by Scott Pratt
“Just let her go,” I said. “I’ll take the baby home. I’ll pick her car up, and I’ll pick Sarah up at the hospital later. I’ll make sure she doesn’t cause any more problems.”
“You sure about that? Because I don’t think it’s such a good idea. What I’ve got here is a DUI and endangerment of a child. And who knows what I’ll find if I search this vehicle? We’ve got a crowd of people watching and two rookies who know who you are but don’t know much about you. What I’m saying is that people are going to hear about this, you know what I mean? People like my boss, county commissioners, lawyers, judges, you name it. This is going to get out.”
“So?”
“So giving a break to the district attorney’s sister, especially one with a prior history like hers, isn’t exactly great for my reputation in the law enforcement community.”
I took a slow breath and tried to think. The pain in my groin was starting to subside, but I still felt thick and sluggish. What Sarah had done was stupid, no doubt. But she was in a lot of pain, and in my mind, I rationalized that she hadn’t hurt anyone.
“Look, Dempsey,” I said. “You can’t make a DUI case because you didn’t see her driving the car. She wasn’t in legal control of the car when you got here because I had her keys. For all we know, her boyfriend drove her here, they got into an argument, and he walked away. The point is that unless you have a witness who saw her pull into the parking lot and get out of the car, you have no case.”
“I’ll bet you a month’s salary that camera sitting up there on the roof will show her driving the car.” He nodded his head at a security camera and I looked up. It was perched on the southwest corner of the building, an all-seeing eye of modern technology.
“You don’t really want to go to all that trouble, do you?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to. I like you Dillard, always have. But there’s a child involved here. I can’t just let it slide.”
I moved closer to him and lowered my voice.
“There are some things going on that you don’t know about,” I said. “I don’t want to pull rank on you, but I’m the district attorney. She’s my sister, and I’m not going to prosecute her. If you think you need to tell somebody about it, then do what you have to do. You can even arrest her if you want to, but the bottom line is that she isn’t going to get prosecuted for this.”
I looked at him steadily, waiting for him to make a decision. To my relief, he began to nod his head.
“Alright,” Dempsey said. “I’ll fix it with these guys, but you owe me.”
I reached into my wallet and pulled out one of my business cards, jotted my cell number on the back, and handed it to him. “Call me if you need anything. I mean anything.”
I heard the rumble of a diesel engine as the ambulance pulled in. The other two patrol officers were standing outside the cruiser watching and listening as Sarah made a complete jackass of herself. I reached into the back seat of the Mustang, unstrapped the car seat with Gracie still in it, and transferred it to my truck.
The last image I saw as I pulled out of the parking lot was Sarah. She’d stopped trying to kick the windows out just long enough to give me the finger.
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as I left the grocery store, I drove home and picked up Caroline. We went back to the grocery store parking lot, and Caroline drove Sarah’s car to the house Sarah had inherited from my mother while I went to the hospital and gave them Sarah’s personal information and health insurance card. One of the emergency room nurses came out and told me that Sarah had been sedated and would be admitted overnight. She gave me a phone number in case I wanted to call and check on her later.
After that, Caroline, Gracie and I went out for pizza. We’d spent a great deal of time with Gracie, so she was comfortable and happy. She fell asleep in my lap a little after nine that evening, and I put her in our bed where she spent the night with Caroline, Chico and me. Rio slept in his usual spot on the floor at the foot of the bed.
I wanted to get to the hospital early enough the next morning to catch whichever doctor would be caring for Sarah on rounds, so when I arrived at the Johnson City Medical Center hospital, it was still dark. I found Sarah’s room, looked in, and saw that she was still asleep. Her chart was sitting on a work station just outside the door, so I picked it up and looked at it. I was particularly interested in the toxicology screen, and I was relieved to see that there was no trace of drugs in her blood. Her blood-alcohol level, however, was another matter. It was .029, more than three times the legal limit, definitely dangerous. I shook my head in disgust, set the chart back down, and walked back into the room. I sat down in the recliner next to the bed and closed my eyes, trying to decide exactly what I was going to say to her when she woke up.
About fifteen minutes later, a middle-aged nurse with a round face and stiff, brown hair flipped on the light. She began removing something from Sarah’s wrist.
“Are you her husband?” she said brightly.
“Brother.”
“She was so combative in the emergency room that they had to restrain her. We left them on in case she woke up in the middle of the night and decided to leave.”
Sarah began to stir. She lifted her head and looked at the nurse, then at me.
“Where am I? Where’s Gracie?”
“Gracie’s fine. You’re in the hospital. We’ll talk about it after the doctor comes in.”
The nurse took Sarah’s vitals, and a couple of minutes later a stodgy-looking redhead wearing a white lab coat walked through the door. A pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck.
“Ms. Dillard,” she said, “I’m Doctor Fritz. I see from your chart you had a busy night last night. The paramedics’ report says you had a child in the car with you. What happened to the child?” Her tone was unfriendly and judgmental.
“My mouth tastes awful,” Sarah said. “Do you have any toothpaste or gum or anything?”
“I’m sure the nurse will find you something. What do you remember about last night, Ms. Dillard?”
“Not much.”
“I’m not surprised. You had enough alcohol in your bloodstream to float an aircraft carrier. Was this an isolated incident or do you do this to yourself on a regular basis?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Really? You seem to have made it my business. And who is this?” She pointed at me. “The lucky husband?”
“The lucky brother,” I said.
“Since your sister doesn’t seem to have any manners, I’ll talk to you. She’s obviously built up some tolerance to alcohol or she would have been comatose last night. The blackout and the rage are symptoms of alcoholism, especially in a woman her age. She’s been hydrated with intravenous fluids and given ibuprofen to combat the swelling in her brain. Since there don’t seem to be any other medical problems, I’ll discharge her immediately. I suggest you get her into an inpatient rehab program for a minimum of thirty days as quickly as possible. Have a nice day.”
Doctor Fritz turned abruptly and walked out the door.
“Bitch,” Sarah muttered as soon as the doctor was out of sight.
“We need to talk,” I said. I stood and walked across the room to close the door.
“I don’t feel like talking.”
“Fine, then you can just listen.” I stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at her, once again amazed at her remarkable physical appearance. She showed no signs of the abuse she’d heaped on herself the previous night. Her skin was smooth and taut, her eyes clear and bright. She’d folded her arms across her chest and was staring at the wall to her left.
“If I hadn’t just happened to stop by the grocery store last night, you’d be in jail right now and Gracie would probably be with Child Protective Services. You were already hammered and you were buying more beer. You’d driven to the store with Gracie in the car, and you were about to leave the store and drive some more. One of the check-out clerks called the pol
ice. I’m not going to go through the whole sad story, Sarah, but the police showed up and you made an absolute fool of yourself.”
“Did I embarrass my little brother in front of his cop buddies?” she said sarcastically.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snapped. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You had Gracie in the car. That’s a crime, Sarah. Thirty days in jail, minimum, and with your record, the judge will give you a lot more.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “If that was true, the cops would be sitting here waiting for me to get out of the hospital so they could take me to jail.”
“They’re not here because I made a deal. I told them I’d make sure you go into a program and pull yourself together. If you don’t go within a week, they get a warrant and arrest you.”
The idea had come to me on the spur of the moment, when the doctor mentioned in-patient rehabilitation. Sarah had been through the twelve steps, she’d been to Narcotics Anonymous, but she’d never gone through an in-patient program. It sounded like a good plan to me, so I lied to her hoping it would be for her own good.
“There’s no way I’m going into a nut house for a month,” Sarah said. “Where are my clothes?”
She threw the blanket back and started looking around the room. She spotted a plastic bag next to the wall beside the bed and picked it up.
“You’re either going into a program or I’m calling the cop who wanted to arrest you,” I said. “I’ll call him right now. You’ll be in jail by noon and you’ll stay there for at least six months, I guarantee it.”
“No you won’t,” she said, pulling on her shorts. “You wouldn’t do that to Gracie.”
“I’d do it for Gracie! You’re no good to her when you’re like this. You’re no good to anybody.” I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and wielded it like a weapon. “So what’s it gonna be, Sarah? Rehab or jail?”
She sat back down on the bed and looked at me for the first time since she’d awakened. The stare was cold and contemptuous, a look I’d seen many times before.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I’m tired of cleaning up after you. Every time something bad happens in your life, you fall right back into the same old patterns. I’ve always felt sorry for you. I’ve always felt like your pain was somehow my fault because I didn’t stop Raymond from raping you when we were kids, but that was almost forty years ago. When Gracie was born I thought you’d finally put all of that behind you, but now look at you. You’re selfish and pathetic, Sarah, and I’m not going to let you dump your baggage on Gracie the same way you’ve dumped it on everyone who’s ever cared about you. You’re going into rehab, and you’re going to deal with this problem once and for all.”
“Wow,” she said. “That was quite a speech. I think maybe you missed your calling. You should have been a football coach.”
“Shut up and put your clothes on. Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Yeah, you are. You’re going home with me. You’re going to stay with us until we find you a good program and you go into the hospital. We’ll take care of Gracie while you’re gone.”
“I’m taking a cab home. I’ll be out to pick up my daughter in a little while.”
I started punching numbers into my cell phone.
“Enjoy jail,” I said, and I walked out the door.
I’d dialed my own number, but I didn’t send the call. I kept the phone to my ear as I walked down the hallway. A few seconds later, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to see Sarah, pulling on her T-shirt and carrying her shoes.
“Alright, I’ll go,” she said as she caught up to me. “But you’re paying for it.”
Chapter Eighteen
When John Lipscomb and Andres Pinzon were eighteen, their lives – and their destinies – changed forever. It all started at a party. Andres was lifting a beer to his lips and looked around the room. Dozens of people were wandering through the house, drinking and laughing. A disc jockey was playing loud music on a large patio out back where dozens more were gyrating on a makeshift dance floor. Andres smiled. Life was good.
At eighteen years old, Andres no longer considered himself a stranger in a strange land. He’d been in America for five years now, and tomorrow he would graduate from prep school. In a few months, he’d be off to college at Harvard University, and from there, on to law school. He’d formed tight bonds with dozens of wealthy students from all over the country, bonds that would no doubt benefit him in the future.
Andres felt something hit him on top of the head and an empty beer can fell into his lap. He looked around, knowing who it was.
“When are you going to grow up?” Andres said.
“When are you going to stop talking like a spic?”
John Lipscomb plopped himself down on the arm of the chair Andres was sitting in. The two boys, now young men, had become the closest of friends. After the initial fight, Andres found himself taken under the wing of one of the most unusual people he’d ever known. John was a walking paradox, a person who despised those with wealth and power but who also wanted desperately to become tremendously wealthy. He was capable of occasional acts of generosity, but he was more often inclined to ruthlessness. He was impulsive, yet methodical, adventurous, yet cautious. And he was always, always scheming.
Their fathers, both doctors, had also become close friends, and while the boys were in the eighth grade, it was decided that John and Andres would attend a prestigious private school together. Demeter Prep in Bethesda, Maryland, had an excellent pilot-training program, and since John’s father wanted his son to become a licensed pilot like he was, Demeter was chosen. Both of the boys were bright – Lipscomb bordered on genius – and they were expected to make perfect grades. They did, although in different ways. Pinzon was scholarly and worked hard, while Lipscomb perfected a long-standing tradition in the prep school world, that of cheating.
Halfway through Demeter, John began to suggest to Andres that they should attend the same college. Harvard was the natural choice, since John wanted to study business and finance and Andres wanted to study commercial law. They’d been accepted a year earlier, and now both of them were well on their way to bright futures. They’d even discussed the idea of joining forces when they graduated, the corporate lawyer and the financier, and conquering the business world together.
“Come with me,” John said. “I want to show you something.”
He led Andres through the kitchen and downstairs, past the throng of dancers, and down a short hallway. John knocked softly on the door, and it quickly opened.
“Come on in, man,” said Timothy Holden, a tall, slender party boy from Philadelphia that Andres knew only casually. “You guys have to try this stuff. It’s amazing.”
Andres entered a bedroom. Holden was pointing to a bathroom just to his left. John led the way.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” he said.
Sitting on the vanity was a round mirror about the size of a dinner plate. On top of the mirror were four lines of yellowish-white powder, each about two inches long, a razor blade, and a short straw.
“Go ahead, I already cut it out for you,” Holden said from beyond the door.
“Is that what I think it is?” Andres said.
Both young men had tried marijuana during their sophomore year at Demeter, but neither enjoyed the sensation and they hadn’t used it again. They’d heard about this new street drug called cocaine, a drug that supposedly caused an intense, euphoric high and had the extra benefit of serving as a potent aphrodisiac, but this was the first time they’d actually seen it.
“Yeah, it’s coke,” John said. “Want to try it?”
Andres shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“C’mon, man, this is the stuff everybody is going so crazy about.”
“Nah, not interested,” Andres said, and he turned and walked out the door.
Twenty minutes later, Andres was st
anding on a veranda overlooking a large swimming pool full of frolicking teenagers. The night air was cool against his skin, and in the distance, he could see the lights of Bethesda twinkling like fire flies. He heard the door open behind him, and turned to see John stepping onto the veranda.
“So how is it?” Andres said.
“Intense, man, really intense. I see why people like it so much.”
“So instead of going to Harvard, you’re going to become a dope fiend?”
“No, man, I just wanted to try it. Listen, I’ve got this idea I’ve been running around in my head for a couple of weeks, ever since I found out that Holden has been selling coke.”
“He’s selling it? Isn’t that illegal or something?”
“I’m sure it is, but that’s not the point. The point is that I talked to Holden, and he’s too dumb to realize it, but there’s a ton of money in it. I mean a ton. We could make a fortune.”
“We? Are you talking about you and me?”
John took a long pull from his beer and leaned against the railing.
“You know where they’re producing it, don’t you? Colombia. Your native land. I’ll bet you have relatives in the business.”
Andres did have relatives in the business, several of them. He’d heard his father rant about them many times. Andres knew that five years ago, when the family moved from Colombia to the United States, at least four of his uncles and several of his cousins were in the marijuana smuggling business. But now they, like many others, had moved into cocaine. A pound of marijuana would bring perhaps a thousand dollars in Miami, whereas a kilogram of cocaine would bring forty thousand.
“All you have to do is introduce me,” John said. “My old man is getting me a used Cessna for graduation. We can fly down there, pick up the stuff, and fly it back. We buy directly from the source, cut out the middle men, and then we distribute to this ready-made market we have right here. Almost all of these people are going to big schools in big cities all over the country. We’ll make a mint.”