by Robert Rand
L.A. found Boatwright and Scott Hudspeth in a waiting room on the surgical floor. They looked like they had been shot. Drying blood was caked to their clothes, hands and arms.
“You two okay?” Michaels asked.
“Yeah. But that bastard Rourk might not make it” replied Boatwright.
“It was a rough one, L.A., and we’re gonna pull a lot of heat.” Agent Scott Hudspeth shook his head in sad resignation as he spoke.
“What are you talking about?” L.A., suddenly on edge, wanted to know.
The two blood-soaked agents looked at each other as if to ask ‘Do you want to tell him or should I’. Hudspeth made a slight jutting movement with his chin. Boatwright took it as meaning that it was up to him to fill in the boss.
Boatwright began slowly, “We were by the book, L.A.. As soon as I had a pos ID on Rourk, I made the call to move in. I ran across the street, the two other units rushed in. I ordered Rourk to lay face down. He cooperated. He went to his knees, then, as he leaned forward to go prone, he pulled a gun from the front of his waistband. Someone yelled ‘GUN’ and we all fired.”
Agent Michaels looked confused. “So where’s the heat come in?”
“Scott and I both feel like we all panicked, first of all…”
“Bullshit! You are trained to react with force, even deadly force in situations like this.” L.A. had spotted several defects in the way things went down, and knew there were more details to come. But, as a Supervising Agent he felt a responsibility to those who were his subordinates. That sense of responsibility would cause him to step in and protect these men from both the official scrutiny and the unofficial as best he could. From experience, he knew that the first step was to try to remove doubt from the minds of the agents involved, then work on directing the attention of the agent-involved shooting unit and the press into other directions.
Patrick Boatwright stood up abruptly and faced his boss before exploding in anger. “The mother-fuckin’ bastard had the gun by the butt, with two fingers! He was tossing it so he wouldn’t lay on it!”
“You can’t know that for sure,” Michaels shot back.
Hudspeth looked into L.A.’s eyes. “The gun wasn’t loaded.”
Supervising Special Agent L.A. Michaels sat down heavily on the plastic covered waiting room couch. He looked like all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.
“We fucked up, L.A.” Boatwright admitted, his anger fading as fast as it had appeared,
”We didn’t have a warrant. We didn’t tell him to drop the gun. We didn’t even yell that we were the FBI. We told him to freeze and lay down, then we fuckin’ shot him.”
“That’s not the worst of it.” Hudspeth finished the story. “The neighbor lady, Mrs. Kravitz, overheard Agent Poythress say ‘Freeze or I’ll shoot’, ten minutes after the shooting.”
This was bad. L.A. had been involved in several agent-involved shootings and he knew that comments like the one Agent Poythress had made were not uncommon following a high stress incident. Yeah, the comment was cruel and highly insensitive, but it was just a defense mechanism. “Try convincing the press of that,” thought L.A.
“You guys go get cleaned up and report back to HQ for the paperwork. Henry’s probably there with his sister-in-law right now. If I can get her to turn on Rourk, then we might be able to stop the witch-hunt from ever starting.”
Chapter 13
April sat in the small, windowless ‘interview’ room, alone and in tears. Henry had gone out to get her a pack of cigarettes and a cup of coffee. The door opened and she looked up expectantly. Henry entered and handed her the cigarettes and coffee. A tall gentleman in an expensively tailored gray pinstripe suit came in behind him.
“April, I’m Ralph Vasquez.” With a glance at Henry, then back to April, he continued, “Your sister hired me to represent your interests and to protect your constitutional rights.” He offered her his hand, then his card.
“You’re a lawyer. Do I need a lawyer?” she said
“Any time law enforcement wants to ask you anything more than your name and drivers license number you should have an attorney present” was his quick reply.
“Listen to him, April” Henry told her. Then, to the lawyer, “I’ll leave you two alone” and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
“To begin with, Mrs. Rourk, I don’t want you talking to the FBI. If they had a case against you, they would have placed you under arrest” Vasquez advised.
“They shot Sully,” she whispered. She was visibly shaken and on the verge of hysteria. She covered her face with her hands and cried.
Vasquez placed a comforting hand on April’s shoulder, and then spoke gently to her, “I am going to put off this so-called interview until you are stronger. This is a very trying time for you and I don’t think it’s in your best interest to submit to the tactics of the FBI right now.”
She looked up at him and, in a pleading tone, asked, “ I won’t have to answer any questions? Can I go see Sully?”
“I’ll go make arrangements” he began, but was interrupted as L.A. Michaels opened the door.
“Who the Hell are you?” Agent Michaels demanded.
“I am Ralph Vasquez, Mrs. Rourk’s attorney. May I presume that you are Lamar Michaels?” countered the lawyer.
L.A. knew the reputation of the elegantly dressed lawyer. He was one of the elite in California’s criminal defense circles. He was a student of the F. Lee Bailey style of defense. A style that was high on innuendo and low on ethics, but extremely effective. L.A. suddenly felt as if there were a rock in the pit of his stomach. He knew that there was no hope of getting any answers from April Rourk, but he had to try anyway. Turning to April, he said “Mrs. Rourk, I’m L.A. Michaels. I’m the Supervising Agent in charge.” He offered his hand, which she ignored, much to his chagrin, and to the lawyers’ satisfaction. Continuing, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your husband, Sullivan Rourk.”
April broke into fresh tears as she yelled at the FBI agent standing in front of her, “Fuck you! Fuck your questions! Fuck your F.B. fucking I.! And, and…” she collapsed against her lawyer in sobs.
“Is my client under arrest or indictment?” asked Vasquez.
“Not at this time, but that determination is subject to change without notice,” L.A. answered.
“Then this interview is over. If you have any further questions for Mrs. Rourk, submit them to her in writing through my office. If we decide to reply to any of those questions you may submit, we shall do so when we are God damn good and ready, Lamar.” The lawyers’ use of the agent’s given name caused a visible reaction in L.A., It made what the confident, high-priced lawyer said sound like a lecture from Dad. It was a tactic Vasquez regularly employed to gain a psychological upper hand.
April lit a cigarette with a shaky hand before slipping her arm through the arm of her lawyer and walking out of the confining little room.
L.A. Michaels watched them until the glass doors of the office had closed behind them before slamming his open hand against the doorframe and yelling “Kellerman! Get your ass in here!”
Henry ducked his head between his shoulders at the sudden noise, as if he were a turtle trying to hide in his shell, though he rose from his desk and stood tall as he walked in to face the music with his boss.
Chapter 14
Ralph Vasquez handed the nurse at the desk his business card and informed her that the young lady with him was Sullivan Rourk’s wife, and that he represented them both, before inquiring as to his condition.
“He’s been in surgery for seven hours now, Mr. Vasquez. There really is nothing more I can tell you. I’m sorry,” said the nurse.
“Is there someplace private we can wait?”
“Of course. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the chapel. It’s not used much, but the waiting room is filled with FBI and reporters,” offered the nurse as she got up from her desk and led them down the operating suite corridor. She led them toward the s
mall chapel that was used solely by those awaiting the outcome of loved ones undergoing surgery at the hospital.
As they walked past the main O.R. waiting room, several of the reporters recognized the hotshot defense attorney and speculated, correctly, that the beautiful, distraught redhead with him was somehow connected to the shooting victim, whose name still had not been released.
One of the reporters hurried to the lawyer. “Mister Vasquez. David Green, Press Telegram. Are you representing the shooting victim, sir?” He rushed the question while holding his micro-cassette recorder out to catch any reply.
Vasquez tried to push by, but April stopped cold and, with steel in her voice, she said, “The ‘victim’ has a Goddamn name. It’s Sullivan Robert Rourk.” She started to move, and when the reporter stepped in front of her, she swung her closed right fist with all her might, connecting squarely with his thin, straight nose. The reporter went down hard on his ass. The tape recorder slid across the highly waxed floor and he grabbed his bleeding, now crooked, nose. “I’ll sue you for this” he started to snivel.
The nurse stepped in between the fallen reporter and April as the waiting room emptied of reporters and cops at the sound of the commotion, and said to the man, so everyone could hear, “If you hadn’t pushed this poor woman, she wouldn’t have needed to defend herself. Now get off this floor before I have you removed by security.”
The reporters in the group started asking questions, but the FBI agents, recognizing April Rourk, formed a human barricade between the two small groups and allowed April and the lawyer to escape the press. The agents wanted April and her lawyer to avoid the reporters even more than April and Vasquez wanted to avoid them.
Henry Kellerman pulled out a scarred and worn, wooden, slat-back chair and followed the order. Better follow every single order, cross every ‘t’, dot every ‘i’ right about now, was his thought.
Red-faced from the elevated blood pressure that came with rage, L.A. sought to control the volume with which his voice was projected in the cramped confines of the interview room, but failed. “Who in the fuck advised April Rourk to bring in a fucking lawyer? Don’t answer that, it may fuck off your retirement. I cut you slack and let you bring her in. I did you a favor by not having two loyal Special Agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigations faithfully execute the duty to which they were sworn.” L.A. slapped a chair aside, knocking it into the nicked and battered wall, before it crashed onto its side on the dirty white tiled floor.
“Sir,” Henry tried to speak, but was shot down immediately.
“Shut the fuck up! I didn’t tell you to speak!” screamed Michaels.
He slapped his open palms against the top of the table and leaned toward Henry, who sat across from where he stood. Forcing his voice down to a harsh whisper, he said, “Those two LOYAL agents took the same oath you took, Kellerman. You knew I had no desire to bust your sister-in-law. You also knew that I might not be able to build a case against Sullivan Rourk without her.” With each new word, L.A. Michaels’s voice rose in volume once more, “And the thanks I get from you is that arrogant Ralph Mother Fucking Vasquez!”
L.A. shoved the table into Henry’s chest, knocking the wind out of the younger agent, then reached across and wrapped both of his hands in the front of Kellerman’s shirt, jerking him from his chair and half way across the table. Kellerman grabbed L.A.’s wrists and tried to separate himself from his boss.
L.A. head-butted Henry as he put his face to the other mans face. “Pack up your desk. You’ve been selected for transfer, Special Agent Kellerman!” The words came out in a menacing whisper, “Report to Seattle within seventy-two hours and out of my office in seventy-two seconds.”
He pushed Henry back into the chair he had pulled him out of, then stormed out of the room, slamming the door open with enough force to push the door knob through the plaster wall in the hallway.
The entire medical team was exhausted. Only Dr. Roger Mortimer remained from the original surgical team that had begun the odyssey of returning life to Sullivan Robert Rourk. Fourteen hours and ten minutes. The other surgeons and nurses began rotation out of the O.R. seven hours earlier, replaced by fresh bodies and alert minds, as theirs began to tire. However, Dr. Mortimer was Chief of Surgery and Sullivan was his patient. Dr. Mortimer would see his patient through to the end, no matter the end, that only God in Heaven could ultimately determine.
As he pulled tight the final suture, closing the third exploratory incision, after having repaired two severed arteries, one punctured lung, removed one shattered rib, six feet of small intestine, one kidney, the spleen, and stapling together part of his stomach, Dr. Mortimer ordered one more pint of whole blood for his patient, and a pint of Jim Beam for everyone else. He received a good amount of tension easing laughter with that last comment.
Dr. Mortimer pulled off his double layers of latex gloves and tossed them on the floor of the O.R. (an orderly would sanitize the room shortly) before walking out to the nurses’ station to see about any relatives.
There was a different nurse on duty, but she was able to tell the doctor about April waiting in the chapel.
April spent more than an hour talking with Vasquez, pouring out every detail of how she and Sullivan had stolen the explosives and from where they had taken them. She told him about the bank jobs and about the drug use. The lawyer advised her to never tell another soul the things she had just told him. After her confession to the lawyer in the little church, she laid down on one of the hard wooden pews and fell asleep. The lawyer had gotten a blanket and pillow from the nurse who had showed them to the chapel – along with her phone number – then returned and made April a little more comfortable.
During their talk, it was decided that, as long as April never said a word about what happened, they would probably not be able to build a case against her. Sullivan, on the other hand, if he survived, would need a lawyer. Ralph Vasquez told her that he would be more than happy to accept the case.
When the doctor came in, still dressed in blood spattered green surgical scrubs, including the paper booties over his shoes, but minus the mask and cap, he shook first the lawyer awake, then April.
“Is he okay?” April asked immediately, while still trying to focus her sleep filled eyes on the strawberry blonde man with the bright smile.
“He’s out of surgery. It’s still going to be some time before we know anything for sure, but I’m very optimistic that he’ll pull through,” offered the doctor.
“When can I see him?” April was standing now and had hold of the doctor’s arm, as if to dispel an unconscious fear that he may not be real.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him until tomorrow.” She looked heartbroken and the doctor felt for her. “Okay, but you’ll have to put on a mask and gown, and you can only stay for a few minutes. The nurse at the desk will show you where to change,” he relented.
“Thank you!” April got on her toes and kissed the doctor on his grizzled cheek.
As soon as she had left the chapel, Ralph asked the doctor, “How bad was it, doctor?”
When the surgeon had finished the short version of the effects of a dozen 9mm bullets on the human body, all Vasquez could do was shake his head in wonder and amazement that Rourk had survived.
A dim light illuminated the unconscious figure of Sullivan Rourk in the otherwise darkened room. He was pale, skin drawn tight. Dark circles gave his eyes a sunken appearance. His chest rose and fell with the mechanical swooshes of the respirator. Whole blood dripped into his right arm. A catheter was threaded through the head of his penis, up the urethra and into his bladder. A colostomy bag was attached to his right side. Bandages, several stained red-brown with seeping blood, covered his chest, stomach, shoulders and right arm, as well as his back.
April thought she had never seen anyone look so horrible. She also thought that never had she seen anyone look so handsome. Her tears rolled silently down her cheeks and were absorbed by her surgical mask. With the gentle
st touch, she placed her latex covered fingers on his cheek, then leaned down and kissed his forehead through the mask.
“You really should go home and rest. You won’t do him any good if you collapse from exhaustion,” urged the ICU nurse.
“You’ll watch over him?” April sounded 9 years old.
“I’ll watch,” promised the nurse.
“His lips are chapped,” April said, even though it sounded so trivial. She had noticed that it was the only thing the medical staff hadn’t taken care of.
As she guided April from the ICU, the nurse assured her that she would put some Vaseline on his lips.
Ralph Vasquez took his client on the offensive. April had regained some of her strength and composure by the time she returned from seeing Sullivan. Ralph used that resilience and stopped in front of the few remaining reporters to provide an impromptu news conference.
There was only one television camera crew and two print reporters. That was fine with Vasquez. He knew these people would sell their footage to everyone else in the news business that wanted to air the story; and all of them would want to.
“My name is Ralph Vasquez. I am an attorney representing Sullivan Rourk and his wife, April, who is here beside me,” he began.
“Mister Vasquez!” shouted the guy from channel 4.
“No questions, please. I’m going to make a brief statement, then take Missus Sullivan home so she can rest.” He smiled for the cameras very briefly, then fixed a serious expression on his face as he completed his statement. “Yesterday afternoon, without a warrant and without any probable cause, agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation ambushed Sullivan Robert Rourk in his driveway as he returned from a romantic getaway with his wife. He was struck in the upper body at least a dozen times. He died twice on the operating table; but thanks to Dr. Roger Mortimer and the staff here at the medical center, following fourteen plus hours of surgery, Sullivan Rourk clings to life. Missus Rourk, myself and, indeed, America await the FBI to concoct a story that will validate their actions. No matter what story they come up with, the truth will remain that Sullivan Rourk is a victim of an out of control government agency.”