Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  It had all started five years ago. She was only thirty-three, but she suddenly felt tired and achy all the time. Her compulsive workouts disappeared overnight. She started sleeping round the clock. The lean and muscled body that Sean had married became a fixture lying in bed or slouching in an easy chair watching television. She would go days without leaving the house. Sean assumed it was a midlife crisis, maybe even depression from an inability to have kids.

  He spent more time at work.

  Then one day he noticed the tremors. It started with a little shaking in her right hand. A few days later, he caught her downing Extra Strength Tylenol. She claimed she had a migraine. But she couldn’t hide the stiffness in her joints, the sudden cramps, or even the changes in her handwriting. Finally, he confronted her. She broke down and cried as he ticked off the symptoms she had been trying to hide: tremors, stiffness, cramps, insomnia, depression, withdrawal. It was an early onset of Parkinson’s, he told her. Only later did he learn that she already knew. She had been on medication for months.

  Over time the symptoms worsened. The tremors increased and walking became more difficult. She shuffled now, and she would often run her hand along the wall for balance. Once vibrant eyes had surrendered to a faraway look, a facial expression that Sean secretly named her “Parkinson’s mask.” Her speech was softer now and more monotonous. Recently, she had lost some control of her bladder. She needed to go to the bathroom constantly and eventually succumbed to wearing extra protection to avoid leaking. It embarrassed her. She and Sean never talked about it.

  They slept in separate rooms. It was easy to avoid your wife in a house this big.

  Sean shook his head briskly and brought himself back to the present. He took a swig of scotch and double-clicked onto Quicken, his financial software package.

  The computer demanded a password.

  Sean typed in the code known only to himself. There were some advantages to having a tired and trusting wife, especially one who had no desire to get involved in how he spent the money.

  B-A-R-R-A-C-U-D-A.

  “Welcome to Quicken,” the computer replied.

  Sean entered the usual bills to be paid electronically, including a monthly payment in the amount of twenty-four thousand dollars earmarked for the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal. He typed the words “malpractice insurance” into the notation line on the check, then hit the Send button.

  A few more keystrokes and he was checking out the balances in his investment accounts. It had not been a good year in the market, but he was still worth nearly a million, thanks largely to gifts from Erica’s parents. His in-laws had been generous during life, but the big payoff was yet to come. By even conservative estimates, his in-laws were worth at least fifteen million. They were getting old, and Erica was an only child. Unfortunately, both of Erica’s parents appeared to be in pretty good health.

  Sean closed the program and typed in an Internet address. He pulled up the site for the Tidewater Savings and Loan and then navigated to their electronic banking menu. A few more keystrokes, and one more use of the Barracuda password, and he was looking at the balance for account number 096-48133, an account belonging to the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal. Despite the steady stream of checks out of the account to another local bank each month, this single account had grown to nearly half a million dollars.

  The CEO and treasurer of the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal took another swig of scotch, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.

  17

  THE YOUNG LADY was waiting for Charles when he returned to his office from court. She worked for Senator Crafton, she explained, and needed to talk with Professor Arnold in private. Charles had no idea why an aide from the office of Virginia’s senior senator would want to talk with him. He braced himself for the worst.

  He studied her card—Catherine Godfrey—and offered her the one seat other than his own. He sat down behind his desk, wanting for all the world to grab the small Nerf basketball sitting on his credenza and take a couple of shots. It would help clear his mind. He had an ominous feeling that clear thinking was about to be required.

  “Do you have any idea why I’m here?” Catherine asked. She had an air of importance, though she couldn’t have been more than a year or two out of college.

  “Not really.”

  “Good.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands around her knee. “At least not every secret in Washington has leaked out.” She flashed a coy smile, seemingly enjoying the suspense. “It has to do with your ex-wife.”

  Charles decided to play it stoic, show her no reaction. But she definitely had his attention. “Okay.”

  “What I’m about to tell you needs to stay in strictest confidence,” Catherine continued in her self-important tone. Charles felt like he was being lectured by a woman the same age as his students. She waited, apparently desiring a response.

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” She shifted. “You’ve heard about the Sunnydale nomination?”

  “Of course.” Sunnydale was one of the president’s selections for the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals. He had been nominated nine months ago, but the Democrats wouldn’t let him out of committee.

  “Well, the players in Washington have reached a compromise. Sunnydale and seven other judges will be approved by the justice committee and put to a vote. The Dems, including my boss, will support these nominations on one condition.”

  Charles furrowed his brow, trying to figure out what his ex-wife, a Democrat herself, had to do with this.

  “This is where it gets interesting,” Catherine continued. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level, as if the office of this lowly law school professor might somehow be bugged. “The Democrats are insisting that they get one of their own in exchange. Your wife has some friends in high places.”

  You’re kidding. Denita—a federal court judge?

  “Tight,” Charles said, though for some reason he couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. “She’d be a great judge.”

  Catherine seemed to relax just a little. “Well, that’s why I’m here. You see, the president is nervous about appointing a Democrat. But frankly, well . . . he likes what he sees in your wife’s file. The president thinks she’ll be pro-business but at the same time she’ll, um, look out for the, uh . . . interests of minorities . . . create a little diversity . . .”

  “You mean she’s a three-fer,” Charles interjected. He watched Catherine turn a little red. “Black, female, pro-business—everything you need for a good political appointment.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Catherine said weakly.

  “I know.” Charles smiled to put the young woman at ease. No sense taking it out on her. While Catherine launched into a detailed explanation of the politics at play, Charles wrestled with the unexpected disappointment that enveloped him.

  Why didn’t he feel more elated about this? Was it jealousy? some deep-down desire for revenge? a feeling that maybe Denita would never turn to God as long as things kept going her way? Or was it that she would never turn back to him?

  He’d have to sort it all out later, he realized, as Catherine had stopped talking and was apparently waiting on him for a response.

  “I’m sorry. What is it you need?”

  “Well, as I was saying, the president has raised some reservations about a couple of things. He knows your ex-wife is not exactly going to be an ultraconservative, especially on issues like affirmative action, civil rights, and whatnot. But he wants to make sure that there aren’t any surprises on other issues that might embarrass him after he nominates her. The senator has assured the president that there’s nothing in her background on issues like abortion, gun control, vouchers, and the like. Frankly, that’s part of what makes her appealing. Still . . . we thought it might be wise to check around a little.”

  “So you come to the vengeful ex-husband just to make sure he’s not going to throw any hand grenades?” Charles was starting to dislike this young senator’s aide, though he knew sh
e was only doing her job.

  “Something like that.”

  “She’d make a great judge,” Charles said firmly. Then he stood behind his desk, signaling that the interview was over.

  Catherine stood as well, but she had obviously been around politics enough to realize he had just dodged her last question. “So you’re not aware of anything in her past that might embarrass the White House or Senator Crafton?”

  “She’d make a great judge,” Charles said. Then he extended his hand.

  Catherine shook it and looked him dead in the eye. “Sometimes, there are things that only a husband knows about,” she said. “And if he’s willing to keep them to himself, it’s as if they never happened.”

  Charles felt his jaw drop as Catherine turned to let herself out. She stopped at the door, one hand on the knob. Her voice was barely audible, in part because she did not turn to look at him as she spoke. “If you ever decide to talk about it, to take it public, please, call me first.”

  18

  THE INMATES’ DINING HALL had no frills. Cafeteria-style institutional food. Bolted-down gray metal tables and bolted-down gray metal chairs. Plastic trays, utensils, and dishes. No knives. These were career criminals being fed with taxpayers’ money. There was no reason to splurge.

  Thomas Hammond fell in line behind the others. Feeling humiliated and lonely, he kept his eyes glued to the floor. He thought about why he was here, the fact that he would never hold Joshie again. He thought about Theresa and the kids—the looks on their faces as he was being hauled from the courtroom. Brave little Tiger being led away by a stranger. Sweet little Stinky with tears in her eyes. Theresa looking like her heart had been ripped out of her chest. And worst of all, he was powerless to stop it. The father and provider watching helplessly as the state tore his family apart.

  He took his tray and pushed it down the metal slide while the jail workers heaped large portions of some unidentifiable gooey substance on his plate. They called it a casserole. Beans, corn, and a roll completed the menu. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t the least bit hungry.

  He raised his eyes in search of an empty seat. The tables hosted a sea of angry men, devouring food and engaging in spirited conversation. Thomas didn’t want to talk to anybody and wondered how long he could survive in this place. He spotted a table close to the back wall that had a few empty seats. He picked his way carefully around the men, placed his tray on the table, and sat in an empty chair.

  He bowed his head and thanked God for the food.

  Thomas didn’t notice that he was the only white man at the table. Not that it would have mattered to him. At the other end of the table, several African Americans were going at it, though he couldn’t really understand much of what they said—their slang totally unfamiliar to him. Unfortunately, about the only words he could understand were the curse words. Everybody used them in prison, the same disgusting words, over and over, peppering every sentence. The words rained down from everywhere, battering your skull, defiling your thoughts, penetrating your brain. You couldn’t escape them. They made Thomas feel dirty, like he constantly needed a shower.

  He tried to shut out the vulgar language. He grabbed his fork and began picking at his food.

  After a few bites of lukewarm casserole, Thomas had company. He glanced up as a large African American inmate, a buffed man with virtually no neck, a short, scruffy beard, and a gold tooth pulled out the chair across the table. During his first few hours in prison, Thomas had been warned about this guy, the shot caller for the black inmates, a brute named Buster Jackson. “Whatever you do, stay away from him,” Thomas’s cellmate said. “Ain’t nothin’ Buster likes better than movin’ on the new white fish.”

  Thomas noticed that Buster did not have a tray. The room suddenly became much quieter.

  Thomas took a bite of the beans and gave Buster a friendly nod that didn’t seem to register. Instead of acknowledging the gesture, Buster just furrowed his brow, stared, and placed his large forearms on the table. Thomas returned the stare for a moment, then went back to picking at his food.

  “Hey, white boy,” Buster said in a menacing growl. When Thomas looked up, Buster ran his palm across the top of the table. “This ain’t your table.” Then he mumbled a string of profanity, most of it directed at the stupidity of Thomas.

  The dining hall quieted some more. Heads turned toward the pair of big men.

  Thomas put down his fork and looked Buster in the eye—again.

  “I’d appreciate if you’d watch your language,” Thomas said evenly.

  Buster let out a deep baritone laugh, a mocking chortle that stuck in his throat. Then he followed it with an even more vicious string of profanity, shook his head, repeated “watch your language” in disbelief. Finally he said, “Watch this, white boy,” and let out a torrent of curse words and slang, some of which Thomas had never heard before.

  When the language had no apparent effect, Buster narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He lowered his voice, rage riding on every word. “Go eat with your people. This here table’s for the brothers.”

  “Ain’t got no people here,” Thomas said slowly, never taking his eyes from the chiseled and brooding hulk sitting across from him.

  Buster looked around, as if he were checking to make sure the brothers were watching. Then he leaned forward so he was half-standing. “You got ten seconds,” he said, “before I bust you upside your sorry head.”

  Thomas leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and studied his tormentor. The last thing Thomas wanted on his first day in the big house was a fight. He forced himself to put on a half smile.

  “Don’t mean to cause no trouble,” Thomas said, “but I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I just wanna eat my lunch in peace.”

  Buster spit out another derisive laugh and nodded his head, a look that said there was no further use for words, a look that showed nothing but contempt for this stubborn white country boy. Then the quick hands of Buster grabbed the edge of Thomas’s tray and flipped it over into Thomas’s lap—casserole, beans, corn, and milk spilling everywhere.

  “Doggone it!” Thomas jumped up, covered in food and milk.

  Buster jumped up as well, fists at his side, ready to spring into action. Several other inmates stood and hooted, ready to enter the fray.

  But Thomas just shook the food from his hands and arms, brushed it off his jumpsuit, then knelt down on the floor to pick up his tray. With his bare hands, he started scooping the food from the floor and onto the tray while Buster hovered over him. Thomas wiped the floor the best he could with his used napkin. He felt the stares of Buster and the other inmates burning into the back of his neck as he quietly cleaned up the mess.

  Then he noticed the pant leg of a uniformed deputy standing next to him.

  “Everything all right here?” the deputy asked.

  Thomas looked up at the deputy and saw that Buster had slipped back to the other end of the table.

  “Everything’s fine,” Thomas said. “I just had a little accident.”

  Tiger dropped the top part of his Drumstick ice-cream cone in the sand. He frowned and looked over at the Pretty Lady. She was wearing a very small bathing suit and lying on her back on a beach towel, sunglasses on and eyes prob’ly closed. He had learned not to bother her, even about something this important. Stinky was knee-deep in the ocean and wouldn’t be able to hear him even if he yelled. He was on his own and needed to take some action. Fast.

  He reached down with his sandy little fingers, picked up the ice cream, and jammed it back on top of the cone. The cone portion cracked slightly but held up. Tiger glanced around to make sure nobody noticed. He had been told by his mom a hundred times that he should never eat anything that fell on the ground. He took a long lick. A little gritty but not too bad. After all, it was still ice cream.

  He took another lick, then a bite. The grit was gone, so he took another big lick. Then another. And another. He grimaced and squeezed his eyes together as the pain shot through
his head. Brain freeze! He suffered in silence, waiting for the pain to subside.

  He really liked Miss Nikki, although she needed to loosen up and live a little. She had not gone in the ocean all afternoon, and she had not helped Stinky bury Tiger up to his neck in sand nor had she helped Tiger and Stinky with their sand castle. All she did was lie on that beach towel, put that greasy stuff on her body, and turn over once in a while.

  But she was nice. After they left court earlier that day, she bought Tiger and Stinky new bathing suits, sand shovels, and pails and headed straight for the beach. She even let them get Drumsticks from the ice-cream man who wandered the beach. And she didn’t make Tiger keep putting that yucky white stuff all over his body that his mom usually made him put on about every five minutes the few times that his mom actually took him to the beach. In fact, Miss Nikki had made Tiger put that stuff on only once all day.

  Tiger finished his Drumstick and got ready to rejoin Stinky in the ocean. His nose and shoulders hurt a little bit, a prickly and stinging sensation that would not go away. It was prob’ly just the heat from the scorching sun; he prob’ly just needed to cool off in the ocean again. But first, there was a small item of business that needed immediate attention.

  He hated to do it, but he walked over on top of the Pretty Lady’s towel and tapped on her shoulder, right next to that little picture of a ratty little girl that for some reason the Pretty Lady had drawn on her body. She leaned up on her elbows and lowered her sunglasses, looking at him.

  “How was the ice cream, Tiger?”

  “Good, ma’am.”

  “Why don’t you and Hannah go build another sand castle?” Miss Nikki suggested as she carefully brushed the sand off her shoulder from where Tiger had touched her and off her arms and legs where Tiger had accidentally kicked up sand as he squeezed his legs together and shuffled his feet.

  Tiger frowned. There was no easy way to say this.