The Nominee

by Alan P Woodruff

  Wiley nodded and headed off down the hall just as Leslie appeared. “How is he?” she asked as she rushed into White’s arms.

  “He’s had a stroke,” White said. “Maybe more than one. They’re taking him to surgery now.”

  Leslie’s lower lip trembled as she asked, “What can we do?”

  “There’s nothing we can do now.”

  16.

  Silence permeated his office when White came down the staircase from his apartment at eight o’clock the following morning. It was rare that anyone else was at work this early, but there was something different about this silence. More than the mere absence of office noise, there was a spiritual reverence to the quiet, like the sound of an empty cathedral.

  White was startled by the sound of Grace Matthews’s sniffles. As he approached her, he saw that her eyes were red and puffy. Used tissues already filled the small brass wastepaper basket beside her desk. For the first time in the eighteen years she’d worked for White, she didn’t have a cup of coffee waiting for him when he arrived.

  “Horse called and told me what happened,” she said between muffled sobs.

  “Harry’s going to be all right,” White assured her in a voice that carried far more confidence than he felt. “I’m going back to the hospital as soon as I check on a few things.”

  Matthews pursed her lips, holding back the tears.

  “We’re not going to be here today. Why don’t you take the day off?”

  “I’d rather stay here. If I don’t stay busy, I’ll…”

  White nodded. “I understand.” He squeezed Grace’s shoulder and went into his office where he began impatiently sorting through the last of the previous day’s messages. He was still staring at the pink slips, unable to concentrate on their content, when Horse entered his office and dropped onto the sofa.

  “What have you heard about Harry’s condition?”

  White paused, taking a last furtive look at the pink slips before tossing them absently on his desk. “Nothing yet,” he said as he sunk, exhausted, into his chair. “We spent the night at the hospital. I left about an hour ago to get a shower and a change of clothes. I was just about to go back and relieve Leslie.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  White rubbed his eyes. “Not good. You know how she feels about Harry.”

  “How we all feel,” Horse corrected.

  “Yeah,” White agreed.

  #

  White cursed silently as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Construction of the new medical office building required the closing of half the lot, and the remainder of the lot was already full. After circling for the third time, White pulled his pick-up truck onto the grass that bordered the entrance road and left it there.

  Tension gripped him as he approached the hospital entrance, partly because of Harris, and partly because he was never comfortable at hospitals. It was a feeling he could never explain, like the fundamental fear people have of dentists.

  Outside the doors to the main entrance, visitors puffed nervously on their last cigarettes before entering. An old man in a wheelchair, an oxygen bottle attached to the back and a mask on the old man’s face, was pushed up the ramp by an apparently distraught son who feared the worst. The automatic doors slid open, and the old man passed a wheelchair coming the other way. A young woman smiled down at her newborn child as the proud father beamed.

  After a quick visit to the cafeteria, where he purchased coffee for himself and Leslie, White headed for the intensive care unit. Leslie opened her eyes and stretched as White entered the waiting room.

  “How’s he doing?” White asked as he settled onto the sofa beside Leslie.

  “They won’t tell me anything. The nurse said he’s going in and out of a coma, or whatever they call it. He didn’t recognize me when I saw him…” Leslie checked her watch, “about an hour ago.”

  “Have you talked to John Wiley?”

  “He’s in surgery. He left a message saying that he’ll come as soon as he’s finished.”

  No sooner had she spoken than the elevator door slid open and Dr. Wiley stepped into the waiting room, still wearing his surgical scrubs. “Sorry I took so long. The procedure was a little more complicated than I expected.”

  “He doesn’t look good, John,” Leslie blurted. “He doesn’t seem to be aware of anything.”

  “Let me check on him. Then we’ll talk,” Wiley said as he headed into the ICU.

  Neither White nor Leslie said anything as they watched Wiley cross the ICU to Harris’s bed, examine his chart and speak briefly with the nurse. When he reappeared, he didn’t look happy. “There doesn’t seem to be any improvement.”

  Leslie clutched White’s arm. “What does that mean?”

  “The surgery itself went fine. e’s probably still hemorrhaging a little from some microscopic ruptured capillaries.”

  “I don’t understand,” Leslie said. “Can’t you do anything?”

  Wiley shook his head. “There isn’t anything we can do but wait. Either…”

  Wiley was interrupted by the ICU nurse. “Dr. Wiley. You better come quick.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Wiley said over his shoulder as he hurried away.

  A minute later, Dr. Levenson rushed from the stairway door and into the ICU.

  Through the window in the door to the ICU, Leslie and White watched anxiously as the doctors and two nurses attended to Harry Harris. Leslie clung tightly to White’s arm and said a prayer.

  Inside the ICU, Dr. Wiley bent over Harris’s face and shouted something at the nurse. A cart with a tray of mysterious instruments as wheeled to his side. In one practiced motion, Dr. Wiley tilted Harris’s head back and inserted a breathing tube into his throat. A nurse pushed a cart beside Harris’ bed as Dr. Wiley connected the breathing tube to the cart.

  Dr. Levenson lifted the lids of Harris’s eyes and passed a penlight over them. He looked at Dr. Wiley and said something. Dr. Wiley repeated the procedure and nodded.

  Dr. Levenson removed his stethoscope from around his neck and positioned it in his ears. Methodically he listened to Harris’ chest, reporting his findings to Dr. Wiley as he went. Dr. Wiley stepped to the end of Harris’ bed where he retrieved his medical chart and began writing notes.

  “What are they doing?” Leslie asked helplessly.

  “Everything they can,” White assured her.

  The nurse said something to Dr. Wiley who shook his head. The nurse’s expression changed from hopeful to grim.

  “Oh, Lucius,” Leslie whimpered.

  White put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. Dr. Wiley looked toward them and said something to Dr. Levenson. Dr. Levenson nodded and Dr. Wiley headed for the door.

  “It’s not good,” he began as he approached Leslie and White. “He stopped breathing, and we had to put him on a ventilator. His heart’s beating on its own, but he’s not responsive to light.”

  Tears formed in Leslie’s eyes as she asked, “Is he going to make it?”

  “It doesn’t look good,” Dr. Wiley said. “We’re pretty sure he’s hemorrhaging into the brain. There’s nothing more we can do but wait.”

  #

  “Are you sure you don’t want to get some sleep?” White asked when they were back in their apartment.

  “I… I’ll lie down later. I’m still too worried about Harry to sleep.”

  “Do you need something to eat.”

  “Maybe some toast.”

  White put two slices of bread in the toaster. “How about some tea?”

  Leslie forced a smile. “That would be nice,” she responded in a voice that said the act of speaking required great concentration.

  “It just isn’t fair.”

  White put a kettle of water on the stove. “I know.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Just what the doctor said — we wait.”

  #

  When White returned from the Hospital, Horse met him White at the elevator and
followed him into White’s office. “How’s Harry doing?”

  “Not good. No change from last night.”

  “How’s Leslie taking it?”

  “Worried. Afraid.”

  Horse uttered something incoherent, probably something that indicated his expectations about Leslie’s feelings, as he dropped to the sofa.

  White stood by the conference table, leaning on his hands with his head bowed.

  For a minute neither one of them spoke.

  Finally, White turned, sat on the edge of the table and asked, “What do you have?”

  “I got a call from one of my sources on the east coast.”

  “And?”

  “The only thing we have to connect Shepard and Jackson to drugs is the guy in the blue Porsche. Right now, I assume it’s the Cambodian who works for Richard Barlow. I asked if he knew anything about a Cambodian being involved in the trade.”

  “And did he?”

  “Nothing specific. But a few years ago, a low-level heroin pusher got busted in Fort Lauderdale and tried to cut a deal by pointing a finger at someone up in West Palm Beach. He claimed that his smack was being brought into the country by couriers who got their entry papers through a Cambodian.”

  “The guy who worked for Richard Barlow?”

  “The file didn’t have any names, and the investigation didn’t go anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “The snitch was shot as soon as he got out on bail.”

  “Quite a coincidence.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Horse agreed. “And so did my source. He thought there might be a connection between the release and the murder, so he checked into who posted the bail.”

  “And?”

  Horse knew what White was hoping to hear. “Sorry. There wasn’t any connection to Barlow. All I got was the name of the company that posted the bond. It’s a small outfit out of Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Finding a connection to Barlow was probably too much to hope for. Anything else?”

  “My friend didn’t come up with anything, but he got me thinking. I asked if he could find out about any bail bonds posted by Barlow.”

  “What made you think an immigration lawyer would have any reason to post bail in criminal cases?”

  “Nothing specific. But sometimes dumb-ass luck rears its ugly head.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Barlow’s posted bail in quite a few drug cases over the years.”

  “So he practices criminal law as well as immigration.”

  “That’s what the bonds would make you think,” Horse agreed. “But he hasn’t actually tried any criminal cases in any county I’ve checked.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Maybe not,” Horse corrected. “The people Barlow represents never seem to go to trial.”

  “Why’s that?” White asked, never doubting that Horse would have the answer.

  “Most of them either got sweetheart deals for minimum time or had their charges dismissed.”

  “You said ‘most.’”

  “A good number of the people bailed out by Barlow have had fatal accidents.”

  White rolled his shoulders; something he frequently did when taking time to absorb unexpected information. “This is getting interesting.”

  “And that,” Horse said, “is an understatement. Do you want me to look into it?”

  “Later,” White said before lapsing into a pensive silence.

  #

  Leslie was curled up against a corner of the sofa when White returned to their apartment. A glass of wine sat untouched on the coffee table.

  She stood and embraced White as he crossed the room. Her eyes were red and puffy and had a vacant look of suspended consciousness. Neither of them said anything.

  Sherlock slid off the chair opposite the sofa and ambled to them. She climbed onto the sofa and curled up next to Leslie, resting her head on Leslie’s lap.

  Leslie scratched her behind his ear.

  “Even Sherlock knows,” Leslie murmured sadly

  White remained silent, waiting until Leslie seemed to have regained some measure of composure before speaking.

  “I talked to Dr. Levenson. He said that if nothing changes in the next day or so we should start thinking about a long-term care facility.”

  Leslie curled herself around White. A river of tears cascaded down her cheek.

  17.

  Lucius White’s annual Christmas party was an event that shouldn’t be missed. White wanted to cancel the party, but Leslie convinced him it should continue as a celebration of Harry Harris.

  The air conditioners were on full. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Bars were set up in the reception area outside White’s office and in his apartment. Tables in the balcony library and White’s apartment were laden with food ranging from bar-b-que to Oysters Rockefeller and cracked Dungeness crab.

  News of Harris’s stroke had already made its way down the legal grapevine. Everyone wanted to know about his condition and prognosis. Even those who had abandoned him in the dark hours following his accident expressed concern and asked where they could send flowers.

  Around the room, people were talking about Harris.

  “God, that man could play a jury like a violin.….”

  “Do you remember the Donahue murder trial? Harry got so wound up during closing argument that he jumped up on the defense table and…”

  “He was the best damned fisherman you ever saw. He could coax a bass out of any hole in the river.”

  “So this hot-shot lawyer from Miami is making his opening statement, and he’s just getting to the big finale when Harry leaned to his side and passed gas. It sounded like rolling thunder.”

  Diane Lindsey’s appearance at 9:00 was preceded by an explosion of laughter, something that accompanied her wherever she went. Outside the courtroom, she was never mistaken for a lawyer. She was outspoken, loud, earthy and uninhibited: qualities consistent with her claim — made to those who didn’t know better — that she was a professional stripper whose name was Fluffy LeMuff.

  Her stroll across the room was followed by the lustful eyes of a dozen men, and the sour looks of as many women.

  “Fashionably late, as usual,” Leslie said as she greeted Lindsey and they exchanged kisses.

  Lindsey laughed. “I had a bitch of a time deciding what to wear.”

  “You chose well,” White offered, admiring her sleek oriental-patterned cocktail dress.

  Lindsey curtsied. “Why thank you, sir. You don’t think I’m showing too much tit?”

  Leslie laughed. “Class, Diane. Show a little class.”

  “I tried that once, but showing a little tit gets me laid more often.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Hey, girl,” Lindsey protested. “You’ve got super-stud here to keep you happy. Some of us are still looking.”

  Leslie smiled and shook her head as she asked, “Where’s Dr. What’s-his-name? I thought you two were an item.”

  “You mean Dr. Slater.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s yesterday’s news. We split up about a month ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I found out it’s true what they say about doctors: “You are what you treat.”

  Leslie responded with a puzzled expression as she considered Lindsey’s comment. Finally, she smiled. “He was a proctologist, wasn’t he?”

  Lindsey laughed. “Girl, you got that right.”

  White and Leslie joined in Lindsey’s laughter.

  “Why can’t I find a nice sensitive, caring guy?”

  “They already have boyfriends,” White said.

  Lindsey laughed again. “You’re an asshole.”

  “You’re confusing me with Dr. Slater.”

  Lindsey shook her head. “So, point me to the eligible men.”

  “Can we talk for a moment in my study first?”

  “As long as you get me a drink on the way.”

  #

>   White led Lindsey across the room, stopped at the bar for a Diet Pepsi and a martini for Lindsey, and headed for his study.

  Lindsey sat on the love seat in the corner, leaned back and crossed her legs. White shut the door and sat on the edge of his desk.

  “Now I know why the judges love you,” White said, smiling as if he had just discovered the Holy Grail. “If you cross your legs like that in court, no one is going to pay attention to anything else.”

  Lindsey laughed. “You should see Judge Carlin trying to get a look at my pussy.”

  “I’d just as soon not see Judge Carlin do anything,” White said, recalling his appearance before the Judge the week before.

  “You and every other lawyer in town,” Lindsey agreed. “Thank God he isn’t in the criminal division. I’d hate to have him on your case.”

  “Speaking of which…”

  “Let me guess. You want to talk about my latest client.”

  “Your representation of Tom Jackson was somewhat abbreviated.”

  “It’s what happens when your client gets murdered.”

  “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Do you mean, was my client afraid your client would kill him?”

  White stiffened at the thought. “Is that what Jackson said?”

  “Relax. I can’t be a witness because he didn’t say anything specific about your client.”

  “Did you get any sense that Shepard and Jackson had agreed to a story… in case they were caught?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just trying to read between the lines of my client interview.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t help you.”

  “By the way, how did Jackson come up with two-hundred-fifty thousand bail?”

  “Two-hundred-fifty thousand? Where did you hear that?”

  “That’s what Parker wanted for Shepard.”

  “That’s strange. All he wanted for Tom Jackson was fifty-thousand.”

  White absently picked up a letter opener from his desk and began tapping it on his leg. “Why do you suppose he wanted so much more for Shepard.”

  “You’ll have to ask Paul that. The bondsman who contacted me knew Jackson’s bail was going to be fifty-thousand and had already issued the bond.”