Echoes of My Soul Read Online Free PDF

Jr. had a bounce to his step. He had woken at dawn and wandered into the chilly April air, heading north along Amboy Street to Sutter Avenue. He turned west along Sutter Avenue, toward the Laundromat. And, as unaccustomed to the law as he was, particularly in Brownsville, George Whitmore Jr. was just naïve enough to believe that when Detective Ayala and Officer Micelli asked him to accompany them to the station house, he was simply being taken in to identify a real assailant.
    The Seventy-third Precinct station house was a nondescript brick building on the corner of Bristol Street and New York Avenue. Whitmore climbed the cement steps with Detective Ayala, on one side, and Officer Tommy Micelli, on the other. He was excited to be privy to an unsolved case and eagerly climbed to reach the top of the stairs, where he entered the precinct. He was dropped off in a room down the hall.
    George began imagining wild stories of himself as a detective, scouring the streets of Brownsville in search of crooks and killers, revealing his badge to wide-eyed shop owners and tenants. George remained easily distracted for half an hour, until finally, at approximately 8:00 A.M ., the door opened to the squad room, where he had been left. Detective Louie Ayala walked in.
    The detective had taken his jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his heavily starched, clean white shirt. Detective Ayala had the arms of a prizefighter, and he often rolled his sleeves up to intimidate his suspects. That morning he was clean-shaven and smelled of soap and cigarettes. He glanced in Whitmore’s direction, but failed to make eye contact. Then he motioned for him to get up.
    â€œSir—” Whitmore started, pushing his chair back in and following Ayala out of the room. In the doorway Ayala stopped so abruptly that Whitmore, who stood a few inches away, barely missed bumping into him. Then, with a long, hard stare, Ayala pointed his finger at George and said, slowly and steadily, “You don’t talk, unless you’re told to talk. Got that, kid?”
    Whitmore nodded. Ayala repeated this remark a second time, more loudly and firmly, while George nodded readily. Finally Ayala turned and the two walked out of the room.
    Meanwhile, Alma Estrada was contacted at home, and Officer Micelli was sent to bring her to the Seventy-third Detective Squad room, situated inside the Seventy-third Precinct. Officer Micelli was taller than Mrs. Estrada, and her neck extended back as she strained to meet his eyes. It was now approximately eight-thirty in the morning.
    â€œYou see this peephole, here?” he asked, pointing to the small hole in the office door. “Well, on the other side of it, we’ve got a possible suspect—I mean, this might not be the guy at all, but, if I may, would you mind taking a look through this peephole to see if we might’ve caught our man?”
    Alma Estrada widened her eyes and lifted her hands in the air, as if to say something imperative. She wasn’t sure she could emotionally handle seeing her attacker, let alone being so close in proximity to him. She told this to Micelli in rushed, frantic syllables. She knew her hands were shaking visibly and was relieved when the officer suggested she sit down for a moment. As they talked, he placed some telephone books in front of the door for her so that she could stand on top of them and see through the peephole when she was ready. Alma sat down momentarily, adding that, in thinking things through, she simply wanted to get it over with. She rested on the edge of the chair, waiting, wringing her hands impatiently, until finally Officer Micelli helped her up onto the telephone books. Alma leaned in slowly, her hands resting on either side of the peephole, fingers splayed evenly against the wood of the door.
    â€œBring him in,” Micelli hollered.
    Alma leaned in more, her left eye peering in through the hole into the empty squad room next door. The squad room