Harts Shooting
Copyright© 2025 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 3: After the Math
One of the passengers near the front of the bus spoke up. “Wise up, Banzai.” It was a middle-aged man in a suit speaking. “I heard it was a druggie. What kind of money does a druggie have? The city would have to take care of the medical expenses, but that’s peanuts. A cop shoots him by accident, that’s a mega-buck lawsuit. Heavy, heavy.” He eyed Tamara. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes! They’ll do everything they can to make you change your story.”
“Mr. Cabrera saw it too.” Tamara was suddenly feeling very nervous. Where had Banzai gone? She’d looked around and he wasn’t there.
“Jose Cabrera?” the middle-aged man said, then laughed. “God, they must be crazy! This will be worth the price of admission! That man has more determination in the tip of his little finger than everyone in City Hall, combined.”
Banzai was back. “Tanisha, I talked to the dispatcher. I’m taking your bus back now. Bates will be at the Park & Ride, and Tamara,” he turned to her. “I would be most grateful if you could talk to Barry Bates when we get in for a few minutes. I’m just the shop steward, he’s the President of the driver’s union.”
“I’ll be late getting home,” Tamara said.
“It won’t take long, I promise it won’t be a problem,” Banzai said, waving his hand dismissively. “Tamara, unions aren’t what they once were, but if you help us here, we can still be grateful. Very grateful.”
In a minute the bus was moving and Tamara sat back in her seat, trying to sort everything out. This seemed like some sort of mad cartoon balloon; each time she thought it had stopped growing, she’d look away and it would mushroom someplace else. How could the police say that the robber had shot Jim? She’d told them three times how it had happened! She was sure Mr. Cabrera had too! What about all the other people on the bus? And Jim, the driver?
If Mr. Cabrera had been willing to stick his fingers inside a bleeding man to hold the blood in, he wasn’t going to lie about what happened. At least, she hoped not. At the thought, she flushed, embarrassed. Her dad was very cynical, and she knew he tried to keep from passing too much of that on to her. But it wasn’t possible, and they all knew it. But everything she knew about people couldn’t be wrong. Jose Cabrera was going to tell the truth too.
She lifted her chin and set her lips. She would never change her story! Never! She’d told them what she saw, and she would tell them again and again.
Banzai was, she realized, trying to set a new record. And he was talking on the phone too.
Before she knew it, they pulled into the Park and Ride that was the end of the line, and everyone else got out. She stayed sitting down and was, flatly, astounded. Anyone on the bus who hadn’t heard had been told. Everyone wanted to shake her hand, tell her how wonderful she had been. None of them had been on the bus this morning; she usually took a later bus into town and the first one back. She couldn’t help wondering if the reason they were so effusive in their praise was because if they’d been there this morning, they too would have kept their seats.
The Union president looked the part. He was short and very heavy. He wore a very good suit, and a strong smell of cologne hung around him in a cloud.
He got a little of her attention, but most of her attention was focused on her father and mother, who were there as well. They were totally unexpected.
“Tamara, what’s this about?” her dad asked, motioning at Banzai and the Union president.
“They want me to tell them about what happened this morning.”
The group moved to stand under some of the trees a few feet from the transit shelter. It was still cold, but the clouds had vanished, and the sun shone in the blue bowl of the sky, making a deep impression on Tamara. Why hadn’t it been like this, this morning?
“If you would, Tamara,” Banzai said gently. “I know this hasn’t been a good day for you, but if you could just tell your story again to Barry. He’s got a little tape recorder and we want to tape what you say, is that all right?”
Tamara’s mother looked at them, confused. “I don’t understand.”
Her dad must have had a glimmering, Tamara thought. “You can quote from what she tells you, but you can’t sell it to anyone. Or play it for anyone, except your union management, the police, or in criminal or civil court.”
There was a moment of silence and Tamara couldn’t help but see the byplay between Banzai and the union boss.
“We agree,” Banzai said suddenly.
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