by Dave Daren
“How do you feel about emojis?”
I laughed and put my phone away since that felt like a discussion we could have later. I climbed into the truck, started its barely audible engine, and then blasted the heater until the glass started to fog up. When I was warm and toasty again, I pulled out my phone to check the directions to the hospital and then eased the truck onto the road.
I flipped through the radio stations but all I could find was a man and a woman laughing at each other’s unfunny jokes and something that sounded like Russian pop music. With a sigh, I decided I’d rather sit in silence with my thoughts. Besides, the fan made it hard to really hear the music anyway, and I’d rather be warm than only mildly entertained.
Traffic was sparse, and that was expected. It was the middle of the week in the middle of June, the height of summer in Alaska. The adults would all be at work, and the kids would probably just be getting ready to head into the streets in search of an adventure.
The road was lined with various businesses and buildings on my right while the beach, docks, and tumultuous ocean were on the left. I passed the police station again and the dock with the taped-off boat. The trio had grown into a small crowd, and I wondered how long it would be before the officer called for backup.
I made note of a decent-looking hotel as I passed, and then I wondered if Cassandra had already taken the initiative in booking rooms for us. I’ve had mixed results with my paralegals booking rooms, and my last one had given up on the task when I complained that she kept booking me in places that were too far from where I needed to be. She’d pointed out that where I needed to be seemed to keep changing and then told me I could find my own damn rooms. It was the only argument we’d ever had, and I chuckled as I thought about it now.
The city abruptly came to an end, and the buildings were replaced with an open field that had turned green in the endless days. The odd sight of plant life in the far north gave way to more water, one of the many lagoons in the area, and I found myself surrounded by water on both sides.
It was a study in contrasts, with the calm waters of the lagoon reflecting the sky above while the ocean roared as large waves crashed against the beach. It was oddly peaceful, and I found myself simply enjoying the drive.
But the quiet was interrupted by the app’s voice telling me that my turn was just ahead. I found myself in a residential area where squarish houses on stilts lined both sides of the street. The app had me make another turn a few moments later, and I moved deeper into the neighborhood. One or two people walked on the side of the street or stepped out to check their mailboxes, but for the most part, the neighborhood remained empty.
The hospital seemed to rise up out of nowhere among the sea of homes. It was by far the newest and most modern building I’d seen in the town with a wall of glass at the main entrance, a vaguely hangar-shaped center, and a mix of purple, brown, and white panels on the various wings. The parking lot was nearly empty, and so my eyes were easily drawn to the car parked at the front whose sides were labeled with the words Alaska State Trooper.
I parked next to the trooper’s car, shut off the engine, and climbed down into the parking lot. I took a moment to study the area, but the place was oddly quiet for a hospital other than the sound of the wind. I shut the door to the truck and trudged across the cracked blacktop toward the hospital.
The hospital’s modern style continued indoors as well with beigey-white walls, the standard speckled hard floor, and a large reception desk in a dark stain. It was actually pleasant, as far as lobbies go, with a soaring ceiling that let in plenty of sunlight. But the most amazing feature was the wall directly behind the reception desk. It featured a glittering mosaic of vaguely wave-like shapes in blues, greens, reds, and gold. If I’d been in a museum, I probably would have stood there and just let the calmness sweep over me.
But I was there to see a client, and so I forced my gaze away from the artwork and looked around the lobby for someone who could help me. The place was oddly empty, and even the three rows of cushioned chairs dedicated to visitors remained vacant. The only sounds came from a TV in the waiting area and a woman’s voice on the intercom.
Like hospitals everywhere, the lobby smelled too clean, and the longer I stood there, the more evident that became. I felt as though I was sniffing chemicals straight from the source. As if to reiterate the cleanliness of the location, my shoes squeaked against the gray tiled floor as I walked across the open space from the entrance to the reception desk.
I looked around the lobby again, and decided that the place felt cold, despite the bright colors of the mosaic. I decided that it was probably just the usual hospital effect, though the large abstract painting on one wall didn’t help. This one wasn’t nearly as pleasant as the other piece, and the green, yellow, and purple paint had been splattered across the canvas to reveal only what you wanted to see in the jumbled mess. As a general rule, I hated abstract art. This was a sentiment passed on from my mother, who wanted to create life as it appeared in reality on her canvas. She wanted something concrete, something true, and that desire existed in me as well. I was a lawyer because I wanted something concrete, some kind of evidence that would reveal the truth.
My eyes were saved from the abstract atrocity, though, when I noticed another image on the wall. This one was a sepia picture of Inuit people in traditional clothing, and I started to veer toward the picture before I reminded myself that I still had urgent business to handle.
At the reception desk, I noticed a small bell on the counter. I pressed the button twice, and a moment later, the door behind the desk opened and two nurses emerged. Their eager smiles and wide eyes revealed they were grateful that someone had arrived to break the monotony, and I could see them scanning me as if searching for any wounds that might need tending to.
“Good morning,” the nurse with dark curly hair declared. “How can I assist you today?”
“I’m here to visit a patient,” I said.
The two women instantly deflated, though they tried to hide their disappointment.
“And what is the patient’s last name?” the nurse with the straight bob asked before her partner could say anything.
The two women glared at each other, and then both sets of hands moved to hover over the keyboard. I had a feeling I was about to witness a race to see who could type in the name the fastest.
“Morris,” I answered.
Both nurses released a little gasp and looked at each other. Questions were exchanged between their eyes before they turned those speculative gazes to me.
“And who are you exactly?” the curly-haired nurse asked.
“I’m Reese Brooks,” I replied. “I’m Mr. Morris’ lawyer.”
Both women appeared ready to burst with excitement at that bit of news. This was exactly what they needed to escape boredom, and a struggle occurred as they tried to remain professional while they stared at me, stared at each other, and then stared at me again all while opening and closing their mouths. I could see they were desperate to ask me a million questions related to the case, and the first one would be why I was representing him in the first place. But something finally made them bite their tongues, and I suspected the police were the ones to thank for that.
“Mr. Brooks, you’ll find Austin down this hallway,” the nurse with the bob finally said, though the disappointment was evident.
“Third door on the right,” the curly-haired nurse added with a sigh.
“Thank you, ladies,” I said as I moved toward the hall labeled ‘Patient Rooms’.
“Good luck,” one of them called after me.
“Yeah, you’re gonna need it,” the other nurse followed up.
I dismissed their words as I walked down the hallway, but theirs and all the other doubtful words I had heard since arriving in Utqiagvik bounced around in my head as I walked down the hall. Like the rest of the hospital, the place felt empty, and I didn’t see another human being until I opened the third door on the right.
“Austin Morris?” I asked just to be sure.
“That’s me,” the man in the bed replied with audible relief.
Morris was a stocky man with a reddish-orange nest on his head and face. When clumped together, his beard and hair appeared to be a dark red, but the individual strands that wildly struck out from the jumbled horde were a light orange. His pale skin was covered in dark purple bruises and red cuts, his bottom lip was split, his left temple was bruised, and his right eye was too swollen to be kept open. The injuries continued down to his arms, but both were hidden away under layers of bandages.
“Reese Brooks,” I replied as I stepped into the room.
The two officers both scowled and squinted at me. The woman, who stood next to the heart monitor, looked me up and down while I sauntered closer to the bed. She looked younger at first, with most of her black hair tucked away under her state trooper hat and a smooth forehead that didn’t look like it had seen too many rough days yet. But when she narrowed her eyes, I could see the crow’s feet at the corners. Her name tag read Ansong and flashed in the sunlight that poured in through the window.
The second officer was leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. He appeared young as well with his clean-shaven face and large eyes, and I decided he was indeed the newbie when his attempt at an angry glare only made him look like a surly teen. His hat looked to be about a half a size too big, but I could still make out the buzzcut he sported. His nametag read Jackson, and I noticed it wasn’t as shiny as Ansong’s.
I turned away from the officers and looked at my client again. I wasn’t quite sure what I’d expected when I’d learned he was at the hospital, but it certainly wasn’t this. I quickly arranged my face to hide the shock I felt, but Jackson’s amused smirk when I looked up again made it clear I hadn’t been fast enough.
“Mr. Brooks,” Ansong replied in a voice as cold as her stare.
“I hope you haven’t been talking to my client without me,” I said in my own glacial tone. “You’ll never convince a prosecutor to even file charges if you have.”
Jackson looked to Ansong for guidance, but the woman ignored him. I almost expected her to hiss like a snake the way she stared at me, but she looked away first.
“Your lawyer is here, Morris,” she said in a grave voice. “Now give us your version of what happened last night.”
Morris shrunk into himself as though her voice was a weight pressing down on him.
“Should I?” he asked as he turned to me.
I studied Ansong and Jackson for a moment and then looked back at my client. I could have made the officers wait in the hall until I’d had a chance to talk to my client alone, but I wasn’t sure he could tell his story twice. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at Ansong now that I was in the room, and his hands were picking at the edge of the blanket. As much as I hated to do it, I nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. I just had to hope that I could stop him from saying anything incriminating before it came out of his mouth.
“Last night, I went out to see Harrison,” he began. “I tried visiting his house, but he wasn’t home. So I went down to the docks to see if his boat was there. It wasn’t, so I took my boat out on the water.”
“What time did you take the boat out?” Ansong interrupted.
“I think it was after ten,” he said with an uncertain shake of his head.
“Okay,” she replied. “Keep going.”
“So I took my boat out on the water, and I spent close to an hour traveling along the shore until I decided that he must have gone out even further,” he said as he risked a glance in the direction of Ansong’s name tag. “Eventually, I found his boat in the middle of the Chukchi Sea. It must have been after midnight, but you know how it is this time of year. The sun is always out, so time kinda just blurs together”
“Right,” Ansong replied. “So what was so important that you had to track him down in the middle of the sea?”
Morris’ eyes quickly dropped to his blanket again, and for a moment, I didn’t think he would continue. I was about to suggest we take a quick break, but he sighed and glanced toward the window.
“Anyway, I just wanted to ask him why he destroyed one of my fishing nets,” Morris finally said.
“A fishing net,” I repeated.
I knew that losing a net was a big deal for fishermen. It was their livelihood, after all, and was often the difference between life and death. But it still seemed a bit extreme to track someone down at midnight at the edge of the Arctic Ocean.
“The nets I use are bought online, not from here locally, so they take a while to get here,” my client said. “Not to mention, they’re some high-quality stuff, so they have a hefty price. You can imagine how upset I was to find one of them destroyed, especially at the height of the fishing season.”
“Why did you wait two weeks after your nets were cut to confront Vann?” Ansong asked to direct his attention back to her.
“Hold up a moment,” I cut in. “I just want to confirm something. Vann is Harrison’s last name?”
“Yes,” Morris replied with a nod.
“And your net was damaged two weeks ago?” I pressed. “Is there a report or anything to back this up?”
“I filed one with the police,” Morris replied.
“I’ll need a copy of that,” I said more as a reminder to myself.
“Of course,” Ansong said with a note of exasperation.
The room went quiet for a moment, and then Jackson very loudly cleared his throat. We all jumped, and then Ansong and I looked at Morris again.
“Oh, sorry,” Morris whispered. “I pulled my boat up next to his and then--”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Ansong interjected in a voice sharp enough to pierce skin.
I actually found myself leaning away from the officer for a moment, and when I glanced toward my client, I saw that he’d shrunk back as well. His mouth was still moving even though he wasn’t speaking, and I could almost see his brain trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for the delay in his revenge. He was either crafting a lie or carefully structuring a half-truth, and both of those would probably come back to bite us in the butt. And to judge by the smirk that briefly crossed Ansong’s face, she knew it as well.
“Don’t answer that question,” I snapped.
Morris released a sigh of relief and sank down into his bed like a balloon that was losing its air. I had no idea why he’d tried to lie, and at the moment, I didn’t care. It was enough that I’d saved him from a stupid mistake that probably would have destroyed our defense.
That same thought had obviously occurred to Ansong. If looks could kill, I would have been an unrecognizable, bloody lump of disfigured flesh on the ground. It was impressive, especially since most people worked so hard not to make me angry just because of my build and height. And yet, this middle-aged woman who barely reached up to my chest stood in front of me with absolutely no interest in hiding her dislike toward me.
“Officer Ansong, I’d appreciate it if you’d let my client retell the events of last night in its entirety before asking any questions,” I said.
She flared her nostrils once before regaining her composure, and then her look of extreme disinterest was firmly back in place.
“Fine,” she muttered.
I nodded at Morris to continue.
“Where was I?” he asked quietly as he tried to remember where he’d been in his tale.
“You said you pulled your boat up next to his,” Jackson answered.
“Oh, right, right,” Morris said as he nodded. “Thanks. I pulled my boat up next to his. Well, actually, let me back up for a second. First, I yelled for him because he wasn’t anywhere o
n deck. I called his name a couple of times, and he came up from below deck. I asked him about my fishing net, and he started taunting me. He was saying how his boat would make a fortune without me out there taking fish from him.”
Morris shook his head angrily, and then he smashed a fist against the blanket. Ansong’s right eyebrow crept up at the display of anger, but she kept her word and didn’t speak.
“He just kept going and going,” my client continued. “I just… I had heard enough, and so I climbed aboard his boat. He was immediately in my face saying a lot of shit, and before I knew it, I was punching him. We traded blows, but I was getting the better of him. He knew this, so he tried to push me away. I think he was trying to push me overboard. I still would have won, but I stumbled over a cable and hit my head really hard against the corner of the wall for the cockpit. I passed out, and when I woke up, Harrison was floating in the water.”
Morris stopped speaking again and closed his eyes as if to block out the image. He released a shaky breath, and when he opened his eyes, he looked at the blank wall across from the bed.
“He was dead,” he said dully. “I pulled him aboard, and I thought… I thought I could perform CPR, but his body was so cold. There was no saving him, so I called the police.”
Morris looked up at Ansong and Jackson for the first time since he’d started his tale.
“I called you guys for help, and instead you guys arrested me,” he whined. “You guys called me a murderer! You--”
“That’s it,” I cut in. “End of story. You don’t need to say anything else.”
Morris fell silent, but I could still feel the anger spilling off of him. Whatever fear he’d felt earlier seemed to have slipped away as he realized that the people he’d thought would help him had turned against him.
“So what do you think, Mr. Lawyer?” Jackson asked in a falsely chipper voice as he pushed himself off the wall.
He walked to the end of the hospital bed and winked at my client. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels like he was just chatting with an old friend, but I was more interested in the fact that Ansong didn’t rein him in. It must have been their version of good cop slash bad cop, but I wasn’t falling for it.