Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  Thomas reached out with both hands and placed his massive palms on the glass. Without a word, Stinky placed her tiny hand in the same spot against the glass for one hand, and Tiger followed suit on the other. For a moment they were suspended there, pressing against the glass as if touching each other, Thomas loving on them with his eyes.

  “I love you guys,” Thomas said.

  “I love you, Daddy,” Stinky sniffed.

  “I love you too,” Tiger said bravely.

  “C’mon, guys.” Nikki spoke softly but firmly from behind them. This wasn’t getting any easier, and memories of her own adoptive dad—their final good-bye—were not helping. Almost at once, both kids got up from the seat and buried their little heads in Nikki’s embrace, one on each side.

  Nikki hugged the kids, her eyes locked on Thomas.

  “Thanks,” he said simply. A man of few words.

  “You’re welcome,” Nikki replied. Her attention was drawn to the stitches over his eye and the huge bruise spreading across his cheekbone. “Take care of yourself in there. It’s every man for himself. Don’t get in anybody else’s business.” She couldn’t read his expression. What happened yesterday? “Trust no one. I mean it.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Thomas said.

  Then Nikki took the kids by their hands and, as they glanced back over their shoulders, led them from the room.

  Later that day Thomas Hammond stepped into the outside rec area, determined to keep his distance from Buster and the weightlifters. It had rained earlier in the day, but now the sun was burning off the last remnants of moisture. Another hot and sticky afternoon. Another day when the jumpsuit would cling to his skin like a wet blanket.

  The weightlifters were grunting and sweating on the far end of the fenced-in area, a full hundred yards away. Thomas kept to himself, hands in his pockets, hanging out and talking to no one. After a time he decided to saunter past the basketball courts and find a seat alone by the back fence.

  The inmates were playing their usual game of brutal basketball, egged on by small groups hanging around the basketball court, taunting the players. As Thomas walked warily around the court, he approached a group of three young black men, huddled together, talking intensely to each other, ignoring the game. He recognized the man with his back toward Thomas as the cell-mate of Buster. The cornrows, the wiry build, the animated intensity of the conversation—all characteristics of the man the inmates called A-town.

  The men talking to A-town were other members of Buster’s ES gang. One was short and muscular with huge arms, a V-build—thin waist, broad shoulders—and a flat, square face. According to the jailhouse talk, he was in for some drug offenses and conspiracy to commit murder. It was all somehow related to the same killing that had landed A-town behind bars.

  The other man was taller and thinner, an intense and volcanic type, who was in for aggravated assault and battery, his third major offense in as many years. If convicted, he was looking at serious time. His stature among the inmates was enhanced by a huge scar running from his forehead down the length of his right cheek, the remnant of a knife fight in which the other man nearly died. The inmate claimed self-defense. Everybody in jail claimed self-defense.

  Thomas veered wide of the group. He did not want any trouble, so he gave them at least fifteen feet as he walked by. Still, he heard some of the words being whispered loudly and intently by A-town. He pretended not to listen—he just kept lumbering along—but the words startled him. He felt his chest pounding, the pressure building in his head.

  Something about a bench press. A-town had definitely said something about a “bench press.” And “the throat.” He had heard A-town say it and then saw him draw his hands toward his own throat. If that were all he heard, it would have been just another group of inmates poking fun at Thomas, retelling the events of yesterday. But there was more.

  “Like yesterday.” Thomas was almost sure he heard A-town repeat the phrase “like yesterday.” He could make out a few other words, isolated and out of context: “snitch . . . just in case . . . stabbing.” Then one of the men talking with A-town saw Thomas, shot his eyes toward A-town, and nodded his head toward Thomas. The conversation stopped.

  Thoughts raced through Thomas’s mind. I am not a doggone snitch, he reminded himself. He had the opportunity to rat out Buster on day one, and he had refused. But he had clearly alienated the African Americans. Buster hated him, and Thomas didn’t know why. Now Buster’s gang was plotting to do Thomas in. How long can I last in a place like this?

  All three men turned and stared at Thomas, drilling through him with their eyes. He stared down at his feet and kept walking, no faster and no slower. He would not be intimidated, so he shuffled along toward the back fence. He was now more determined than ever to avoid the weightlifters.

  He found a place of solitude at the far end of the rec area, then sat down and leaned against the fence, closing his eyes. He cracked them momentarily, and through the slits kept an eye on both Buster at the weight area as well as the gang of three that Thomas had caught in their little conspiracy. It did not surprise him to see, after a period of time, the three conspirators start walking slowly toward the weights. Thomas eyed them warily but felt relatively safe. The weightlifters and the threesome were more than a hundred feet away, separated from Thomas by an open field of dirt and worn-down crab grass.

  Buster was holding court on the bench press. He had started at three-oh-five, done ten reps, then added weight. Nobody even thought about trying to use the bench while Buster rested before his second set. Then he pumped out three-twenty-five for eight reps and added more plates. Three-thirty-five went up five times, and Buster was glistening with sweat. He unzipped the jumpsuit and slid out of the top half, leaving it hanging around his waist. Every muscle in his chest and arms bulged and gleamed as he pumped out another three reps at three hundred forty-five pounds. By now A-town was spotting for him and talking trash. Buster strutted around, shook out his arms, added one more plate to each side, then took his place back on the bench.

  Three hundred fifty-five pounds! Thomas had never seen a man bench-press that much.

  A-town stood on one side of the bar. Another spotter, the man with the scar, stood on the other. The man with the V-build commenced his own trash-talking exhibition by the military press station. He had a contest going, with some money on the line, against another inmate who was equally buffed. The other weightlifters were gathered around, watching the military press contest—that is, all but Buster and his spotters who were busy on the bench.

  Thomas watched unconcerned, somewhat amused by this childish display of testosterone and somewhat disappointed that he could not be among them. But he was relaxed, and the slits of light coming through his eyelids started fading to black. The intensity of the sun, and his lack of sleep in the cell, began taking their predictable toll.

  He was fading in and out of fitful sleep, when nightmares of yesterday came racing back—the bench press bar on his neck, pressing down, the scowl of Buster, the laughter of A-town and the others. Thomas jerked awake and sat straight up.

  It would be the perfect jailhouse killin’, he realized. The big man shuddered, as the terrifying picture formed vividly in his mind. A man lying on the bench, straining against the weights, hundreds of pounds hovering just above his chest. With nobody else looking, a couple of spotters could suddenly press down on the bar and drive it into the bench presser’s throat. It would snap the man’s neck, kill him instantly. A knife would only be needed as backup, in case the plan went awry.

  It suddenly became clear to him: Those men had been plotting Thomas’s death. “The big man just tried to lift too much weight,” they would say. “He did it without spotters,” they would claim. “We tried to help but got there too late.”

  Another accident. Another lowly inmate dead. Who would know? Who would tell? Who would care?

  Thomas vowed that he would never bench-press again.

  He watched as Buster g
rabbed the bar, testing his grip. Thomas imagined himself there, an innocent victim walking into the trap. He said a prayer of thanks that God had revealed the plans of his enemies and given him the good sense to avoid trouble. He closed his eyes again, watching through the slits.

  Then he saw it! The sun reflected off its blade for just a fraction of a second. With his left hand, A-town had reached inside his jumpsuit, looked around, then removed a small black object. A flick of the wrist, a push of the button, and the blade appeared, glistening in the sun. A switchblade!

  Lord God, have mercy. A-town had a knife! Thomas watched, still pretending to sleep, as A-town pressed it against his left leg, held it hidden in his hand, and stared down at Buster.

  The words came back in a rush: “Bench press . . . the throat . . . like yesterday . . . snitch . . . just in case . . . stabbing.” Thomas stood quickly and began jogging toward Buster just as the big man pressed up on the weights, his arms shaking under the load. The other weightlifters were ignoring Buster, transfixed by the military-press contest going on several feet away from the bench. A-town and the man with the scar were on each end of the bench press, their backs to Thomas, their eyes focused on their prey. Thomas could see the tragedy unfolding before his eyes. Buster lowered the bar. A-town squeezed the knife. Thomas ran faster, drew closer; then A-town and his cohort grabbed the ends of the bar and, with a sudden force, pushed hard toward Buster’s neck.

  “Take care of yourself,” Nikki had said.

  Thomas sprinted; he was almost there.

  “Don’t get in anybody else’s business.”

  All of Buster’s incredible power was not enough. The weights on the bar, the fatigue of his muscles, and the sudden thrust by A-town and his ally had forced the bar down hard onto Buster’s neck. The big man’s scream was trapped in his throat. He still pushed with all his might, his broad back arched, but the bar pressed down tighter. Buster’s face turned purple, the veins bulging and eyes popping out, his mouth open in a silent scream. Only his amazing strength in those fateful seconds kept the bar up just enough that it didn’t instantly snap his neck.

  “Trust no one.”

  A few more steps. But A-town heard him coming, let go of the bar, switched the knife to his right hand, and thrust it hard toward Buster’s heart.

  23

  AS A-TOWN LUNGED with the knife, Thomas left his feet, landing his shoulder squarely against the middle of A-town’s back. The blow nearly snapped A-town in half and drove him hard to the ground. Thomas landed on top. The jarring violence of the hit knocked the knife loose just inches before it sliced into Buster, sending it skidding across the hard turf. A dazed A-town reached out for it, but Thomas brought his elbow down with a brutal thud against the back of A-town’s head, the sound of a dropped watermelon, and the smaller man was stilled.

  Without thinking, Thomas reached over and grabbed the knife.

  Buster, meanwhile, had managed to squirm out from under the weights. As A-town got tackled, the man with the scar had turned and momentarily released his downward pressure on the bench-press bar. That was all it took. With his last ounce of power, Buster pushed the weights off to the side and slid himself off the bench and onto the ground.

  He gasped for breath and coughed. He tried to stand and go after the man with the scar, but Buster’s eyes went glassy, his legs wouldn’t cooperate, and his knees buckled. He collapsed in a heap.

  The crunch of Thomas’s flying tackle drew attention to the bench-press area. The inmates and deputies came running over, and bedlam erupted. Everybody started arguing at once and assessing blame. The scar man accused Thomas of an unprovoked and malicious assault on A-town and Buster. Thomas had, after all, been caught red-handed with the knife.

  A-town was unconscious but still breathing. The hospital would later confirm a small fracture of the skull and a closed head injury. Buster was also okay, though shaken, and it fell to him to describe what had happened.

  “Who attacked you?” the guard asked.

  The glassy eyes of Buster moved from Thomas to A-town to the man with the scar and then back to Thomas.

  “Trust no one,” Nikki had said. “I mean it.”

  Buster’s eyes narrowed, a flash of venom returned, and he pointed a thick index finger straight at Thomas.

  Against her better judgment, Nikki was getting emotionally involved. How could she not? It was her own childhood all over again. Every day with Tiger and Stinky brought back memories of the sweet man who had adopted her and nurtured her through some of the best years of her life.

  She knew Judge Silverman had set her up. He had stuck her with these kids like some warped attempt at social engineering, to somehow complete the circle—so she could give herself to them, at least temporarily, the way her adoptive dad had given himself to her. She did it because she had no choice and, truth be told, out of some strange sense of duty. Payback time. She really did it for her father.

  She didn’t know that the kids would steal her heart. Sure, they were a pain. But they were also a lot of fun. They had been with her only two days, and already she was dreading the loneliness of the condo without them.

  It was now late Thursday afternoon. The hearing next Wednesday would be crucial. Judge Silverman would read the report from the Child Protective Services caseworker, then make a ruling on custody. Either Theresa would win back custody of her kids pending trial, or they would be sent to a foster home. Nikki had already decided that a foster home was not an option. The kids had been through enough. If Silverman couldn’t see his way clear to return these poor little rug rats to their mother, then they would stay with Nikki for the foreseeable future.

  She hoped they liked Chinese takeout.

  And that is why, though she was not officially part of the defense team, Nikki found herself standing at the desk of the clerk of court and looking at the Hammond file. Tiger and Stinky were running around in the hallway, probably riding the escalators. Nikki’s experienced fingers leafed through the perfunctory legal pleadings and stopped with the good stuff.

  She started with the probable cause affidavit. This document had undoubtedly been drafted by the Barracuda, signed by a police officer, and submitted to a magistrate. They used it to justify their search of the Hammonds’ home. The magistrate had, in fact, authorized the search—they always did. But that’s not what interested Nikki. She read the affidavit to get a glimpse of the commonwealth’s case: the witnesses the prosecutors intended to rely on and the evidence they intended to submit.

  According to the affidavit of the investigating officer, the medical examiner had determined that the cause of death was peritonitis and septic shock occasioned by an acute case of appendicitis. It was a condition that was seldom fatal in small children if properly treated. The affidavit also contained details of the officer’s conversation with the treating physician: Dr. Sean Armistead. Nikki read the paragraphs describing the anticipated testimony of Dr. Armistead twice, then blew out a long breath. Pretty strong stuff. She put the file down and stared into space.

  “It all comes down to Armistead,” she mumbled.

  Then she carried the file over to one of the computer terminals in the clerk’s office and ran a quick records check on the doctor. The computer turned up no criminal cases, but it did register two civil cases. They both appeared to be medical malpractice actions involving Armistead as a defendant as well as various other doctors. Both cases had been closed out more than three years ago.

  Nikki hailed the clerk again and talked her into retrieving the two Armistead civil files. The first one contained little substance, a standard malpractice case that had been settled quickly. But the second file proved more fertile. Another malpractice case, but this one involved a young child who had presented with what appeared to be a simple ear infection—otitis media. Armistead checked the child, had her monitored by a physician’s assistant for a little while, then discharged the girl with a prescription for antibiotics. But Armistead had apparently missed the diagnosis.
The child was brought back to the emergency room two days later in acute distress. Armistead, who was again working the ER, first tried to treat her at Tidewater General and belatedly decided to transfer her to Norfolk Children’s. The child died during transit. It turned out that the child had leukemia, and the plaintiff’s attorney contended that Armistead had missed several indications of a blood disorder in the initial visit. Unlike the other case, this one had been extensively litigated.

  The plaintiff ’s lawyer who filed the suit had taken the deposition of Dr. Armistead. The deposition itself was not in the court file, which did not surprise Nikki, since attorneys typically did not file depositions with the court. But the plaintiff ’s attorney would have a copy, and he happened to owe Nikki a few favors.

  She was on her cell phone instantly.

  “Law offices of Mr. Smith.”

  “Is Mr. Smith in?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s in court. Can I take a message?”

  “Is he really in court?” Nikki asked. She knew the runaround.

  “Of course,” the snippy receptionist said. “He’s been in court all day.”

  “Well, then tell him that Nikki Moreno called with a promising new case I just picked up on my police scanner. Tell him I thought it looked every bit as promising as the Harris case that I hustled for him, but unfortunately, this victim needed a lawyer right away—”

  “Can you hang on for a second?” the receptionist interrupted. “This might be him now.”

  There was a brief pause on the phone. Then, “He just walked in, Ms. Moreno,” she said chirpily. “He’d be delighted to take your call.”