Sleeping Beauty (39 page)

“I was just telling Claire here–”

“She says Davin can’t have visitors,” I say.

“Is that right?” he purrs. “There must be some mistake; I would’ve gotten a phone call by now if anyone had seen you upstairs trying to take a crack at Davin Wibbens. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have sat in traffic for two hours if I didn’t think we’d be able to talk to him ourselves. So why don’t you just lay out whatever it is you have to say before I start to think too hard about how you tried to speak to my client without her attorney present, in direct contradiction of my explicit instructions.”

She bats her mascara-laden lashes, her mouth twisted into a moue. “The man’s just come out of a coma. They really should restrict visitors until he’s out of danger. That’s the advice I gave the hospital administration.”

“In other words, you came here waiting for Claire to show up without me, and you bitched to the receptionist after you got kicked off the med-surg ward, right? How long have you been staking out the place?”

Lucinda looks around at the passersby, most of whom slow down to stare at us as they pass. “May I suggest that we take this conversation to somewhere a little more private…before the cameras show up?”

Rev snorts. “You haven’t called them already, Lucinda? I’m a little disappointed, I have to say.”

She shoots him a look of contempt before leading us to an abandoned alcove behind the cafeteria.

“I’ll get right to it, Mr. Carlin,” she says. “We’re very concerned about Ms. Beau’s condition.”

I suck in a breath.

“As you’re probably aware,” says Rev, “Claire recovered from her most recent KLS episode in July. Other than having the sniffles a few weeks ago, she’s been in peak health, but thanks for driving all this way to express your concern. Next time send her a card.”

“Mr. Carlin, you disappoint
me
. We already know that your client is at least several months pregnant by Dr. Charmant.”

“You don’t know any such thing.”

“Ah, well, now we’re starting to get at the truth,” she says.

“All you have is a positive urine pregnancy test performed under less-than-ideal circumstances at her primary care physician’s office on October twenty-eighth. That’s it.”

“The lack of evidence for any follow-up obstetrical care is telling.”

I bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She sighs, like she’s about to unburden something unpleasant that she’d rather just keep under wraps. “Under normal circumstances where the victim of a sexual assault chooses to terminate her pregnancy, jurors are typically very understanding.”

Rev crosses his arms over his chest. “This didn’t work when you called me last week, Lucinda, and it’s sure as hell not going to work now.”

“I don’t want to listen to this anymore,” I spit at her.

“I know this whole ordeal must be very upsetting for you–” she says, reaching out to touch my arm.

I yank my arm out of reach. “I don’t like being touched by people who aren’t my friends or my family, Ms. Gaelic, and since you’re neither one I’d appreciate it if you’d stop doing it.”

“We’re done here,” says Rev. “Let’s go Claire.”

“I’m going to put her on the stand, Mr. Carlin,” says Lucinda. “We’ll find out one way or the other.”

Despite Lucinda’s girth, Rev’s stature makes her look diminutive by comparison. He towers over her, fuming. “No. You won’t.”

She laughs. “Then you don’t know me at all.”

“I know you’re not stupid. Law school one-oh-one: Never ask a witness a question you don’t already know the answer to. And, my god, wouldn’t it be
great
if that was the only question you were fumbling in the dark over?” He shakes his head. “I sure hope your whole case against Charmant isn’t hinging on whether or not Claire did or did not become pregnant by Dr. Charmant in the sleep lab on May eighteenth. You’ll be lucky to have your law license after it’s all over.”

The whole scene is going so wildly off the rails that I feel like I’m watching a skit in
Who’s Line Is It Anyway
? My head twists from one side to the other, like I’m watching a game played by lobbing legal barbs at your opponent. First one to flinch loses.

Lucinda turns her watery blue eyes on me. “Like I said, there’s a lot of sympathy for victims who abort, but none whatsoever when a woman aborts just to protect her assailant. Frankly, jurors, especially female jurors, tend to view this as callous collaboration.”

Rev grins. “Callous?” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Callous, that’s precious.”

“Of course, if that’s the case, and Ms. Beau agrees to testify for the prosecution, we can flip this all on its head, spin it as the traumatized victim who breaks free of her assailant’s control. Everyone loves a redemption story.”

“Look Lucinda, I’m sorry we ruined your photo op, but Claire is not testifying for the prosecution, and she believes that Dr. Charmant is innocent of the charges, not to mention the drug innuendo you’re determined to throw on top. End of story.”

“Further proof, in my opinion that Ms. Beau is exhibiting classic symptoms of denial associated with either post traumatic stress disorder or Stockholm Syndrome, where victims identify with their attackers as part of a survival strategy.”

“If you repeat that psycho-babble enough, do you ever start to actually believe it?” he says. “What’s the magic number anyway? Because you’ve bored me with this about twenty times now and it still sounds as ridiculous as it did the first time.”

“I’m trying to give your client an opportunity to avoid the negative publicity that will come once it’s revealed in court that she should be pregnant but isn’t.”

“Ohh, I get it now,” says Rev, rubbing his chin. “We really did ruin your photo op, didn’t we?” He holds up his hand. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. What would I do in your place.
If
I could get Claire to testify for the prosecution, that is…”

He gets a faraway look I’ve seen in Andy Gordon’s eyes when he’s trying to get people around him to visualize an idea for a movie scene.

“Okay, Scenario Number One: Claire is six months pregnant as a result of a sexual assault in the sleep lab. I’d load her up with maternity clothes for the trial, definitely.” He looks me over. “And she’s petite, so I’d make the clothes as girlish as possible, lots of bows and pink and puppies, infantilize her as much as possible so Charmant looks like a pedophile
and
a rapist. You’d have a conviction by suppertime the first day.”

What is he doing
? I think, looking back-and-forth from Rev to Lucinda while they glare at each other. “Rev,” I warn in an undertone.

He continues like he hasn’t heard me. “The only problem is that she’s got no interest in being your show pony, right? And there’s a chance the show pony hasn’t even had the courtesy of staying pregnant for your three-ring circus, so you’ll have to switch things up for Scenario Number Two.”

He continues to stroke his chin, his eyes unfocused. “You’re stuck with a now non-pregnant victim who supports the assailant,” he mutters. “What to do, what to do…” He closes his eyes, concentrating. “In that case, I’d have every right-to-life organization in the country on speed dial, ready to surround his house and her house, picketing each and every day of the trial. There wouldn’t be any camera shot within a mile of Claire Beau or Brendan Charmant that wouldn’t include a screaming protester and a poster of a fetus.”

He blinks like he’s come out of a trance. “How’d I do?”

Lucinda Gaelic adjusts her purse on her shoulder. “That’s the most absurd–”

“Just remember that the public can be fickle, Lucinda. The country might be split fifty-fifty on the morality of elective abortion, but like you said, once rape enters the picture people get a lot more understanding. Thirty
percent
more understanding to be specific.
And
there’s a third scenario that seems to have slipped your mind.”

“What’s that, Mr. Carlin?”

“Scenario three: My traumatized and broken client wants more than anything to keep the baby, even one that’s a result of a brutal sexual assault. Enter Lucinda Gaelic, assistant district attorney, who browbeats and bullies her, jumping out of the shadows in random public places, accosting her without her attorney present to bombard her with this ‘Stockholm Syndrome, you’re carrying your rapist’s baby’ crap until she suffers a mental collapse and chooses to terminate the pregnancy out of fear for her emotional health. Of course,
I’d
have every women’s rights group in the country on speed dial, and I’d make damn sure that the next place you’d find them is right outside
your
house.”

Lucinda looks like she’s grinding her teeth into powder. “Don’t think I don’t know what a sneaky bastard you are, Rev. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.

“I don’t know, Lucinda,” he says, eyeing her beefy upper arm. “You look like you’ve been working out. I’ll bet you could throw me further than you think.”

“Is your client pregnant or is she not?”

“For the last time, neither I nor my client will be answering any questions on that topic at this time, as it’s not relevant to the information contained in the medical files you have in your possession.”

“We’ll find out before the week’s over,” she says. She settles a final ice-cold stare on him before turning on her heel and stalking off.

“What’d you do that for?” I say under my breath once she’s out of earshot and we’ve gotten a good way down the corridor in the opposite direction.

“Do what?”

“Make her think I’ve had an abortion.”

“It’s best to let her wonder and sweat it out. If she can’t find out for sure, she’ll never ask you on the stand. Trust me on this one, dally.”

“Ha! Trust you! Remember how she told me that you might be in this to get me my way, but not to be surprised if it was at my expense? Well, I’m not even sure about the truth of the first part anymore, and I’m
definitely
past being surprised that it always seems to be at my expense.” I speed up, meaning to put some distance between us, but his legs are a lot longer than mine.

He grabs my elbow. “You’re way out of line, Claire. You don’t even know…”

I wrestle my arm free. “
I’m
out of line? I’m not the one who helped Davin run away to get his ass blown off by a bomb.” I blush, thinking of the footage on the disk, of the things he’s probably seen. “And I
do
know. I know, and you know, and god knows who else knows. Apparently not my poor brother, though, who’s apparently a big joke to the Almighty Three.”

He takes a step back, his face that dangerous shade of red I saw the day Lucinda Gaelic handed him his ass in the conference room. “You don’t know what the hell you’re saying, and you’re going to feel like even more of a peal when you
do
find out.”

“So tell me then!” I say. “Enlighten me, O Wise Number Two. Or do you think poor little Claire is too fragile and frail to see how the sausage is made?” I snicker. “So to speak.”

His lips are set in a thin line. “It’s not my job to set you straight.”

“Who’s job is it then?”

He shakes his head, just once. “Not mine. My job is to get you what you wanted. You said you wanted Doc to walk, and that’s all I’m doing: getting you your way without you knowing more than you need to.”

“How does anything you’re doing get me my way? And why all the secrecy? You think I’m that untrustworthy?” I wait a few beats for him to answer. When he doesn’t I say, “You know what? Forget it.”

He stops walking, letting me go ahead. “You go see Wib and find out for yourself.”

I turn around and walk backwards. “I will, because I definitely don’t want to hear any more of your crap.”

His grin seems particularly out of place, considering the circumstances. “Oh, dally,” he says, shaking his head, “I’m afraid Wib’s particular brand of bullshit isn’t going to smell any better.”

Chapter Thirty

“His injuries are typical of any kind of blast damage,” says the eager physician before me. He’s young and enthusiastic, and rattles off the list of Davin’s injuries like a proud parent of a gifted and talented student. “Perforated eardrums, subconjunctival hemorrhage, broken ribs, open limb fractures, but the dangerous injuries are always the ones you can’t see: blast lung, abdominal hemorrhage, that sort of thing.”

I nod dumbly, too busy fighting lightheadedness and nausea to respond. What was it Brendan had said? “I don’t even think you should play a doctor on TV.” Truer words were never spoken. I shouldn’t even play a patient’s
friend
on TV.

I’d checked in at the nurse’s station as Davin’s boyfriend’s sister, but something in the message got lost along the way, and now it’s assumed that I’m his sister. Since none of his immediate family materialized after he was flown here, the doctor in charge of his care is dumping enough information on me to overwhelm a fourth-year medical student–and I haven’t even been in his room yet. I want to Google every other word that comes out of this guy’s mouth.

“Fortunately,” he goes on, “he doesn’t seem to have any abdominal injuries, and his concussion was mild considering the force of the blast. Our biggest concerns are the pulmonary contusion and the open tib-fib fracture. Now, he was intubated of course for the surgery on the leg, but we don’t like to put in a trach tube in the cases of pulmonary contusions because of the risk of developing pneumonia. We had him on a CPAP mask for a few days after surgery, but he’s been responding really well, so now he’s just on a partial re-breather.”

He inhales, leaving me an opening to cut him off, but I’m just trying to breathe in and out as the list of horrors goes on.

“Of course, he was suffering from severe dehydration after forty-eight hours of massive bleeding and environmental exposure. We brought his fluid levels back to normal, but you have to be careful with excessive fluid in the circulatory system, or it can cause pulmonary edema, which would worsen his hypoxia. We’ve placed a catheter in his pulmonary artery to keep an eye on the pressure, so hopefully we can–”