by Harry Kraus
“There’s one phone in the commons. All calls are collect, five dollars a minute. You have to get your family to call the phone company to set it up before you call. It only allows calls to numbers that they set up.”
“Oh.” Claire pushed the peas around their compartment. “Have you been here long?”
“Four months.” She paused. “I killed my husband.” She kept chewing. “You going to eat that?”
Claire shrugged.
A woman with purple-streaked hair leaned toward her. “Eat it. It’s a long time till breakfast. And I hope you like cold gruel.”
Claire nodded and took a bite of macaroni. It was overcooked and needed salt.
The husband killer slurped her applesauce. “You can have visitors once a week on Sunday morning. But you have to write their names down by Friday or they won’t be approved.”
Claire moaned. “So that explains why my family is ignoring me.”
“Why are you here?”
She looked up to see Maria struggling to fit her pregnant belly beneath the metal table.
Claire thought about an appropriate response. “It’s all a mistake” sounded too wimpy for this crowd. Perhaps “I killed my father” would buy her some respect, but the guard was probably listening. Or she could say something smart-mouthed like “I heard the chef was great.” Instead, she just shrugged. “I don’t really know.”
Her answer drew chuckles from around the table. Spider-tattoo woman spoke first. “You got arrested, didn’t you? So you know.”
“What I meant was, I was accused of a crime I didn’t commit.”
More laughter. One of Claire’s top-bunk roommates called out, “We all there, sister. Everyone of us. We innocent.”
Claire cringed, feeling her cheeks flush. The inmate across from her wiped her mouth with the back of her tattooed hand. “My attorney thinks he can get me off. My husband beat me. Made me crazy.” She lifted her dull eyes to meet Claire’s. They were unfocused and empty of luster, a muddy pool. If one look can help an insanity plea, you’ve got it down.
Maria said something in Spanish that ended in “gringo.” Claire didn’t understand. Another Mexican American responded with more Spanish and touched fists with Maria. They both laughed. Maria spoke again. “Okay. What’s your name, Clarinet?”
This was too funny with the African Americans. The one known as Tamika put her spoon to her mouth and imitated a squeaky jazz musician.
“Claire.”
“Claire,” Maria corrected. “What I meant was, what did they arrest you for?”
Claire looked at the nursing-home food and told herself to be strong. Don’t let this crowd know you are afraid. As if they don’t already know it. She steeled her face and met Maria’s gaze. “For killing my old man.”
Sunday afternoon, Sally Weathersby looked up as Gail Norfleet knocked on the door. “What’s up, Gail?”
“Have you seen Sol today? It looks like he left yesterday right in the middle of mulching the azalea beds. Left the lawn tractor and wagon out all night.”
“Have you tried his home?”
“Twice. Got his answering machine both times.”
Sally shrugged. “Will you ask Jake to put away the equipment? All we need is a theft on top of our other problems.” She hesitated. “Did Blanche have to fend off any more reporters?”
“Other than Jennifer Eastland at the Daily News Record, no.”
“I wonder how she got wind of Wally’s death so quick.”
“She was in Brighton, dining at the Omni. She said she saw the police take out Claire McCall. She just started asking questions and ended up here.”
“That woman has a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”
Gail laughed. “Or the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“It’s not funny. All we need is a media circus reporting euthanasia at Pleasant View.”
Gail nodded. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
Sally looked at her colleague and nodded slowly. “I was the supervisor on. I was in charge. This happened on my watch. Mr. Johnson will be taking on heavy pressure to scapegoat someone just to save face in the public eye.”
“He couldn’t blame you.”
“Just watch.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Claire lay awake on her bunk until 2:00 a.m., unaccustomed to the sounds of dozens of snoring inmates and the click-click-click of the heels of the patrolling guards. Maria was restless too, alternately moaning softly or occasionally letting a quiet “ooey, ooey, ooey” escape her lips in front of a curse.
Claire squinted in the dim light. Maria held her lower abdomen. Claire whispered, “When are you due?”
Maria’s forehead glistened. “Not for a month.”
“First baby?”
She cursed. “My fifth.”
“Are you having contractions?”
The grimace on Maria’s face was answer enough.
“Why don’t you ask to be taken to the infirmary?”
Maria shook her head. “They hate Mexicans. They won’t give you any medicine.”
Claire listened for the next hour as Maria alternated between resting quietly, calling Mother Mary, and cursing some poor fellow named Fredrico.
At 3:00, Maria cursed again, and began a rising “ooey, ooey, ooey,” again.
Tamika rolled over, rocking the metal bunk. “Shut up.”
Trish’s head appeared, looking over the top bunk at Maria, who was stripping off her orange jumpsuit. “You’re bleedin’!”
“My water just broke. Ain’t supposed to have this baby for a month.” She stood in between the bunks over an expanding wet circle.
Claire sat up. “Lie down, Maria.” She put her arm around the trembling girl. “Let me check you.” She hesitated. “I’m a doctor.”
Maria lay down. Claire exchanged glances with Tamika and Trish. Their eyes glistened with attention. Claire washed her hands at their little sink and focused her attention on Maria. With one feel, she knew they were in trouble.
“Maria, listen to me. I’m going to need to keep my hand right where it is. The umbilical cord is coming out first. Try not to push. If the baby’s head comes down any further, it will compress the cord. I need to hold the baby’s head back.”
Maria screamed.
“Call the guard!”
Tamika began to yell, “Bonnie! Bonnie get up here.”
Maria squirmed. “I have to push.”
Claire shook her head and positioned herself so her face was closer to Maria’s. “Do not push, Maria! This is very important. The baby will die if the head comes down.”
“My baby!”
Moans and curses echoed through the women’s pod as inmates awoke to the disturbance. “Shut up!”
Tamika kept screaming for Bonnie.
Bonnie showed up a few seconds later, holding her billy club high. She rapped on the bars of their cell. “Quiet down in there!” Then her eyes widened as she looked at Claire. “Just what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to hold back this baby.”
“Are you crazy?”
Claire tried to keep her voice calm. “Bonnie, I’m a medical doctor. Maria is having this baby tonight whether we want her to or not. The baby’s umbilical cord has prolapsed. That means Maria needs an emergency cesarean section.”
Bonnie’s jaw slackened.
Claire raised her voice. “Now!”
“I’ll get a wheelchair.”
“No! She needs a stretcher. Call 911 for a paramedic crew. We don’t have much time.”
Bonnie radioed for help. Claire talked softly to Maria while they waited, all the while keeping her right hand firmly in place against the baby’s head.
“Your baby has a full head of hair. What are you going to name it?”
“Olivia,” she panted. “Or John.”
Claire smiled. “That’s my husband’s name.”
Tamika snickered. “How about Clarinet?”
Trish slugged Ta
mika’s arm.
A few minutes later, a Brighton paramedic crew arrived. Bonnie unlocked the cell, and the taller of two men ordered Claire out of the way. “Let me see what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that you have a gravida five, para four, with an umbilical cord prolapse. If I move, this baby’s head is going to engage and you’re going to have a dead baby on your hands.”
Maria cried, “Don’t move, don’t move.”
“But we need to move the patient out.”
“Exactly,” Claire responded. “But not without me.” She hesitated, looking at Bonnie. “Unless one of you gentlemen or this guard wants to take responsibility for the life of this child, I suggest you let me go with you.”
The paramedics shrugged. “Can we allow this?”
Tamika scoffed at the guard. “You gonna let her out of here, just like that?”
“I’m a medical doctor. Have either of you boys managed a prolapsed cord before?”
The paramedics shook their heads. “Not me.”
“Then you’d better break protocol for the life of this baby. I’m not leaving Maria.”
Bonnie looked pale. She talked into her radio. “I need priority clearance to move two prisoners. Send up the in-charge.”
A second deputy arrived. “They have to be shackled. It’s policy.”
Claire frowned. “You can’t put a woman in active labor in shackles. You’ll endanger the baby.”
“Shut up. You’re not in charge.”
Bonnie shook her head. “Ned, I’ll make the call. Put this one in shackles,” she said, pointing to Claire. “Maria’s obviously not going anywhere.”
Ned frowned. “I don’t like it.”
Maria screamed.
The paramedics unfolded a stretcher. “Careful,” Ned instructed, “We’ll move her on three. One, two, three!”
Claire and Maria moved as one. The stretcher was too narrow for both of them. Ned locked the shackles in place around Claire’s ankles.
She frowned. “I can’t walk fast enough in these. And we have to move quickly.”
The tallest paramedic put his hands together to form a stirrup. “Step up on the stretcher. You’ll have to ride on it with her.”
It seemed the only way, since Mr. Protocol wouldn’t allow her out without the shackles. Slowly, Claire straddled Maria’s right leg, so that she could keep her hand in Maria’s birth canal and her own weight on her knees. Once she was on the stretcher, the paramedics wheeled them out, with one deputy in front and one in tow.
The ambulance ride was eight minutes to Brighton University Hospital, where they were met by obstetrician Phil Whitten. Claire had spent time on the Ob/Gyn service under Dr. Whitten when she was a medical student.
“Claire?”
“It’s a long story.”
He stood still for a moment, as if trying to process the scene. Dr. McCall, in an orange prison jumpsuit and shackles, straddling a patient. Claire’s right hand disappeared in between the patient’s legs. He shook his head in obvious disbelief. After a few seconds, he found his voice. “Okay, give me the bullet.”
“Multiparous mother in her eighth month of pregnancy with premature rupture of membranes and a cord prolapse. She last ate at six p.m. last night. This is baby number five. One peripheral 16 gauge IV started in route.”
“OR four is ready for a stat section. Let’s roll.”
Maria and her entourage moved down the hall en masse. The elevator was crowded, but carried Dr. Whitten, Claire, Maria, two deputies, and two paramedics. Once they were at the OR doors, Dr. Whitten turned to the paramedics and deputies. “We’ve got it from here.”
Once Maria was on the OR table, the anesthesiologist did a crash induction and a nurse painted the abdomen with deep yellow Betadine. Only after the surgeon opened the uterus did Claire remove her hand from Maria’s vagina.
She watched as Dr. Whitten delivered a healthy little boy. John.
Claire looked at her hands and slowly shuffled through the swinging door to the scrub sink. Then she turned and moved toward the exit where her deputy escort waited. Behind her, the OR door opened, allowing her to hear the cry of an infant’s first breath and the dismay of the surgeon. “That Dr. McCall was one of our best medical students. I guess you just never know.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Claire awoke to the sound of rapping on the bars at seven. She’d slept exactly one hour since arriving back from Brighton University Hospital. “Ms. Cerelli, rise and shine.”
She opened her eyes and stretched. “Ugh.”
“Get up. We leave for the courthouse in ten minutes.”
She stood and yawned. It was funny that a little thing like lack of sleep could change your whole perspective. She found she actually wanted to stay in her miserable bed this morning. There was no time for a shower, no makeup, and only a plastic comb to fight through the tangles in her blonde hair. She splashed water on her face and decided that not having a mirror in her room might be a good thing on a morning like this. The way she felt, she’d probably only scare herself. Some things are best left unseen.
The deputy, a female of about twenty-five, had a name tag that read, “Smith.” She unlocked the door and locked the shackles on Claire’s ankles. As she’d experienced last night, the shackles were like handcuffs, only with a longer chain that allowed her to take three-fourths of a normal step.
Claire offered a smile and flipped her hair over the color of her ill-fit-ting jumpsuit. “How do I look?”
“Peachy. Now the hands.” Claire obeyed by lifting her hands. The deputy snapped them into place.
Claire turned to face the door to her cell. “Trish, Tamika, it was nice meeting you.”
Tamika smirked. “Hey, it’s not like you will be gone long. Don’t get all mushy on us.”
Claire shook her head. “I’m going before a judge. I’m sure he’ll let me out.”
Trish huffed. “What planet are you from?”
Tamika said, “Planet White. No way a judge would let a sister out, at least not one accused of murdering a white man.”
Deputy Smith nudged Claire’s shoulder. “Now.”
Claire lifted her handcuffs and wiggled her fingers at her roomies. “Bye-bye.”
She was led through a series of fluorescent-lighted hallways to an elevator, which took her up to the glass-enclosed walkway which connected the jail to the courthouse above Liberty Street. As she shuffled forward, the irony made her smile.
Deputy Smith pushed her forward. “What’s so funny?”
“It just struck me as a bit humorous. Here I am in handcuffs and shackles and we’re crossing Liberty Street.”
The deputy rolled her eyes. “Keep moving. We’re not here for a morning stroll.” Smith led Claire across the walkway and then down a flight of stairs into the courthouse.
The shackles made the stairs a challenge. They gave her feet just enough leeway to take the steps one at a time if she didn’t try to land on the edge of a step. “Whoa,” she said, holding her hands up for balance.
At the bottom of the steps, she saw a door. Hanging on the outside handle were two pair of handcuffs. The deputy unlocked Claire’s and hung the cuffs with the rest, leaving on her ankle restraints. Deputy Smith unlocked the door. “Inside.” She prodded Claire. “It’s a holding cell. When the judge is ready for you, you’ll be taken in.”
Claire inspected the little room. It had a long metal bench along one side, a metal commode, and a metal door with a narrow vertical-covered window. Two women in prison orange and shackles sat on the bench at separate ends. Claire recognized them from supper the evening before. “Hi,” she offered.
A thin woman with long, stringy graying hair stared at Claire with hollow eyes and said nothing. The other woman, appearing no older than sixteen, pushed a rebellious strand of black hair behind her ear. “Hi.”
Claire sat in the center of the bench. “How long until we get to see the judge?”
The young woman spoke. �
��He usually takes the women at the start of the docket, around eight.” She shrugged. “Otherwise we might not be seen until after ten thirty.”
The older woman’s forehead glistened with sweat. She shivered and wiped her face with her sleeve.
Claire watched her a moment. Looks like narcotics withdrawal. I can guess what you’re doing here.
A long fifteen minutes later, someone lifted the metal covering from the door’s only window. It was hinged at the top and squeaked when it moved. “Claire?” It was a man’s voice.
She looked through the opening to see a man in a gray suit, holding up the window cover. She recognized the distinguished gentleman as William Fauls, the attorney who’d represented John during his recent trouble with a coworker. “Mr. Fauls.”
“John asked me to see you.”
“John? Is he here? Can I see him?”
“He’s waiting outside the courtroom. The judge may or may not allow families in today. It’s Judge Atwell, so I wouldn’t count on seeing your family. He keeps a tight rein on his court.”
Claire nodded.
“I realize it’s your decision, but he asked me to represent you.”
“Of course. That’d be great.” She hesitated. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“A little. I was hoping you could fill me in. I’ve had only part of yesterday to sort this out.”
“I really don’t have a clue, sir. I was on my honeymoon. John and I had just arrived at our hotel when the police arrested me and brought me here.” She sighed. “I didn’t even know my father was dead.”
“Hold on,” he said, disappearing from view and letting the metal cover clang shut against the door. In a moment, the cover lifted again. “Sorry about that. I needed a pen. I’ll need to make some notes.”
They talked across the door, with Mr. Fauls holding open the cover with one hand and occasionally with the top of his head, when he paused to make a note.
“What have you been able to find out?”
“Not much. The prosecutor is Garland Strickler. He’s usually pretty tight-lipped about the evidence, but he’s hinting at a straightforward win for the commonwealth. I tried probing the sheriff ’s department, but their paperwork on your arrest hadn’t even been processed, so that was a dead end.” He shrugged. “And the nursing home isn’t saying anything. Their risk management people won’t let them breathe a word of this to anyone, especially me.”