Scrambled Hard-Boiled

by E.R. White, Jr.

I got to give Harry Swinson credit. He didn’t blink an eye.

  He just growled, “Yep. I was afraid of that,” and went into action. He told Slatterson go home to his wife and wait for further instructions. On no account was he to come to the hospital, unless he, Swinson, told him too.

  “I don’t want you there while I deal with this. It calls for a cool head now and the last thing I need is that famous temper of yours blowing up. Anyway, you’re about to keel over from exhaustion, and I need for you to be strong these next few days.”

  He told Ernie to drive Slatterson back to his home and wait there until we got done at the hospital. Swinson pointed at me.

  “You, young man, you’re coming with me to the hospital. We’ll take my car,” he barked. “I don’t want to waste a minute. If I know Tim Anderson, he’s trying to pull a fast one here. Let’s move.”

  He threw me his keys and then that roly-poly fat little shyster bounded out of his chair, grabbed his briefcase and was out the door. I was on his heels.

  In fifteen minutes, we were at the hospital parking lot. As we got out of the car, I noticed a couple of TV news vans from Charlotte parked off in the corner. I pointed them out to Swinson.

  “Shit. I knew it—I just knew it,” was all he said as we headed for the front entrance to the hospital. We made our way to Sonny Slatterson’s private room. Just before we got there, Sheriff Crump greeted us in the hallway.

  “Goddamnit John, what the hell is the meaning of this?” snapped Swinson. “Is this how you treat friends?”

  Crump just threw up his hands.

  “Harry, believe me when I tell you, there’s nothing I can do on this one. Anderson is calling all the shots here.”

  Swinson grimaced but said nothing. All three of us went up to the hospital room. A deputy was standing outside. Crump motioned to let us in and the deputy stepped aside. Swinson went into the room, followed by Sheriff Crump and then me.

  Inside was Sonny Slatterson flat on his hospital bed with IVs running out his arms and an oxygen tube under his nose. His hair was plastered greasily on his head, and his pale, watery eyes were staring up in despair at the two figures hovering over him. I immediately recognized them as Anderson, the District Attorney and that bastard, Sgt. Bradshaw.

  At the sight of Bradshaw, I stifled a reflex to bolt out of the room.

  Swinson, however, was on top of things.

  “Sonny, don’t say a word. What’s the meaning of this? You know I’ve been retained by the Slatterson family to represent Sonny, why didn’t you call me first if there were any questions?”

  “Because counselor, we’re arresting Sonny here,” snapped Anderson. “Your client has been charged with the first-degree murder of Susan Bowman, and we've read him his rights. If we want to question him after his rights are read, we can. He doesn’t have to answer them.”

  “Horseshit. This interview with my client is at an end. He’s ill and needs to recuperate. I demand that you leave him and allow him to rest. Post your guard by the room, but he’s not to be moved from this room until his doctor says he’s fit for discharge or movement.”

  Swinson pointed to the door.

  Anderson looked at Bradshaw, then motioned for him to follow. They left the room. Bradshaw stared at me as he went by. I tried to act cool, but I don’t think I pulled it off.

  Swinson turned to Sonny, who was now just staring at the ceiling.

  “Son, did you say anything to them. I got to know.”

  Sonny just shook his head and croaked, “Nothing. Christ. I don’t remember anything, so what can I tell them. I just want to sleep.”

  With that he turned his head and closed his eyes.

  “Good boy, you just get some rest.”

  Swinson looked at me a moment then left the room. I was right behind him. Anderson, Bradshaw and Crump were waiting for us outside the room.

  Anderson went immediately on the offense.

  “Your client killed that woman and no amount of money is going to change that fact. He caved her skull in with the fireplace hand axe, then pumped himself up with heroin when he realized what he’d done.”

  Swinson didn’t miss a beat.

  “Nonsense. We have an eyewitness here in Mr. Dafoe, who will swear there was someone else in that house that night. That boy was in no shape to have done what you said.”

  “All you got is the word of a slimy ass private dick who was being paid by your client’s daddy to keep an eye on him,” snarled Bradshaw. “He didn’t see shit, he just thought he heard something. That's all. The only fingerprints in that house other than the victim’s belonged to your client. That snot-nosed punk killed her, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Why don’t we keep this conversation on a professional level and leave out the personal insults, shall we?” replied Swinson. “But let me make this clear, you’re not to talk to my client unless I give permission, is that understood?”

  “Oh, that’s understood and I just want you to understand that no amount of money or any phone call from the Governor is going to help your boy here,” Anderson said. “Eric Slatterson can pull out all the stops, but it won’t matter. I’m going out right now and hold a news conference with every TV station and newspaper in the area. I’m going to make it clear that the days of good’ol boys and money are at an end in this part of the state. That spoiled rich kid lying inside that private room is going to go to prison and at a minimum, sit there and rot for the rest of his natural-born days. Is that understood?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He spun around on his heel and stalked down the hallway. Bradshaw gave me a sneer and followed him. Crump didn’t move but just watched the two of them walk away. He then turned and faced Swinson and me.

  “See what I mean? My hands are tied on this one. Anderson has a burr under his ass and so does Stan. This one is out of my league.”

  “John,” pleaded Swinson, “can’t you talk some sense into them? Hell, maybe we can work something out.”

  The Sheriff sadly shook his head and looked directly at Swinson.

  “Tim Anderson wants to run for Congress one day. He’s bright, ambitious, and fairly honest. He’s never liked me or the way I did my job. I’ve kept him out of my hair up until now, but it gets harder every day. Like I said, he’s ambitious and having the head of a sheriff in your trophy case is a good way to get noticed in the election game. I really don’t want to antagonize the man.”

  He stopped to compose himself.

  “I’m sixty-seven years old. I‘ve been Sheriff here in this county for over twenty years, and I’m ready to call it quits when my current term is over next year. My back aches and I have the gout in both my legs. I want to spend what time I got left in peace, not in court fighting Tim Anderson for my freedom, so I’m bowing out while I’m ahead…”

  He stared off into the distance for second then shook his head.

  “Stan Bradshaw has been with me for these last five years and the deputies like him. He’s filling out the paperwork to run for Sheriff and plans to file them by next month’s deadline. I personally think the man is a first-rate bastard, but he's been loyal to the department and me. But like all young lions, he wants to be his own man. He's gotten Anderson convinced that putting Sonny Slatterson in prison is the smart move, publicity wise, for two ambitious men like themselves— ”

  Swinson interrupted, “But what if Dafoe here is right, what if there was someone else in that house that night.”

  “Then you and your boy here are going to have to prove it, Harry. I’ll give you and your team full access to all the forensic results and evidence, but as far as the county is concerned, your client is guilty. And I’ll be honest, other than this feller’s story,” he pointed at me, “there ain’t anything that says Slatterson's boy is innocent.”

  With that last statement Crump turned and left.

  Swinson and I watched the Sheriff as he disappeared down the hall. I waited for the lawyer to say something. He just stood there a few sec
onds in thought, shook his head, as if to clear it, then looked at me.

  “First thing we need to do is get hold of Doc Akins, Sonny’s physician. I’ve known him for over thirty years, and he has been Sonny’s doctor since Sonny was in knee britches. I want to make it clear that Sonny isn’t to be moved anytime soon.”

  We went to the nurse’s station and asked if Dr. Akins was there in the hospital. The nurse on duty wasn’t sure. She had him paged. Within seconds of the page, the phone rang and Swinson was handed the phone.

  “Clark? This is Harry Swinson. I need to see you about what’s going on with Sonny Slatterson. Where can we meet?”

  It was quickly agreed to meet at Akins office located in the doctor’s clinic next to the hospital. We made our way there.

  Dr. Clark Akins was a thin man just north of sixty who had a thick, unruly thatch of snow-white hair. He was wearing a white lab coat over his blue shirt and tie.

  “We’ve been friends for a lot of years,” started Swinson, “and we've always helped each other when needed. I need your help now.”

  “Sure Harry, you know me. I'll do what I can.”

  “Thanks. The D.A. has decided to go ahead and charge Sonny with murder. There ain’t a damn thing I can do about that, at least not immediately. But what I do need is for Sonny to stay in this hospital for at least three, if not more, days. I want to avoid his going to the county jail, for the time being. I need time to arrange a hearing and hopefully get the charges reduced or bail set. At any rate, I don’t want him at the mercy of the D.A. anytime soon. Can you do it for me?”

  “No problem. Sonny is in pretty beat up shape. I don’t know how the boy got started on this crap, but the drugs have taken their toll, physically and mentally. I strongly suspect withdrawal symptoms are going to kick in soon, so I’ll need to keep him in the hospital till the withdrawal runs its course. I suspect it will be at least four or five days before the kid is in any shape to move.”

  He looked at us with a glint in his eyes, “How does that sound?”

  Swinson grabbed the doctor’s hand and shook it.

  “Sounds fine. We’ll keep in touch.”

  Dr. Akins nodded his head, and Swinson turned and told me that it was time we went to the Slatterson’s home to fill in them in on the details.

  We made our way back to the parking lot where we had our car. As we approached Swinson’s sedan, we noticed at the other end of the lot the bright lights of the television crews clustered around Anderson and Bradshaw. Swinson and I stood there a second and took in the scene. The lawyer said the last thing he wanted right now was to go on TV. We quickly and quietly got the hell out of there.