something. Anything.
    I wondered if the man could hear my heart beat. I looked at him. He stared back at me with an intensity as painful as a laser beam pointed at my eyes.
    Elizabeth whimpered. “Please don’t hurt me. Please. Take whatever you want.”
    The man did not take his eyes off me. “We’re not here to hurt you, lady. We didn’t think you’d be here.”
    Elizabeth continued to plead with him.
    He pressed the knife deeper into her skin. “Shut up!”
    I flinched. To me, “Don’t scream or she dies. Come with me. Slowly.”
    I nodded and rose.
    He backed up with Elizabeth and I followed, my eyes not leaving his. He indicated with his head to enter her bedroom. Another man stood on the other side of the bed.
    “Sit,” said the first man.
    I hesitated, uncomfortable, unsure of what was going on here. I sat on the bed. He took Elizabeth into the master bathroom. I could see into the bathroom, the reflection of the second man in the mirror. The man holding Elizabeth could see me in the mirror as well. I did not see a phone in Elizabeth’s bedroom.
    “What do you want?” I asked.
    The first man looked at Elizabeth in the mirror. “Open it.”
    With shaky hands, she opened the medicine cabinet next to the mirror and looked at him.
    “Put everything in the bag,” he said.
    Elizabeth continued to stare at him to be sure she understood and then began taking items out of the cabinet. She placed them in the bag. Her hands shook, slowing the process.
    She dropped a bottle of pills. Elizabeth froze. The cap was not secured. Time stopped as all of us listened to the pills scatter across the tile floor like wind chimes.
    Elizabeth stared into the mirror. “Please don’t hurt me.” Her head shook in rhythm with her hands. “I have children. They need me. Please. Please don’t hurt me.” She started to cry again, spasmodic cries that tore through her body.
    I started to rise, fists clinched. A strong hand—firm, but not rough—pressed down on my shoulder pushing me back down on the bed. I looked in the mirror at the second man. He raised a gun I hadn’t noticed and dropped it back to his side. He shook his head “No.”
    “Pick them up,” the first man said. “All of ‘em.”
    With him behind her, Elizabeth bent down awkwardly. The spasms in her hands sometimes caused her to miss the bottle. She retrieved every pill and tried again with the intense concentration of a child coloring within the lines.
    When she finished, he said, “Pick up the bag.” He turned Elizabeth around and indicated with his chin for me to get up and walk toward the door.
    We went down the hallway and down the stairs. Over my shoulder, past the second man, I saw that Elizabeth could barely stand. I looked into the first man’s eyes.
    “We’ve got what we came for,” he said. “Let us leave and no one gets hurt.”
    At the bottom of the stairs, he said to me, “Stay here.” He shuffled with Elizabeth toward the front door. He turned toward me, his gaze steady. I stared back. He pressed Elizabeth closer to him.
    I tensed, ready to spring forward.
    “It’s not what you think,” he said, and then shoved Elizabeth to the side. Hard. He opened the door and the two men ran.
    I rushed to Elizabeth. She had a slight cut on her neck. Her eyes looked through me. She was going into shock. Tires peeled away in the distance. I touched Elizabeth’s shoulder and then went to the kitchen phone and called the police.

#

    In my office in D.C. a month later, an article caught my eye on the Internet. The source was the Tampa Bay Times. Police had arrested numerous members of a stolen prescription-drug ring that targeted neighborhoods in and around Tampa, especially communities of older people. A picture of the ringleader accompanied the article; the man I had last seen holding a knife against Elizabeth’s neck. In his early twenties, he had short-cropped hair. I stared at his dark brown eyes, which looked back at me with the same intensity as they had that night.
    Prior to these robberies, the perpetrators did not have criminal records. Some of them were enrolled in college. Their motive? To steal drugs to give to the people in their community who couldn’t afford them. A modern-day gang of Robin Hoods.
    Later that afternoon, my cell phone rang. The Hillsborough County district attorney introduced herself and asked whether I would testify against the two men who had invaded Elizabeth’s home. As she talked, I clicked over to the story still launched in my browser. I scrolled up the screen to examine the man’s picture.
    “Are you there?” the DA asked.
    The man’s intent expression stared back at me. He had hurt my friend and terrorized us both in a desperate attempt to solve a problem no one else was willing to address. And, in consequence, he would be going to his own gated community. Prison.
    “Yes, I’m here,” I said.
    “Will you testify?”
    I thought of Elizabeth. We had not spoken since our vacation together, but if her recent Facebook photos were any indication, she seemed okay. We didn’t have much to say to each other anymore.
    “No. I don’t think so.”
    “I can subpoena you, you know.”
    I pressed “End” on the phone and, probably, on my relationship with Elizabeth. I clicked out of the news article and leaned back in my chair and gazed out the window onto K Street below.

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