The Witness

Chapter 3 - Gethsemane

Four shadows were lurking in the dark, near the shoreline. They emerged from a dark sports car, one by one, and opened the trunk at the back. Rosa couldn't see their faces, but she could guess by their build that they were all young men. Their voices, too, sounded male, and frantic. They talked over each other, in loud, angry tones punctuated by slurs, as they gathered around whatever they were looking at inside the trunk. Rosa's heart pounded as she stopped looking and took cover behind the wall. She could sense danger, the same kind that ruled her life from a very young age.

"We tie her, then we throw her."

"No, we use the bag, idiot."

"I don't think she'll even fit in the bag, you fool."

"Help!"

Rosa froze. That voice--that last voice--was not male. It was the voice of a girl. And it was a girl she had heard before, a girl she knew.

No, Rosa thought. I'm dreaming. I'm hearing things.

"Help me!" the girl cried again, and this time Rosa was sure. "Help--"

"Shut up!" someone cut in. Rosa gasped, quickly covering her mouth. It was another familiar voice. Male, but unmistakable. What are they doing together? she thought, panicking. She covered her ears, but she could still hear the terrible noises that followed, the clang of something heavy, the girl's terrified pain-stricken cries. "Help!" she cried again. "Tighter," he commanded the others. "On three. Now."

Rosa pounded her fists on her lap. This was unbearable. I must do something! she decided, and then she turned around and peered out the window.

This time, the view was a bit clearer. The girl was lying inside the trunk, crying in pain, and the boys were slowly strangling her. No no no, Rosa thought, unable to believe that she knew two of the five people in whatever she was witnessing--the girl and the ringleader among the boys. Stop, stop. Oh god, I must do something. I must do it NOW.

That was how her mind went, but her body was another story. She stood still, rooted to the ground, shocked. She watched. Unable to move, she watched.

She watched as her classmate, Sylvia Francisco, who had been missing for more than a month, writhed and twisted inside the trunk. Rosa watched as the four boys tightened the ropes she was tied with, to her greater agony. She watched as their ringleader, Sherwin Martinez, class president, heart throb, and eldest son of a police chief,  carried out orders and raised a kitchen knife with an enormous blade over Sylvia's crumpled body. The blade glinted with a sinister twinkle under the stars. Rosa watched, and never forgave herself for just watching as Sylvia was stabbed to death under Sherwin's knife, horrifically, repeatedly, before another cry pierced through the cruel silence, a scream that was not her own.

"What are you doing?" Joaquin cried, coming down the same street. He was carrying a plastic bag.

Joaquin, no, Rosa thought, and then she finally snapped. She grabbed the ringer of the large brass bell and swung it, hard. It barely made a clang. The clang was easily buried under a much louder, more terrible sound--that of a gunshot. The boys leaped to the car and drove off, but not before tossing Sylvia's crumpled body on the asphalt. Just inches away, Joaquin was sprawled on the ground, doubled over in immense pain as he tried to nurse his bloodied leg. He'd been shot in the knee.

A thousand ugly scenes were attacking Rosa's mind, clouding her train of thought. Oh god oh god oh god, Rosa thought, struggling to process what had just happened. Her classmate, Sylvia Francisco was dead, murdered. Sherwin Martinez, their class president, was behind it, him and at least three other boys. And Joaquin de la Cruz, an altar boy she'd known for only a few hours, had been shot, trying to help Sylvia.

Rosa was the only person in the world who'd seen everything.

Her mind was made up. She was about to go down the spiral staircase when she heard another car's engine, alongside the distinct sound of police sirens. And so she remained where she was, by the window, watching. A police car parked on the side of the street. Two officers went out. It was dark, but Rosa could imagine the look of relief spreading all over Joaquin's face.

"They went that way!" pointed Joaquin. One of the cops was already cordoning the area around Sylvia's fallen body. "They shot me here, in my knee," added Joaquin.

The other cop ignored his words. Rosa's heart stopped for a moment as he pulled Joaquin to a standing position, none too gently, ignoring the boy's groan of pain.

"What are you doing?" Joaquin asked, the tremor in his voice a sound Rosa would never forget. "I didn't do anything!" added Joaquin, as the cop easily overpowered his feeble attempts to resist. "It wasn't me!" cried Joaquin, as he was handcuffed. "I swear to God, it wasn't me!"

"Shut up!" hollered the cop, kicking him violently into the backseat of  the car.

By then, several police cars had answered the calls and were gathered around the crime scene. The cops took pictures and notes. The police car Joaquin was forced into had just driven away when another one arrived. A middle-aged couple, still dressed in house clothes and accompanied by a female officer, emerged from the car. Sylvia Francisco's parents. They took one look at the corpse, and started weeping hysterically in each other's arms.

Still in a daze, Rosa went down. She stopped in front of the Immaculate Mother statue, remembered her things, and packed them, trying to figure out what to do next. When she went out, the whole neighborhood was aware. The police line barely managed to separate the crime scene from the crowd of ogling onlookers that had gathered on the street.

Rosa fought her way to the front of the crowd and grabbed the nearest cop by the elbow. "Please, I need to talk to you."

"Not now, iha," he snapped.

"I saw what happened!" Rosa hollered, trying to catch his attention. "I saw everything from the bell tower!"

If anybody had heard her, they did not show it. The cops continued taking pictures and notes, whispering to each other and their speakers, and consoling the victim's family.

Rosa pushed her way to the next nearest cop. "Please listen to me," she begged. "I saw the real killers. The boy you arrested was just trying to help!"

The cop raised his eyebrows. "Got any proof?"

Rosa was dumbfounded, too stunned to even shake her head.

The cop leaned closer to her, and she flinched back. "You're a pretty kid," he commented. "If I were you, I'd be very careful. I'd just shut up and go home."

"But--"Rosa started, and never finished. The cop had turned his back on her and was walking away.

Rosa watched helplessly as he walked over to yet another newly-arrived police car, from which another familiar face emerged. The police chief, Juan Martinez. Sherwin's father. He marched over to where Sylvia's parents were standing and sobbing, and then he whispered something to them. Sylvia's father kept his eyes to the ground. Chief Martinez put his hand on the shoulder of Sylvia's mother as she nodded weakly and wiped her eyes. "I promise," the chief said, in a clearer, louder voice. "I promise that your daughter will receive justice. I'll see to it that that boy gets put to death."

Those around him, including Sylvia's father, nodded in agreement.

Then, and only then, did Rosa realize her full situation. Once again, she was alone.