Buried Evidence

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Now you’re threatening me!”

  “I’m attempting to explain the facts of life to you,” Lily said. “I earn a modest living, Shana. The price of education is astronomical. I’ve been saving for your future since the day you were born. I’d work a second job if necessary. I simply cannot support your father.”

  The line was silent.

  “I love you,” Lily told her, wishing such a negative discussion hadn’t been necessary. “Everything will work out. It won’t be so bad living in the dorm. You’ll have fun, get to spend more time with your friends. Who knows? Maybe you won’t need the added expense of keeping a car.”

  “Great,” Shana snapped. “Thanks a lot, Mom. This is just what I needed to start my day. First I have to move. Now I have to give up my car. Everyone has a car in L.A. How will I get around?”

  “You’ll be living on campus.” Lily paused. She should have never mentioned the car. The car was a sore spot. “Your father doesn’t have a car, and he seems to be making out just fine.”

  Shana knew she was busted. When her mother had tapped into her savings to buy her a brand-new Mustang convertible for a high school graduation gift, she had made her promise that she wouldn’t allow anyone else to drive it. “What am I supposed to do? Dad needs a car to sell real estate. Either he drives me where I want to go, or I catch a ride with one of my friends. What’s the big deal?”

  Negotiate, Lily told herself, taking in a deep breath. Her daughter was a formidable young woman. Already she argued like an attorney. When given the chance, however, she could be as manipulative as her father. “I might be able to increase your allowance so you’ll have more money to spend on entertainment and clothes.”

  A small voice said, “I have to go.”

  “Family problems?” Kingsley asked, overhearing the tail end of Lily’s conversation.

  She slipped her cell phone back into her purse, giving him a look that said he should mind his own business. No matter how attractive he was, the attorney annoyed her. Maybe he annoyed her because he was so good-looking. Just to prove her point, a couple walked by. The man glanced at Lily and immediately looked away. The woman smiled flirtatiously at Kingsley. He was used to women drooling over him. He loved it, encouraged it. “No sign of Orso yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “As soon as he shows, ask him to postpone the arraignment until three o’clock this afternoon,” Lily told him, her face locked in a grimace. “I need to go to the hospital.”

  The young prosecutor was bewildered. “Why can’t we go ahead with the arraignment at ten like we planned? I got here at six o’clock this morning to work on the complaint. I even had Brennan go over it with me last night to make certain everything was perfect.”

  Lily struck her forehead with the back of her hand. “Think,” she shot out. “Attempted murder is not first-degree murder. We can plead special circumstances and ask for the death penalty if Betsy died during the night. Then Middleton might be looking at something far more frightening than a prison sentence.”

  3

  Lily steered her black Audi into the parking lot of Saint Francis Hospital. She was thankful that the hospital was only a five-minute drive from the courthouse. Part of the luxury of living in a small city like Santa Barbara was the fact that everything was close, and, in most instances, a person didn’t have to worry about getting stuck in traffic. Weekends were occasionally a problem, but most of the traffic snarled on the 101 Freeway or on State Street, the city’s main drag. People from Los Angeles and the surrounding communities headed north during the summer months to escape the heat and enjoy the lovely beaches. When the mercury inched its way past eighty in Santa Barbara and people started perspiring and complaining, the temperature in Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley generally rose over the hundred mark. On her drive to the office that morning, Lily had heard that it was supposed to hit 105 in downtown L.A.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Logan,” she told an elderly volunteer working the front desk.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes,” Lily said, giving the woman her name.

  When she stepped off the elevator onto the second floor, a handsome man in a white coat rushed over to greet her. “Christopher Logan,” he said, shaking her hand. “You could have waited for me in the lobby. Didn’t Mrs. McKinley tell you?”

  “No,” Lily said, her face flushing. They had talked on the phone at least a dozen times. His voice was familiar, yet she had not anticipated him being so small. Wearing a blue shirt under his starched white jacket, Dr. Logan had neatly trimmed dark hair, perfectly shaped facial features, and he possessed the kind of squeaky-clean look that one would expect for a person in his profession. Lily found herself checking her fingernails, fearful there might be a speck of dirt under them. When the doctor gazed up at her, he blinked several times. She wasn’t the only one doing a double take. She doubted if the diminutive Dr. Logan had envisioned himself talking to a freckle-faced giraffe during their numerous phone conversations.

  “Betsy isn’t here,” he told her. “She’s been moved to the transitional care unit.”

  Middleton’s arraignment had been postponed until three o’clock that afternoon, but Lily had two additional court appearances to make, one at ten-thirty and another at one. Her watch read nine forty-five. Logan motioned toward an unoccupied waiting room a few feet away, then waited until Lily dropped down on the edge of a chair.

  “Before we go over there,” Logan said, sitting across from her, “there’s been a new development. Mr. Middleton’s attorney called me ten minutes ago. He instructed me that Betsy was not to be removed from life support under any circumstances. I found this peculiar, as we’ve been working closely with the parents since the child was admitted last October. Only a few days ago Henry and Carolyn Middleton agreed that Betsy should be removed from the respirator. That’s why I thought you should come here, since we were about to proceed with their request.”

  Lily’s first assumption was that Logan and the hospital were eager to harvest the girl’s organs. Then she changed her mind, doubting if a child whose body had been flooded with strychnine would have anything worth salvaging. “Can she breathe without the respirator?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What about brain activity?”

  “Slight,” Logan said, clearing his throat.

  They were staring directly into each other’s eyes. Lily felt an urge to look away, but the nature of their conversation demanded a degree of intimacy. “How slight?”

  “Almost nonexistent.”

  Logan was kind, intelligent, and, from Lily’s previous contacts with him, highly cooperative. Extracting information from doctors, however, was never easy. She considered it along the lines of pulling teeth. “Is the child in pain?”

  “I don’t think so,” he answered.

  Generally when a patient was in the terminal stages of an illness, physicians attempted to comfort the family by convincing them their loved one could no longer experience pain. “How can you make such a vague statement?” Lily blurted out. “I’m not a family member, someone you have to placate. Is she in pain or not?”

  Logan was a calm man, accustomed to dealing with difficult situations. His body language remained the same: his palms rested lightly on his knees, his forehead was unfurrowed, his voice low and steady. “I’d give you a definitive answer if I could,” he said. “Betsy is in what we classify as a level six coma. She doesn’t respond to external stimuli, so there’s no reason to believe she’s in pain.”

  Lily stood. “May I see her now?”

  “Of course,” Logan said, following her out of the waiting room.

  They walked along a path to the rear of the hospital. Lily noticed several small ceramic statues of various animals positioned along the trail. Then they began climbing a steep series of concrete steps. Several times she had to stop and catch her breath. When they reached the top, she saw another structure located between the hospital and the
extended-care facility. “What’s in that building?”

  “The nuns stay there.”

  “Is it a convent?”

  “No,” Logan replied. “It’s just a place for them to rest.” A question mark appeared on his face. “I guess a few of them might reside there.”

  Lily realized she was letting herself become sidetracked, possibly due to the hectic pace of the morning. “Is there any chance Betsy could recover?”

  “Outside of a miracle,” Logan answered, “I don’t think it’s possible.”

  Once they passed through the doors to the nursing facility, a middle-aged nun swished by wearing a white cotton habit. Lily glanced in a room and spotted another nun working over an elderly patient. The facility must be staffed by a specific religious order, she decided, probably one dedicated to the care of the terminally ill. No phones jangled, no televisions blasted, no orderlies pushed metal carts down the tiled corridors. The silence alone was ominous. The sisters seemed to drift from room to room on a cushion of air, their movements completely soundless. Patients were not moved to this transitional unit simply because their insurance would no longer pick up the tab.

  Betsy Middleton had reached the last stop on the train.

  The building was long and narrow, with the majority of the rooms on the ocean side. Even from the hallway Lily could see the entire coastline through one of the patients’ windows. She had seen pictures of monasteries in Tibet perched on the edge of windswept cliffs. This particular facility might not be as removed from civilization, but she imagined there was a similar feeling of stillness and isolation. She felt as if she were floating just slightly below the clouds.

  Dr. Logan reached over the counter and retrieved Betsy’s chart, then motioned for Lily to follow him. “We don’t usually admit children over here,” he told her, stopping in front of a room. “In this instance our administrator made an exception.”

  Lily stared through the window at Betsy Middleton. The girl was in a crib, tubes and wires snaking out between the bars. A hard ball of rage formed in her stomach. Because of the pending criminal charges, Henry Middleton would never allow his daughter to be removed from life support. He wasn’t a stupid man. He knew they could charge him with murder. Far more was at stake than merely convicting a criminal. While the wheels of justice slowly turned, a precious soul was trapped in limbo.

  The small mound beneath the covers no longer looked like an eight-year-old girl. Even though they were feeding her through a shunt in her abdomen, Betsy’s body was wasted and her limbs had atrophied. She was curled up in the fetal position and couldn’t weigh more than a large infant. Her hair was blonde with reddish highlights, almost the same color Shana’s had been at that age.

  “One of the saddest things about this case,” Logan said, their shoulders touching, “is Betsy was only mildly impaired. I concur with the diagnosis of Aicardi syndrome, yet from all appearances, her corpus callosum is almost completely intact. The last test they gave her at the special school she attended listed her IQ in the mid-sixties.”

  “What you’re saying, then,” Lily said, acid bubbling back in her throat, “is she had a chance to live a fairly normal life?”

  “More or less,” he replied. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying she could have graduated from college. Before she developed the lesion on her right eye, however, her vision problems were minimal.”

  “I thought she had a hole in her retina.”

  “Left eye,” he said, pointing at his own. “A person can manage fairly well with one eye.”

  When Lily faced the glass partition again, she saw a well-groomed woman in her late thirties leaning over the bed, tenderly stroking the girl’s forehead. She must have been in the bathroom before. “You didn’t tell me Mrs. Middleton was here.”

  “I didn’t know,” Logan said, shrugging.

  Lily understood the sense of helplessness Betsy’s mother must be experiencing. Six years ago she had stood over Shana, holding her hand and stroking her forehead. A mother’s concern for her child was one of the most powerful forces in the universe. “You said her brain function was only moderately impaired….”

  “A lot of people have IQs in the sixties,” he explained. “Many marry and have families. Since Betsy has a genetically inherited disorder, though, I doubt if I would have recommended that she have a child.”

  Just then Betsy began convulsing. Her mother shrieked, then frantically depressed the call button. Lily heard something drop on the floor, then realized it was the metal chart. Logan rushed inside the room, along with two nuns who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Never in her life had she seen people move that fast. One of the nuns handed the doctor a syringe. He instantly injected the medication into the intravenous tube already inserted into the girl’s arm. As Carolyn Middleton cowered in the corner, the sisters fastened leather straps around the child’s arms, legs, and torso. The seizure was so severe, the crib shook as if the building were collapsing. After five agonizing minutes, the girl’s tortured body finally became still.

  Dr. Logan found Lily with her hands pressed against the window, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s over,” he said, peeling off his rubber gloves and tossing them into a trash can.

  “You mean she’s dead?”

  He reached in his pocket to hand her a tissue. “I was referring to the seizure.”

  “Bad choice of words,” she told him, dabbing her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Logan said, bending over to pick up the girl’s chart.

  Mrs. Middleton lovingly rearranged her daughter’s head on the pillow, then stepped out of the room. She was wearing black slacks and a white turtleneck sweater, and her brown hair was styled in soft curls around her face. Before the tragedy Lily would have pegged her as a superficial woman, the kind who spent her days shopping or playing tennis at the country club. One look in her eyes made it clear that those days were over.

  Lily touched Logan’s arm to let him know she was leaving. He must have misread her, however, thinking she wanted to speak to Betsy’s mother. “This is Lily Forrester, Carolyn,” he said. “She’s the district attorney handling Henry’s case.”

  Mrs. Middleton was stunned. “I have nothing to say to you,” she said through gritted teeth. She took a step inside Betsy’s room, then returned to where Lily and Logan were standing. “How could you possibly arrest my husband? Henry’s a decent, God-fearing man. He adores Betsy, just like he does all of our children.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Middleton,” Lily said. “I understand how difficult this must be for you. My daughter was the victim of a violent crime several years back.”

  Carolyn Middleton refused to be consoled. “You don’t understand anything,” she said, her once lovely face twisted in a grimace. “What you just saw isn’t new to me.” She stopped and sucked in a breath. “I’ve had eight years of this hell. Betsy’s been sick all her life.”

  Dr. Logan opened Betsy’s chart to make the necessary notations. Lily shifted her weight but kept her eyes on Carolyn. “Why did you change your mind?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the other woman said, fingering her pearl necklace.

  “Dr. Logan indicated that both you and your husband were prepared to have Betsy removed from the respirator,” Lily told her. “Then a few hours ago, your attorney called and rescinded that order. Was this a mutual decision?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions,” Mrs. Middleton said, dropping her hands to her sides. “Henry told me not to talk to anyone unless Mr. Fowler was present.”

  Lily thought she was hearing things. “Did you say Fowler? Richard Fowler?”

  “Yes,” she said, digging in her purse and handing her a business card.

  How could Richard have agreed to represent someone as contemptible as Henry Middleton? Now she knew why she had seen him at the courthouse that morning.

  Carolyn said, “Henry didn’t do it.”

  “I appreciate how you must feel,
” Lily told her. “I’m only the prosecutor, Mrs. Middleton. Your husband’s guilt or innocence will be determined by a jury.” It was obvious that Carolyn Middleton needed Henry and was prepared to defend him. Without her husband the woman would disintegrate. The nice clothes, the carefully applied makeup, the regal way she carried herself. Henry had manufactured her just like he manufactured furniture.

  Lily waited until she shuffled off down the corridor, then turned back to Logan. “How long can Betsy last this way?”

  “She’s been in a coma for almost a year. I’ve heard of patients who’ve survived for as long as ten years, even longer.” He disappeared into the room, checking the flow on the IV, then quickly returned to conclude his conversation. “If there’s anything I can do, please feel free to call me.”

  “Anything?” she asked, saying more with her eyes than she could with words. She watched as Logan’s face paled, the meaning behind her statement striking home. “Do you have children, Dr. Logan?”

  “Call me Chris,” he said. “And to answer your question, I’m not married.”

  “Let’s say you did have a child,” Lily continued. “Would you want her to continue in this state? My office can file the necessary paperwork tomorrow, but for all I know, the court could take up to a year to render a ruling. Without the parents’ cooperation, we may never get the authorities to step in and give us approval to remove her from life support.”

  Tearing off a piece of paper from Betsy’s medical chart, the doctor scribbled something and then pressed it into Lily’s hand. “This is my home phone number,” he told her. “From now on, I think it might be better if we discussed Betsy’s situation outside of the hospital. If you can’t reach me at home, have the hospital page me.”

  4