March 15th
A version of this story first appeared in The MacGuffin Literary Journal
March 15th by Jake La Botz
“We got him,” the cop said proudly, stuffing me in the back of a brand new, ’81 Crown Vic. It had that nauseating new car smell mixed with sweat, stale coffee, Italian Beef. They must’ve just had lunch.
As we started driving, the pudgy plainclothesman in the passenger seat turned to face me, shooting a look I had come to call the “glare of the conqueror.” I stared back. When he saw I wasn’t so easily shaken, he let out a dismissive snort, faced forward, and radioed it in:
“Suspect matches description. White male. Thirties. Medium build. Facial scar…”
Apparently, I resembled a burglar known for stealing high-end tchotchkes from old folks’ homes in the area. It was the third time I’d been picked up that month. I knew the process well:
-Cops spot me, excited to be the ones to nab the “bric-a-brac bandit.”
-They run my I.D. and find out I’m not their guy.
-They get mad at me for being the wrong guy and try to find something else to hold me on.
-I walk a mile and a half home from the precinct, hoping not to get picked up by some other jag-off cop.
But this time was different. For one thing, they didn’t run my I.D. I had mistakenly left my wallet in another pair of pants when I went to work that morning and—though I told them where it was—those gung-ho cops weren’t about to turn around and take me home. Another difference was where they took me. Downtown, 11th and State, not the local cop shop. I figured these clowns were planning to march me into the chief’s office looking for a promotion.
When we got there, they yanked me out of the car so hard I almost fell on my face. Definitely harsher treatment than usual. Inside, I was printed and then tossed in a holding cell.
The idea of going to prison for a crime I didn’t commit had been a fear of mine as a youngster. A common fear, I had assumed, for guys like me who grew up poor in Chicago—we’d all known people put away for doing little to nothing wrong. By 1981, at thirty years old, the Chicago P.D. had just about ground the fear of mistaken identity out of me with their unintentional “exposure therapy.” But as I sat in the basement of police headquarters that morning, the old anxiety crept back in. It didn’t help that a guy two cells over kept yelling, “I ain’t did nuttin’,” every ten minutes or so.
After what seemed like hours, I was led to a room with loud lights, a table, a few chairs, and a long two-way mirror—an interrogation room, just like in the movies.
“I’m not the bandit and you know it,” I said.
“Alright, Jerry,” a tall, chiseled-faced cop said, pointing for me to sit down.
It was odd to be called by my childhood nickname. I’d been known as Jerome, or just Rome, since at least the age of twelve.
Another cop came in a minute later, shorter, with a pasty, pock-marked face. By their suits and demeanor, I could tell they were big-shot detectives.
“Tell us about March 15th,” the shorter one said, sitting down across from me.
The look he gave was so intense I barely registered his words. It wasn’t the conqueror’s glare, but something more jaded, matter-of-fact. The room seemed to shrink all of a sudden. I could see everything as if it were pressed up against my eyeballs. The anticipation forming on the cop’s triangular Slavic skull. His wide right thumb slowly rolling a booger against his finger. The mustard stain on his tie—a bright yellow dot like a tiny headlight shining on me. My hands felt like they’d been stuck in a freezer. I placed them under my thighs, worried the cops would see me shivering.
“It’s alright, we got time,” the tall one said, taking a seat next to his partner and popping the top on a can of Coke.
I couldn’t find my tongue in my mouth.
“March 15th, Jerry,” the short one repeated.
It made no sense how they could know.
“Let’s start with something simple. Where’d you wake up that morning, Jer’?” The tall one asked, sliding the Coke toward me.
The carbonation escaping the can was a hissing snake in my ear.
“Were you at your place or somewhere else?” The short one asked.
I repeated the words your place and somewhere else in my mind.
“Somewhere else,” I said, struggling to get the syllables arranged.
“Was it an apartment or a house?”
I saw it then.
It’s just one night, Mom said as she rolled up the window.
“House.”
I carried the carnations through the overgrown weeds and up the narrow path to the door.
“Whose house was it, Jerry?”
Harriet acted surprised, though Mom dropped me there every year on the night before her birthday.
“My aunt’s.”
She was gluing egg cartons to her walls, baseboard to ceiling, to keep out the sound of pigeons shitting under a viaduct a half mile away. She made me help.
“Alright, what’d you do when you got up?”
Cake and coupons, Jerry! Harriet hollered in the morning, handing me a plate of discount bakery gloop, a pair of scissors, and the Sunday inserts. We cut them out and stacked them alphabetically by product—J for Jiffy, K for Kool-Aid—while daytime soaps blared from her console TV and two portable ones.
“Stay with me, Jerry. What’d you do then?"
I was bigger that year. Maybe eleven. Harriet tried putting a greasy brown hair wig on me, same color as hers. I wouldn’t let her do it that time. She followed me around her filthy house, saying it louder each time. Just look in any mirror and you’ll see it, sweetie…
“Jerry?”
I yelled for her to stop, but she wouldn’t. I turned with the scissors still in my hand.
“March 15th… where the fuck were you?”
She stopped talking so loud then.
Running out the door, I heard, it’s not your fault, son. I kept running before it became my fault. Mom went to the funeral alone.
A uniformed cop walked in just then.
“Computers back up,” he said, glancing toward me and shaking his head at the detectives.
“You gotta be shitting me,” the shorter one said.
They held me for a while after the prints came back. I sat alone in that room, staring at the mirror, wondering if anyone was watching from the other side. It must’ve been midnight by the time they released me. I didn’t have enough change to ride the El. It was a long cold walk home.
The next day, I went out once. Just to get the paper. A headline in the Sun-Times said:
Knic-Knac Nabber Sought in Connection with Homicide
There was a mugshot and a caption underneath: Ernest Gerard Bardo - aka “Jerry” Bardo. I recognized him from around the neighborhood. He didn’t look that much like me, except for the scar on his forehead. When they caught him, just a few days later, Bardo admitted to the burglaries, but it turned out he wasn’t responsible for the murder. I don’t know if they ever solved that one.
The only case of mistaken identity I’ve experienced in all the years since then has been the occasional, “You look like someone I know,” from strangers in public places like restaurants or bars. Though I never ask, I sometimes wonder if their friend is Jerry Bardo.
As far as Harriet goes, I can’t say if she was my real mom or not. There’s no one left in the family to ask about it either. I’ll tell you one thing though, every year the pigeons get a little louder. It’s nearly impossible to block them out anymore.
.