My Waterloo

Call me Phani. I am a software engineer. I came up through the ranks in my very first job. Within 3 years I was leading a team of seven. After 5 they made me a manager. I still love to code, though. They sent me to the US a couple of times. Once for two months, the other time on the coveted H1B visa. I had vowed not to return. It wasn’t a blood-oath or something, but I felt bad breaking it. It so happened that I had no choice.

Let me begin at the beginning. I was in a small town in South Carolina at the time. Well, it is the capital of that state, but a small town nonetheless. Columbia is a quaint little town. I loved it. I lived there alone in a rented studio apartment. Most of the desi people lived with room-mates. I know instances of 6 guys living in a 2-bedroom apartment. I also know two couples, with a kid each, sharing a 2-bedroom apartment. The mere thought disgusted me. I had an old Honda car sold to me by a man desperate for money. I bought it for $900. It had a working AC and driver-side airbag. Enough for me.

I used to frequent two places in the town – the Starbucks café on Gervais Street and a Mexican restaurant on Killian Road, the name of which escapes me. It had a neat little bar tucked away in a corner. It also had the best guacamole you could find in the state. They made it fresh, right at your table. I was hooked.

I had been warned by some of the desis in my company to ‘be aware’ of the people in the bar at the restaurant. I had smiled and reassured them that I won’t hang around there alone. Some of the desi girls who I gave this reply to, were taken aback. The four of them lived together in a 2-BHK. May be they dreamed of the life I was living. Or may be it was just old-fashioned desi precaution. I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t care less. At the time.

One Friday evening in late March when I entered Starbucks I saw that my usual table was taken. It had happened a couple of times in the past few weeks, so I didn’t pay too much attention. Later, over my second cup I turned my head to see who was sitting there. It was a couple. Late thirties to early forties, at a guess. She was tough-looking, the way career women tend to look. He was slim, rather ordinary. She saw me looking at them and she turned to him and said one long sentence. I saw her take a blue silk scarf from her handbag and put it around her neck before I turned my stare away.

A couple of weeks later I was in the bar at the Mexican restaurant. It was my first beer of the evening. I had promised myself only two for that day. I was with a couple of desi guys and another girl who didn’t drink. When I was about half-way through my beer I saw a stout elderly gentleman come in. He went over to the reception counter and talked to the waitress, indicating to the interior of the restaurant. After exchanging a few sentences he nodded, took off his hat and entered the bar. I turned back to my beer. A few moments later the other girl nudged me. When I looked at her in response, her eyes darted to her left. “Let me be rude and interrupt for a moment,” a cultured voice with clear diction entered my ears. It was the stout gentleman. “You, my dear, look like the Indian version of my favorite actress, Rita Hayworth.” This he said to me.

“Then you must be, what, 85 years old?” I said. To this day I blame it on the half beer I’d had.

“Oh, how interesting. So you know the name. I again apologize for imposing upon your company. To prove that I really am sorry, let me buy you guys a drink.” He smiled, showing his perfect set of false teeth.

“Thanks, Mister,” said I, for my companions were still too stunned to speak. “You’re welcome to join us.” It was a mistake.

His name was Roberts, he said. Alfred Roberts. He was a retired scientist. “Worked with Richard Feynman, I have.” He lived a couple of miles from where my apartment was. “You’re a charming lady,” he kept saying. May be it was his drink.

After dinner when the four of us came out to my car, it was raining. April showers, yes. Mr. Roberts had disappeared right after some drinks with us in the bar. I had kept myself strictly to my quota of two beers. I dropped the others at their apartment and drove home. I finally dropped off to sleep at about 1.30 AM after talking to my parents back home. I woke up at 3.47 AM to someone knocking on my door. I know the time, because I looked at the bedside alarm clock. “This is the police. Please open up.” Welcome, nightmare, I thought. It proved to be prophetic.

There were two of them, their badges glinting, their guns lapping at their waists. Or was it thighs? Not sure. Three beers. Or was it two? Four? Not sure. Confusion. “What is it?” I asked, peering at them through half-open, heavy lidded eyes.

'One' stepped in. 'Two' remained outside. One said, “Are you …” he read from his notepad, “Miss Phani?”

“Yes, I am.” It was difficult to keep the eyes open.

“Were you with three others at the WhatsItsName Mexican restaurant last evening?”

“I was there this evening, yes. I mean, last evening, yes. Yes.” I wanted to add a few more “Yeses” just to confirm.

“And there you met a Mr. Alfred Roberts and had a round of drinks or two?”

“Yes, I did. I mean, yes, we did. Yes. Yes.”

“How do you know him?”

“I don’t. Never met him before today. No. I mean, before yesterday. Never met him. He barged into our conversation at the bar and bought the bar … I mean, bought us a drink.”

At this One stepped out to converse with Two. I was left standing in the middle of my small apartment. For a full minute and a half. It was tiring. One came back.

“I need the names and addresses of your companions,” One said.

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Mr. Roberts was found dead behind the restaurant early this morning. You were the last persons known to have talked to him before his death. You will have to come to the station tomorrow morning. Same for your friends.”

“Couldn’t it have waited till the morning?” I was irritated.

“Standard procedure, ma’am. We’ll keep a watch on your car and apartment. And those of your friends’ too. Thank you for your cooperation.” One and Two beat a hasty retreat.

At about 8 AM in the morning I saw One as I was coming down the stairs. He was not in uniform and had an unmarked car with him. “Would you follow me, or would you come in my car?”

“I’ll follow you, thanks.” Somehow the idea of riding with him didn’t appeal to me. May be it was the desi girls’ word of caution. May be it was my own desi upbringing. I drove about 50 yards behind him just to get a kick out of it.

On a semi-urban stretch of the road he stopped at an unmarked building. No billboard saying “Police Station” or anything. Just two unmarked cars parked in the driveway. “Seems your friends are already here,” he said as he came over to my car. I had half a mind to put the car in reverse and floor the pedal. By the time I could make up my mind One had already entered the building. I followed him.

It was a well-lit corridor. On the left was a series of doors. Probably offices. On the right about 20 feet down the line there was a coffee maker and a vending machine. The corridor ended in a large hall. I could see a man sitting on a chair with his back to me in the hall. He looked vaguely familiar.

One motioned me to go through a door on the left. I was apprehensive at first, but a woman’s voice coming from within somewhat calmed me. “What’s taking so long?” She was saying.

It was the woman with the blue scarf around her neck. I mean, it was the same woman. The scarf was nowhere to be seen. “Have a seat, dear.” She pointed to a chair.

She flashed a badge at me, like in the movies. A photo, a seal and a gold-colored sign was all I could see. Natalie Morgan. “We aren’t the police. We are the SCBI. South Carolina Bureau of Investigation.”

“Then why is the building unmarked? Why are there no signs, no boards, nothing?” I ventured.

“This is a safe facility. Our office is at 5920 Two Notch Road if you’d care to visit.” She was apparently busy looking at some paperwork. After a while she put it away and looked at me. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere?”

“Yes, in the Starbucks a few weeks back,” I said.

“Ah, I thought I had seen you somewhere.”

Over the course of the morning Natalie and One kept asking me about the circumstances of my meeting with Roberts, about whether he said anything during our conversation that seemed unusual, about whether Roberts seemed OK overall.

Later the other girl that was with us that night, Nivedhitha, entered the room. She looked scared as hell. She looked at me and her face dropped further. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but it happened. May be my fear was showing in my face, too.

Natalie told us that Mr. Roberts had been murdered. “Somebody put a knife through his stomach. Three stabs. It was ugly.” She also said that some witnesses had come forward to say that we had a heated argument about something at the bar. Therefore, the four of us were on their list of suspects.

I said I didn’t remember having an argument, much less a heated one, with Mr. Roberts. Things began to get ugly after that. Weren’t you drinking? Didn’t he try to hit on you by comparing you to Rita Hayworth? We have witnesses for that exchange. Didn’t he intrude? Weren’t you annoyed with his behavior? The questions began to get more complicated. She finally let the four of us go some time after noon, with strict instructions not to leave town without informing her. She gave us her number.

We crammed into my car and started back home. Nivedhitha was sobbing and the two guys started arguing with each other. They were blaming just about everyone they knew for this predicament. I was getting tense and annoyed at the same time. Then the three of them joined in blaming me for my “drunk” behavior with Mr. Roberts. It was hell. The 30-minute drive did more to bring my morale down than the whole morning of grilling by the SCBI.

The next day Natalie called the four of us again to the SCBI safe facility. She showed us pictures of Mr. Roberts, all bloody and with the knife still sticking out his stomach. She asked us separately to identify him. Hell part 2 on the way back. Ruined my Sunday. Later in the day Natalie called me to say that they have unearthed some new evidence that points away from us. I was relieved, to say the least. The restriction on our movement out of town remained.

I dared not tell my parents about this. I dared not tell anyone about this. The four of us agreed to keep mum about it. For the rest of our lives. I suddenly hated the US. I felt very alone and scared.

Then one day when I was sitting in Starbucks Natalie walked in. She came directly to my table and sat down without invitation. She had a proposal, she said. We were still suspects, but she could help me.

For a mere $25,000, she said, we could walk free. Not that there was any direct incriminating evidence against us, of course. But there was enough to start a prolonged legal battle. Extremely inconvenient and expensive, these legal battles, she said. I was shocked. To think that this could happen in the US was unthinkable for me. I didn’t know what to say. I was more intimidated than anything by this offer. “Go back to your friends and talk this over,” was her ‘friendly’ advice. From her handbag she took out a large knife in a clear plastic bag, spattered with dried blood, and put it on the table near her handbag. “The murder weapon,” she said simply.

I walked out. She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf.

I got a few follow-up calls over the next couple of days from Natalie. She was always polite, pointing out that the legal way would be very, very inconvenient. I spoke with the others at length. All we could muster was $13,000 between us. I told Natalie as much. After some haggling we settled at $15,000. We’ll have to borrow a bit more. The day after was the pay-off day.

Then it happened.

“I think they are moving to another safe facility,” Nivedhitha told me breathlessly in office the next day. “I saw yesterday evening a van moving that vending machine and some furniture out from the SCBI place when I was returning from Wal-Mart with XYZ.”

On a hunch I took her with me and we ran down to the parking lot. We got in my car and drove over. I didn’t stop at that building, but drove straight on. I had seen what I needed to. The slim man I had seen in Starbucks café with Natalie on the first day was standing there with One, overseeing more stuff being moved out. The building was being emptied.

So it was a con game. I remembered One in uniform in the night, but in plainclothes during the day. The unmarked cars. I had been set up since the beginning. I had been stupid. We’d had a narrow escape.

There was no use going to the police. We had no evidence; other than the persons’ faces we knew nothing at all. The name Natalie may or may not mean anything. They may have rented the building with cash, or with false documents. That would anyway not prove anything. We returned to office, excited yet hollow within.

When I told my parents about this they put their foot down and demanded that I return to India, where I’d be safe. I had to relent. Couldn’t bear the pressure. Not that I was protesting too much. The clinching factor was that 5920 Two Notch Road was a car dealership. There’s no such thing as SCBI.