“What’s the time frame?” he asks.
I just stare at him and frown. He knows that everything is a rush.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Sam. As always, I appreciate it.”
He shrugs. “Hey Andy, you just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running.”
I’m pretty sure he’s doing James Taylor. “Winter, spring, summer, or fall?” I ask.
He nods. “All you have to do is call.”
This could go on forever, so I attempt to end the conversation, though I can’t resist a final jab. “Okay, Sam, we’re done here. My body’s aching and my time is at hand.”
“No problem,” he says. “But Andy…”
“Yes?”
“Remember, you’ve got a friend. Ain’t it good to know? You’ve got a friend.”
Hatchet is handling an arraignment when I arrive at the courthouse, and I have to wait about half an hour outside his chambers. When he finally arrives, he forgets to apologize for the slight, and keeps me waiting another five minutes before calling me in.
Once I come in, he says, “Have you resolved the issue?”
“About the dog?”
“What other issue is there?” he asks.
“Well, Your Honor, as you are well aware, I’m now representing the defendant in the case. It seems like a clear conflict.”
“Then resolve it, and the conflict will go away.”
“Well, Your Honor, there has been something of a change in circumstances regarding the two people seeking custody of the dog. One is dead, and the other is in prison.”
“Well, then I have a new contender for you to consider.” He searches through some notes on his desk. “Judge Parker’s office forwarded this. A man named”-he squints to read the name- “Charles Robinson has contacted the court seeking custody of the dog. He represents himself as a close friend of Walter Timmerman, and a partner of his in the showing of dogs.”
Charles Robinson is someone I’m vaguely familiar with, and I know him to be a multimillionaire who has made his money in oil and real estate. There have always been vague accusations that his dealings are shady, but as far as I know he has never faced any criminal charges. “Thank you, Your Honor, I’ll certainly consider Mr. Robinson. But I do need to make sure the dog is placed in a loving-”
Hatchet interrupts. “Have I given you the impression that I care what happens to this dog?”
“Well-”
“Resolve the matter. Either give him to Robinson or find another solution.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Right away.”
The phone on Hatchet’s desk rings, and he looks at it as if it were from another planet. He picks it up. “Clara, I told you that I was not to be disturbed. Now…” He stops, an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before. “I see… put him on.” Another pause, and then: “Just a moment.”
He hands the phone to me, the last thing I would have expected. “It’s for you,” he says.
I am gripped by tension. For Hatchet to allow himself to be interrupted by a phone call for me staggers, and scares the shit out of, the imagination.
“Hello?”
I hear Pete Stanton’s strained and nervous voice. “Andy, it’s Pete.”
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Andy, I’m at the hospital. Laurie’s been shot.”
I can feel my knees start to buckle, and I half fall toward Hatchet’s desk. “Is she all right? Pete, is she all right?”
“Andy, I don’t know… I just don’t know.”
“Pete, tell me the truth. TELL ME THE GODDAMN TRUTH!”
“Andy, they don’t know if she’s going to make it.”
I THINK HATCHET SAYS SOMETHING, some expression of sympathy or concern, but I’m not sure.
Everything seems a blur, and I literally stagger out of his office, heading for the elevator to take me downstairs. I think Pete said there was someone or something waiting for me down there, but I could be wrong.
When I reach the street level, two uniformed policemen seem to be waiting for me. “Mr. Carpenter?”
I nod.
“We’ll be taking you to the hospital.”
I nod again and follow them to their car. It could be the next-to-last car ride I will ever take, because if Laurie does not pull through, I am going to get in my own car and drive it off a cliff.
I don’t ask the officers what they know, because they probably don’t know anything, and wouldn’t be authorized to tell me if they did. The horrible fear that keeps popping up, easily overwhelming my well-developed sense of denial, is that Laurie might already be gone. If she was, Pete wouldn’t have told me over the phone. He would have done just what he did, which was cushion me for the blow by telling me how badly she was hurt.
The Barnert Hospital is on Broadway in Paterson, about fifteen minutes from the courthouse. There is little traffic, but it feels as if the trip takes three weeks. They finally pull up to the emergency room entrance, and I rush to jump out, only to find that the car door is locked.
“Open the door!” I yell. “Open the damn door!”
I hear a popping noise and this time when I pull on the handle the door opens. I get out and run into the emergency room. Kevin is there waiting, and the stricken, anguished look on his face tells me that Laurie is gone.
But she’s not.
“She’s in surgery, Andy. She went in half an hour ago.”
I am having trouble processing words. “She’s alive? Is that what you’re saying? She’s still alive?”
“Yes. That’s what they told me.”
My feet suddenly feel unable to support my weight, and I move over to some metal chairs. Kevin sits down next to me. “Please tell me everything you know,” I say. “Everything.”
It turns out that Kevin doesn’t know much. Laurie was in the front yard of my house throwing a tennis ball with Tara and Waggy when she was shot. She took the bullet in the upper thigh, which became horribly serious because it happened to sever the carotid artery, causing massive blood loss. Only the quick actions of my neighbor, who called 911 and then rushed over to put pressure on the wound, kept her alive.
For now.
I’m about to hit Kevin with a barrage of questions, when I look up and see Pete Stanton standing over me.
“Pete, tell me…”
“All I know is that she’s in surgery, and she’s getting massive transfusions. It’s touch and go, Andy.”
It flashes through my mind that this sounds like the same injury that killed Sean Taylor of the Washington Redskins. Pete must know that, but he has the good sense not to mention it. Kevin would likely never even have heard of the Washington Redskins.
“Who did this?” I ask.
Pete shakes his head. “Don’t know. According to the neighbor, it was a drive-by. But he got a model, color, and partial plate, so we’ve got a shot at it.”
“Where can I wait for the doctor?” I ask.
“There’s an empty room on the floor; he’s going to come there when he’s finished. By the way, I told them you were the husband.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Gives you access; if you’re not family you have no rights.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
Pete, Kevin, and I go up to the seventh floor, which is the surgery ward. We go to an empty room, with a bed, small bathroom, and two chairs. I suppose this is going to be Laurie’s room if she needs one. Please let her need one.
We wait for almost three hours, during which it feels like my head is going to explode from the pressure. The waiting is simply horrible, yet I am clearheaded enough to know that it must mean Laurie is still alive. Otherwise the surgery would be over.
During all the time we’re there, I don’t think five words are spoken, except for Pete getting an occasional cell phone call updating him on progress in the investigation. There doesn’t seem to be much, but it’s early, and I’m not focused on that right now
.
I finally realize that Tara and Waggy are alone and unattended, and I mention this to Kevin.
He shakes his head. “I had Willie pick them up. I hope that’s okay.”
As my partner in the Tara Foundation, Willie is as big a dog lunatic as I am, so it’s more than okay. “Thanks, Kevin. That’s perfect.”
Finally, the door opens and a doctor comes in. He’s surprisingly, almost annoyingly, young, certainly under forty. If he isn’t bringing good news, he’s never going to get any older, because I’m going to strangle him with his stethoscope.
I stand as he walks over. I can’t read his expression, which bothers me. I wish he were smiling, or laughing, or doing cartwheels. But he’s not, and I’m scared shitless. The combined pressure of waiting for every verdict I’ve ever waited for pales next to this.
“Mr. Carpenter, I’m Dr. Norville.”
I don’t say a word; I can’t say a word.
“Your wife has come through the surgery. She has an anoxic brain injury, due to blood loss, and she remains in very critical condition. She is currently in a coma.”
“Will she survive?” I manage.
“We’ll have a better idea of that in forty-eight hours. She lost a great deal of blood. And you need to understand that survival is not the only issue.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It is likely that her brain was deprived of sufficient blood for an undetermined period of time. There is the potential for injury.” He pauses, then adds, “Irreparable injury.”
I find my voice and ask as many questions as I can think of, but I can’t get any more out of him, other than the fact that the shorter the coma, the better. It’s going to take time until we know more.
He can see my frustration, and before he leaves, he says, “Mr. Carpenter, she’s alive. At this point, with what she’s been through, that’s saying a great deal, believe me.”
I nod my understanding.
“One step at a time,” he says. “One step at a time.”
I GO HOME to get some clothing and toiletries to bring back to the hospital.
The front yard is cordoned off with police tape as a crime scene, and a squad car with two officers is in place guarding it. I identify myself to them and go in through the back; I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing Laurie’s blood on the lawn.
My feeling right now is that if Laurie never makes it back to this house, then I will never live here again. Certainly I can’t tolerate the idea of staying here now.
Back at the hospital they still won’t let me in to see Laurie; she is in intensive care and very susceptible to infection. An intensive care nurse tells me that Laurie is a fighter, and I know that’s true. I also know that the cemeteries are full of fighters.
I’ve got to get a grip.
I lie down on the hospital bed, fully clothed, at about eleven o’clock, and start to cry. It’s the first time I can remember crying since my father died, and if memory serves, this feels even more painful.
A nurse opens the door to see if she can help, but when I ignore her, she leaves me alone. Soon I lie down on the bed, and before I know it, it’s four o’clock in the morning. For a brief moment on awakening I forget where I am or why I’m here, and the quick realization is like taking a punch in the gut.
I stagger down to the nurses’ station and ask if there’s any word on Laurie’s condition. The nurse smiles and says, “She’s resting comfortably.”
“She told you that?” I ask.
“Well, no… she…”
“She’s in a coma. How would you know if she’s comfortable?”
“Maybe I should call the head nurse.”
“Never mind,” I say, and head back to the room. I’ve accomplished nothing except attacking a young woman who was only trying to help and make me feel better.
Feeling better seems a ways off.
My cell phone starts ringing at seven o’clock and simply does not stop. Every friend that Laurie has, and that includes pretty much everyone she has ever met, is calling to find out how she is, and to offer whatever help they can provide.
Edna calls at seven thirty. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Edna say a word before nine o’clock, ever, but she has many to say now. It’s a mixture of outrage at the animal who could hurt Laurie, and pleading with me to let her help. She tells me that she is going to come to the hospital and sit in the lobby, so as to be there in case I need her. I tell her not to, but I’m actually touched by her reaction, and Laurie will be as well, I hope.
Kevin comes at eight o’clock, and Dr. Norville arrives half an hour later, as part of his rounds. He has nothing new to report, except to say that Laurie spent a comfortable night. I resist the urge to torture him as I did the nurse.
They let me see Laurie through a glass window into the intensive care unit. She looks better than I would have thought, very pale but peaceful and extraordinarily beautiful. I want to go to her, to touch her and hold her hand, but they won’t let me.
I go back to the room, where Kevin is waiting. I know he wants to talk to me about the Steven Timmerman case, but he doesn’t know how to bring it up.
I save him the trouble. “Kevin, I want to take a day or two to think about things. I may withdraw from the case, if I can’t give it the attention it deserves.”
He nods. “That’s very reasonable. Shall I tell Steven what’s going on?”
I nod. “He has a right to know.”
We hear noises out in the hallway, and Kevin goes to the door to see what has people so excited. He comes back a moment later.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You’re about to find out.”
After a few seconds, Marcus Clark walks in the door. Marcus is one of the quietest people I know, silent and invisible when he wants to be, but he creates instant commotion wherever he goes. Actually, “commotion” might not be the right word. It’s closer to panic, bordering on terror.
I’ve used Marcus as a private investigator on a number of occasions, more frequently since Laurie gave up that job and moved to Wisconsin. Marcus has also served as my personal bodyguard when cases have placed me in some physical jeopardy. He is uniquely qualified for both jobs, because he is the most frightening human being on the planet.
With Marcus walking down the corridor, the nurses must have reacted like the cinematic Japanese citizenry when they saw Godzilla wandering the streets of Tokyo. Actually, Marcus and ’Zilla are similar in a number of ways. They are both basically nonverbal, fearless, and perfectly willing to kill anything in their path. I think Marcus has fresher breath.
Laurie first introduced me to Marcus, and I’ve always been struck by the change in his demeanor when he’s around her. He becomes borderline human, and I’ve even detected a hint of emotion. He likes her, which is why I try to remind him at every opportunity how disappointed she would be if he killed me.
Marcus doesn’t say hello; I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say hello or good-bye. He just looks around the room and is probably disappointed when he sees only Kevin and me. “Laurie,” he says, and I think it’s a question.
“She’s in intensive care,” I say. “She’s unconscious.”
He takes a moment to digest that information. “She’ll be good,” he says. “The shooter… nuh.”
That probably represents as long a speech as I’ve ever heard from Marcus, and with that he turns around and walks out, sucking all the air out of the room with him. When talking about celebrities and politicians, it’s often said that when people with real presence, real star power, walk into any room, they take it over. They become the center of everything. That’s the way it is with Marcus, and when he leaves there’s a void left behind.
Kevin stares at the door, openmouthed. “Did he just say what I think he said? That he’s going after the guy who shot Laurie, and that he’ll do something bad to him when he finds him? Maybe kill him?”
“Not in so many words, but yes.”
“That
’s vigilante justice,” says Kevin.
“I prefer to call it good old-fashioned vigilante justice.”
Kevin thinks for a moment. “Me too,” he says.
I don’t know who or where the shooter is, but if he’s smart, he’s getting his affairs in order and choosing a casket.
Kevin goes down to the jail to update Steven Timmerman, and I go back to returning cell phone messages. This one is from Cindy Spodek, a good friend of Laurie’s and mine who is an FBI agent in Boston. She is one of the people I turn to for information if my cases involve the bureau in some fashion, and she has been as helpful as she can be while maintaining professional confidences.
Her call was to inquire about Laurie, and I tell her what I know, which is unfortunately not much.
“She’ll make it, Andy. She’s a fighter.”
I know everybody is being well intentioned, but that line is starting to drive me crazy. “Right.”
“Any leads on the shooter?” she asks.
“I think so. They got the make of the car, and a partial license. Pete Stanton is the lead detective on it.”
“Good,” she says. She knows Pete, and the kind of cop that he is.
“And Marcus has vowed revenge,” I say.
“Game, set, and match,” she says. “You going to ask for a delay on Timmerman?”
I’m surprised she’s even aware that I am representing Steven. “I’m going to take a couple of days to figure that out. How did you know I was on it?”
“Are you kidding?” she says. “You cost me an assignment.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“There’s a task force on it. I was going to get assigned, but then you came on board, and they reworked it because they knew we were friends.”
This is bewildering to me. “Why was the bureau investigating Walter Timmerman?”
“That I don’t know; I hadn’t gotten briefed yet. And you know I couldn’t tell you if I did know.”
“Understood,” I say. If she doesn’t know anything, there’s no sense trying to cajole her into revealing more.
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