Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty-Two
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jim headed out of the parking lot at the hospital at eight that night. Since Alexa had been off the ventilator, he’d given her a cell phone programed with his number to call if she needed him. She’d been tired after her meeting with Sarah, and she’d slept most of the afternoon, but she’d bounced back by six when he arrived for dinner.
In the last week, he’d checked on her throughout the day and had kept her company at supper time, trying to tempt her to eat more than the tepid food the hospital provided. Sometimes he brought his own creations, sometimes he only had time to pick up fast food, but eating together in the evening had become a ritual in the past week.
She was lonely, and he was lonely. He knew what a dangerous combination that was. But as Alexa struggled back to life, he saw traces of the bright, charming woman she had once been in her thin, tired little form, and he was intrigued. Even if her memory about the events in her own life was cloudy, her ordeal had spared her legal mind. She was a gifted lawyer, and Jim enjoyed their legal discussions and liked hearing about the inner workings of the Supreme Court. He remembered poor Bob Metcalf’s happy face when he’d talked so gratefully about how Alexa’s writings had made him look good as a lawyer for the first time in his career.
He navigated the winding side streets until he reached Washington Street and then merged onto I-5 North to head home. He knew he needed to be honest, at least with himself. His newfound interest in Alexa was a soothing antidote on the nights when he knew Sarah was occupied with David Scott. Last week had been tough for him because he had offered several times to come by her place after he had felt it was okay to leave Alexa at the hospital, but she had turned him down because she had plans every time.
Driving along in the lonely dark toward his empty house, Jim knew how much he had wanted to see Sarah and how much her refusals had hurt. So it was quite natural, he assured himself, to be drawn to someone who needed his friendship.
But the thought of Sarah still nagged him. Since the night he’d first seen her in Trend, she had always been at ease and comfortably in charge. Yet this morning, she’d seemed hesitant and awkward in the interview with Alexa. Instead of the experienced Wall Street attorney she was, she’d had the demeanor of a fourth-year associate who’d been send on her first client interview without the supervising partner.
Suddenly as he drove down Garnet Avenue just minutes from his house, he was overcome by the need to see her. Recklessly, he abandoned the road toward home and headed up the back of Mount Soledad toward La Jolla and Sarah.
* * *
He was relieved when she answered on the first knock because it was less likely David Scott was lurking inside.
She was wearing soft gray sweat pants and a black t-shirt, and she was barefoot. The scar on her cheek seemed more prominent than usual. She was cradling a thick book in her arm like a baby.
“Is everything ok?” She was obviously surprised to see him.
He wanted to say no, why did you shut me out last week. But he knew better.
“Fine, just fine. I wanted to see how you thought the interview went this morning.”
“Oh.” Her face went blank as if she’d forgotten the whole thing. “Better come in and have a drink.”
He followed her into the living room where he could see she’d been curled up on one end of the sofa, doing legal research and scribbling on a yellow pad. She’d lost that air of hesitancy and was her usual in-charge self again. She motioned for him to take off his suit jacket and lay it across one of the chairs.
“Here, have a seat, and I’ll get another glass.”
He noticed the open bottle of wine on the coffee table and a half eaten sandwich wrapped in deli paper. Instead of the chair facing her, he deliberately chose the other end of the sofa, but she was unphased when she came back from the kitchen.
“I thought the interview went pretty much as I thought it would.” She handed him the glass of wine. “No real surprises except her memory loss over Brigman. And just as Bob Metcalf said, we have nothing to prove domestic violence except her word.”
“So far.” Jim realized he had spoken too quickly because she looked over at him sharply.
“That’s right. So far.” She frowned slightly. “I mean, the typical domestic violence pattern is right there. We have the bright, intelligent woman who is drawn to the charming man. By the time she learns the truth, he’s beating her and controlling her through her children. I’ve never figured out why judges are so thick about this stuff. The fact patterns are all pretty much the same. The husband hits the wife and then finds a way to lie about it and to blame her for everything.”
“I’m going to find that nanny.” He realized he must have spoken with too much emotion because she looked surprised. Well, if she guessed his new interest in Alexa, so much the better. She held David Scott over his head.
“Ok. Fine. I figured you’d say that. But I’m not optimistic. Those people have a way of vanishing.”
“And we need to talk to the children.”
“No.” Sarah shook her head emphatically.
“What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I mean ‘no.’ It’s too big a risk.”
“I don’t see how.”
“We have no idea who Michael was arguing with that night.”
“Yes, we do. The kids said ‘a woman.’”
“Right. And Alexa is ‘a woman.’”
Jim frowned. “You mean Michael could have been arguing with Alexa?”
“It’s not impossible. We know she went to Brigman’s at 9. We know Brigman died at 11:00 and her gun killed him. Her only memory supposedly is ‘driving around.’”
“So you are saying what if she went to see Brigman, he made her angry, she came back and killed him, and then went to Michael’s where they argued and she killed him?”
Sarah nodded. “We shouldn’t do anything to stir up evidence against her. And right now I don’t think I have enough to get a court order to interview the children.”
“So what do we do next?”
“You continue to line up those witnesses for the bail hearing on October 1, and keep the hospital from killing our client. And if you could do some of your unauthorized FBI magic to find out about Coleman Reed and offshore accounts, that would be much appreciated. I have to go to court in the morning because Tara Jacobs is going to try to quash my subpoena’s for Brigman and Michael Reed’s U.S. bank records.”
“Can she win?”
Sarah patted the thick book she had been holding. “In a word, no. I’m hoping those bank records will give us something to work with.”
“Me, too. Can I make you something to eat before I leave?” He sensed she wanted him to go, and he wanted to stay.
“No. I had a sandwich.” She motioned toward the sad little concoction next to the wine bottle.
“I’m not sure that merits the name.”
“Well, you won’t even find eggs in the fridge tonight. Anyway, I have to get on with preparing for this hearing tomorrow.”
“Do you want me there?” He willed the answer to be yes.
“No, I asked Bob Metcalf to come. I thought he deserved to see Tara lose for a change. I need you to keep an eye on Alexa.”
“And do my unauthorized ex-FBI agent magic on those overseas accounts?”
“Absolutely.”
Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mid-September days in San Diego are mild and soft and wrap around you like the arms of a lover, Sarah Knight reflected on the third Monday of the month as she got out of her car in the UCSD parking lot in Hillcrest at ten o’clock. August’s fiery blasts were gone, and the breeze was light and crisp with the promise of fall. She wished she could escape work for the day and sit on one of the craggy bluffs overlooking the Pacific, thinking of nothing but the steady rhythm of the tide rolling in. She wanted to escape her life, and Jim, and Alexa Reed with every fiber of her being.
But Jim was already in Alexa’s room waiting for her because their client had finally recovered her voice enough to talk to them. Since Alexa had come out of her coma a week ago, Sarah had let Jim take the laboring oar at the hospital. She told herself she sent Jim without her because she needed to focus on pulling together the evidence that would keep Alexa from going back to jail. But in reality her overwhelming guilt kept her away. She had not slept a night through since the dark small hours of that Saturday when she’d called Alexa back in the name of her children. And now she was wracked with guilt because she had drawn Alexa’s spirit away from the threshold of eternity with a promise she could never keep: reunion with Meggie and Sam.
Sarah took a deep breath before pushing open the door to Alexa’s room. She seemed to grow smaller every time Sarah saw her. Her client was sitting up, propped against a number of large pillows; Jim occupied the chair next to her bed. He was entertaining her with small talk about Georgetown. Sarah saw the first-ever smile on Alexa’s face and felt that familiar unwanted pang of jealousy. Alexa and Jim had gone to the same law school, and they’d naturally become friends in the last week while Sarah had stayed away.
They both looked up as the door opened, slightly startled by her interruption. But Jim recovered impeccably, quickly standing to offer her the chair closest to the bed and pulling up another for himself some distance away.
Sarah looked over at the tiny figure watching her expectantly and suddenly felt awkward and unsure of how to begin. “I’m Sarah Knight, your attorney.”
Alexa nodded. “Yes.” Not surprisingly her voice was low and raspy. She took a sip of water from the covered plastic cup in her hands.
“I thought we’d start with the police report. You told Officer McColly Meggie phoned you at 11:15, upset because her father was in an argument with a woman.”
Alexa nodded.
“And you drove to the house to find Michael dead and the children crying.”
She nodded again.
“But you didn’t tell the police you had arrived at Ronald Brigman’s earlier that night at 9:00 p.m.?”
She frowned. “I don’t remember being at Dr. Brigman’s.”
“He had a surveillance camera focused on his front door. It shows you going in at 9:00 p.m. It doesn’t show you leaving.”
She looked upset and confused. “Then I must have been there. But I don’t remember it.”
Jim looked up from his notes and gave Alexa a sympathetic smile that registered in Sarah’s midsection as an acute pang of jealousy. “We’ve talked this week when she’s felt like it,” Jim sid. “There’s a lot she can’t remember. The doctor warned us about memory loss.”
Sarah nodded politely, trying not to show her irritation over his obvious bond with their client. “Well, then, let’s work with what you do remember. Tell me about that night.”
Alexa fixed her beautiful blue eyes on Jim as if Sara hadn’t asked the question. “I was driving in the car. I remember that. It was dark, and it was late. I don’t know why I was driving in the car. My cell phone rang, and it was Meggie. She was crying. She said Michael was arguing with a woman, and she and Sam were scared. She wanted me to come and get them.”
“Is that all you remember?”
“I remember walking into Michael’s house and seeing him lying in a pool of blood. Meggie and Sam were hiding in the closet in Meggie’s bedroom. I took them home, and called the police.”
“So you don’t remember being at Ronald Brigman’s at all?”
“No.”
“What about seeing Brigman dead on his living room floor?”
“No.” She frowned as she struggled to remember. “It feels as if there is something I should remember. But I can’t. I must have been very upset to have been driving around in the car alone at night.”
“In the vicinity of Michael’s and Brigman’s, too.”
Her lovely blue eyes seemed to have a mist over them. “Yes, right. I don’t know why I was there before Meggie called. I think I used to know. But I don’t remember now.”
“Do you remember having your gun with you that night?”
“No. I know I didn’t have the gun then.”
“Why?”
“Because it had been stolen.”
“When?”
“In March. Or maybe it was April. It was not long after Brigman announced he was going to give Michael eighty per cent custody of the children on June 1.”
“Did you remember why you had the gun?”
“Bob told me to get it. Michael kept threatening to kill me, and Bob said I had to take the threats seriously.”
“Were any of the threats in writing or in front of witnesses?
“No. Michael always bragged he was too clever to get caught. But Bob said even if we couldn’t prove them, the threats were real, and I needed to protect myself.”
“Where did you keep the gun?”
“I kept it locked in the trunk of the car. I was afraid to have it in the house because of the children.”
“How did you find out the gun was missing?”
“I checked on it several times a week to make sure it was secure. One Sunday afternoon, I opened the trunk and it was gone.”
“Did you make a police report?”
“Yes. I called Bob, and that’s what he said to do.”
“Did you know Trevor Martin says there was no police report?”
“He told me that. But I did talk to an officer that same afternoon, and he said he was going to write a report.”
“Do you remember his name?”
Alexa shook her head. “No. I’m pretty sure I didn’t write it down. It never occurred to me anyone would think I would lie about contacting the police.”
“Michael filed for divorce in January 2009?”
“Yes.”
“Were you surprised?”
Alexa sighed. “That’s not a simple yes or no answer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found out early in our marriage Michael was unfaithful. By now you’ve heard about the paralegal he got pregnant during our first year at the firm. After I realized what was going on, I tried to get him to go to counseling with me. That’s when he started to hit me.”
Alexa focused on the blank wall opposite and went on as if reciting from a book. “Michael enjoyed his affairs, but what he enjoyed even more was humiliating me with them. He made sure I knew about every one. He liked to hit me while he bragged about them.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I going to, but then I found out I was pregnant with Meggie. Michael stopped hitting me while I pregnant, and I thought he wanted to save our marriage. But I was wrong. He just didn’t want to take any chances my doctor would see bruises and ask questions.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he told me. He started hitting me again when Meggie was six weeks old, when I had finished my post partum visits. I wanted to leave, but I had nowhere to go. My grandmother was my only family; and she died in 2005, the year I married Michael.
“I figured if I were pregnant again, Michael would stop hitting me, so I got pregnant with Sam when Meggie was six months old. And I was right; he did stop until after Sam was born.”
“Did anyone at Warrick, Thompson know?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But I missed a lot of days of work because I didn’t want anyone to see the bruises. Michael stepped up the beatings after I went back to work after Sam was born. I didn’t want to leave the firm because I didn’t want to be isolated with Michael. But coping with two babies and never knowing when Michael would come at me again was very hard. It was almost a relief when Alan Warrick let me go because my billable hours were too low. The firm wasn’t making any money off of me.”
“When did you leave the firm?”
“October 2008. Alan called it a ‘leave of absence.” In theory I would come back when Sam was a year old.” Her voice cracked, and she took a sip of water from her cup.
“Did things get better after you stayed home with the children?”
“I wish I could say yes; but no, they didn’t. Michael wasn’t afraid of anyone seeing the bruises.”
“Why didn’t you leave Michael, then?”
“I was planning to. I saw a divorce attorney in November. I put my resume together to try to get a teaching job at one of the law schools in town. I talked to Alan about it, and he offered to be a reference. He had some connections at Cal Western, and he thought he might be able to get me a job teaching Constitutional Law.”
“But you didn’t file for divorce.”
“No, the family law attorney told me the court would not order supervised visits with the children for Michael even though he’d been violent with me. He wasn’t with them much, and he wasn’t patient, and they were so little. I was afraid for them to be alone with them, so I decided I’d better stick it out until they were older and could speak for themselves if Michael went after them.”
“So what led Michael to file for divorce?”
“I don’t know when Michael found out that I had seen the family law attorney. I never told him. But he confronted me about it when we got home from the big Warrick, Thompson Christmas party. He hit me so hard, he broke my left arm. He took me to the emergency room; but on the way he said I if I told the truth about how I’d been hurt, he’d file for divorce, and I would never see the children again. So I told the ER doctor I slipped and fell.”
“Did the doctor believe you?”
“I’m not sure. He seemed suspicious because Michael wouldn’t leave the room when he was talking to me. But if you pull those hospital records, you’ll see I didn’t tell the truth.”
“Are you sure no one else ever witnessed what Michael did to you?”
“There was someone, but she’s been deported.”
“Who?”
“I had a nanny named Guadalupe Caballero who helped out with Meggie and then later with Sam, so I could go back to work. She lived with us, so she not only saw the bruises, she heard Michael hitting me, too.”
“Where is she now?”
“She was undocumented, and Michael had her deported when he filed for divorce.”
“Did Bob Metcalf ever try to find her?”
“No. He didn’t know how to, and honestly, I don’t think she would have cooperated anyway. She was terrified when the INS came to get her.”
“What happened after Michael broke your arm in December?”
“Coleman got involved. He’d been unfaithful to Myrna for years and had been physically abusive, so he thought nothing of what Michael was doing to me. But he knew I had options to leave that Myrna didn’t have, and he didn’t want the world to know his or Michael’s secrets. He called me the day after they put the cast on and offered to pay me what amounted to a monthly income if I wouldn’t leave Michael.”
“A bribe?”
“Yes.”
“And you said?”
“No, of course. I was insulted.”
“How did Coleman react?”
“He was very angry. He told me that was the best offer I’d ever get, and I’d rue the day I turned it down. Then he helped Michael hide all of the community property in offshore accounts, so I wouldn’t get any.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s an educated guess. Just before Michael filed for divorce, all our bank accounts suddenly went down almost to zero. Coleman liked to use offshore accounts for his various clients, so I think he used his expertise to help Michael hide the community property.”
“Was Coleman involved in money laundering?”
“You’d have to ask Alan Warrick since he was the one who monitored client finds in the firm’s trust account. But if Coleman was up to anything illegal, I doubt he would have let Alan know because Alan is very by-the book-follow-the rules, no exceptions.”
“Still, Alan might have known,” Sarah insisted.
“A pretty slim possibility,” Alexa whispered as she sipped from her cup, her eyes on Jim.
Her voice had dropped to a deep whisper, and her face was gray with fatigue. Sarah needed to ask a lot more, but she wanted out of that room at that moment more than anything else on earth. She wanted to be away from Jim’s steady quiet eyes on Alexa and his encouraging smiles as she answered Sarah’s questions.
“We’ve covered a lot of ground, and I think you’re too tired to go on right now. I’ll come another day when you’ve had a chance to rest.”
Dark Moon, A Work in Progress, Chapter Twenty
CHAPTER TWENTY
Alexa Reed was swimming upward from the bottom of the darkest ocean. Her eyelids felt like lead as she tried to force them open to see if she had surfaced yet. She worked to move her lips to speak, but she was still deep under water.
Her mouth was dry and her throat hurt. As she struggled through the darkness hoping to reach the light, she imagined ice water tingling on her tongue. She concentrated on the weights on each eyelid, willing them to vanish so she could see how much farther she had to go before she’d break free of the dark. But then there’d be the problem of swimming to shore. Her limbs were heavy, and she couldn’t imagine having the strength to keep going much longer. Something was pushing on her chest. Was she wearing scuba gear? But a scuba tank didn’t push the air into your lungs. Was she still alive or was this death?
* * *
Around 8 a.m. on Sunday morning, Jim saw Alexa’s eyelids flicker. He held his breath as he waited to see if she’d open them. His back was stiff and sore from the makeshift cot and from being in the chair by her bed for so many hours. The stubble on his chin itched, and he longed for a hot shower and a razor. He had been about to go for a brief walk in the hallway to limber up, but now he stayed put and tried to pray.
Religion, like the Bureau, had wedged itself between him and Gail. His parents had given God short shrift, and he was pretty sure neither of them believed. His maternal grandmother had taken him to her Lutheran services when he was very small. Jim liked the clean smell of the church, the ever-changing flower arrangements on the alter, and the sense of peace that reciting the words of the liturgy with everyone else gave him. But she died when he was twelve, and that was the end of his brush with God until he married Gail in a long Catholic mass, heavy with ritual and incense.
His grandmother had convinced him God was real, despite his parents’ obvious indifference; so when Gail became pregnant with Cody and told him how much it meant to her to have all three of them in the church, he’d been very willing to go along. He’d agreed to everything: Cody’s baptism, suitably Catholic godparents of Gail’s choosing, attendance at Mass every Sunday and on required holy days. He’d been ready to convert until those divorce papers came his way, and he’d found out his already Catholic partner was taking his place in his family.
The bitterness of that moment never ceased to sweep his lungs clean of air. As he watched Alexa’s eyes, hoping for some concrete sign she had decided to soldier on with life, he struggled both to find the words to a prayer and some air to pump into his own now empty lungs.
And then in a flash, Jim was looking at Alexa’s deep blue eyes; and they weren’t blank the way they’d been while she’d been lying on the jail cot. They were a mixture of confusion and anxiety. The doctor apparently had been right: her memory was gone, and she had no idea how she’d wound up here.
Jim got up and hurried over to the bed.
“Alexa?”
Her eyes met his, and tears began to flow. They streamed down her face, a torrent of unchecked emotion. He sat down on the side of the bed and did what he could to gather her into his arms. She was attached to so many machines, he couldn’t hold her very close, and he doubted the professional propriety of what he was doing, anyway.
But professionalism wasn’t the point, he reminded himself. Alexa Reed needed human contact at that moment, and fate had put him there to provide it.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he whispered over and over, patting what was left of her thin little body. “You’re going to be ok, now.”
But, of course, that wasn’t true.
The door opened and Sarah appeared, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep, her short hair sticking up wildly, and her clothes wrinkled from being slept in. Jim wasn’t sure if her eyes went wide with shock because Alexa was awake or because he was holding her in his arms. He felt even more uncomfortable.
“She just woke up.”
Sarah nodded, but said nothing.
“We’d better call the nurse.”
She remained silent but reached for the call button.
Jim eased Alexa back onto her pillows and awkwardly dabbed at her eyes with the end of the sheet.
“Here.” Sarah handed him a wad of tissue from the box by the bed.
“Thanks.”
Alexa’s eyes were now fixed on Sarah’s face as if she were seeing her for the first time. Jim’s heart sank. Significant memory loss for sure.
A crisp, newly on-duty morning shift nurse answered their call and quickly shooed them out of the room while she took Alexa’s vital signs and summoned a doctor. Once again, they stood in the corridor outside Alexa’s door and waited for news.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“She had just opened her eyes. When she started to cry, I didn’t have time to think.”
Jim’s empty stomach knotted because Sarah looked skeptical.
They stood in awkward silence in the corridor, waiting for the doctor to come out.
Finally, he emerged from Alexa’s room. His name badge said Dr. P. McMillan. Sarah notice Dr. McMillan was ten years younger than Dr. McCord of the previous evening but no less jaded and not particularly optimistic.
“Dropping her sedation has allowed her to wake up.”
“So is she going to be ok?” Sarah demanded.
“Too soon to tell. We need to wean her off the ventilator.”
“How long will that take?” Sarah had never seemed to be in a hurry before, Jim thought.
“I can’t say. Some patients can breathe on their own in six to eight hours. Others, it’s a long process.”
“When can she talk to us?”
“Not for several days, and that’s assuming the weaning process goes quickly. She’s going to have a sore throat and the tracheotomy has to heal.”
Jim saw Sarah’s shoulders sag.
Dr. McMillan noticed, too. “Look, these things take time.”
“I know. I know.” Sarah frowned. “But I really need to talk to her.”
Jim was disappointed she’d said “I” and not “we.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Jim faced Sarah over bacon and eggs in the cafeteria.“I’m pretty sure these started life as powder in a tin and not as yolks and whites in shells,” he said.
But Sarah was already digging in. “I’d probably eat cardboard right now if you put it in front of me.”
He smiled. “When this is all over, I’m going to cook you the best brunch in San Diego.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure how we’ll know when it’s over.”
Her eyes darkened as she reached for a slice of limp toast and began to butter it.
“You knew when the Menendez case was over.”
Sarah dropped the knife, and it hit the plastic plate so hard that the occupants of adjacent tables looked up. Her eyes met his, full of dark fire. “I don’t want you to mention that case again! I can’t talk to you about what happened because it’s covered by attorney-client privilege. And Alexa Reed’s situation is very, very different. If you mention Menendez one more time, even though I think you’re the best, I’ll get another investigator.”
The force of her fury startled him. “I’m apologize for bringing it up. I don’t want you to hire someone else.”
She sighed and took a long sip of coffee before picking up the knife and going back to buttering the toast. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
“It’s ok. We’re both exhausted. I was going to suggest going home and getting some sleep.”
“Do you think we can leave her now?”
“She’s going to be watched pretty closely while they try to get her off that ventilator. I say we go get some sleep and meet here again at six to see how she’s doing.”
“Agreed.”
“What are you going to do if she does come off the ventilator quickly? Sending her back to the jail isn’t safe.”
“I’m thinking about that. She has no right to bail because she’s charged with capital murder. She has the right to a bail hearing, but bail can be denied if the facts of guilt are ‘evident’ or the presumption of guilt is ‘great.’ Since we don’t yet have enough facts to know what our defense is going to be, I’m not sure how I can show that the facts of guilt aren’t ‘evident.’”
“You could call the night nurse who told me about the jail’s request for her medical records before they gave her the Lexapro. And you could call the EMT who did the tracheotomy that saved her life.”
Sarah listened thoughtfully. “That would prove they tried to kill her, but I’m not sure that would prove she might be innocent.”
“Bob Metcalf could testify about the war Michael Reed waged on her.”
She frowned. “That wouldn’t give us a Battered Woman’s Syndrome defense. We only have her statements to Bob that she was beaten, and those are hearsay and covered by the attorney-client privilege.”
“But the brutality of the court proceedings – you saw how thick that file was. Michael hauled her on the carpet every chance he got. She might have finally snapped that night and killed both of her tormentors.”
“True. That would be a manslaughter defense and would mean she’s not guilty of capital murder. I’m just not sure I want Preston Baldwin to know the defense theory of the case this early in the game.”
“Maybe you could try it with just the nurse and the EMT and not call Bob unless you have to.”
“That’s a thought. Did you get any contact information for the nurse?”
“Of course. And I wrote down the names of the EMT’s, too. I’ll contact them both tomorrow, although I can see if Tammi is on duty tonight when we come back.”
“I’ll go home and start drafting a motion for the hearing.”
“Don’t you think you should go home and get some rest first?”
“I’m trying to save her life. I haven’t got time to rest. I’m pretty sure if she goes back to jail there won’t be a trial.”
Dark Moon, A Work In Progress, Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jim was back at six, rested and clean shaven in fresh jeans and a white knit shirt. He pulled the vacant chair next to Sarah’s and sat down. She was immediately aware of the masculine energy he brought into the room. She wanted to put her head on his shoulder and feel his arm around her. This wasn’t good. She couldn’t have these thoughts. She had to stay focused on Alexa.
“Any change?”
She told him about Father Bennett’s observation.
“But nothing since?”
“No. And I gather the nurse wasn’t especially impressed when Father Bennett told her Alexa had opened her eyes.”
“That’s right.”
“You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I said, ‘you need to eat.’ This case is taking its toll on you.”
“Ok. I’ll run down to the cafeteria for a little bit.”
“Or you could go home and get some rest.”
“No. I want to be here if there’s any change.”
* * *
For the entire evening, they sat side by side next to Alexa’s bed while the machines hummed and pumped and kept her alive. The stray wicked thought came back, slightly altered from the morning: what if she and Jim could sit side by side in companionable silence every evening, like an old married couple. No, no. Never that. Never. Be quiet, she told her brain. You know the rules. She forced herself to concentrate on the work she had brought. But by eleven o’clock, she was too tired to do any more.
Jim, too, had put down his files. “You’ve been here all day. You should go home.”
“I keep thinking she’ll open her eyes again.”
The door swooshed and a new nurse appeared with her stethoscope draped around her neck and a blood pressure cuff in her hand. She appeared to be in her late twenties, very attractive with large dark eyes and long blonde hair that was confined to a surprisingly flattering on-duty pony tail. She caught Jim’s attention as she crossed the room to check Alexa’s vital signs. Sarah willed herself not to be jealous.
“Any change?” Jim asked.
“Her pulse is weaker. I’m going to call the doctor on duty.”
Suddenly Sarah’s heart began to race as if she could make up Alexa’s deficit with her own. She tried to rein in any show of emotion in front of Jim, but she had believed all afternoon Alexa was going to turn the corner because she’d opened her eyes for Father Bennett. She didn’t want to give up her shred of hope.
The door swooshed more abruptly than before. The attractive nurse had returned with a harried looking doctor who waved Sarah and Jim out of the room.
“Sorry. You’ll have to leave.”
They stood in the hall under the deputy’s suspicious gaze, waiting for news. Ten minutes felt like ten hours.
Sarah leaned against the wall and closed her eyes to keep from showing tears. She felt Jim watching her.
“It’s ok to feel something,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, it’s not. I never get involved emotionally with a case.”
“You’d have to have a heart of stone not to be involved in this one.”
“The thing is, I can’t decide if it would be better if she lived or died. Her children need her, but we’ve got almost nothing to work with for a defense.”
“That’s what they said about the Menendez case.”
“This isn’t the same thing!” She knew she was speaking too sharply, but she didn’t want to talk or even think about Joey Menendez ever again.
Before Jim could say anything else, the doctor came out of Alexa’s room, rattling off instructions to the pretty nurse who eyed Jim sideways as she listened. Sarah read his name badge for the first time. Dr. S. McCord. He was in his early forties, she guessed. Dark hair, a few streaks of gray. She bet Dr. S. McCord had two preteens at home and a Mrs. S. McCord who grocery shopped in tennis skirts and ran his house to perfection.
He finally noticed them standing in the corridor. “Are you her family?”
“Her legal team. We don’t think she has any family,” Jim said. “How is she?”
“We’re going to lighten up on the sedatives to see if her blood pressure will come up. But honestly, I’m not optimistic. The nurses say you’ve been here around the clock since Friday night.”
“We have evidence the jail gave her a drug she was allergic to on purpose and then waited to summon help, hoping she’d die.”
Despite the dramatic accusations, the doctor remained unphased. “Well, no one is going to do anything to her here. You should go home and get some sleep. You both look exhausted.”
But Sarah shook her head. “No. I’m responsible for her. I can’t leave. She opened her eyes around lunch time. She might do that again tonight.”
“It’s not likely. Coma patients often open their eyes for a few seconds at odd times. It’s not a sign she’s going to come out of it or that she hasn’t suffered brain damage.”
“But you don’t know that.”
“True. At this moment, I’m just trying to keep her from crashing. If you both insist on staying, why not take turns sleeping? There’s a chair that converts into a make-shift cot in the Family Waiting Room.”
* * *
In the wee hours, Sarah sat with Alexa, watching an IV drip into her arm. The pretty nurse returned often with the blood pressure cuff. She always gave Sarah a reassuring smile as she went about her business, but never said a word. Her name tag said, “D. Murphy.” D for Diana or for Dorothy or for Deirdre because Murphy was Irish? Odd how irrelevant details could calm your mind in moments of crisis.
Sarah sat beside the bed and held one dry, lifeless hand. “Stay for Meggie and Sam,” she whispered over and over, like a mantra, through the dark hours. “Stay for Meggie and Sam.”
She eyed the rosary often and was tempted to take it back and try to remember some prayers. Our Father. That was part of the rosary prayers, wasn’t it? Our Father who Art in Heaven. No, stop. She knew better. There was no such thing as Our Father and no such place as Heaven. If there was a God, she’d wouldn’t be sitting by a dying woman, charged with murder, wishing she could allow herself to fall in love with the man who slept down the hall. Jim Mitchell had come into her life on the same day Fate had planted Alexa Reed in her world. If Alexa disappeared, she could send Jim on his way, too. In fact, if Alexa disappeared, she absolutely had to send him packing. His references to Menendez made her way too nervous. No one could ever, ever know the truth about that case. Sarah looked down at the plug for the ventilator once more and wondered if she could convince everyone she’d simply tripped over it.
But fatigue had settled into her bones like drying cement. She sat in her chair and held Alexa’s hand and chanted her mantra, until Jim came to relieve her at 4 a.m. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder and smiled as he slid into the chair beside hers.
“I’m here. Go set some sleep.”
And she was so delirious with grief and so relieved to see him that she kissed him lightly on the cheek. Later, as she lay on the fold-out chair that smelled like Jim, too exhausted to think, she would try to decide if he had really kissed the scar on her own cheek in return. Of if she was so tired she was hallucinating.
Finalist, Beverly Hills International Book Awards, 2014
Finalist, Foreword Reviews Book of the Year, 2013
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