“Hold on,” Mark said. “Am I under arrest?”
“Not at this point,” Ames said. “But I just want to be sure you’re familiar with your rights.”
“You’ve already done that once. I’m pretty certain that I have two main rights at this point, and I want to invoke them both. I want to call my attorney, and I don’t plan to say another word to you guys until she’s here.” He jerked his arm free from Ames’s grip, and reached into his pocket for car keys, only to recall that the police had them.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to ride with us,” Jackson said. “Your car should be safe on the lot here. We’ll see that you get a ride back to claim it when you leave the police station.”
“If you leave the police station,” Ames murmured under his breath.
***
Gwen Woodruff scrabbled blindly for the cell phone on her bedside table. The red numerals on the clock there said 3:57. Her practice wasn’t one that involved a lot of emergency calls. One coming this late meant a client was in trouble. Just how much trouble and what kind remained to be seen.
She clicked on the lamp beside her bed, cleared her throat, and answered the call. “Gwen Woodruff.”
“It’s Mark, Gwen. The police are taking me to the station.” Sleepy as she was, Mark’s voice was like a bucket of cold water in her face.
Gwen sat up on one elbow. “Tell me about it.” She opened the drawer of the bedside table and removed a pen and notepad.
She listened, jotting notes in a shorthand only she could read and nodding her head, even though Mark couldn’t see her. “So you’re not under arrest? I want to be clear about that.”
“No, I asked specifically. They said they were bringing me in for questioning. But I get the impression that nothing would please these guys more than tossing me behind bars and keeping me there.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m using my cell phone to call from the back of their police car.” A rumble of voices in the background came through. “We’re going to the police station. I think we’re almost there. Can you come?”
“I’ll be there soon. In the meantime, listen to me.” Gwen didn’t practice criminal law, but she figured she could give some decent advice. “When you get to the police station, ask them for some coffee or something to drink.”
“Why?”
“So they don’t have you thinking of yourself as a prisoner.”
“Okay.”
She continued. “Make sure the door to the interrogation room or wherever they put you isn’t locked. If they give you any static, keep asking if you’re under arrest. And, above all, don’t answer any questions until I get there.”
“How long will you be?” Mark asked, a note of desperation in his voice.
“Give me half an hour.”
Gwen rolled out of bed, hurried to the kitchen, and turned on the coffee. As she applied makeup, her thoughts went back to what she and Mark had when they were younger. Why did he break off their relationship? Why did she react to his actions by putting a continent between them? And why had they been brought together now, in a situation that was probably the worst possible one for rekindling a relationship?
Gwen pulled a dress from the closet and slipped it on. She remembered her recent meeting with Mark. She’d insisted that she really didn’t do criminal defense. He was equally insistent, saying, “I know you. I trust you. I’m innocent, so how hard could it be to protect my rights?”
Harder than you’d think, Mark. She remembered something one of her professors told her class in law school, something that had a lot to do with her choice of legal specialty. The hardest client to defend is an innocent man, because he has the most to lose. That was multiplied here, because in this case both she and Mark had a great deal at stake.
19
Mark wanted to lay his head on the scarred surface of the interview room table and drop off to sleep, but knew that wasn’t an option. He tried not to look at his watch every thirty seconds, but when he did he noticed the hands had hardly moved since his last glance. Where was Gwen?
Jackson stuck his head through the door. The overhead lights glinted on the sweat that dotted his shaved head. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie at half-mast. The detective had shed his coat and apparently stowed his automatic in his desk. Now the holster of his shoulder rig was empty, but its mere presence made Mark’s pulse beat faster. Jackson frowned. “Your attorney still isn’t here. Why don’t you answer a few questions so we can wrap this up? We can have you back at the hospital in less than an hour.”
Mark silently shook his head. He wasn’t a lawyer, but he remembered Gwen’s advice. Before Anna’s death, the police had told him he was a suspect in her shooting. Now the possible charge had been upgraded to murder. No longer was just his freedom on the line, but his very life.
Ames came up behind Jackson. If anything, his appearance was worse than Jackson’s. He was disheveled and his eyes were red-rimmed. When the light hit Ames’s face just right, a healthy crop of blonde stubble was evident. The two men stood right outside the partially opened interview room door, and Mark could hear their conversation clearly.
“I say we lock him up as a material witness,” Ames said. “Then we can go home, get some sleep, and do this interview later in the day.”
“Why are you so anxious to get home?” Jackson asked. “I thought—”
Ames inclined his head toward Mark. “We don’t need to discuss that in front of the suspect.”
“His attorney is on the way. Let’s wait a bit longer. I don’t mind collecting a little more overtime, and I’m sure your wife—”
“We agreed not to talk about my wife,” Ames said. He turned away, calling over his shoulder, “I’m going to get some more coffee. Want some?”
Neither Jackson nor Mark had a chance to respond, because at that moment Gwen hurried through the door. “Sorry, there was a wreck on the freeway, and I had to take the long way here.”
She brushed past both Jackson and Ames into the interview room, where she took the chair beside Mark. The two detectives followed her in. Jackson introduced himself and his partner, but no one made any effort to shake hands. Gwen tossed two of her cards onto the table, gave her name, and said, “Let’s do this. My client has already been held too long. Ask your questions so he and I can get out of here.”
This Gwen was different from the one Mark knew. That one had been smiling and full of fun. This one was dead serious. She had taken control of the situation and served notice that she was here to protect Mark’s interests. Maybe, despite her protestations that she wasn’t a criminal defense attorney, he’d made the right choice.
***
“We’ve been at this for almost an hour,” Gwen said. “And for the last fifteen minutes you’ve asked my client the same questions, and he’s given the same answers. Let’s wind this up.”
Gwen removed her glasses—she hadn’t taken the time to insert her contact lenses—and rubbed her eyes. Her eyelids felt like they were lined with sandpaper, and she could hardly keep them open. She’d pulled lots of all-nighters in law school, but being roused from a sound sleep and put into a stressful situation like this one wasn’t helping her stay sharp.
“Counselor—” Jackson started.
Gwen held up her hand. “No. No more. Just answer one question. Is Dr. Baker under arrest?”
“No, but—”
Gwen rose and motioned to Mark to do the same. “If you need my client, feel free to contact him through me.” She pointed to her business cards, which were still on the table. “Gentlemen, good night. Or rather, good morning.”
She resisted the urge to turn and look over her shoulder to be certain Mark was following her. When they reached the outside door, he reached past her to open it for her.
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
“It’s what lawyers are supposed to do. I told you to call me if something like this happened. I just didn’t know it would be this soon.”
They reached the parking lot. Gwen looked at her watch. “It’s six in the morning. Want to get some breakfast?” She wondered if he’d take her up on that last offer. He must be thinking about it, since he didn’t answer immediately.
Finally, Mark said, “Thanks for the offer, but I didn’t have a chance to see Kelly before those detectives rushed me off to the station. My car’s at the hospital, and if you’d drop me off there, I’d appreciate it.”
Gwen tried to hide her disappointment. “Sure. But you and I will need to talk later today. Why don’t you give me a call?”
“Talk about what?”
Surely Mark couldn’t be that dense. No, the Mark she knew was sharper than that. Admittedly, the fact that he’d been up all night didn’t help, but surely he could see—never mind. “I’m your attorney. I need to sit down with you in private and get some answers. Can we do that?”
“Of course. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll call you later today, after I check in at the hospital.”
And we’ll just see where things go from there.
***
The feeling was akin to what Kelly experienced when she knew she was having a nightmare, but couldn’t rouse herself from sleep. She could hear hospital sounds all around, mixed with voices—some distant, some near—and she wanted to join in, but couldn’t wake up. She strained muscles that wouldn’t respond, tried to struggle back to full consciousness, but felt as though she were encased in plastic, unable to move.
“I think she’s waking up a bit.”
The words were spoken by a familiar voice.
“After she came out of the anesthetic, I removed her endotracheal tube.” Another man was speaking. This was a voice Kelly didn’t recognize. “She’s been breathing on her own since then, vital signs stable. But we had to give her some morphine for pain, and I think it hit her pretty hard.”
With one final effort, Kelly opened her eyes. Her vision was blurred at first. Was that Mark leaning over her?
He brushed her forehead with his lips. Yes, it was Mark. She tried to smile.
“What . . . what happened?” she managed to whisper. Her voice was rough, her throat was raw and dry.
“Here,” Mark said. “Take these ice chips and suck on them.”
Kelly felt a spoon touch her lips. She opened, took the proffered ice, and sucked on it. “Tell me what happened. I know I’m in the hospital, but . . .”
“I was driving you home when someone took a shot at the car. You were hit in the chest. I got you to the hospital as fast as I could. You’ve had surgery—removal of a bullet that punctured the upper lobe of your right lung. They controlled the bleeding, inserted a chest tube to re-expand the lung.”
That explained her pain and some of her difficulty taking a deep breath. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m fine. And you will be. In a few days, they’ll pull that chest tube and you can leave here.”
“Who—”
“Dr. Baker.” It was the recovery room nurse. “I’m afraid we can’t let you stay in here any longer. We have a lot of patients, and there’s just not—”
“I understand,” Mark said. He looked down at Kelly. “Why don’t you rest? We’ll talk more later.”
Kelly managed a feeble nod. Mark was safe. She was going to live. Someone had shot them, and she had the impression that it was critical to find out who did it, but that didn’t seem important now. She closed her eyes and drifted off.
***
Kelly had left the recovery room and was now in the ICU, but when he started to enter the unit, Mark was told he’d have to wait. “But I saw her when she was in recovery. And I’m a doctor here. Why can’t I see her now?”
“Yes, doctor,” the nurse said. “As you know, we let you see her briefly, assure yourself that she’d come through the surgery. But now she’s in ICU. We have work to do and she needs her rest.”
Actually, Mark knew this. The staff had to check vital signs, deal with her chest tube, encourage coughing and deep breathing, and in general carry out the dozens of things necessary for her to recover. He just wasn’t happy about it. “Okay. I’ll be in the waiting room.”
Finally, after thumbing through several well-worn magazines and not recalling a word he’d read, Mark—along with several other families—was allowed into the ICU for a ten-minute visit.
When he saw Kelly, he almost cried. Only hours before, Mark had been at the bedside of a colleague and friend, also lying pale and still, but in that case her pallor and stillness had been that of death. Mark realized how close he’d come to losing Kelly, and it was almost more than he could stand.
He bent and kissed her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispered.
Kelly was more awake now, although her words were still occasionally slurred and her voice raspy. “ I guess the cartel is still angry at you and me. But it’s not your fault.”
Mark recognized the truth of what Kelly said. And at least during this crisis he hadn’t been thinking about himself. No, his only thought had been how to get medical aid for her as quickly as possible. If she’d died . . . he couldn’t even think about it. If she’d died without his having the chance to tell her his true feelings, he would have wanted to die himself.
Was this the time? “Kelly, I’ve been thinking about what I said to you when all this started, about my not deserving to be involved with anyone.” He swallowed hard. “I think you were about to tell me something before I dropped that bombshell. And I need to tell you how things have changed—how I’ve changed in those few days.”
Kelly looked up at him as he leaned over her bed. Her lips parted, then closed again. She gave the briefest of nods.
“Kelly, I—” A buzz from his cell phone made him frown. He reached into his pocket. Whatever it was, it could wait. But as he started to push the button to send the call to voicemail, Mark saw that it was a text from his friend and colleague, Eric McCray. It was short, but it got his attention. “Call me STAT, 911.”
The combination of “stat,” the Latin abbreviation used by medical personnel to indicate “immediately,” and “911,” code among them for “emergency,” meant that he really had no choice.
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I have to make this call.” He squeezed Kelly’s hand. “But I’ll be back soon. And I plan to finish that story.”
***
Mark realized he was gripping the phone so tightly he might shatter the plastic shell. He transferred it to his other hand, took a deep breath, and said, “What do you mean?”
Eric’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. “I was trying to get some sleep this morning when I got a call from Goodrich. He said that Anna King’s death has escalated the situation with you, and he’s more adamant than ever—he doesn’t want you associated with the hospital.” Eric paused as though looking for the right words. “He told me to start looking for a replacement doctor for you.”
The next words almost stuck in Mark’s throat. “What . . . what did you tell him?”
“I told him that my recollection of the justice system in the US was that a person was innocent until proven guilty. I respect your decision to take a short leave of absence to deal with the charges, but anytime you’re ready to come back to work it’ll be fine with me.”
Mark felt his shoulders relax. He took a deep breath. “Thanks, Eric. I appreciate your putting your job on the line for me.”
“Hey, you’d do the same if the roles were reversed. Now I think I’ll try to get back to sleep. I have another shift in the ER tonight.”
Mark pulled the phone away from his ear, but before he could end the call he heard Eric say something else. “What was that?”
“How’s Kelly?”
“I think she’s going to be fine.” And I have some things to tell her. But first, maybe I’d better have a face-to-face with our hospital administrator.
***
Allen Goodrich looked at his schedule, centered neatly on his cherry wood desk. Then he consulte
d his wristwatch, a gold Patek Philippe of which he was quite proud. He loosened the alligator band one notch and flexed his fingers. Maybe he should get an expansion bracelet for the watch. Then again, the leather band added to the prestige of the instrument. And prestige was high on his list of priorities.
The intercom in his desk buzzed, followed by his secretary’s somewhat harried voice. “Dr. Goodrich, Dr. Baker is—”
At that moment, the door burst open and Mark Baker strode in. Over his shoulder, the physician called, “Don’t bother announcing me. He’ll see me, whether he wants to or not.”
Baker closed the door behind him firmly, not quite slamming it, and moved to one of the two chairs in front of Goodrich’s desk. He didn’t sit, but looked down at the administrator. “I’m tired of this nonsense.”
Goodrich took a moment to decide how to handle this. Be forceful? Be conciliatory? Have Baker thrown out of his office? No, he’d do this carefully. He had his orders, but there was a certain amount of leeway in them. At least, he hoped there was. “Please,” he said with a smile. “Have a seat. Explain.”
He could tell by the puzzled expression on Baker’s face that he’d put him off balance already. Good.
Baker eased into a chair. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Dr. McCray, who told me you called him and insisted that he fire me from my position with the emergency doctor group. Well, I have no intention of leaving. I told you I was willing to take a leave to try to get my status with the police straightened out, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”
Goodrich patted the air in a conciliatory gesture. “Dr. McCray must have misunderstood me. I merely expressed my concern that—with the death of poor Dr. King and increased police suspicion falling on you—it was more important than ever to avoid any adverse publicity about the hospital.” He leaned back in his chair. “Certainly, your being on leave until this is settled is a good idea. I simply wondered if it wouldn’t be better for you to sever the relationship completely.”
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