Fueled Obsession 3

by Amanda Heartley

  After a few minutes, Burly Yance returned and flopped down in the chair in front of me. “Your problems just get worse and worse, Fitzie. Seems there’s been a drive-by on your street and a kid has been shot. Name’s Andre Washington. You know him?” Yance tapped his little notebook on the corner of the table nervously.

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing; I stared at him and tried to figure out if he was fucking with me. Cops did that kind of crap all the time. “What? Andre’s been shot?” my mouth got real dry and sticky. Fuck!

  “Yeah, he’s been shot—in the chest, and they don’t know if he’s going to live or die. So, you need to tell me, right now, what you know about this. You owe somebody money? Maybe step on someone’s toes out there?” He got so close to my face, I could smell the coffee on his breath.

  “I don’t believe you. Andre is a good kid, he wouldn’t do anything wrong!” I stared into his eyes and dared him to get closer. “Do you mind? You’re in my space.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we? You’ll want your personal space soon. You know, I hear people don’t get much of that in prison, especially when they get kids to sell drugs for them.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “Only the obvious. This kid had drugs on him. Is he your mule? Was he selling to the other crack heads in the Village?”

  It was my turn to bang my fist now. I slammed my cuffed hands on the metal table and stared at him, “No! I’d never hurt those kids or see them get hurt. That’s total bullshit, Yance! You know I’m not selling drugs or else you would have found some, right?” My mind swirled with images of Andre getting shot. I wanted to go check on him, not deal with this BS.

  “Oh, we found some seeds and a pipe but no, I can’t honestly tell if they belong to you or your mother. I guess the judge will determine that. However, even a smart dealer knows better than to hide drugs in his own house. That’s why we are checking out your car. You know, those guys in narcotics, they’re very thorough. They won’t mind taking that car apart, piece by piece.”

  I stared at Yance, and if my hands had been free, they would’ve been around his fat neck. “I want a lawyer. I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

  “Just when it was getting good. Okay, Fitzgerald. You want a lawyer, you got it.” He turned to Townsend and said, “Take him back to his cell. I’ll get these charges added on here and I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  I walked down the long hallway with Townsend. “Hey, you want to stop and see your mom?” Townsend glanced back at me and gave me a toothy grin. We stopped in front a holding cell and I could see my mother passed out on the bench. Her mouth was wide open and one of her dentures was missing. I didn’t say anything. I glanced behind me and gave him a look that said it all. “Keep going, Fitzgerald.” He paused in front of my cell, and uncuffed me. The idiot just stood there, and stared at me so I turned away and looked at the ceiling.

  Thankfully, the guy I shared the cell with earlier had gone, so it was just me. I wasn’t afraid—I’d been behind bars before and I just wanted to be alone. I sat on the bench and picked at a hole in my bright orange monkey suit. Is this really happening? All because of Mollie? I knew her father was a hard ass, but this was fucking ridiculous. Andre might die, my cash was gone and my car was being stripped. The only good thing about any of this was that Nellie was behind bars where she might dry out for a day or two.

  Reality came crashing down on me. This was going to totally kill any chance I had of driving for Stockton now. I’d tried to stay out of the bullshit but it just seemed to follow me around.

  To hell with them! I reared my fist back and punched the concrete wall in frustration. The pain was intense and I instantly regretted it as I sat on the bench and ignored the blood as it trickled from my knuckles. Fuck me.

  I stretched out on the bench and thought about taking a nap to make the time go quicker, but then I heard the gate open again.

  “Hey, Fitzgerald.” It was the pleasant-looking redhead this time. “Your attorney is here.”

  “What? I don’t have an attorney.”

  “You do now,” my visitor said, as Redhead walked away. “Mr. Fitzgerald, I’m Amos Jernigan and I’m here to represent you in your upcoming case.” I quickly appraised the short man standing on the other side of the bars. He wore his glasses on top of his head and he was missing a tie. Not the best-dressed attorney I’d ever seen, but if he could get me out of this, I was all for it.

  “I don’t recall hiring you, Mr. Jernigan. Do they let lawyers troll the jailhouses now looking for work?” I hadn’t meant to be insulting—it just came out that way.

  “No, they don’t, Mr. Fitzgerald, but I have a reason for being here. May I be blunt?”

  “Please. I’ve heard enough bullshit for one day.”

  Mr. Jernigan pulled a nearby folding chair nearer the gate. He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “You’re being railroaded here and I don’t like it. I guess you know who put you here, don’t you?”

  It was my turn to be frank. “DuBois.”

  “Yes, Charles DuBois. He has a history of pulling stunts like this and I’d like to put an end to his influence here. Here’s what I can do for you. I’ll represent you pro bono on this case and you testify for me when I go after DuBois.”

  I leaned back and eyed Jernigan. What was this dude up to? Did I really want to get involved in a pissing match with two attorneys? Wouldn’t this kill any chance I had with Mollie? Mollie. She knew I was arrested. Probably knew her dad did it as well. Fuck her.

  “I don’t mind making a trade Mr. Jernigan, but I don’t know if I have anything more I can tell you. I mean, I haven’t even met the guy and, regardless of what you’ve heard, I’m not a good liar.”

  He laughed out loud. His voice didn’t match his frame. It was deep and rich, as if he were six foot seven. “No need to lie, Mr. Fitzgerald. You being here is all the proof I need. DuBois is pulling strings that he should not be tugging on. It may finally get him into trouble.”

  “I see.” I really didn’t but I was tired as hell now.

  “First things first. Let’s get you out of here and we will talk more. Do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah, that’s a deal.” I didn’t know what the attorney had in mind but I was glad, for once, that I apparently had someone on my side.

  Chapter Three — Mollie

  “Hi, this is Mollie DuBois. I’m calling about an inmate—Jackson Fitzgerald. I was wondering if I could talk to him or leave him a message. You see, he doesn’t have my new number—he only has the old one. Can you help me?”

  The woman on the other end of the line snorted, “Ma’am, we don’t hand the prisoners messages. There are no incoming messages, only outgoing. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait for him to get a hold of you.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, do you know if he has access to the phone? Can he call anyone?”

  “Ma’am, he can’t call until after his charges are finalized and I see here that he’s still in processing. It’s likely that he’ll have to see the judge before he can make a call. You’ll just have to wait, ma’am.”

  “Great, thanks.” I hung up, exasperated at their petty rules though I knew my father was the real problem. He did this to Jack because he wanted to hurt me. Well, mission accomplished, Dad! I slid my phone into my pocket and stared at the empty plastic tubs that took up most of my new room. I guess I needed to get rid of them; maybe stack them up in the closet—if I could find some room.

  Thanks to Natalie, Dad had reluctantly given me my clothing, and I didn’t even have to see him. Hannah had neatly boxed up all my personal items in plastic tubs and set them in the driveway. She politely called me to let me know they were outside and that I should retrieve them before the trash man picked them up. It felt good to have my clothes, laptop and my other personal belongings back. I spent an entire day hanging clothing and arranging my folded items in the shabby chic dresser in my new room. It was comforting
to have my things around me.

  My first day back to work at the hospital had me running from the moment I walked in the door. The first patient I attended, a car accident victim, had minor scratches and cuts, but my heart broke for a baby brought in with a high fever. Just when I thought I’d have time to slip upstairs to see Simon, I got paged. I was needed in 516, and my visit to the miracle kid would have to wait a little longer as Judith had called me for assistance. I rushed to the room and was shocked to find that the patient was Andre—Jack’s teen friend. He was a kid from the neighborhood near the Village Clinic. According to his digital file, he had a gunshot wound to the chest and had bled significantly before being transported to University Hospital. He was scheduled for surgery and his doctor immediately called for blood, so I pulled his records, got his blood type and began the order.

  I sprinted from the blood lab to the operating room where Andre’s team waited and I began prepping the blood for surgery. Andre was unconscious and he looked frail as the nurses removed his clothing and arranged the surgical instruments. Suddenly, he stopped breathing and a young doctor yelled, “He’s flat-lined. Get to work, now!” The team worked on the young man’s body, pumping his chest and breathing into his nose. Someone had grabbed the defibrillator paddles, in case they needed them to restart his heart. I stood against the wall to keep out of the way and silently prayed that somehow, some way, he’d live but he’d lost so much blood and I’d seen this kind of cardiac event happen before after major trauma. I caught my breath when I saw the hole in his chest—it was one of the worst I’d ever seen but thankfully, Andre’s chest rose and sank and I could see him breathing again! I wasn’t part of the surgical team so I stepped out into the hallway to wipe away the tears when I spotted a woman crying in the waiting room. She was by herself and somehow I knew she was Andre’s mother.

  I sat down beside her and pressed a few tissues into her hand from a nearby box. She looked up at me, her dark eyes moist with tears and I could see the resemblance. Andre had her angular face and her lovely, mocha-toned skin.

  “Are you Andre’s mother?”

  She nodded, rubbing the wetness off of her face. “Yes, is he okay? Is my baby okay?” She gasped a sob away.

  “He was breathing normally and being prepped for surgery when I left. I wish I could guarantee that he’ll be fine, but I can’t. I promise you that Dr. Gray, the ER doctor on duty, is excellent, very caring, and I know the whole team will do everything they can to save your son. He’ll come out and talk to you as soon as the surgery is over.”

  “Mrs. Washington?” A uniformed police officer sat across from us and extended his hand to her. “I’m Officer Brandon Greer. I know this isn’t a great time to talk, but I’d like to get some information from you. I hope you understand that the quicker I get to work on this, the more likely it is that I will find the guy who did this.”

  Surprised by the request at such a sensitive time, I asked, “I thought detectives did this kind of work.”

  “Yes, normally they do and there will be a detective to follow up. Probably Detective Yance, but I am the officer who responded to the call so if you don’t mind, nurse…?”

  I didn’t want to tell him my last name; that was always a bad idea. “Mollie, I am Mollie.”

  “Okay, Nurse Mollie, if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Mrs. Washington.” He sneered, clearly aggravated by my question.

  Andre’s mother reached for my hand and grasped it tightly. “No, I want her to stay.” We didn’t even know one another, but I couldn’t refuse her. There didn’t appear to be anyone else around to offer her any emotional support and God knows she needed it. I squeezed her hand back, gave her a nod and, thankfully, the officer didn’t argue or put up a fight. I thought it would be best if I just sat quietly and listened.

  “Mrs. Washington, your son was shot in front of your residence? That’s 1151 Village Way South. And your first name is Gloria. Do I have that right?"

  “Yes, that is correct. Andre was outside playing ball with some other kids, kids he knows from the neighborhood. I could see them from the window.”

  “After dark? So did you see who shot your son or maybe the car they were driving?” The officer scribbled a note down on some scrap paper and watched her attentively.

  “I’d turned away for just a second, then I heard the shot. I looked out the window and saw a blue car speeding away and my baby lying on the ground.” Gloria Washington broke down into tears and squeezed my hand.

  “You say this was a blue car. Did you happen to see what kind or maybe get a tag number? What did the driver look like, was there more than one person in the car?” The officer was no expert at interviewing, that I could tell. He was bombarding her with questions that she probably couldn’t even answer.

  “It was an old car, like an Impala, a classic, maybe one from the ‘70s. It was dark blue but I couldn’t see how many people were in the car. All I could see was my baby on the ground.”

  The officer sighed and asked, “What about the other kids? Did any of them recognize that car?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t ask.” She looked down at her hands, as if she were searching for answers.

  “Let me ask you this, Mrs. Washington, and I promise we are almost done here. What about Jack Fitzgerald, the racecar driver who lives down the street from you? Did your son ever have any dealings with him?”

  Her dark, doe eyes widened and she stared at Officer Greer. “Do you think he had something to do with this?”

  “I don’t know. He’s been incarcerated recently on some other charges, so I thought I’d ask. Seems a bit of a coincidence that Andre’s fighting for his life now and you have a known criminal in your neighborhood.”

  This line of questioning shocked me. Known criminal? Greer thought it was appropriate to lead her into thinking Jack was to blame for Andre’s shooting.

  “If he’s in jail, how could he be involved?” I couldn’t keep quiet any longer—this wasn’t right. “I mean, does he have a history of shooting people?”

  Greer frowned at me but didn’t scold me. “We found evidence in his home that would lead us to believe that Fitzgerald may be dealing drugs.”

  “What kind of evidence?” I blurted out, but he didn’t bother to answer me. He was on a mission to get as much information as he could from Andre’s mother.

  “I know this is a tough question, Mrs. Washington, but I have to ask it. To your knowledge, was Andre involved in drugs or did you suspect he was dealing in drugs? Did Jack have him selling drugs?”

  “No, my baby is a good boy! He got into trouble like all teenagers, but he’s a good kid—he is a good kid.” Mrs. Washington’s whole body shook uncontrollably as she sobbed. I handed her some more tissues. I knew Jack had a drug problem, but he loved those kids. He would never put them in danger like this.

  She blew her nose and continued, “A couple of months ago, or maybe it was weeks, I can’t remember, Jack asked Andre to help him with something. Andre told me that Jack wanted him to look out for the younger kids and keep them safe from the bullies. You know, the older kids that like to run the streets in the Village. Jack said that if Andre did that, he’d give him a little money from time to time. I never asked where that money came from—I didn’t have any reason to suspect that Jack Fitzgerald would be selling drugs or asking my child to do that.”

  “Would it surprise you, Mrs. Washington, if I told you, that Andre had drugs in his jacket pocket? Some weed and some white powder. Has he ever been in trouble, you know, officially?”

  Gloria stood to her feet and she was angry now, but at who, I wasn’t sure. “Yes, that would surprise me. You want to come in here and accuse my baby of selling drugs and he’s lying in there dying! I don’t have anything else to say to you right now.” Andre’s mom turned and stormed down the hall, leaving the officer and me staring at each other.

  I didn’t like this officer too much, but I wanted to get as much information as I could about Jack. I
couldn’t believe he was a drug dealer. Was it possible that my dad was right all along?

  “So you say that this Fitzgerald character, he’s in jail?”

  Misinterpreting my question, the officer said, “Yes, but you don’t have anything to worry about. He’s going to be there for a while.” He dug in his jacket pocket and handed me a card. “Please give my card to Mrs. Washington. If she can think of anything else, tell her to call Detective Yance or me. I’m sure Yance will be by here soon. Thanks.”

  I took his card and slid it into my pocket. I watched him take the elevator and, as discreetly as I could, I went behind the nurses’ station and picked up the phone. I dialed the number on the card and got the same operator that I’d talked to before. “Can you please tell me if Jackson Fitzgerald is still in processing? Is there any way I can see him?”

  “Ma’am, like I told you before, no visitors until he’s charged. I’m sorry.”

  I hung up on her without saying goodbye and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge at the nurses’ station. That wasn’t normal hospital procedure, but my heart hurt for Andre’s mother. I took the bottle to Mrs. Washington, along with the business card. “I’m sure that the doctor will be out to see you as soon as he can. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know. I’m sure this must be very difficult. Is there someone I can call for you?” I didn’t tell Gloria that I’d met Andre before or that I had been a friend to Jack Fitzgerald. What purpose would that serve?

  “No, there is no one except Andre’s dad. He’s already in prison, so I don’t know what good he would be. I guess I could call my pastor. Thanks for the tissues and the water. I don’t know what I’m going to do if something happens—if he doesn’t make it. Andre has been my whole life. Why would somebody do this to him? And to find out that my baby is selling drugs…I can hardly believe it.”