A Dangerous Affair

by Jason Melby

  Sheila saw the red light flashing on her bullshit meter. Josh's story didn't mesh. Her mother's intuition gnawed at her, prodding her to question everything. She wanted answers. And she wanted the truth. "Why didn't you check on him when he started crying?"

  "I did."

  "You told me you made his bottle while he was crying."

  "I checked on him first. Then I made his bottle. He was hungry. What else was I supposed to do?"

  "You should have changed his diaper first."

  "I wanted to warm up the bottle first."

  "And that's when you found him on the floor?"

  "Yes."

  "Was he crying?"

  "A little."

  "The nurse told me he was unresponsive. She said he was unconscious when the paramedics found him."

  Josh blew smoke. "Maybe they gave him something to calm him down."

  "They don't give drugs to babies. He was sleeping when I left. All you had to do was watch him for a couple hours."

  Josh flicked his cigarette at the street and went back to the waiting room inside.

  Sheila followed. She sat in the corner and stared up at a wall-mounted television showing The Price is Right reruns. She grabbed a magazine and flipped the pages without reading until a somber-faced doctor with hunched shoulders and a five o'clock shadow approached her, a stethoscope around his neck.

  "Ms. Jarvis?"

  "Yes."

  "Could you come with me, please?"

  "Is my son okay?"

  "This way, please."

  The doctor closed the trauma room curtain around Sheila and Josh who stood opposite a portable x-ray monitor. "Ms. Jarvis—"

  "Where's my son?" Sheila asked.

  "Your son's safe," the doctor explained. "He stands a good chance of making a successful recovery." The doctor checked his pager and read the incoming message.

  "I want to see him," said Sheila.

  "Your son's been admitted for observation. I'd like to run some more tests."

  "For what?"

  "When a baby is vigorously shaken, the head rocks back and forth in a whiplash motion. This motion can cause internal bleeding inside the skull, which in turn increases pressure on the brain, causing it to pull apart."

  "I don't understand."

  "A baby's brain tissue is very fragile. At six months of age and younger, infants are highly susceptible to head trauma from the lack of neck muscle development."

  Sheila pointed her finger at Josh. "You told me he fell out of the crib."

  "He did," Josh insisted.

  "Don't lie to me!"

  "I never touched him."

  "Ms. Jarvis," the doctor interjected, "I've diagnosed a hundred cases of shaken baby syndrome and I can tell you with a high degree of confidence your son's injuries are not consistent with a fall."

  "Are you sure?" said Sheila.

  "The forces applied to his brain were several times stronger than a low range fall could produce."

  "I want to see my son!"

  "I'm afraid that's not possible right now."

  "Let me see him!" Sheila screamed. "I'm not leaving this hospital without my baby!"

  "Ms. Jarvis—"

  "I'm his mother goddammit! You can't keep him from me. I'll sue you and this hospital!"

  "I understand your concern. This is standard procedure in all child abuse cases." The doctor parted the privacy curtain to reveal there was a sheriff's deputy in the room. "I've notified child protective services. This officer will assist you until they arrive."

  Chapter 29

  Brenda started her morning the same way she started every morning with her ailing liver, enduring frequent bouts of vomiting and diarrhea that left her cramped and dehydrated. No miracle of modern medicine would save her—a reality she came to terms with before her health insurance lapsed. Absent her prescription medication, she swallowed whiskey to ease the gut-wrenching pain that started in the pit of her stomach and progressed like a baseball inching through her digestive tract. Her solitary days had turned to weeks, which turned to months, alone in the house she'd built with her husband of thirty years.

  She filled her flask from a bottle of Wild Turkey and meandered to the garage in her slippers and robe. "You still working on that thing?" she asked Lloyd, who hunkered beside the Triumph with a screwdriver.

  "There's a problem with the fuel tank sensor."

  "What kind of problem?"

  "The kind I thought I'd fixed already."

  "Let it go," said Brenda. She touched her hand to her side. "I never heard you come in. After all the banging on my roof, I figured I'd know when you're around."

  "You were sleeping when I came in. You shouldn't leave the house unlocked."

  "I never lock my doors at night. That's why I live in the country."

  Lloyd tested the fuel sender and moved on to address other issues with the bike. "You look tired."

  "I'll have plenty of time to sleep when I meet my maker," said Brenda. She limped over to the bike. "Your father spent half his life in here, tinkering on projects until all hours of the morning. If it wasn't the bike it was some newfangled gadget he had to play with. Sometimes we'd get in arguments over silly stuff and he'd set up a cot in here. Stubborn bastard. Even when he knew he was wrong, which was often, he would camp in this garage until he found the courage to apologize."

  Lloyd tightened the bolt on the chain and sprocket tensioner. He pressed the chain with his finger to test the slack. Too much, and the chain might come loose at high speed. Too little, and the chain would wear prematurely from excessive friction.

  "Your father kept a small TV in the back to watch your games. He kept the volume so high I could hear it all over the house."

  "I thought he hated football," said Lloyd. "He told me college was for learning, not for playing games."

  "Your father was a complicated man."

  Lloyd wiped his hands on a rag. "Is that why he shot himself?"

  Brenda leaned against a tool chest. Even standing in one spot took more energy than she could spare some mornings. "That's not for me to say."

  "What happened?"

  Brenda shook her head. "Does it matter?"

  Lloyd pointed to a pharmacy bag on the work bench. "I picked those up for you."

  Brenda inspected the contents. "What is this?" She tore the bag open and read the labels. Actigall, Furosemide, Cholestyramine, Bumetanide.

  "The pharmacy would only refill the ones that weren't expired."

  "My insurance won't cover these," said Brenda.

  "I took care of it."

  "How?"

  "I didn't steal the money if that's what you're asking. I got a job at Josh's car wash."

  Brenda folded the top of the bag and sipped her flask. "I can't pay you for this."

  "I'm not asking you to. Just take the pills."

  "Don't waste all your money on me."

  "It's mine to waste."

  "These pills won't cure me."

  "Neither will the booze."

  Brenda went back inside the house and returned with a photo album. "Your father would have wanted you to have this."

  Lloyd opened the cover and found pages of photos taken of himself and his team at numerous college games. "What is this?"

  "Your father took these with one of his fancy cameras. He wanted to frame all the pictures of you, but he never got around to it." She coughed in her hand. "They're yours now."

  Lloyd examined the pages, starting with his Freshman year as a second string linebacker. He flipped ahead to his senior year and found a photo of the Heisman Trophy with his name on it. "I always thought he hated football."

  "He hated that you never chose the path he wanted for you. You were driven to succeed. He could see it in you early on. You had real talent for something most people only dream about. He wasn't angry at you for playing football. He was jealous. Seeing you go to prison tore him apart. All your potential, just pissed away."

  "Is that why he took his own
life?"

  "Only two people can answer that. One is God. The other is dead."

  "How come Dad never came to visit me?"

  "He did on occasion. He just didn't want you to know about it. He could never bring himself to go inside."

  "Why?"

  Brenda wiped a tear away. "Why do any of us do the things we do? Your father always did the unexpected. That was his nature. I think he felt embarrassed and ashamed."

  "For me?"

  "For himself. For not doing more to try and keep you out of prison."

  Lloyd set the photo album on the tool cart. The more he learned, the deeper his grief descended. "The roof's fixed. I found an old push mower out back. I'll start on the lawn tomorrow."

  Brenda hugged him. "I'm glad you're back."

  Chapter 30

  Leslie Dancroft reviewed her notes beside a box of Kleenex and a large accordion file folder on the steel table inside the muted interview room. Her somber mood exacerbated by the gray concrete walls and dim lighting, she faced the ambiguity of an observation mirror and her own diluted sense of justice as she waited for Morallen's arrival. What she knew to be true, she could live with. What she didn't know kept her up at night, toiling over the case she refused to relinquish despite George's instructions to the contrary.

  She found no hard evidence to support Manny Morallen's version of events leading up to Deputy Carter's murder. Without something tangible to balance the scales, her defense was dead in the water. Morallen, a career criminal who'd pimp his own grandmother to keep himself out of jail, gave a statement that held no weight in court. And despite his caustic demeanor and self-proclaimed loathing of men in uniform, Morallen appeared to have the one thing the majority of her client's lacked—a conscience. Nonetheless, eighteen years of courtroom experience convinced her Morallen's jury would conclude their deliberations in the time it took to order lunch. The verdict—guilty as charged with a minimum sentence of life without parole and a push from the state attorney for the death penalty.

  She read Blanchart's report over and over, searching for a discrepancy she could parlay into reasonable doubt. Compelled to follow the truth wherever it led her, she refused to give up, prepared to dig in and fight before she pinned her client's fate on a miracle.

  More than twenty minutes late, Morallen finally arrived in his orange jumpsuit and restraints. His pork chop sideburns grew ragged on his face, replete with a black eye and substantial facial bruising.

  "You're late." Leslie spoke through a stuffy nose. "We don't have a lot of time." She signaled for the armed escort to leave the room before she introduced her digital voice recorder.

  "What are you doing here?" Morallen grumbled.

  "What happened to your face?"

  "I fell down the stairs."

  "In a single story jail?"

  "It happens."

  "I'll talk to someone—"

  "Don't," Morallen insisted. "I can handle my own in here."

  "Who did this to you?"

  Morallen turned away from the mirror. "What do you want?"

  "I need to ask you some more questions about your statement."

  Morallen put his handcuffed hands on the table. "It's your dime."

  "How did you come to know Leeland Marks?"

  "What's it matter?"

  "How did you get involved with him?"

  Morallen rubbed his chin. "We did time together. He offered me a job when I got back to the world. I took it."

  Leslie retrieved the crime scene photos from a folder and spread them on the table. "What do you see in these pictures?"

  "This some kind of trick question?" Morallen asked. He stifled a yawn and realized his jaw hurt too much to let it out.

  "Look at the photos," Leslie prompted him.

  Morallen gave a cursory glance. "That's Hugo and the dead cop."

  "How can you be certain about the cop with half his face shot off?"

  "Because only two cops were there. And the other one's still breathing."

  "Do you recognize the shotgun in the photo?"

  Morallen shrugged.

  "Yes or no."

  "It looks like Hugo's gun."

  Leslie moved the first set of photos to make room on the table. "Is it possible Hugo shot Deputy Carter before he shot himself?"

  Morallen leaned across the table. He whispered in an angry tone. "Lady, how many times can I tell you? Hugo didn't kill no one but himself."

  Leslie sneezed into a tissue. She blew her puffy nose and showed a photo of Vince Parr in the morgue. "Do you recognize this man?"

  "What are you? Some kind of detective?"

  Leslie persisted. "Do you recognize him or not?"

  "Yeah. I seen him before. His name's Parr. What's he got to do with me?"

  "The sheriff's department found him dead on the side of the road three days ago. Victim of a hit and run. Turns out his prints were also found in the house on Lipscomb Street."

  "So?"

  "Maybe Vince Parr was in the house with you when Carter was killed. Maybe he saw something he shouldn't have. And maybe you had him killed to keep him quiet."

  "From inside this joint?"

  "It wouldn't be the first time someone ordered a hit from behind bars."

  "Lady I'm just a cook. I ain't got that kind of juice."

  "Then who does?"

  "How the fuck should I know?" said Morallen. "I only met Parr a couple times. The dude was messed up. That's all I can tell you."

  Leslie cleared her throat again. She yearned for the bottled water the officer confiscated before she passed through the metal detectors. "What was your connection to Parr?"

  "Parr delivered the materials. Hugo and me cooked the shit."

  "And the three of you worked for Leeland Marks?"

  "Yeah."

  "Was Leeland Marks in the house when Carter was killed?"

  Morallen glanced at the camera in the ceiling. "Marks never got his hands dirty. He was all about the business. Like a silent partner. He was the money man. Never touched the product himself. Had a niece who overdosed on meth and croaked. Said he'd never sell to kids again."

  "Real humanitarian," Leslie mumbled to herself.

  "Human what?"

  Leslie rolled her eyes and jotted notes on her legal pad. "Never mind."

  Morallen lowered his voice. "You think we could pin this murder rap on Marks?"

  "I think it's something we could sell the jury." Leslie gathered the crime scene photos. Given Morallen's criminal background, she had reason to doubt him, yet she trusted his statements. Why exactly, she couldn't say at the moment, but her instincts told her Morallen had something to hide. They also told her he stopped short at murder.

  She pulled a copy of the state's lab report. "One more thing... When you were arrested, the sheriff's office tested your hands for the presence of gunshot residue. The good news is, the results came back negative. The bad news is, the sheriff's office didn't test you until they found you two days after Carter was shot. The prosecution will argue you had ample time to wash the evidence away before you were taken into custody." She blew her nose and reviewed the highlighted text at the bottom of the page. "The lab also found traces of GSR on your shirt."

  "So?"

  "It means you either fired a weapon, or you were standing next to someone who did."

  "I told you I was hiding in the attic when the shit went down."

  "Then how do you explain the gun powder residue on your shirt?"

  "I can't. I didn't shoot no one." Morallen pointed to the accordion file holder. "You got my mug shot in there?"

  Leslie searched the alphabetized holder and laid the black and white photo on the table.

  "That's not my shirt," Morallen proclaimed. "I mean that's the shirt I was wearing when they busted me, but that's not the shirt I had on at the house."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I tossed it in a dumpster so the dogs couldn't track me."

  "Did you ever fire a gun while you were we
aring the shirt?"

  "No."

  "Are you certain?"

  "Yes. Does this mean my case gets tossed out?"

  "Not exactly. But it's a win for us."

  Leslie gathered Morallen's photo in her folder. She had experience with dirty clients. Dirty cops were another animal altogether. If Blanchart was somehow involved in Carter's murder, she needed more than a convicted felon's testimony and a pile of circumstantial evidence.

  "So now what?" Morallen asked.

  "Sit tight a little longer. Someone posted your bail this morning."

  Chapter 31

  Lloyd splashed cold water on his face in the restroom at Sonny's. He wiped a paper towel on his sunburned skin, grateful for the paycheck and supremely hungry for food that didn't come in a plastic carton. Burdened by the circumstances of his father's death, he yearned for an explanation from the man who lay buried beneath the earth. But the conversation would have to wait. He had his whole life ahead of him with no intention of an early exit.

  Where his father failed to teach him about the ways of the world, prison filled in the gaps. From the second he'd stepped out of the transport bus, he discovered how life behind bars preached its own set of unspoken rules and consequences. Rapes, murders, and perpetual threats defined the norm in a closed society governed by those in power—and feared by those who lacked the courage to stand tall and face their troubles, real or imagined.

  Some problems he left behind; others he carried with him for the long haul, unable to shake the guilty conscience that metastasized from his core beliefs and hindered his ability to carve a better life for himself. A life with dignity and purpose. A life without remorse for the savage acts of self-defense that shielded him from larger predators who broke the spirit of frightened inmates and turned weaker men into slaves. What happens in here today, defines who you are tomorrow, his cell-mate would preach. A man with nothing to lose has nothing to fear. A man with nothing to fear commands respect.

  Outside the restroom, Lloyd pulled his time card from the rack on the wall near Sonny's office and poked his head in the customer waiting room to find the last person he expected to see.

  Jamie poured coffee in a paper cup. Startled by the loud cha-chink from the time card machine, she bumped the coffee pot on the counter and splashed the back of her hand.