Fall from Grace

by Wayne Arthurson

  “You’re a funny and strange man, Doctor…” I left the sentence hanging in a question so he would tell me his name.

  “Reese. Dr. Reese. And I’m sorry if my humor offends in some way but I find it helps in these sorts of interviews.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dr. Reese. I could use a little levity at the moment.”

  “That would be an understatement, I believe,” he said, his voice turning serious. “But please, could you answer the question?”

  “What question?” I said, but when Reese moved to write something on the chart, I jumped in. “Sorry, I was only kidding. I remember the question. You wanted to know what I did for a living.”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” he said, and wrote something on the chart anyway.

  “I’m a journalist. And I’d like to get back at it as soon as possible.”

  He nodded and chuckled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Desroches, but that probably falls into a category of strenuous activity.”

  “But I am talking to you, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are. But as you are probably starting to notice, your breathing is getting a bit labored and you’re having a little trouble staying in focus.” He was right. Just talking to him was wearing me out and I wanted to sleep. “But that’s to be expected from someone who has suffered the injuries you have suffered. Based on the X-rays and the CT scans, I’m glad to see that your injuries, no doubt difficult for yourself to deal with at the moment, are relatively minor and will heal quite quickly, if, that is, you don’t overtax yourself.”

  I heard and understood most of what he said but I had no idea what he was talking about when he said the words X-rays and CT scans. When had those occurred? And what about the ambulance ride? When had that happened?

  Dr. Reese was still talking, saying something about a concussion, lacerations, and bruising, but then he reminded me that if I took things easy, I would be relatively okay. “But no more bumps on the head, okay, Mr. Desroches?”

  I managed a nod, or at least I thought I managed a nod. The lights came back, first in one eye then the other. From a well I heard the good doctor’s voice calling me. “Mr. Desroches? Mr. Desroches? Are you still there?”

  I shut my eyes, shook my head, and I climbed out of the well. At least for a few more seconds. “The name is Desroches, Dr. Reese. De-Rossch. The s’s at the front and end are silent and it’s only two syllables.”

  Reese nodded and wrote something down on his chart. “Good. Very good, Mr. Desroches,” he said, pronouncing the name as if it was his own. “That’s a good start but don’t push it. I’m going to let the good constable speak to you but not for long, okay?”

  I nodded. Or at least I thought I did. Whatever, the cop came over and spoke with me.

  * * *

  “So you never saw your attacker?” the constable asked again, writing in his notebook.

  I shook my head. “He came at me from behind. I never saw him.” In my head, I added, When he attacked me, because I was quite sure who had attacked me.

  “And you say you have no idea why this attack occurred.”

  “I’m guessing I was mugged. That’s what I thought was happening.”

  “But you still have your wallet? And your car keys? And if I might add, your car,” the constable said without sarcasm. “I’m sorry to say that in most muggings, something is stolen, and in this case, nothing was.”

  I shook my head. “I had some cash in one of my jacket pockets. And an iPod,” I added, lying. “I think he took that.”

  The constable nodded, again writing in his notebook. “There was no cash on your person, save for a few dollars in your wallet.”

  “There you go, then. I guess he did take something.”

  “So do you recall that he did take the cash out of your pocket?”

  I shut my eyes and waited for a wave of nausea to pass. These episodes were starting to be annoying but at least they were getting shorter in duration and less intense. “I’m sorry, I don’t really recall anything like that. After he bashed my head into the side of my car, it all is a bit fuzzy.”

  “I’m sorry to be bothering you, Mr. Desroches,” he said in all sincerity, pronouncing my name clearly, “but we’ve found that if we take too long in questioning victims of crimes, especially violent ones like the one that occurred to you, we lose many of the details.”

  “I know. You’re only doing your job. And I would like to help.” But only to a point, I added in my head. “It’s just that I’m finding it difficult to concentrate. I really didn’t see my attacker.”

  “That’s okay. Now if you don’t mind, this won’t be much longer, but could you please tell me again why were you in that neighborhood at the time? To be honest, it’s not a good place for someone of your, how should I put it, demographic, to be.”

  Tell you again? I thought. I’ve told you this story before? I must have been hit really hard because I had no memory of any previous conversation with this guy save for the time when he was tapping on my window. But I didn’t want him or anyone else to know that, because then I’d be forced to spend more time in this place and I wanted to get back to the office and write my story as quickly as possible. “I was on a story. I was interviewing someone for a story.”

  “Yes. A prostitute named Jackie,” he said, looking over his notes. “Unusual subject for a news story, don’t you think?” Translated, that meant, Are you sure you weren’t there for her other services?

  I shook my head. “Not really. I’m writing a story on the death of another prostitute and Jackie was her friend. I was getting what we call background information about the other girl’s life. Trying to fill the holes in a person’s life and story. You probably understand?”

  Whether he did or not, he nodded just the same. “And you don’t recall an address for this Jackie individual?”

  “I do, Constable, but I’m sorry if I won’t share it with you. She was a source for a story, a difficult source if you understand my meaning, and I would rather that she not be set upon by a number of constables like yourself. Nothing personal, but that would make things even more difficult if I had to approach her again. As a source.”

  “I understand that, but as you probably know, the person who assaulted you was probably someone she knows. Probably her pimp who (a) was upset that you used up much of his employee’s time without compensating her or (b) set upon you because she made the suggestion to him that you might be a good mark.”

  I liked the fact that he was assuming it was her pimp that attacked me. It took the blame away from me and from the fact that I was a john or that I had impersonated a police officer. And it explained my reluctance in revealing Jackie’s address. I went along with it. “If that was her pimp, then I’m guessing that the answer is (c), all of the above.”

  The look of disappointment on the constable’s face was obvious. To him, here was a victim of a beating, a beating that landed said victim in the hospital, and even though the victim was quite aware of who may have been behind said beating, he was unwilling to cooperate with the proper authorities in order to bring to justice those who were responsible for his injuries. “In all honesty, Mr. Desroches, it would make things much easier and simpler if you just cooperated fully with the Edmonton Police Service. You are the victim of a crime and it behooves you to help us to find those responsible.”

  I almost smiled at his use of the word behooves, but I held back. Instead, I just waved a hand and shut my eyes, my signal that I had had enough and to ask me more would be futile. Part of me felt relief when he finally got it and bid me good night. But another part felt sad. This constable was a decent person, and had done a lot to help me. In return, I had given him an annoying, unsolved case. I just hoped it would do him good and not embitter him.

  18

  I spent several more hours at the hospital, most of it sleeping. I was questioned another time by the constable, and after he got the same answers, he placed his card at the side of the bed and told me if I had more informa
tion, I should call him. It was only a formality because we both knew I wouldn’t call.

  The doctor floated by another time, ran through the basic checks, and approved me for release. He also warned me against any strenuous activities and noted that if I suffered from another lack of consciousness, prolonged vomiting, or any other weird symptoms, I should return to the emerg or to a medical clinic for a checkup. Driving, operating large machinery, and any contact sports were verboten. He actually used the word verboten.

  I thanked him for his fine work, gathered up my stuff, and left the hospital. Based on the reactions I received from passersby in the hospital, the driver and the other passengers on the bus downtown, plus the security guard at the front desk of the paper, I knew I didn’t look good.

  I thought about heading into a bathroom to check out the damage, but I pushed that aside. If I saw what I really looked like, then I would truly realize the extent of my injuries, and that would make me rethink the idea of going to work and finishing my story. But I didn’t want that; what I wanted was to get this goddamn story done and out of the way. If I took time off to recuperate, I’d be going through my notes, and writing and rewriting the story in my head, so I wouldn’t get any rest. It made more sense to finish the story and then rest.

  The look on Whittaker’s face said it all, anyway. It was a combination of shock, horror, disgust, with a bit of concern and compassion mixed in. And to her credit, after she asked, “What the hell happened to you?” she grabbed my arm and helped me to my desk.

  I fought the urge to shake her off because in all honesty I needed the help. I sat down at the desk, glad that no one else, Anderson included, was at theirs. It was pretty early in the morning, most of the staff wouldn’t be in till later. I entertained the hope that I could get the story done before any of them came in to work, but there was little chance of that happening. I had about two thousand words to write, a massive tome in the daily newspaper business. With my head pounding and the niggling little bits of pain from the minor wounds and bruises on my body, I knew writing this thing would be a major chore. If I got it done by the end of the day, then I would be pleased.

  “Do you need anything, Leo?” Whittaker asked.

  I was about to shake my head and get to work on the story but I realized that there were two things I needed. “Do you have any ibuprofen or anything like that?” I asked. “But no aspirin because the doctor said that could cause bleeding.”

  “Shit. Yeah, I got something in my desk from the time I had a root canal. You take it easy and I’ll be right back.”

  I sat back in my chair and fought the urge to sleep. I saw that day’s edition of the paper and a thought popped in my head. I flipped through the city section and was surprised that it was there, a short four-column-inch piece buried at the bottom of page B-6 underneath a 18-point hed that read “‘John’ Mugged.” I laughed out loud as I read the story, which outlined how an unidentified man, “most likely a john looking for the services of a prostitute,” police were quoted as saying, was attacked in the early afternoon yesterday.

  The story quoted an unidentified EPS constable saying that “this further confirms that men seeking sexual services from prostitutes are risking attack from pimps and prostitutes” and also warned that there was a strong possibility a pimp and some of his prostitutes were targeting johns in this manner. That was a nice touch, I thought, because now some johns would think twice about trying to get a prostitute; it wouldn’t stop them completely, but at the very least, activity in the areas known for pickups would drop, at least for a few weeks. I was glad that my attack at least had performed a weird sort of public service.

  Whittaker came back with the pills and a bottle of water, arriving just as I was laughing at the story. “What’s so funny?” she asked. While I downed the pills, I pointed at the story.

  “Yeah, I wrote that myself. Came in late last night and if it hadn’t had that john business, I would have set it aside.” She gave me a funny look. “What’s so funny about it?”

  “The unidentified john was me,” I said, pointing at my face and body. “That’s what explains all this.”

  “Jesus Christ, Leo. You got mugged? What the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

  “Just got out not long ago. I didn’t want to go home so I came here. I got all the info on that story Larry assigned and I want to get it all done.”

  “But what were you doing out there, then? I mean, I’m not one to pry and judge, but shit, Leo, getting beat up by a pimp isn’t typical newspaper reporter behavior.”

  “Tell me about it, but don’t worry about it, Mandy, I wasn’t trolling for hookers. I was actually talking to one for this story, and on my way back to the car, I got hit from behind and mugged. And it seems the EPS wants to discourage johns from picking up hookers and couldn’t resist using me as an example. By the way, I was told not to drive for a few days so I left the paper’s car on the street back where I got hit. Sorry.”

  “Fuck the car. We got plenty of cars,” she said, which scored some points in her favor. “But are you sure you’re all right? Because you look a real mess. Have you had a chance to look in the mirror?”

  I shook my head. “Afraid to. If I see what I really look like, I might actually realize that I should go home.”

  “You should go home. I’ll even drive you myself if you want.”

  “Thanks, I really appreciate that, Mandy, but I can’t. I have a story to finish.”

  “Fuck the story, it can wait. Go home, rest for a few days, and then come back.”

  I told her that while that sounded good, I wouldn’t be able to rest with the story hanging over me. She said she understood. “But if you’re so intent on staying here and working, is there anything else I can get for you?”

  I thought about it and realized that every time someone came in and saw me, they would demand to know what had happened, and I would have to go through the whole explanation about the mugging over and over again. I would never get any work done with that. I told Whittaker my thoughts and asked, “Is there an empty office someplace, is some editor or management type out of the office for today?”

  She thought for a second and then nodded. “There’s got to be someone in ad sales who’s going to be out on calls all day. Even if there isn’t, I’ll get you space there. You have any problems working on the third floor with all the suits?”

  “Better there than here. Suits are afraid to ask questions, especially if the person looks like they’ve been hit by a truck. Fucking reporters wouldn’t let me rest.” Whittaker nodded and got on the phone. In a few minutes, she found an office in ad sales, a nice quiet cubicle that had a door that could be shut. After getting me settled, she brought in another bottled water and her over-the-counter painkillers. “If you need me, call me,” she said. “And don’t be surprised or offended if I drop in once in a while. I won’t be checking up on you to see if you’re working, I’ll just be seeing if you’re still alive, all right?”

  I nodded but she didn’t leave the room. “Is there anything else?” I asked.

  “I know I shouldn’t be prying but I can’t help it, it comes with the territory; every so often I see you taking some kind of medication, prescription type, and I was wondering what it was. That is, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Part of me did, but it was only a small part. Every so often, someone would notice me taking my meds but would say nothing save for a continued awkwardness. Only a few would actually have the guts to ask me about them. I told her.

  “Never heard of it,” she said.

  “They’re for depression,” I said, lying only a little.

  She nodded, and for a couple of seconds, I couldn’t read her face. Would she keep it quiet or would that become another bit of office gossip? “I take Effexor,” she said with a grin. “It’s pretty common.” And then she left. I shook my head and got to work.

  * * *

  It took me all day to write the story, and
the fact that I was in constant pain actually made the story sadder and more poignant. Of course that could have been the painkillers talking, but even Whittaker and Larry noted that my story had something more to offer than the typical feature piece. “If getting beat up can improve your writing, Leo, I’m thinking of implementing a policy that requires all reporters that get into a rut be subjected to the same handling as that pimp put you through,” Larry said in a tone that showed he wasn’t completely joking.

  “He wasn’t a pimp,” I said.

  “Whatever. This is nice work,” he said, holding a hard copy of the story. “Whittaker and I are going to edit the shit out of it, tighten some bits up and make other things clearer. Normally I wouldn’t make such an offer, but since you went through a lot to get this story I’m going to ask if you want to read it and make comments on what we’ve done before we send it out?”

  “Thanks but no. I’ll read it when it comes out,” I said. Larry and Mandy were solid editors and the one thing that I’ve learned in my years as a journalist is that good editors always make a story stronger. There was no need to double-check their work.

  “You’ll have to wait till Sunday because we’re going to run it in the Insight section. We’ll have her picture as the entire front page of the section.”

  “Her name is Grace.”

  “Right. Grace’s face will be the entire front of the Insight section, with a small one as a teaser across the top.”

  “Great,” I said quietly. “That’s great.”

  “Anything else then, Leo?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, any comments, any additions or suggestions?”

  I shook my head.

  “How about your personal life? Everything good … there?” It was, on the surface, an innocuous question but since Larry knew a lot about my background, it had deeper meaning.

  “Except for getting mugged in broad daylight, everything’s okey-dokey.”