Stress Test (28 page)

Matt, in his orange jumpsuit, sat slumped on the side of his bunk and stared at the floor. He had no idea what time it was. The cell had no windows, and the low-wattage lamp behind a wire cage above his head had burned constantly since his arrival. They’d taken his watch along with his clothes and personal possessions.

How long since his last dose of medicine? He hadn’t had any more petit mal seizures . . . or had he? During his absence spells he had no real sense of time passing. It was only afterward that he looked
back and realized he’d had another seizure. If he was going to be here very long, should he ask for medication? That would mean seeing a jail doctor, admitting his problem, letting it become a matter of record. No, for now he’d keep quiet and hope for the best.

Apparently Matt wasn’t going to be mixed with the jail population at mealtime. Earlier someone had slid a tray of what passed for breakfast through the slot in his cell door. Lukewarm coffee, a stale roll, everything tasting like it had been soaked in rancid dishwater before it was brought to him. Nevertheless, Matt had cleaned his plate. Now he was hungry again. When would they feed him lunch? Were the isolation and hunger designed to soften him up? If so, it was working.

“On your feet. You’ve got a visitor.” A female guard stood outside his cell, a huge ring of keys clipped to her belt. She wasn’t wearing a gun, but she rested one hand on a mean-looking baton hanging in a loop on her pant leg.

He shuffled to the door. “What do you mean? Who?”

She shook her head. “Turn around. Put your hands behind you.”

He complied without question, and in a moment he heard the cell door open, felt cold steel clamp around his wrists. She laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and turned him. “That way. And don’t even think of giving me any trouble. I’m right behind you.”

Matt wanted to respond, maybe with a smart remark, but he bit his tongue. No need to antagonize her. She was just doing her job. Job! He’d forgotten about his own job. He needed to get word to Rick that he wouldn’t be able to work his shift this evening. Matter of fact, he had no idea when he’d be able to return to his work at the hospital—if ever.

“Can I use the phone?” he asked his escort.

“What for? To call your lawyer? She’s the one waiting to see you.”
Her tone didn’t invite dialogue, so Matt remained silent. In a few minutes, he was back in a room that looked very much like the one in which he’d faced Detective Grimes a few short hours ago. Sandra Murray sat in a chair on one side of the table, and she gestured toward the empty one opposite her.

The guard unlocked the handcuffs and chained Matt’s right hand to the chair in which he sat, a chair that he’d already noted was bolted to the floor. She fixed Sandra with a glance that had seen it all and didn’t believe most of it. “I’ll be right outside, Counselor. Knock when you’re through.” As the guard closed the door, Matt noticed that there was no knob on the inside.

Sandra pulled out what Matt decided was the most important implement in any lawyer’s armamentarium—a yellow legal pad.

“What’s—” Matt started to ask.

Sandra hushed him with an upraised hand. “We don’t have much time, so let me talk first. Then you can ask questions.”

What Matt heard drove him deeper into despair. He already knew about the 911 call and what the police found when they responded. Sometime after daybreak, the police discovered a pistol in a nearby storm sewer. They believed it to be the murder weapon, but ballistics results were still pending. The gun had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and the police figured the shooter had worn the latex gloves they found along with the gun.

“So what? They found what’s probably the murder weapon and the gloves the killer wore. But none of that ties to me,” Matt said.

“No, but they can use the drug possession charge to hold you while they work on connecting you to the murder.”

Matt took a long breath in through his nose and let it out slowly through pursed lips. “Okay. What’s next?”

“They’ll probably question you later today,” Sandra said. “They’d
love to get a confession, of course. Depending on what kind of case they can put together, they can at least charge you with the drug possession. If they do that, there’ll be a bond hearing, probably on Monday, and the amount of the bail will depend on the charges.”

“Doesn’t matter. I doubt that I could make bail of any amount. I’m pretty much at the limit of my resources.”

“Let’s don’t worry about that right now,” Sandra said. “God will provide.”

As they had with increasing frequency lately, words from his brother, Joe, echoed in Matt’s mind.
“Remember, little brother. We may
not see it, but God’s got it under control.”
Matt certainly hoped so. Maybe there was a ray of sunshine in there somewhere, but right now all he could see in his life were storms.

Lou knew he should feel a little more relaxed today when he stood before the mahogany desk. After all, killing Edgar at the direct command of this man should have forged some sort of bond between them. On the other hand, a few days ago the boss had leveled a pistol at him, making him fear for his life. No, there might be a bond, but deep down, Lou knew the man on the other side of that desk would always be in charge, willing to kill anyone who got in his way—even Lou.

“I take it that Edgar is no longer in the land of the living,” the big man said.

Lou thought he’d done it right, but that didn’t mean the boss would. He shifted his weight from side to side. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Yeah. And from what I hear, the police fell for the setup. Newman’s in custody while they look for the gun I used.”

“Wiped clean of fingerprints?”

“No prints on it, and I used latex gloves—the kind they wear in surgery.”

The boss made the leap immediately. “And Newman’s a surgeon. He probably had a few pair lying around for when he painted or did something else that would get his hands dirty.”

“On the nose. I found them when I was in his house the first time, most of them still in the paper wrapper. I pocketed a couple of pair in case I needed them. Turns out I did.”

“Are you sure the police will find the gloves?”

“I dropped both the pistol and the gloves into the first storm drain I came to. That’s generally where the police start looking, and since we’re in the worst drought in years, nothing’s going to wash the evidence away before they find it.” Lou felt his heart rate slowing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the police have them already.”

“And the drugs?”

“I had Edgar buy some and give them to me. His fingerprints are all over the bag of heroin I dropped by his hand after I spilled some of it on the floor.”

“You said ‘give them.’” The boss narrowed his eyes. “Was there more than the heroin?”

Whoops
. Lou hadn’t intended to mention the crank Edgar bought. That was a little bonus Lou planned to keep for himself, considering the price of methamphetamines. “Slip of the tongue. Just the H. That’s all.”

There was a period of silence during which Lou felt his heart creep up into his throat. Finally the boss opened his desk drawer, and Lou tensed, ready to drop to the floor, wondering if he could draw his gun before the first bullet hit him. Instead, the big man reached in and withdrew a roll of bills. He peeled off ten that bore the image of Benjamin Franklin. “Good work. Now lay low. I’ll be in touch when I need you again.”

Lunch for prisoners was a bologna sandwich on limp white bread, accompanied by something that might have represented pasta salad, a few chunks of fruit swimming in sugary syrup, with watery orange Kool-Aid to wash it down. Matt gobbled it as though it were a T-bone from Bob’s Steak and Chop House.

An older man in an orange jumpsuit like Matt’s delivered the lunch tray. Before the man rolled the cart away, Matt called, “When’s the evening meal?”

The man, probably a trustee, didn’t pause or turn, just spoke over his shoulder. “About five.”

“What’ll it be?”

The cart was out of sight now, but Matt heard the reply from down the hall. “Look at what’s on your tray. That’s what you’ll get, lunch and supper most days. Get used to it.”

How long was this going to go on? If they charged him and moved him to the general population, would he eat in the mess hall? Surely the food couldn’t be any worse there. Or could it? Besides, Matt remembered all the stories he’d heard of how dangerous prison life could be. Inmates getting stabbed with “shanks” made from toothbrushes or spoons stolen from the mess hall, their handles sharpened into weapons. And what went on in the communal shower didn’t bear thinking about.

Matt slumped onto the edge of his bed, buried his head in his hands, and wondered again how this was all going to play out. Without particular conscious thought, he began to pray silently.

God, I could pray for deliverance, but it’s either going to happen or it
isn’t, and whichever way it goes, You’ve already planned it out. So what
I really need is patience to get through, and wisdom to do the right thing.
I guess I should just pray the way You taught us. ‘Our Father, which art
in heaven . . .’

Matt continued on to the end of the prayer, although the words “Thy will be done” stuck in his throat.

What had Sandra said? They had to charge him pretty soon, although she’d been vague on the exact time limit. Before that they’d question him some more. He wished he had a watch, or a clock, or even a window so he could keep track of time by the progress of the sun. But he had none of that.

He passed the afternoon pacing his cell, his mind darting back and forth like a trapped animal, looking for a way out of the mess he was in. Every time there was a noise in the corridor, his heart leaped. Maybe Sandra was waiting to see him. He’d even take more questioning by Grimes and Ames. Anything to escape the confinement of these bars.

The familiar rattle of the food cart brought him to the cell door. He took the tray, grateful for the break in his routine, although not particularly pleased to see that the trustee who brought him his lunch hadn’t lied. Another bologna sandwich, a mound of mushy green peas, more fruit chunks, and a paper cup of Kool-Aid, grape this time.

If supper was being served, that meant it was about five o’clock. No word from Sandra. No summons to meet with the detectives. So Matt would spend another night in the cell. He didn’t know if he could stand it.

More important, he’d been without his medicine for a day now. What if he had a seizure? What if the next one wasn’t just an absence spell, but a full-blown convulsion? Would he get medical help? And if so, how would that affect his life after he got out of jail, assuming he got out of jail at all?

He ate as he thought, chewing and swallowing without really
tasting, knowing he had to stoke the fires, keep up his energy. Matt wasn’t sure how much he could take. Only God knew. That brought a wry smile to his face. Sure, God knew, but He wasn’t saying. The best Matt could do was take one minute at a time. He stretched out on his bunk and tried not to think about what might lie ahead.

TWENTY

Sandra stabbed the numbers into her cell phone as though she were punching Detective Grimes in the eye. She didn’t know what type of vendetta the detective had against Matt, but she couldn’t imagine a simple thirst for justice driving a man this hard. Surely there was something in his background—maybe a grudge against doctors—that made Grimes act the way he did.

She steered her car out of the parking garage, her mind working a mile a minute. It was Monday, and she’d received a phone call less than an hour before that Matt was going to be arraigned at eleven a.m. on the drug charge. Sandra was worried about the matter of bail. Her hope had been that the police would drop that charge, or if not, that she could cast enough doubt on their findings for the judge to throw out the case. Judging from what Frank Everett had told her when he called, he’d managed to get the case on the docket of a judge who owed him a few favors. It was beginning to look like her client would continue to spend time in jail unless she could work a miracle.

“Dr. Pearson.”