My Lost Daughter (20 page)

“The cops claim I left the scene. You know . . . a hit-and-run. When they arrested me, I was sitting on the front porch sipping on a bottle of Jack Daniel's.”

“You're on probation, John,” Lily said. “You swore you weren't going to drink anymore.”

“I know, but it breaks my heart to see Shana scared. She's convinced she saw Curazon last night, poor baby.”

“I called the police, remember? You weren't even there. If you didn't want Shana to be frightened, why did you leave her alone last night and go out drinking?”

“I wasn't behind the wheel when they arrested me. Having a drink isn't a crime.”

Heaven help me, Lily thought, her thoughts racing. As soon as they concluded their conversation, she would have to call the court and see if they would allow him to post bail with a 10 percent deposit. This was the general rule of thumb unless the judge specified that the defendant fork over the entire amount. Even then, she didn't have ten thousand in cash. She'd have to get a loan from the credit union. Loans took time, but she had to shut John up and the only way was to meet his demands. “Were there any witnesses to this alleged hit-and-run?”

“Not that I know of,” he said. “You know the cops never tell you this kind of stuff. They like to get you in an interview room and hammer at you until they get you to confess.”

Something was wrong. She knew John was lying, but it was something else she couldn't quite put her finger on. She massaged her forehead, attempting to analyze the situation objectively. When the evidence was weak, most prosecutors allowed the subject to remain at large in the community until they were able to build an airtight case. Once they made an arrest, the clock started ticking and if the defendant was tried and acquitted, double jeopardy came into play and he could never be tried for that particular offense again. “Why did they arrest you if they didn't have a witness or some kind of concrete proof? I don't even know how they identified you since it was a hit-and-run. Was there damage to your car?”

“They found my wallet at the scene of the accident,” he told her, not as confident as he'd been before. “The public defender and I decided whoever hit this kid must have been the one who stole my wallet.”

Did he really call the victim a kid? Lily started to ask him how old the victim was and then stopped herself. She didn't want to know, not when she was being extorted to bail out the person who had killed him. She already had a nasty taste in her mouth, as if she'd consumed a dozen rotten eggs.

“I need money for an attorney.”

“Didn't you just tell me you were being represented by the public defender?”

“I had no choice at the arraignment,” John told her. “But even he told me I should hire someone else. I need one of those fancy attorneys who specialize in this kind of thing.”

“How can you do this to me?”

“If you'd killed the right guy, I'd have given you a medal and never mentioned it again. But the rapist is back on the street again. Why didn't you shoot him?”

“You're out of your mind, John. Keep talking this way and I won't lift a finger to help you. Let's get something straight right now. No matter what kind of ridiculous accusations you hurl at me, I have no intention of paying for your attorney. They may not be able to charge you with driving under the influence, but both you and I know that the victim would be alive if you'd remained sober.”

John's voice took on a sharper edge. “Oh, you'll help me. You can't afford not to help me. I know how much that job means to you, how scared you are of ending up in my position. You know how dirty and cramped it is in prison. Just because you're a woman doesn't mean you'll have an easy ride. You've put your share of women behind bars. Maybe a few of them would like to have a little talk with you.”

Lily knew when she was defeated. She picked up a file and threw it across the room, watching as the papers struck the wall and then scattered all over her office floor. Only in the past year had she started to put her life back together. And there was Shana to consider.

“I expect to be out of here by this evening.”

Lily swallowed her pride. “I'll do the best I can.”

“Just get the job done,” John said. “After I begged you to keep it a secret, you told Shana I was broke, made her think her old man was a loser. That's why I fell off the wagon.”

“An innocent person is dead, John. I have to walk off my job, scrape together every penny I have, and then drive like a maniac to L.A. to bail out my ex-husband. All these years you've blamed me because Shana was raped. Now you're trying to blame this on me.”

“Do you know what it feels like to be humiliated?” John said, his voice laced with venom. “Are you proud of yourself, Lily? Once again you've managed to rip our family apart.”

John thought he had disconnected, but Lily heard him talking to someone and
bragging about what a good actor he was. She slammed the phone down, knowing he had done more than blackmail her into posting his bail and hiring him an attorney. He wasn't calling from a pay phone inside the jail. She had sensed something was wrong, but she hadn't been able to figure out what it was until now.

John had rolled over on her, parlaying his suspicion that she may have killed Bobby Hernandez into a bargaining chip. He had called her from the district attorney's office in Los Angeles. Every word Lily had spoken had been recorded and was probably right now being analyzed by a team of investigators. She felt herself shaking, wondering how she could have been so foolish. In exchange for his cooperation, the DA would offer John a plea agreement. He'd serve a few weeks in jail while Lily would go to prison. She placed her head down on the desk and cried.

 

Nurse Peggy pulled Shana's jaw down and deposited several pills in her mouth, and then handed her a paper cup filled with water. Shana tried to spit the pills out, but a pudgy finger pushed them back in and tipped the water into her mouth. “These will help you to sleep.”

“I don't want to sleep,” Shana told her. “I want to call my boyfriend.” She jumped off the bed and ran toward the nearest door, but it was locked and Peggy was moving across the floor behind her. The woman turned sideways, shifted her weight and leaned against Shana, pinning her against the wall.

“George!” she yelled. “Get over here.”

The same giant of a man appeared, his muscles straining inside his striped shirt. Together, they lifted the new patient up by her armpits and carried her to a small room containing what appeared to be a hospital bed. “I'm not going in there,” Shana protested, her chest heaving. She positioned her legs behind Peggy and George and pushed forward against the backs of both of their knees in an attempt to cause them to lose their balance. Shana's efforts failed, however, as the legs she was pushing against were as stout as tree trunks. “I want a lawyer. What did you give me? You can't keep me here. I'm an adult. My mother has no right to commit me.”

George vanished. A few moments later a dark-haired, well-groomed woman in her late thirties appeared wearing a pink
sweater and gray pants. With Peggy holding Shana down on the bed, the woman removed her pants and top and began pulling on a pair of green cotton pants, dodging Shana's feet as she kicked out in protest. Peggy and the woman then grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her in place as they placed a matching green shirt over her head. Why were they dressing her in a scrub suit like surgeons wore?

Her vision became blurry and she could no longer focus her eyes. Peggy's image became even more grotesque. As soon as the two women finished dressing her, they left.

The door was open and Shana could see what she assumed was a nursing station and beyond, a large open room where people were milling about. She got up and walked out into the first room, the place where Peggy had pinned her against the wall. She saw a sofa, several chairs, and a television set, but otherwise, the room was empty.

Peggy was sitting at the nursing station with her head down, working on some type of paperwork. A dozen small rooms like the one they had placed Shana in opened off the main area. She went to each room and peered inside. None of the beds were occupied. The drug beginning to kick in, she staggered back to the seating area.

The floor suddenly buckled beneath her. She fell sideways onto the sofa, one arm dangling off the side. She couldn't think or reason. Her mind was mush, an enormous trembling bowl of gelatin. Then the darkness came, crashing down on her like a boulder.

Shana awoke with a start. Her eyes were glued to her eyelids and her chin was jutting out from her face. A piercing scream erupted from her mouth. She tried to swallow and then choked. Saliva dribbled onto her hand. Her body began convulsing. “Help . . . me,” she cried pathetically, biting her pulsating tongue as she tried to speak. “God . . . please!”

Shana's head was bent backward. She felt as if her entire body was being pulled toward the ceiling with incredible force. She heard footsteps running on the tiled floor, heard faceless voices speaking
in urgent hushed tones. “She's having a reaction to the Thorazine. Hurry, get an injection.”

More shuffling feet, then out of the corner of her eye, Shana saw a muscular tan arm encircle her torso. She was thrown facedown on the sofa. Her green cotton pants were jerked down. Cold air swept across her buttocks, followed quickly by the jab of a needle.

“That should do it, George,” a woman's voice whispered.

“Dr. Morrow needs to exercise more caution, Peggy,” another female voice said. “We don't know anything about this patient. We don't have her medical records. We don't know what, if any, medications she's taking. Did she consent to be treated with Thorazine?”

“Look, Lee,” Peggy said, “it's not my responsibility to get consent forms signed. I give whatever medication is prescribed in the chart.”

Shana heard the women's footsteps recede, finding herself alone again on the sofa. After an unknown period of time, she managed to pull herself up to a seated position. She sat there stiffly, her eyes still rolled back in her head. She was in Hell. There was no other explanation. Whitehall, they called it.

Hell.

The muscles in Shana's eyes finally relaxed and she could see, even though she still wasn't able to focus. The edges of the sofa across from her bowed out and then caved in, the colors running together like wet paint.

Shana must have fallen asleep again because when she awoke, the room was bathed in light and she could hear noises in the distance. Trying to stand, she crumpled back on the sofa. Thirty minutes or so later, it was as if a great churning engine was pushing her. She felt a compulsion to walk, move, and pace.

The green pajamas were so large they dragged on the ground. Her gait was really more like a stumble than a walk. She was drugged, dazed, and locked inside her body. A woman approached her and touched her arm. Through the fog, Shana thought she saw a face of compassion. “Oh, God, can't someone help me?”

“My name is Lee,” the woman said in a soft voice. “I'm going to bathe you.”

The next thing Shana remembered was standing in front of a mirror, her hair wet, once again wearing the green pajamas. Lee was slowly pulling a brush through her hair. This is what it must feel like to be a child, she thought. She was completely helpless and careless, swimming in a timeless void. Reality seemed to be drifting away. Lee began blow-drying her hair. Her mother used to dry her hair the same way, gently, unconcerned where it fell, only intent on drying it so she wouldn't get chilled. How could her mother do this to her?

She turned and placed her arms around Lee's shoulders, wanting to embrace her as a child would its mother. For what felt like an eternity, she had been pushed, pulled, jabbed, and terrified. She wanted to be comforted, held, touched.

“Please,” Lee said, removing her arms, “we have rules . . .”

The voice, Shana remembered the woman's voice now. She must have been one of the women who had given her the injection. That meant she'd also made the comment about a consent form.

Shana turned and gazed at her image in the mirror, unable to retrieve the exact details of the conversation between the two women. She was so fair, without makeup, her face seemed like a blank canvas.

Lee led her back into the open room and disappeared. On the coffee table was a tray of food: breakfast, lunch, dinner? Shana didn't know and she didn't care. She used her fingers to stuff an unknown substance into her mouth, but when she tried to swallow, her throat constricted. She spat whatever it was out into her hand, and then wrapped it in a paper napkin.

Sometime later, an odd-looking man took a seat on the sofa across from her, studying her like a specimen under a microscope. His eyes looked like black beetles and something about him immediately made Shana bristle—an arrogance, the vague sense that he enjoyed seeing her drugged and disoriented.

“I'm Dr. Morrow,” he said. “How are you feeling today, Shana?”
He smiled smugly as he rearranged his slender body to a more comfortable position on the sofa.

“Why am I here?” she asked, appalled that this person might be her psychiatrist. “I know this is some type of mental hospital, but why am I being treated like a prisoner?” Each word required enormous effort. She had to force her mind to retrieve the floating thoughts from her brain and then make her rubbery lips expel them.

“You're here because you're ill,” Morrow answered. “You were psychotic.”

“I am not psychotic . . . have never been psychotic. You have no right to lock me up in this disgusting place. I'm going to sue you.” Shana reached inside herself for the anger and used it to keep herself alert enough to continue. “You release me at once or you'll live to regret it.”