Day 24. Poor Treva!

“What is your name sir?”

Trevor looked daggers up at the officer standing opposite him at the interrogation table. He was a fresh cop, too young to know the ropes, too rigid to go with the flow. Trevor shook his head, this wont be easy.

“Treva”

“Trevor What?” The officer asked already showing signs of irritation.

He kissed his teeth at the officer and looked away. “Trevor McDonald SIR!” He made to salute but his wrists were handcuffed to the table.

“And what do you do, Trevor?” the officer paced the far wall clutching to his clip board while scribbling his notes.

“I . . . procure . . . tings, fi people, if dem need supp’m.” Trevor smiled wryly at the officer as he patrolled the wall.

“What’s that mean?” the officer stopped at the right end of the table.

Trevor kissed his teeth again wondering if he would have to spell it out for this youngin’. “You nuh know what procure mean, Mista Offica?” The officer shook his head. “If a school me haffi school you, you might as well take off you uniform an gimme mek me wear it.” He chuckled to himself. “It means I get tings, for people. What ever you need, I find it fi yuh.”

“So you’re a teef?” The policeman asked.

Trevor bristled, “I neva said I stole any ting.”

“Arite Mister McDonald,” the officer smirked to himself as he made his notes. “Ok, where were you on the night of January 13?”

“Jah know,” Trevor made to scratch his head but the cuffs stopped him. “Mi nuh memba. But I’m sure you have a idea.” Trevor had been in this situation many a time before and they would always ask for some random date that was so long ago that Trevor never quite knew what he ever did to end up in this situation. So he learned or rather stumbled upon the art of sneaking the information out of the officers.

“Well, reports are that you broke in and robbed the Mandrakes’ residence in Jacks Hill. Are you aware of this?” The officer stood still watching for Trevor’s reaction.

He shook his head frowning, “No sah. Me? Mi nuh even know where Jacks Hill is” he lied.

The officer slid a letter-size photo from his clip board and handed it to Trevor. “Isn’t that your bike with license plate 0175 BE?” Trevor peered at the picture trying to make out the blurred numbers.

“Eh, a cudda me dat yes. Is where you tek this?” He gestured to the photo.

“Jacks Hill on January 13.”

“Huh,” he breathed. “Neva knew I knew Jacks Hill.” He slid the picture across the table and looked up at the officer.

“So you agree you were at the Mandrakes that night?”

“No, I just agreed that dat was my bike in dat picture you said was taken in Jacks Hill on dat day.” He replied knowing his way around these things. He had been a procurer for over 10 years now; every now and then he was caught in precarious situations but the cases never went anywhere, ever.

The officer nodded then continued his pacing. “This morning you were apprehended with possession of this vase.” He handed Trevor another photo of an ovoid-shaped porcelain white ornamental vase. “Do you recognize the vase?”

“So a nuh the same one you ketch me wid? Why you ask me some fool fool question so?” Trevor kissed his teeth and slid the photo across the table to join the other picture.

“Who’s is the vase?” The officer asked.

“A mine man.” Trevor answered without hesitation.

“So the cocaine we found in it is yours as well?” The officer asked.

“Wha?” Trevor exclaimed sitting up straight, immediately put on alert, his heart-beat quickening. He had no knowledge of the drugs in the vase.

“50 grams of cocaine was found in the base of the vase. You know bout this?”

Trevor paused for a moment itching to scratch his beard. He always prided himself on being able to get out of any situation but this was a special case. He had only two choices: maintain that the vase was his along with the cocaine or admit he actually stole the vase from the Mandrakes last January. Hmm, larceny or possession of drugs? He chose the former.

“Arite, here’s de ting,” he slumped back down in the chair all cool and relaxed. “I took de vase from de Mandrakes but I neva know seh cocaine did in deh. So you cyaan charge me fi dat.”

“What else did you take from the Mandrakes?” The officer wasted no time.

Trevor drew a deep breath. “There was two of those vases, one mi did sell aready.” He paused contemplatively. He could have told the officer about the duffel bag of money he found in the master bedroom but decided against it; the officer only seemed interested in the vases. He hid the bag at his home as he slowly ate away at the large sum of money inside.

“Anything else?” The officer prodded as he stood opposite the table taking his notes.

“You know bout someting else me did tek?” Trevor asked the policeman.

He slid the third photo from his clip board and handed it to Trevor. “A wah dis fahda?!” Trevor exasperated. In the picture was a woman with the same duffel bag Trevor had hidden at his home.

“Mrs. Mandrake there,” the officer pointed to the woman in the photograph as he leaned over Trevor, “is missing her travel bag as well. Did you take that too?” The officer straightened up and continued his patrolling of the entire interrogation room this time, occasionally slipping out of sight as he walked behind Trevor.

Shit, Trevor thought. This hole of his just kept getting bigger and deeper. I probably should call for a lawyer now, he thought but then he started going over the details of that day in his head.

He was at the bank watching the comings and goings of the Monday morning bankers, making note of the big money people. They were always immaculately dressed to the nines even just to conduct some banking. Mrs. Mandrake was no exception to the rule, she was dressed in a rose-coloured satin blouse, white dockers pants and matching wedges with a Hermes hang-bag; she looked and smelled rich. She didn’t even join the line like the regular folk, nor did she solicit the assistance of a Customer Service Rep like the other well-to-do customers. She walked straight through the common floor of the bank and headed for the private clientele section, that part of the bank hidden to the regular folk. Trevor watched her as she disappeared into the back of the bank and waited for her to re-emerge. When she did, she carried the duffel bag nervously over her shoulder and hurriedly exited the bank. Trevor alerted his counterparts to his intentions as he made his way after her.

As she headed toward the parking lot across the street, Trevor jumped on his bike and waited for her to drive off in her white Range Rover Evogue. He followed her around the town as she went about her errands, never staying too long in one place. She then made her way up to her house in the Jacks Hill area later that evening.

The Mandrakes home was a mansion, the likes of which Trevor has never seen before and would never get this close to again. The house was well-lit, except along the perimeter fence, but it was open and inviting, very inviting, especially for a man of his . . . persuasion. Once Trevor observed the house, he made his rounds of the area noting the various activities in the neighbouring houses, just as extravagant as the Mandrakes. He then circled back to the house and hid behind a nearby tree and watched for about an hour before he saw Mrs. Mandrake step through the front doors wearing a black evening gown; she walked past her Range Rover and jumped into the silver Audi RS 5 coupe and sped out of her driveway.

As she disappeared down the road, Trevor slithered over the fence of the house and crept his way along the dark side of the perimeter. He snuck around to the back of the house and was surprised to find the back patio door was left open. He smiled at his good fortune as he entered the pristine house. He almost lost himself in the details of the interior and all the truly worthless but extravagant accessories. He then made his way up a flight of stairs and found the bedroom where the duffel bag laid by the foot of the bed. Without giving it much thought he picked it up and left. He paused at the foot of the stairs where the twin vases caught his eyes. He took both, thinking that once Mrs. Mandrake returns she would be preoccupied with the missing vases in the foyer not being aware of the missing duffel bag as well.

“Did you take the bag as well?” The officer’s voice brought Trevor out of his reverie.

He shook his head and sighed. “Yea mi did tek it yes.” He reluctantly slid the picture across the table to join the others when a knock came at the door. The officer strolled over to the door, opened it and stuck his head out. Through the open door Trevor could hear the frantic movement of the police department, people running to and fro, whoever was at the door spoke in a hushed but rapid tone; the interrogating officer nodded and hmmed in response then slid back into the room.

“A wah gwaan?” Trevor asked.

“Huh?” Asked the policeman distractedly. “A shoot out in Patrick City. Five men and two women found dead.”

“Jah know!” Trevor exclaimed. Normally he wouldn’t care for news like this but the fact that the shooting occurred in his community gave him pause. Then he thought about it even further and found the number of victims to be concerning. He lived with his two brothers, a cousin, two breddrin, his girlfriend and his brother’s girlfriend: five men and two women.

“Ah . . .” Trevor started still contemplating the odds. “Where dat happen?” He asked the officer.

“Breadfruit Close,” he answered without looking up from his clip-board. Now Trevor was worried; he lived on Breadfruit Close.

“What numba?” he asked nervously, sheepishly; his heart-rate picking up.

The officer looked up at Trevor and narrowed his eyes. “Number 12. Is what?”

“Rassclaat!” Trevor exclaimed. “A my yard dat!” He tried to get up but forgot he was handcuffed to the table and sat back down frustrated. “Offica, you haffi let me go. Mi haffi go see. A my yard dat offica. A my people dead in deh offica.” He pleaded with the officer who made no attempt to appease his request. He brooded over the incident and wondered who could have done this and why, when the officer received a phone call. He answered turning away from Trevor and paused in the far corner of the room. At one point he glanced over his shoulder at Trevor. When he hung up he hesitated before turning toward Trevor.

The officer sighed which made Trevor even more nervous. “There was a note left at the scene,” the officer said. “A note to you.”

Trevor creased his brows. “Wha kinda note?” He narrowed his eyes at the officer.

” ‘Beware of who you steal from’.”

Day 24: Write a story about a victimizer and a victim . . . in which the person who appears to be the victim is really the victimizer, and the person who appears to be the victimizer is actually the other person’s victim . . .

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