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Authors: Keith M Donaldson

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BOOK: Death of an Intern
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“All of this may involve Manchester in more than your drug case. Isn't that who you asked me to check out?”

“All right. I give up. I am being paged. Other crime doesn't stop while I'm talking with you.”

“Don't forget Janet's cell phone. Please.” We disconnected.

Why do I get so uptight with him? He is always helpful.

I
needed an inside perspective and wondered if Marsha could facilitate something casual between Kat and me. I called Marsha and got voice mail. I asked her to call back.

I went back to recording my thoughts. Kat knew Janet was pregnant. Maybe she knows the father. Maybe Tishana Rice knows. Max didn't say that his detectives had asked her the “who” question. I stopped my dictation and stuffed the recorder in my bag. I threw the garbage from lunch into a trashcan and headed for my car.

I heard that diesel truck's engine start up.

I pulled my car out of its parking spot, but decided to leave the top up for the short drive back to the paper. George Washington Memorial Parkway wasn't congested, and I easily got onto it. My mind continued jumping from one thing to another. I needed to record these fleeting images, because I'd never remember them all.

I reached into my bag on the passenger seat, but the recorder was stuck under something. I was going to lift the bag onto my lap, when I was bumped on my left side, which caused me swerve to the right. With only one hand on the wheel, I overcorrected. I dropped the bag and gripped the wheel with both hands, when I was hit much harder on my side of the car.

My wheels hit the curb and jumped it. The undercarriage scraped the concrete. I was on grass going forty miles an hour and heading for the trees on the riverbank. I stood on the brakes. In my frantic attempt to straighten out, I pulled hard left on the steering wheel. The tires dug in. That resistance and my speed caused a considerable G-force and the car tilted over on its right side, skidding into heavy bushes that gripped the car, and slowed its forward progress until it hit something, throwing me hard against the steering wheel.

I was dangling from my seat belt, my upper torso over the passenger seat.

The diesel truck driver had followed the newspaper reporter out of the lot. He saw the accident evolve and along with other vehicles slowed. As soon as he could, he pulled up over the curb and stopped. Others were stopping. The red sports car lay precariously on its side. The truck driver was one of the first to get there. The ad hoc rescue team agreed that getting the driver's door open was a priority.

They yelled to the driver and a voice yelled back.

“A woman—she's conscious,” were comments yelled out.

“I can't get my seat belt off. I'm hanging upside down,” a panicky voice cried out.

Many people had called 911. Over a dozen men and women were around the car, some bravely on the down-slope side, oblivious to the snagging branches. They pushed against the car to keep it from rolling their way. The convertible top made that difficult. Somebody got the driver's door open. It looked like a wing. Instructions came from all directions.

The diesel truck driver helped bring order to the effort and put the focus on getting the entangled driver out. A smallish man volunteered to go in and get her unhooked. He was lowered feet first into the vehicle, accompanied with much yelling to the woman about what they were doing.

I twisted as best I could to see who was coming in on top of me. My right arm was pinned under me and completely numb. I saw legs dangling down.

“Okay, lady—I see where I'm going. Okay, my feet are touching.” He then folded the rest of his body down into a crouching position.

“Thank you. I can't reach the damned belt release.”

“Let me look.” He squirmed around. “I can't see it. Can you move your body up a little? Grab the steering wheel…both hands…pull up on it.”

“I only have one useable arm. I can't feel my right arm.”

“It's there. I mean it ain't…you know.” He was scrunched as low as he could get—my face was next to his feet. I could smell his sweat and hoped this would go fast. It had to. What of the baby? I got an idea. “Okay, lift me by my shoulders and then pull me away from the seat. Maybe my arm will fall down and begin to recover.”

He twisted and squatted on the bottom, which was actually the right door panel. “Okay, I'll pull you away from the seat…boost you up. It won't be gentle.”

I could feel his strength as pressure increased on my shoulders.

“The belt!” I cried out. “It's digging in.”

He stopped. I saw people looking into the car. Their voices were a jumble.

He yelled out. “Her right arm…can't use it. Two of you, grab her ankles, hold tight…okay, hold on. I gotta get my arm behind you, pry away, and use my elbow as leverage.” He drew my body away from the seats. Then he yanked my torso to him and I felt my arm dropping free.

“Hey up there, don't let her fall.” He held my bad arm. “You can't feel your arm?”

“No.” My head rested on the bottom. “Can you get the buckle?”

“Okay, we need some help,” he called out to the faces peering down on them. “Her right arm's useless—pinched nerve. Grab her ankles, lift when I say to. I gotta change position.”

Through the clutter of mutterings, they agreed to do that.

“I'm going to put my left leg up on the seat…below your head,” he instructed. “It'll give me a more solid base…keep both my hands free. When they lift, if it hurts bad, yell.”

“Go for it,” I groaned.

He asked the outside rescuers to lift me three, four inches. He twisted, and now faced me. He put my arm down, folding it at the elbow on the bottom.

“Another minute, I'll unbuckle you.”

This was not a position I would want anybody to see me in. The man sat on the door, which in their skewed world was the floor. We were pressed in close. I was helplessly upside down, my face against his crotch. He needed a change of underwear.

“I can reach the buckle. Hold her. When the belt opens, she'll sag.”

“Let's do it.” He put his attention to undoing the buckle, and was finally successful in unhooking it.

“Thank God,” I mumbled. Hands held my ankles. My face was back against his body, there was less room. Please get me out.

His hands were under my shoulders. “Let's move her!”

“We're ready,” a disembodied voice called back.

I could feel extra pressure on my ankles…hands grabbing my good arm. I felt the wiry man's upward pressure, lifting me.

“It's good,” he whispered to me, “that you're wearing slacks.”

I worried his concentration was shifting, but he went back to his job.

“Okay, she's ready to come up. Watch out for her bad arm.”

They agreed I would come out on my back. They had hold of my good arm; the wiry man held the dead one. Hands were on my legs, my butt, steadying me.

“You can roll me on my side,” I called out to anyone. “Don't roll me onto my stomach; I'm pregnant.”

“She's pregnant,” rippled through the crowd.

They kept me as I had asked, reassuring me all the way. I was moved up and out.

“That's it,” I groaned. “That feels better.”

My head cleared the opening. My inside rescuer stood up as I was elevated out, still holding my bad arm, which he turned over to an outsider amidst lots of conversation. A web of hands was under me, rotating me into a prone position on my back. My limp arm was folded over my chest.

Through a series of commands, they moved me several feet and lay me down on the ground. Spontaneous applause broke out.

Sirens could be heard in the distance.

I assured my rescuers I was all right. “I don't think I broke anything. I'm beginning to feel my arm. Could somebody get my bag from the car? It probably spilled out all over.”

A rescuer yelled toward the car. I heard the guy inside yell he was collecting everything. I was comforted that two women and a man stayed with me. A blanket had materialized and was being placed over me. My head rested on someone's rolled up jacket. Someone leaned down to me.

“Hey lady, here's your bag, everything I could find.”

I saw the man put the bag alongside of me. “Thank you.”

He left, replaced by a police officer.

“Okay, folks, thank you. We'll take it from here. Those who saw the accident, the cause of it, please go to the officer near the squad car so we can get your statements. You did a great job, but we need to clear out for the ambulance.”

“She's pregnant,” someone said.

The three helpers with me made some room, but stayed close.

The officer bent down to me. “How do you feel?”

“I don't think I broke anything. I'm about six, seven weeks.”

“You'll have to go in the ambulance. Is that red car yours?”

“Yes. Could you get my cell phone in my bag?”

The officer fished around and found it. Two EMTs arrived and the officer gave way to them, as they began administering to me.

“Is there someone I can call?” the officer asked.

“I'll do it.” I reached for it, but my arm was pushed down.

“Not right now,” a female EMT demanded.

“Call Max on the address list,” I requested.

The officer scrolled down the address list to “Max.” “Got it,” he said and punched send. It had barely rung when it was answered.

“He's Max Walsh.”

“Where are you now, Ms. Wolfe?” A man answered.

“Mr. Walsh?”

“What? Who is this? What are you doing? What's wrong?” he said firmly.

“There's been an accident. The woman, Ms. Wolfe did you say, was pulled from her car. Medics are with her now.”

“Medics?!” boomed Max. “Who are you?”

“Ted Monroe, Alexandria City Police. Are you her husband?”

“I'm her caretaker. No, I'm with MPD, a friend. How did this happen?”

“We just came on the scene. From fragments of conversations I've heard, a car went out of control and sideswiped her. She went out of control, and her car jumped the curb and turned onto its side. People came out of their cars and got her out. She seems all right. Our biggest concern is the baby.”

I flinched at the officer's words.

“What's wrong?” The paramedic asked.

“It wasn't you.”

“Ms. Wolfe, he wants to know about a Jerry?”

“My husband. He's in California on business.”

“He's in California, sir.”

I felt guilt stream through me. Max should not have found out this way. He had a right to be mad. I had only myself to blame.

“Yes sir.” I heard the officer say. “I'll tell her. Virginia Hospital in Arlington.” He addressed one of the medics. “You take her to Arlington?”

“Sure.”

“Virginia Hospital is at…yes, I will.” The officer punched off.

“He will meet you at the hospital and under no circumstance are you to leave. You are to wait until he gets there.”

“I was expecting that.”

“He sounded like a father,” the officer said.

“That's because, right now, he thinks I need a father.”

BOOK: Death of an Intern
9.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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