Harts Shooting
Copyright© 2025 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 5
Her father sounded patient. “We have to, Melly; some reporter does his or her homework, some rat opens their mouth ... Tamara would be left out to dry. No.”
Tamara lifted her chin. “What?”
“We told you, years ago,” her father told Tamara; “We just let you think there was nothing there. Your mom and I met on the job. I was an FBI agent, tasked with counter-intelligence, your mother was in the Directorate of Intelligence, Defense Intelligence Agency. Spooks.” His eyes held Tamara’s firmly in their grasp.
“When you came along, we pulled back; just a bit. I still work in C-I; your mother has moved ... somewhere else. I can tell you what I do; we can’t talk about your mother’s work. Not ever.”
Tamara looked at her father. “And her teaching?” Tamara asked, bitterly.
“A cover,” her mother said, looking at her husband. “Tamara, we can’t talk about this. We can’t.” Her mother sighed. “I’m ruined; I just don’t want to admit it.” A wan smile. “Never thought my daughter would make the nightly news.”
“Maybe it’ll be okay,” Tamara’s father said.
“Never,” her mother replied. “Too much risk. Even if everything is 4.0, stays 4.0, I’m blown.”
Tamara was surprised when her father laughed. “Oh, that hits me right here.” He thumped his heart. “Right under the ol’ US Army patch. I could cry for you, dear.”
Again, her mother surprised Tamara, sticking out her tongue at her father; both of them laughed. Her mother reached out and touched Tamara’s hand. “You do what you must tomorrow, Tamara. Your father and I have our own demons; they are ours to worry about, ours to deal with. You simply tell what you’ve said before. If there is to be any salvation, it will be people like you, telling the truth.”
The next morning, everyone was up early; Tamara didn’t usually get a ride with her parents into town, but today was obviously not going to be usual. At the school, her father parked in the lot across the street, walked with Tamara into the building. “I have to admit,” her dad said as they went through the main doors, “just a slight bit of intimidation walking into a Catholic girl’s school.”
Tamara looked at him. “You’ve been here before.”
He nodded. “Visits during parents’ night, informational meetings. Never on a school day.” He grimaced. “Trust me, it is not the same thing. Particularly when we are headed to the principal’s office.”
Tamara saw a familiar face standing in the office, talking to Mother Superior. “Mister Cabrera,” Tamara said softly.
He turned at her, smiled, glanced at her father. “Morning, Jack.”
“Morning, sir.”
Jose Cabrera shook his head. “I’m retired. I’m a consultant. Jack, do you know Mother Teresa?”
“No. Pleased to meet you.” Tamara saw her father hesitate. “I’m not really sure how to address you.”
“‘Hey you’ is perhaps too informal,” Mother Teresa said with a grin. “Mother Teresa suffices.” Mother Superior turned to Tamara. “And you, Tamara? How are you today?”
“Fine, Mother Superior.”
There were footsteps in the hallway; everyone glanced. It was Jose Cabrera who spoke. “Oh, oh! The big guns!” He held out his hand to the man in a brown priest’s robe who walked towards them. “Morning, Father Raymond.”
“Jose.” The man shook Jose Cabrera’s hand. “You too, Jack.”
Tamara wasn’t certain why her dad looked unhappy. His words were odd, too. “If I’d known you were within a thousand miles, I’d have stayed home.”
“What, and miss a chance with lunch with an old friend?” The priest laughed. “It’s been a long time. The three of us can go someplace quiet, catch up on old times.”
The priest turned to the Mother Superior. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of your acquaintance, Mother Superior. I’m Father Ramon Padilla.” He waved to Tamara’s father. “Jack’s been saying my name wrong since we played together on our high school football team.” The priest nodded at Jose. “Wish we’d have had you on our team then. Wish you’d pronounce my name Josie.”
“We all have our little trials, father.” Jose nodded at the Mother Superior. “You have a classroom we can use?”
She nodded. “There are about ten members of the press already there.” The Mother Superior looked at Tamara, “Your father told me why this has to happen.” She motioned to Jose Cabrera, “Mister Cabrera is a donor, a fine man. He too says this has to happen. He was more forthcoming about why.
“I understand the reasons you have to do this. Please, Tamara, remember where you are and why you are here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tamara said, not entirely certain what she meant.
“Come.” Mother Superior led them down a hall to a classroom that had a dozen adults standing around talking to each other. There was a buzz of conversation as they came in.
Mother Superior simply walked up to a lectern, turned, and faced the reporters. “Welcome to St. Mary’s Academy. Now, if you would, please turn off your cameras and recorders for a moment.”
There was a rustling, a lot of clicks, and light bars that lit off. “I hope I do not hear the words I am about to speak broadcast. Were that to happen, I would simply talk to your manager. I do not believe your manager or you would like what follows.
“I am responsible for this school and the students herein. One of my students was involved with an incident yesterday. You all have some idea of the issues involved. That is why you are here.
“The purpose of this place, the purpose the young women are here, is education. This is a distraction; it won’t last long. I have talked to Miss Hart’s first-period teacher. She states that Miss Hart will be able to make up the work she misses this period.
“You will be polite. You will not badger Miss Hart. You will be quick. Failure to meet my standards...” She smiled slightly, “a change from what you are used to. You will be dismissed early, not kept late.”
She turned to Tamara. “Please, describe what happened yesterday morning, Tamara. Give them a moment to turn their equipment on.”
Tamara walked up to the podium, stared out into the room. She didn’t recognize anyone; she didn’t watch the news much. Just think of this as a room full of her peers, she told herself. I don’t like talking to them much, either. But I do it when I have to.
She could see everyone was looking at her. “My name is Tamara Hart. I am a student here. My parents and I live north of Vancouver, and I ride to school every day on a C-Tran express bus to downtown Portland.
“Yesterday I boarded a few minutes before seven; traffic was a little light and we were downtown on time. At the first stop a young man got on.”
She ran over the story, finishing when the police lieutenant had started to ask her questions. She did mention, this time, that she helped Mr. Cabrera with the man, using her backpack as a pillow, fetching blankets. She still left out the part about holding the driver’s hand.
A minute later Mr. Cabrera stepped to the lectern, also delivering a recounting of the events. Except for a different point of view, they were pretty much what Tamara had said.
“Obviously,” Mr. Cabrera told the reporters, “what we saw, what we both reported to the police, does not jibe with the story being given out to the media; not by the police, not by the city. My attorney has already filed a discovery motion to examine the police reports that were filed. I might add, that I signed the statement I made.”
He turned to Tamara. “Did you sign yours, Miss Hart?”
“No, sir. I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
Mr. Cabrera looked at the reporters. “In a moment, you may ask questions. Please do not ask us to speculate where the miscommunication occurred, for that what it would be: speculation. There are processes, which you are quite familiar with, to explore this question. We have told you what we saw, what we did. If you will confine your questions to that, we can finish here in another few minutes.”
For the next twenty minutes, one reporter after another asked questions; Tamara was appalled at how stupid most of the questions were. They were repetitive, they asked about things Tamara could have no knowledge of; she went from willing to be helpful to quiet, to finally simply shaking her head.
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