Some Are Sicker Than Others

by Andrew Seaward

  Angie’s head snapped around so abruptly that it almost knocked Dave right off of the bench. “What? Sarah? You know Sarah?”

  “Yep.”

  “How? How do you know Sarah?”

  “Well, it’s the darndest thing, Angie. It just so turns out that I’m her volleyball coach.”

  Angie looked like she had just been zapped with a cow prod. Her eyes bugged out like a cartoon character and her mouth was dropped open so wide that a bird probably could’ve flown inside. “You’re kidding me?”

  “No, I’m not. I work at Boulder Catholic high school. I coach track in the spring and girls’ volleyball in the winter. I’m her coach, coach Bell, coach Dave Bell.”

  Angie just stared at him with her mouth wide open, her head wagging back and forth in complete astonishment. “I don’t believe this,” she said, throwing her hands upward. “You know Sarah? You know my Sarah?”

  “Yeah, she’s one of my best middle blockers. Hell, she’s probably got the best serve of anyone on the whole damn team.”

  “I don’t believe this. This is crazy. This is absolutely insane.”

  “I know, I know. I tell you, I nearly fell outta my chair when you brought out that picture of her. I was like, wait a minute, I know that girl. She’s on my volleyball team. Her name’s Sarah. Small world, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is. My goodness. I mean, what are the chances? And in a rehab of all places—it must be some kind of good omen.”

  “I was thinking the exact same thing.”

  Dave snickered to himself as he picked up his cup of coffee then took a long slurp and set it back down. Okay, phase one was complete—the introduction. Now, all he had to do was introduce the plan. But, he had to be careful. He didn’t want to just rush into it. Angie was liable to flip out once he told her about the bus incident.

  He took a deep breath and turned slowly towards her. The woman was biting her nails and spitting them out into the snow. “So,” he said, as casually as possible, “when was the last time you talked with Sarah?”

  “Hmm.” Angie rolled her eyes up towards the tree line then began mumbling to herself as she counted off on her fingers. “I’d say it’s been about…eight weeks.”

  Eight weeks? Perfect. That meant she hadn’t yet heard about what happened, unless of course she saw it in the papers, but then wouldn’t she have said something already? Yeah, of course she would’ve.

  “Really? That long?” Dave said then exhaled deeply feeling as the anxiety began to fall away from him.

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, my ex-husband, Bill, won’t let her talk to me. That asshole’s probably got her phone locked away in his study.”

  Dave took another deep breath and let it out slowly. This was awesome. It was working out better than he could’ve possibly imagined. If Angie hadn’t yet heard about what happened then he could tell her his side of the story. He could tell her what really happened on that bus, how the cops pulled him over without reasonable suspicion. But, he ought to wait a little bit first and let everything settle. He didn’t want to give Angie the impression that he was just using her for her daughter. Besides, he still needed some time to get in touch with his lawyer. He had to find out if this kind of thing was even possible. Could someone like Sarah be called as a witness? Would her testimony even help? And when was the court date? He didn’t even know yet. He was still in the early planning stages. He had to find out all of this shit first then he could get Angie to call up Sarah.

  After he stamped out his cigarette, Dave tossed it in his coffee. The butt hissed like a snake as it drowned in the last little bit of sludge at the bottom.

  “Where are you going?” Angie said, looking up at him.

  “Oh I uh…I gotta go take care of some business. But I’ll see you later.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, it was nice talking to you, Dave.”

  “Yeah, you too. And don’t worry, we’ll talk again later.”

  “Great. I’ll be looking forward to it. I wanna hear all about my daughter and how great she’s doing at her volleyball.” Angie smiled and winked at Dave somewhat seductively. What the hell? If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was flirting with him. Holy shit. This was great. If she was this fucking horny then she’d be putty in his fucking fingers.

  Dave smiled back at her with his own version of seduction—a slight roll of the shoulders to get his pecks protruding outward. He let her soak it in for a few seconds then did an about face and headed off towards the porch patio, making sure to flex his butt cheeks as he walked so that the fat wouldn’t jiggle.

  When he got to the patio, he went right for the payphones, trying not to acknowledge the patients who were still gathered around their silly, little Monopoly game. He didn’t have time for small talk or pleasantries. He had to get a hold of Weinstein. He was on a fucking mission.

  As he lifted the phone from its cradle, he fished out his lawyer’s information. With the receiver wedged between his ear and his right shoulder, he flattened the lawyer’s number out against the top of the payphone. He’d gotten the number from the yellow pages of the Boulder County phone book, underneath Attorneys at Law, subsection DUI Charges. The toll-free phone number was listed at the bottom in patriotic red, white, and blue ink right beneath his lawyer’s name, Barry Weinstein, who was dressed up in a Benjamin Franklin outfit. Supposedly, this Weinstein character was one of the best DUI case lawyers in all of Colorado. In fact, Dave even remembered seeing his commercials on the local television station in Boulder. They called him “The Patriot” on account of his “unrelenting allegiance to the common American.” There was no case he wouldn’t take—big, small, even un-defendable. All he required was a credit check and a down payment. The guy wasn’t cheap, but he seemed to be worth it. Hell, he’d better be. For five thousand big ones, the guy had better be a fucking miracle worker.

  As Dave punched in the numbers, he switched the phone to his left ear. This call was way too important to trust with his weaker ear.

  The phone began to ring…once, twice, three times, four…then the receptionist picked up: “Hello, Weinstein and Company, Attorneys at Law?”

  “Yes, hello, my name is Dave Bell. I’m one of Mr. Weinstein’s clients.”

  “Yes, hello, Mr. Bell. What can I assist you with today?”

  “Yeah, well, I’d like to talk to Mr. Weinstein if I could. I have some new information for my case that I think would be very valuable.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, but Mr. Weinstein is in court all morning. Can I have him call you back?”

  Shit. Dave was afraid this might happen. The guy was hardly ever available. But that was a good sign, right? That meant he was good enough to be busy.

  “Well, when will he be back?” Dave said, looking out across the lawn at Angie who was still sitting on the bench finishing her cigarette. “This is very important. Time is of the essence.”

  “Hmm…let’s see.” Dave could hear the sound of shuffling papers and a keyboard tapping somewhere in the background. “It looks like his last case is at ten-thirty, which means he should be back at the office after lunch, around twelve-thirty.”

  “Twelve-thirty?”

  “Yes sir. Would you like to leave a number?”

  “Yeah, but unfortunately I’m on a payphone.”

  “That’s okay. What’s the number?”

  “Hold on, let me see.” Dave leaned forward and found the number. It was written on a piece of tape just above the phone’s keypad. “Okay, here it is.” He moved his finger across the tape as he read off the number. When the receptionist finished taking it down she said, “okay, got it.”

  “Alright, so twelve-thirty?” Dave said, one more time for confirmation.

  “Yes sir. I’ll have him call you as soon as he gets in the office.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  Dave hung up the phone and checked his Casio. It was nine-thirty now, which gave him another…one, two, three hours. Damn—why was this guy always in court? He needed to tal
k to him. This was a huge break. He finally found a way out of this shithole.

  Chapter 24

  The Patriot

  THREE hours later, the payphone began ringing. Dave was sitting in the same metal folding chair with a pile of cigarette butts beneath him. “Yeah?” he said, as he yanked down the receiver and stomped his cigarette out onto the pavement.

  The voice on the other end was old and scratchy and had that whiny, Woody Allen New Yorker accent. “Uh yes hello…I’m calling for uh…Mr. David Bell?”

  “Is this Weinstein?” Dave said, as he straightened his posture and switched the receiver to his other ear, the good one.

  “Yes it is. Is this David?”

  “It most certainly is. Where the hell you been, Weinstein? I’ve been waiting out here in the cold for like…four frigging hours.”

  “Oh you know how it is, David…busy, busy. Nothing but drafty court rooms and old, curmudgeonly judges.” Weinstein began laughing into the receiver. It was a shrill kind of cackle, like that of a drunken hyena.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dave said, waving his hand dismissively. “Listen, I got some great news for you. I think I may have just broken this case wide open.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I just met this chick in here, a gal by the name of Angie Mallard. It just so happens that she is the mother of one of my best middle blockers, Sarah Mallard.” Dave waited to see if Weinstein could put two and two together, but the guy didn’t say anything. He just yawned and let out a lazy sort of grumble. “Can you see where I’m going with this, Weinstein?” Dave said, as he pulled out another cigarette, tossed it in between his lips, and sparked up his lighter.

  “No, not really, David. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to elaborate.”

  Dave pulled the phone back and looked at it like it was growing fungus. What the hell was with this guy? Was he tired? Thought he was supposed to be “The Patriot,” not some tired, old geezer.

  “Sarah was there,” he said, as he lit the cigarette then took a quick puff and spewed the smoke outward. “She was there when the cops pulled me over. She saw what happened. She can testify for me in the courtroom.”

  “Uh…I’m not sure I follow you, David. Testify to what exactly?”

  “That I wasn’t speeding or driving erratically. That the cops pulled me over without reasonable suspicion.”

  Finally, Weinstein let out a groan of understanding. “Oh, okay, I see where you’re going with this, David.”

  “You get it now?”

  “Yes, I get it.”

  “You think it might work?”

  “Uh, well”—Weinstein’s voice went up an octave—“I’m not so sure about that. It’s seems a little…iffy.”

  “Iffy? What the hell do you mean iffy? It’s brilliant. It’s the best idea I’ve ever had. It’s fucking genius.”

  “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves now, David. It’s certainly not something we should be betting the farm on. At least not just yet.”

  “Well, why not? You said that if we could prove the cops didn’t have reasonable suspicion to pull me over, then the case could be dismissed and I could get the fuck out of here.”

  “Yes, but that was before I received the full police report from the Boulder County Sheriff’s office.”

  “So what? What does that change?”

  “Well, you didn’t tell me they found you in possession of narcotics.”

  “I didn’t think that was really important.”

  “Not important? David, are you kidding me? The arresting officer said he found eight grams of crack cocaine in your jacket pockets.”

  “So?”

  “So how am I supposed to get a judge to even look at this case seriously? I mean, considering the amounts we’re talking about here, you’re lucky you didn’t get an intent to distribute.”

  Dave tightened his hand around the receiver. He felt like driving the thing right against the fucking keypad. An intent to distribute? What the hell was this guy saying? Just three days ago, Weinstein said the case would be a slam-dunk, no problem. Now, all of a sudden, he was starting to get iffy? Where was all this coming from? What was this Jew trying to do…swindle him?

  “Now just wait a minute,” Dave said, as he tried to suppress his anger by pretending the phone was Weinstein’s neck and squeezing it tighter and tighter. “You said I had a good chance at getting out of here.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You said all we had to do was prove that I wasn’t driving erratically.”

  “I know but—”

  “But nothing. Now look Weinstein, I’m not paying you so you can just sit on your ass and tell me what’s not possible. I’m paying you so you can do your job and get me the fuck out of here. Now, I’ve done my part—I got you a fucking witness. I got you someone who was at the scene and can testify that the cops were acting inappropriately. Now, you do your job and get this girl inside of a courtroom and I’ll make sure she does the rest. You got it?”

  For a moment, there was a long, uncomfortable silence. Weinstein didn’t say anything, but Dave knew he was there, because he could still hear the old bastard breathing. “Hello?” Dave said. “Earth to Weinstein. Did you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Weinstein finally grumbled, “I heard you,”

  “Well, do you got it?”

  “Yes, David, I got it.”

  “So, we’re good to go then? We’re not gonna have any problems?”

  Weinstein let out another deep sigh, like a tire being deflated. “No, David, no problems.”

  “Good, so, I’ll have this girl call you. Once again, her name is Sarah. She’s a minor, but I’m gonna get her mother’s permission, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Okay, David, that’s fine. You can have her call me, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. There’s a very good chance her testimony may not be enough to convince a judge to release you.”

  “You just do your job and get us a court date. I’ll do the rest. You can count on that.”

  “Alright, listen, you hang in there, David. And try to get some rest. Maybe even listen to what those therapists are telling you. Who knows? They might surprise you. You might find out something about yourself that you didn’t know before all of this happened.”

  Dave couldn’t help but chuckle. Yeah right. He wasn’t gonna have time for any of this therapy bullshit. Especially, not now—he had a case to assemble.

  Chapter 25

  The Witness

  DAVE didn’t see Angie again until after dinner. She was outside at the picnic tables sucking down a post-meal cigarette. She had changed her clothes. She had on a white wool beanie pulled down over the pimples on her forehead with matching white jeans and a bright red and white candy-cane striped ski jacket.

  Dave took a moment to regain his composure. After spitting on his hand and patting his hair down, he tucked in his shirt then did a quick breath check. It wasn’t too bad, a little garlic-flavored. He probably shouldn’t have had all that garlic toast. Oh well, he couldn’t brush his teeth now. He didn’t want to risk losing Angie. He’d waited all day for her.

  He limped across the patio and picked a seat next to Angie underneath the warm glow of one of the umbrella-shaped space heaters.

  “Hey,” he said, as he pulled out a cigarette, lit the end, and set down his lighter.

  “Hey yourself,” she said, smiling up at him. “How you doing?”

  “Pretty good. How ‘bout you? ”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Where were you this afternoon? I was looking all over for you.”

  “I had a meeting with my counselor.”

  “Oh yeah? How’d that go?”

  “Horrible. I hate her. She makes me so uncomfortable.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that. The people in charge here are assholes. It seems like they wanna get up in everyone’s business.”

  Angie sniffled. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  The next few sec
onds were filled with nothing but silence. Dave wanted to broach the subject, but didn’t want it to be too obvious. “So…” he said, looking at the end of his cigarette, “I talked to my lawyer today.”

  “Oh yeah? How’d it go?”

  “Good. I think I may have even found a way out of here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Actually, it’s kind of funny, your daughter’s name came up.”

  “What? Sarah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, my lawyer, Barry Weinstein, thinks she can help me.”

  “How?”

  “Well, remember how I told you my wife called the cops on me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,”—Dave puckered his lips like he’d just bit into something sour. The words were on his tongue but he was almost afraid to say them—“your daughter was there when the cops pulled us over.”

  “What!” Angie shot up from the table and seized Dave’s forearm. Her nails were so sharp he could feel them digging through the sleeve of his jacket. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  Dave tried to wrench his forearm away from her, but her grip was too strong. Jesus—what was she, a fucking weightlifter or something?

  “What are you talking about, Dave? What happened? What do you mean the police were there? Tell me right now, god damnit.”

  “Alright, alright, Jesus, calm down, I’ll tell you.”