He turned away, but then looked over his shoulder. “That’s the order I’m placing in his chart. This is my decision, you got me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Mr. Greyson never moved or said a word as Dr. Gillman took the end of a sterile Q-tip needle and pushed it into the corner of the wound, draining the pus and green discharge. I knew it had to hurt, but he kept the hole small, reducing the need for any stitches. We then wrapped his chest in large ace bandages as Dr. Gillman broke the news to him, he would only be prescribing ibuprofen for pain.
“My nurse is going to give you a potent antibiotic injection in your hip.”
Greyson began to smile, knowing I would need to see his naked backside in order to give the injection.
“This may sting a little,” I warned as I rubbed the alcohol pad on his skin to cleanse the area.
When I was in nursing school, one of my professors instructed us to find a dartboard and practice throwing. She said the quick action would be needed to help give a painless injection. As I stood in preparation to use the same quick wristed action I always did, Dr. Gillman grabbed my wrist and looked into my eyes. Together, we placed the tip of the needle against his skin. Dr. Gillman allowed my hand to push the needle in excruciatingly slow.
“You fucking, no good, cunt!” Greyson roared as the medication was plunged into the muscle.
“What did I tell you about your mouth?” Dr. Gillman shouted, his voice hissed between his clenched teeth.
“Fuck you and your fucking strikes!” He cursed back, trying to shove my hand away from his hip. I disposed of the needle and placed a bandage on the injection site.
Dr. Gillman pulled me from the room before I was finished, then disappeared down the hall; no doubt he was calling Dylan. One of the officers, who came in with Mr. Greyson, had a number of papers he needed to fill out. He would be discharged as soon as we were sure he wasn’t going to have a reaction to the medication we gave him. I completed as much as I could, but Dr. Gillman would need to sign the actual order. It had taken more than twenty minutes, so I knew he was fine to get ready to leave.
“Do you mind helping me get him back in his jumpsuit? I’m a little nervous to touch him with those ribs,” one of the officers asked.
“Of course, I’d be happy to help.”
The officer entered first, keys out to unlock the handcuffs which kept Greyson locked to the bed. He had a set around his ankles, as well.
“You keep that fucking bitch away from me!” Greyson cried as I reached for the orange clothing in the chair.
“Watch your mouth,” the officer warned. Greyson closed his mouth, not saying anything else as together we managed to get him ready to leave.
I was cleaning up the materials Dr. Gillman used to clean the wound; his pulling me out of the room earlier negated me of disposing of it properly. The guard stepped to the side when he received a call on his radio about another prisoner who was on their way in.
“I remember you.” Greyson’s cold voice spoke, his eyes boring into mine. “You took care of that bitch from the alley.”
I tried to ignore his taunting as my blood began to boil.
“Too bad I didn’t run into you instead. We could have had a real good time.” The tone of his voice told me he was serious. He was a pathetic excuse for a man, needing to find innocent girls to get any attention. He was a vile and worthless creature.
“You know, Mr. Greyson.” I turned on my heel, my limit reached. “You come in here, talk a big game, and spew the word ‘fuck’ a few times, trying to make everyone think you’re this big time ‘gangster’” I used air quotes for effect. “But, where I come from, real men don’t smack girls half their size around to get their way. Only a pussy would do that!” I spat, my confidence coming forward. “My little brother…” I stepped forward and leaned over his chest, pointing my index finger in his face. “Would have cut you from navel to nose just to see how yellow you really are on the inside, for the shit you’ve done.”
I wanted to spit in his face, punch him in his chest, but my words were enough. However, as I turned to walk away his voice rang from behind me.
“Easy for you to run your fucking mouth when I’m tied to this bed.” I turned back to him, not an ounce of fear in me, as he continued to speak. “Mark my words, you little bitch, I’m coming after you and when I find you, away from your pretty boyfriend out there…” He raised his eyebrows in seriousness. “I’m gonna fuck you up so bad, no one is gonna want you ever again.”
“Well, when you do come after me and find me alone without my friends, you know this, Mr. Greyson.” I tilted my head to the side, looking him up and down. “I’m gonna kick your tiny dick ass and let that mousy girl…”
Before I could finish, the door swung open revealing a pissed off Dylan, clad in a muscle shirt and blue jeans. Fire in his eyes, his muscles flexing in anger.
“Claire, hello beautiful.” He stopped as he took me in and leaned over to kiss my cheek. “This piece of shit giving you trouble tonight?” His strong fingers caressed my left cheek, the other hand rested on his hip.
“A little,” I admitted, still shocked from his entrance, and actions toward me.
He smiled, and shot me a wink. “Darlin’, I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout his dick.” Dylan turned to Greyson. “Everybody knows he has the same size dick he was born with. Ain’t that right, douche bag?”
Before Greyson could defend his manhood, the door opened again, revealing the officer and Dr. Gillman as the other prisoner was being wheeled down the hall. Unsure how much of the conversation the other prisoner heard, I decided I needed to distance myself. I left the room and walked as fast as I could, needing to get as far away from the situation as possible.
The clock on the wall behind the desk indicated my shift was over nearly fifteen minutes ago, and I needed to finish my charting, so I could get the fuck out of there.
With my purse over my shoulder, my fingers were typing my code to clock out as fast as I could. “Nurse Stuart.” I heard from behind me. I closed my eyes, knowing whom the voice belonged to. Only one person called us by our last names, the nursing supervisor, Marilyn Cochran.
Mrs. Cochran was older than Jesus himself. And was a “by the book” nurse who hadn’t touched a patient in over thirty years. It was never a good thing to have her call your name.
“I’m glad I caught you this morning.” I turned slowly in her direction; just knowing she was called regarding my harsh words to a patient.
“A summons for you to appear in court was delivered to the president of the hospital.” A folded white piece of paper was clenched in her left hand. Her uniform was starched white and her salt and pepper hair was tied back in a tight bun. She was the only nurse I’d ever met who still wore the white cap with black stripes.
“Mr. Phillips wanted me to remind you that during the trial you are paid your hourly wages.” She handed me the paper, then wrote something on the clipboard she always carried with her. “We will need you to phone the hospital and keep us abreast of when you will return to the floor.”
“Yes, Ma’am. When is the trial?” I asked aloud as I opened the folded summons.
“Monday” she responded immediately. “Have a good day.” She sprinted off, her stockings swishing between her chunky thighs as she retreated down the hall.
I read the form for myself, not believing the trial was happening so soon. Did Lainie receive a notice? Surely they sent her something, as well. I needed to go by her apartment and make sure she was all right. Just as I was about to duck out the door, Shayla came humming around the corner. I knew Dylan hadn’t left yet as I could see his car in the ambulance lot, but before I could warn her, Dylan came out of the room.
“Talk your trash now, motherfucker. Come this time next week, you’ll be shitting in your shorts after Bubba makes you his bitch over in the big house.”
As if I were watching an accident in slow motion, Shayla and Dylan’s eyes met. Long gone was the courage and self
-assurance I possessed moments prior. Instead, I felt like an unwelcome voyeur, witnessing a moment too raw and far too personal. I followed my gut instincts and backed away, foregoing the customary pleasantries, and escaped out the side door, like a frightened animal.
Laws are spider webs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught.
~Honoré de Balzac
“All rise.”
The Bailiff, Officer Linder, called the courtroom to order. Miles Linder was a twenty year veteran of the city of Charleston. Five years ago, his wife suffered a stroke, causing her to need round the clock care. Miles switched from working in my department, to acting as security for Judge Randolph.
“The Honorable Coleman Randolph presiding.”
Judge Randolph, a stately man of moderate height and slender build. He and my dad had gone to law school together, practicing in the same sector for many years. His father was a man of little means, unlike my granddaddy. When Mr. Randolph decided to run for Second Judicial Court Judge, my dad and granddaddy endorsed him. He and his wife had one son, Parker. When our families would get together, Parker would go off into a quiet corner and play video games or read a book. He had no interest in playing ball or sneaking booze from the liquor cabinet with the rest of us. So when he announced he was going off to West Point, none of us believed him. Imagine everyone’s shock when he was selected as the starting quarterback during the Army/Navy game that fall.
Judge Randolph took his seat behind the bench, picked up his reading glasses, and placed them on his nose as he perused the docket. Once he was done, he folded his hands and looked over the spectators in attendance, his gaze finally landing on my dad.
Another thing about Judge Randolph, he was a firm believer in checking your attitude and friendships at the door. My dad’s presence in the courtroom would make no difference in Randolph’s eyes. He was simply another man sitting before him.
When I told him what Celia had called about, he said he would make sure he was in the courtroom, as moral support for both Claire and myself. Nearly every person I knew who was acquainted with Claire liked her, even Shayla had a change of heart where she was concerned.
“Bailiff, you can show in the accused. Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated.”
I watched as Claire took her seat, her eyes honed in on the door in the far corner.
Linder opened the antique wooden door; its age could be documented around the end of the civil war. Two uniformed officers escorted a handcuffed and shackled Greyson into the courtroom, the clink of his ankle chains keeping time with his steps. Lainie, sitting ramrod straight and stiff in her posture avoided looking in his direction.
Sitting behind the prosecution’s desk is the District Attorney, Marc Jessup. He was a little older than me and lived three blocks over with his girlfriend of several years. Born and raised right here in Charleston, he’d lived with his granny since he was little; no one was sure where his momma made off. He worked his fingers to the bone to put himself through college and then law school. A careless driver killed his uncle Cecil, a state trooper, when he stood outside a vehicle he had pulled over for speeding. The driver responsible was never found. Uncle Cecil had been his Granny Mae’s only son. Marc turned his uncle’s death into motivation to find the truth and convict the guilty.
Sucking up air and killing the ozone with the outrageous amount of hair crap he used, was the Defense Attorney, Corbin Anderson. My dad had already made his distaste for the man known, when he spoke under his breath, calling him “a fucking snake.”
Greyson’s cuffs and shackles were removed, as there was little chance he would be able escape this room; considering the amount of law enforcement present. His bright orange jump suit would hinder things just a bit, as well.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Calling the case of the People of the County of Charleston versus Frances Greyson. Are both sides ready?”
“The Prosecution is ready, your Honor.” Jessup stood in reverence, buttoning his jacket for the thirty seconds he had to answer the question.
Judge Randolph was a fair man, but a stickler for the old school ways. When I dressed this morning, I knew better than to show up in jeans and boots. He would have stopped the trial and made an example of me.
“The Defense is also ready, your Honor.” Anderson leaned forward, rising up slightly, but not completely. As he sat back down, Randolph struck.
“Councilor, something ailing you today?”
Anderson stood, completely this time. “Thank you for your concern, your Honor, but I am perfectly fine.” His arrogance was astounding, even for a bottom feeder.
“Then I expect you to show this court the respect it deserves.” Anderson wasn’t stupid enough to verbally respond and it wasn’t what Randolph wanted. Again, he was a man of actions and not empty words.
“Madame Clerk, will you swear in the jury?”
The clerk’s desk plate read: Grace Anne Fairfield. She didn’t look familiar, and I questioned where she was from. Blonde, wavy hair, gray eyes and slender figure, she was beautiful, but she was no Claire.
I gulped hard and looked at the threads in my dress pants; these were thoughts my brother Chase would have. He was the mindful one, always worried if his girl was comfortable or needed anything.
“Will the jury please stand and raise your right hand.”
Grace Anne raised her own hand, in example, standing still as a statue in her dark skirt and heels. Every member of the jury followed her lead and looked her in the eye as she recited her scripted verse. A guy on the end, a middle-aged fella, looked to be mesmerized by her ample tits as he quit reciting the words after he noticed them.
“I do,” they announced in unison, all except for the pervert on the end.
“You may be seated,” she directed, and then crossed those fuck worthy legs, as she took her position to the left of Judge Randolph.
“The People may proceed.”
Jessup rose and adjusted his clothing as he rounded the desk. This case should be a walk in the park for him. With a cop for an eye witness and the DNA an almost perfect match, we were looking at a grand slam.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: the defendant has been charged with the crimes of assault and attempted rape. During this trial, the people will present undeniable evidence against the defendant. We have the testimony of an eyewitness, who is an upstanding citizen and, may I add, a servant of the county. There will be forensic evidence presented that places the defendant at the scene of the crime. In conclusion, the people ask that you provide the court your undivided attention to the facts presented, which will yield a verdict of guilty as charged.”
Jessup thanked the jury and tapped the desk of Ms. Grace. She followed his retreat as he sat back in the chair, his cavalier attitude getting her attention, much to the dismay of juror number seven.
“Councilor?” Randolph gave his permission for Anderson to take his turn. He was cautious this time, taking an extra second to straighten his jacket and groomed his poor excuse for hair.
“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: under the law, my client is presumed innocent until proven guilty. During this trial, you will hear no real conclusive evidence presented against my client. You will come to know the truth, that the eyewitness did not have the best view of the alleged attack. Therefore, my client is not guilty.”
Corbin Anderson was one of the stupidest men I had ever met. He knew damn good and well his client had a one-way ticket to prison. For all his shit talk, he avoided looking in my direction as he returned to his seat.
“The prosecution may call its first witness.”
Jessup stood as he addressed the court. “The people call, Detective Dylan Morgan.”
I’d testified hundreds of times, even been grilled like a motherfucker by my dad a couple of times, so this was old hat for me. Grace instructed me to raise my hand and swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. After I swore to do so, she had me take my sea
t in the witness stand.
“Detective Morgan, can you tell the court where you were on the evening of April seventeenth?”
Just as my dad had instructed all those other times, I told my story exactly as I recalled it. I refrained from adding my opinion or personal attitudes about the case. As I started to explain about getting into the ambulance, I looked in Claire’s direction. Her face was so beautiful; I nearly forgot my place in the story. Her hand was gripped firmly in Lainie’s, a true friend showing her support. My momma would call her a quiet spirit, a gentle soul. I had other labels in mind.
“Councilor, your witness.”
“Detective Morgan, you stated you had been in a meeting with your family’s attorney earlier that day, am I correct?” Anderson stood against his desk, arms crossed with a sour, quizzical expression.
“Yes.”
“And what happened during that visit?” Anderson questioned.
“Objection.”
“Your Honor, I’m only trying to establish the mindset the Detective was in as he approached my client,” Anderson pleaded. The room sat in silence waiting for the direction of the judge.
“I’ll allow it, but Councilor; make your point, quickly.”
“Thank you, your Honor.” He turned back in my direction. “Detective, please answer the question.”
“My granddaddy’s will was being read.”
His smile resembled that of a man with a secret; one, which would dispute the sky, was blue. “Did you go from the reading to walking down the street?” He leaned over the edge of the wooden rail, his eyes glimmering with deceit and mischief. “Or was there a stop along the way?”
I hadn’t mentioned in any of my statements that I’d shared a bottle of Hennessey with my brothers. I didn’t think it was relevant since it was in the same building. I glanced at my dad, but his face gave away nothing, “Remember, Detective, you are still under oath.”
“I met with a family member to discuss the results of the reading.” I growled at him, sending a message to the slimy prick. What the fuck was he up to?
Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 Page 14