White Sister (2006)

by Stephen - Scully 06 Cannell

  "Get the wheelchair," the sheriff's watch commander ordered one of his deputies, while the other one recuffed me, this time with my hands behind my back. The watch commander pointed to the wheelchair and I stood carefully, fighting a dizzy spell as I got into it.

  "I'm Sergeant Armando Padilla," he informed me. His dark, Hispanic features were stern and showed no concern for my plight. "You're being transferred into Sheriff's Department custody. The LAPD arresting officers will stay with you, but while you're in my custody, we do things my way." He looked at me, then over at Riley and Kyle. "Everybody Jake on that?"

  "Listen," I said. "I didn't "

  "Shut up," he ordered. "I don't want to hear anything from you. I don't care what your sad story is. I just wanta know you're on board with this and aren't gonna cause problems. Are we Jake?"

  "We're Jake." I couldn't remember the last time I had heard that expression.

  "Your division commander and two guys from Homicide Special named Sepulveda and Figueroa are on their way over. They'll do the initial field interview. Until then, I'm going to get you checked in and looked at by the docs on thirteen. You will be isolated for the moment. No calls or visitors. Do exactly as I tell you and we'll get along."

  He was so tense, I could see no advantage in putting up an argument. This guy just wanted me in and out of his custody without incident as fast as possible. As far as all of these cops were concerned, I was little more than a career problem with feet.

  "Okay," I said.

  Padilla looked over at Sergeant Riley. "Gimme the transfer documents. You can sign him over and I'll take custody down here."

  I waited for a minute while they both signed papers on a clipboard. Padilla took the MT log from the paramedic and looked at his two deputies.

  "Okay, let's move him."

  One of them took wheelchair handles and pushed me across the loading dock into an empty freight elevator. The wooden door rolled down and we began to ascend to the first-floor lobby.

  On the way, Padilla addressed his two deputies. "When we get up to the lobby, I want you guys to clear the first floor from the admitting desk to the elevator. Nobody gets into that hallway while we're transferring him to the jail elevator. Call upstairs to thirteen and get everyone who doesn't need to be in admitting out of there."

  "Right," one of the deputies said.

  "Any press here yet?" Sergeant Riley asked.

  "Right now, just a photo stringer who hangs out hoping Nick Nolte or some other Hollywood notable gets led in here in handcuffs. But that's about to change, 'cause two RAs just called base. They're bringing in a couple a rappers who got shot at the El Rey. One's critical. This place is gonna turn into media central. Our job is to make sure Scully stays off the news."

  "We'll throw a blanket over it," Riley said. But there was a distinct lack of confidence in his voice.

  "What rappers got shot?" I asked, wondering again, What had I done inside that theater? Nobody answered my question.

  While the deputies stood guard, I was quickly wheeled through an empty hospital lobby and transferred to the jail ward elevator. We rode up in silence. When the doors opened on thirteen, I saw that the admitting room had been cleared and was almost empty. I was a disgraced and handcuffed media star being moved through a cloud of negative expectations.

  I'd been to this floor to get arrestees treated countless times before, but now it was very different. This time there would be no hanging around, or waiting to get processed. Two white coats were waiting as I rolled off the elevator. The doctor in charge had a strong chin, blue eyes, and gray-black hair the color of lead.

  "I'm Doctor Larimore," he said, with no trace of courtesy. He turned to Padilla's deputy and said, "Put him in Ob Two, Larry. The last one in the back."

  As quickly as that, I was wheeled through a metal door to the accompanying sound of a buzzing lock. Then I was whisked down a white corridor toward the rear of the facility where the lone isolation treatment cell was located. I could smell fresh paint mixed with the odor of antiseptic. We rolled past a series of closed doors where the feral eyes of injured prisoners peered out from behind wire glass windows, watching my progress. There were half a dozen deputies in attendance, called in, I assumed, for my benefit.

  I was wheeled inside the small treatment room and parked. Sergeants Riley and Padilla came in, followed by Doctor Larimore and his white-coated colleague. The room had one window, facing west, toward the ocean. The view was protected by heavy chain link affixed to the outside wall of the building.

  "How's your head?" Doctor Larimore asked, perfunctorily.

  I contemplated a suitable response, but all I could come up with was, "It's had better nights."

  "Okay, Detective, I need to do a quick neurological exam. If I determine that we need an MRI or Sonic Imaging, we'll do that next. Hopefully, it's just a standard concussion with no important or lasting aftereffects."

  "Hopefully," I said, wondering when the rest of my memory would return.

  He took out a penlight and shined it into my eyes.

  "The EMT's radio call said his pupils were dilated. You have the paramedic's FTR?"

  "Right here," Padilla said, and handed the Field Treatment Report to the doctor.

  He glanced it over, then said, "Okay. This is promising. The dilation is way down now, almost normal." Then he looked at me. "How's your vision?"

  "I was having some double vision a while back, but it's stopped now."

  "Good."

  He held up three fingers and thankfully, I saw three and told him so.

  "Can you remember where you live?"

  "Venice."

  "The complete address, if you can."

  "Three thousand Grand Canal Court."

  "Any gaps? Stuff you can't remember, specifically around the time of the trauma? Often with this kind of thing, there'll be some temporary memory loss surrounding the incident."

  "I remember everything," I lied.

  I already knew this case of amnesia was going to be a big problem. For the time being, I had to at least act as if I had a memory of what had happened. If the cops knew I had no recollection, and one of those rappers actually died, then the District Attorney could put any case he wanted on me including murder. Nobody would alibi me and with no memory, I had no way to dispute anything.

  "I think he's stabilized, but we'll keep him in isolation until tomorrow, just to be safe," Doctor Larimore said.

  "I guess me and Kyle can split," Sergeant Riley said, wanting to be rid of me.

  "You better stay until his division commander and those two homicide dicks get here," Padilla said, then looked at the doctor. "Is it gonna be okay for them to interview him?"

  "Yeah, sure," Doctor Larimore said. Then he turned to me. "If you have any nausea or light-headedness, I want you to ring that buzzer next to the bed. We'll check in with you every forty minutes or so."

  I thanked him, and he and the other doc, who had been silent the entire time, turned and left the room. Riley and Padilla remained behind for a minute.

  "Okay, Scully," Padilla said. "I'm sure you've been up here and done this a bunch yourself, but for the record, here's the drill. As I already told you, you're in Sheriff's Department custody. I don't expect you'll be here long, but while you are, I want your continued cooperation. Your people can talk to you, but any decision that affects custody is mine. Are we Jake on that?"

  "Jake," I nodded.

  Then, without saying another word, Sergeants Riley and Padilla stepped out of the room. The door buzzed and I was locked up and alone.

  The next half-hour was filled with tests. Nobody bothered to tell me the results. All I could think about was Alexa. I had to find a way to get out of here before they operated on her at ten a. M. I knew I couldn't do anything but sit in the waiting room at UCLA and pray. I knew my presence wouldn't change anything, but I had an overpowering need to be there just the same. It was as if missing Alexa's operation would spill over everything and guarantee a ba
d result. Unfortunately, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it would be next to impossible to make bail and get my arraignment set in time.

  Once I was returned to the isolation cell a wave of depression-produced fatigue overcame me so suddenly that I could not keep my eyes open. I just couldn't take one more blow or disappointment. All I wanted to do was run and hide. In a surge of either self-pity or self-preservation, I started to shut down. I lay back on the bed, closed my eyes, and mercifully fell asleep.

  My dream took me back to Antigua. Alexa was in my arms and my heart ached with love and longing. We knew we had the whole world to play in. Our future stretched out before us like a ribbon of adventure and opportunity. We laughed as we walked into the glittering surf, splashing the water as we went, marveling at how lucky we were. Our bodies were washed by the surf and kissed by the sun. There was nothing but good times and blue skies ahead.

  Chapter 47.

  SOMEBODY WAS SHAKING me awake. I looked up into the scowling face of my division commander, Jeb Calloway. Cal's shaved bullet head glowed in the cold fluorescent lights of the observation cell.

  "Sit up," he ordered. No "How you feelin'? How's the head?" All business.

  It took me a minute to orient myself. I swung my legs off the bed and sat up, rubbing my eyes. A quick inventory of my memory made me realize I still couldn't pin down much of what had happened inside the El Rey. I had a fleeting memory of walking down a glass-walled corridor with Lionel Wright. Empty theater seats stretched out below us. That was it. My headache was worse than ever.

  "Can you get these guys to give me some aspirin?" I asked.

  "Hey, Deputy, find a doc. He needs something for his head," Cal said to one of the sheriffs.

  Rafie and Tommy were standing across the hall opposite the open door. After a minute, an intern brought in some pills, which I took with a cup of water.

  "You're in a world of hurt," Cal said when the intern left. "You got one chance in all this, and that's to come one hundred percent clean. Rafie and Tommy are gonna do a preliminary field interview and offer you a deal Chief Ramsey managed to strike with the D. A. It was tough getting this kicked down, so if you're smart, I suggest you take it."

  "Captain, I'm ... I didn't do anything. This is a big mistake."

  "You didn't do anything? Are you nuts? You ignored a direct order from the acting chief and withheld evidence. You screwed up Slade's murder investigation by illegally entering his house without a warrant. You also searched a rap producer's house without paper. You're a person of interest in the Slade hit, and now you're also the prime suspect in a homicide at this rap awards show all in twenty-four hours."

  "What murder?"

  "Singer named Diamond Simonette. Performs under the name Diamond Back. The guy was pronounced at this facility an hour ago."

  "I never heard of him. Why would I kill him?"

  "Rafie, get in here and card this guy."

  I knew Cal liked me but his abrupt tone told me he was getting frustrated.

  Figueroa came in and pulled a Miranda card out of his wallet. He stood next to the bed and read the familiar warning in a flat voice that echoed in the hard walled room. When he finished he said, "You understand these rights I have read to you?"

  "Yeah."

  Captain Calloway stood. "Okay, you guys do the F. I." He checked his watch. "It's almost midnight. I gotta go back to hold Ramsey's hand and deal with the chain of command. After you're through here, get the docs to clear him and transport him over to the Men's Central Jail. We'll do the probable cause declaration and booking there. And watch out for news crews. We don't want them to know where Scully is or have to make a statement till tomorrow morning's press conference."

  "You're really gonna book me for murdering some rapper I've never heard of? Where's my gun? Who has it? Sergeant Riley? Was he the arresting officer? Check my piece. Ballistics won't get a match."

  He didn't respond to any of this. Instead, he said, "We got witnesses and a security camera that both say you attacked two black guys in an elevator without provocation. Started the whole ruckus."

  As he said it, I remembered diving into an elevator, going down hard and getting kicked. I touched my right side again. The dull, aching pain was still there, confirming the memory. The problem was that I didn't know why I dove in that elevator, or what happened next.

  Cal stood and said, "I'm really sorry about this, Shane. But everybody's been telling you to go home and sit down. Because you wouldn't listen, this happened." He turned and walked out of the room.

  Tommy closed the door. Rafie set his tape recorder on the bed between us then turned it on and verbally slated it. Tommy crossed and sat on the edge of the bed.

  "How'm I good for this Diamond Back guy's murder?" I asked them, hoping that when they answered, more of what went on inside the El Rey would come back to me.

  "You perpetrated a felonious assault, which ended up causing a riot. Guns were fired and Diamond Simonette died. The chief wants you booked for homicide under the Felony Murder Rule."

  The Felony Murder Rule is a California law that, without exception, everybody in law enforcement dearly loves. Simply put, it states that if someone dies during the commission of a felony, all of the perpetrators involved with the crime could be charged with murder whether they pulled the trigger or not.

  My favorite application of this rule occurred when I was in Valley Patrol. Two white trash rednecks from Stinky Creek, Arkansas, tried to take down a liquor store. They grabbed fifty-eight dollars and forty-five cents in cash and while they were running out the door, the store owner grabbed his counter gun and killed one of the fleeing suspects. We caught the other hillbilly two blocks away and the D. A. eventually charged him with the death of his buddy. Under the Felony Murder Rule, if they could prove I started that riot and someone died, I was technically guilty of murder. But it was a discretionary charge and it seemed pretty flaky for the department to be laying it on one of their own.

  "You guys are really gonna try and put this murder on me?"

  "Orders from on high," Tommy answered. "How many times did me and Rafie ask you to stand down?"

  He was right. But what would he have done if it were his wife lying in a coma? "Did you get Forensic Documents to scan Alexa's computer and decode any more of those e-mails?" I finally asked, trying to change the subject.

  "Hey, Shane, we're through answering those kinds of questions. You're not a colleague. You're the suspect. Get used to it." He cleared his throat, then looked at Rafie. "We need some answers. Let's start with what were you doing at the Oasis Awards? What piece of brain-dead thinking led you to go down there and attack a building full of gang-bangers?"

  Of course, there wasn't much I could tell him. I still couldn't get my head around the idea that the department wanted to charge me with this rapper's murder. I was thinking Chief Ramsey was probably just trying to jack me up and take me off the street until this whole, sad, Alexa-Slade media circus settled down.

  But Rafie surprised me. "We've been given permission by the D. A., to make you Queen for a Day on the Slade hit."

  What he was talking about was something called a proffer of immunity. Cops called it Queen for a Day because it allowed a suspect to confess to a crime and at the same time get immunity from the very crime he was confessing to. In return, he had to put the hat on somebody else an accomplice. I didn't see how it fit. I had no accomplice to roll over on.

  "That last e-mail on the computer reads like a blackmail attempt by Slade on Alexa," Rafie said, sensing my confusion. "Here's how we think it went down. Slade says to Alexa, gimme money, or a promotion, or whatever it was he was looking for. The e-mail says 'If I don't get what I want, I go to the Old Man.' Which is you! But rather than get shaken down by a piece of shit like Slade, Alexa decides to go to you and see if she can beg forgiveness. The two of you find a way to come to grips with her adultery and finally decide to dust him off to keep him quiet so he doesn't embarrass you and ruin Alexa
." The room was quiet after he finished. Tommy scuffed his feet.

  "You guys need to get over to CAA and see if you can find an agent to represent this," I said angrily.

  Rafie went on, "The department is getting mauled by all these black activists in the media. Ramsey really wants it to go away. So here's the deal: You roll over and put the hat on Alexa for the Slade hit and the D. A. will give you immunity on that murder and kick this rap awards thing down to involuntary manslaughter. You end up doing a nickel in the State Pen and come out in time for your forty-fifth birthday."

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I just sat there staring at him.

  "Shane, we're just trying to find an easy way out of this for everybody," Rafie continued. "Alexa isn't gonna make it. I called the hospital and talked to a doc on the neurosurgery ward. She's scheduled for an operation in a few hours but they don't have much hope she's gonna make it. So if you want this deal, I suggest you make it before she checks out. Once she's gone, everything comes off the table. Not even this asshole we got for a D. A. will grant you immunity against a dead accomplice."

  "Get out of here, Rafie," I said softly. "You too, Tommy."

  As Rafie turned off the tape, Tommy looked over at him. "I told you he wouldn't go for it." Then he turned to me. "We didn't want to make that pitch any more than you liked hearing it. We were ordered to by ... by people."

  "Right. The Powers That Be."

  He nodded, and turned to Rafie. "Let's get out of here. I need a shower."

  The door lock buzzed and they left. I sat on the bed feeling lower than I ever had in my life. There was nobody to turn to. Nobody.

  Who cared? Only Chooch and he was just an eighteen-year-old kid who had more than he could deal with already. He was outside and I was in. I could only talk to him through bulletproof Lucite.

  I sat in the stark, white room and wondered how I would get out of this, knowing all the while that I probably wouldn't.