After using the urinal, he stood bent over the sink thoroughly scrubbing his hands, staring at his image no more than six inches away in the mirror above the sinks. He dried his hands from the paper towel dispenser and again faced himself in the mirror. Straightened the knot in his meticulously tied tie, ran his hands over the lapels of his suitcoat, touched up a few loose strands of his sandy blonde hair and said out loud to the image in the glass. “Well, pal, sorry but that’s about as good as it’s going to get. Not too bad,” he continued as he leaned closer to study his face, “but you are starting to show your age a bit.”
He reached in his pants’ pocket to retrieve a breath mint, popped it into his mouth, picked up the briefcase, took one last look in the mirror and headed out of the restroom and into the court.
“Good morning,” he heard Margaret Tennant’s clerk, Lois, pleasantly say as he stepped through the gate.”
“Good morning,” he replied as he walked up to her perch next to the judge’s chair.
“You’re Marc Kadella and here for Raymont Fuller,” she said, a statement not a question, as she marked her copy of the court’s calendar to note that Marc had checked in. “The judge wants to see you. She said you could go back as soon as you got here.”
“Oh, really. Okay. Um, is my client here?”
“Not yet. They’re bringing him up now. I’ll let you know as soon as he gets here.”
“Okay. Good. I guess I’ll go see what the judge wants.”
He turned and walked to the back corner of the courtroom toward the door leading to the chambers’ area. When he reached the door, he turned and saw the clerk watching him with a big grin on her face.
“Hi, there,” Margaret Tennant said as he entered her chambers. “How are you?”
“I’m good, judge,” he replied.
“It’s nice to see you, again,” she said softly as she rose from her chair and held out her hand to him. He took the hand in his, their eyes locked, and they warmly shook hands.
“Have a seat, Marc.”
“Thanks.”
“Is your client here yet?”
“No, they’re bringing him up now.”
“How about a prosecutor’?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you busy Saturday night? What do you say we go out to dinner?” he heard her say.
He involuntarily sat up in the chair and stared at her for a long moment, the silence hanging in the air between them. “Sure,” he finally managed to croak. “That’d be good.”
“A little forward?” she said with a laugh that broke the brief tension between them.
“Well, ah, a little unexpected,” he answered with a smile. He relaxed and leaned forward, placed his forearms on the desk, lightly entwined his fingers together and said, “Now that I’m over the shock, I’d be delighted to go out with you. In fact, I was trying to work up the nerve to ask.”
“You mean I could’ve waited?” she said rolling her eyes upward and laughing again.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind. In fact, it’s kinda nice for the ego to be asked once,” he said as he sat back in the chair.
“Really? See, we’re taught that men don’t like pushy, aggressive women. But I figured, to hell with it, it’s the 21st century, right?”
“I’m not sure that’s so true anymore. I mean, that men don’t like to be asked. Some probably don’t but I think it’s okay. Besides, it sure let’s us know you’re interested. Anyway, I’ll call you, what, Friday, and we’ll set something up.”
“Good,” she said smiling. “Another murder last night. What’s that, six now?”
“Yeah, six. The cops had a shot at him, I guess. At least according to the news I heard on the radio. I haven’t seen a paper yet today.”
“It’s getting damned frightening. I hope they nail this guy soon,” she said as the intercom on her phone buzzed. “Yes,” she said as she brushed back her auburn hair and put the phone to her ear. “Okay, I’ll tell him. Your client’s here,” she said to Marc as she replaced the phone in its cradle.
“I better go see him. Get him ready for the plea,” Marc said as he rose to go.
“Let me know when you’re ready. Tell the clerk and as soon as a prosecutor graces us with his or her presence, we’ll do this.”
“Right,” Marc replied, smiling at the judge’s subtle shot at the punctuality habits of the county attorney’s office.
“Hey, Ray, how are you holding up?” he asked as he stepped through the door of the small conference room adjoining the courtroom.
“Hey, man,” his client replied looking up at Marc. Raymont sat in one of the chairs surrounding the small, round wooden topped conference room table. Wearing his one-piece county orange jumpsuit, Raymont had pushed the chair back against the wall and sat hunched over, his legs spread, his elbows on his knees, manacled hands clasped together with his shoulders hunched over and head down as if in prayer or deep thought. He rose to shake hands with Marc as Marc turned to the deputy leaning against the wall opposite from Raymont.
“Can we take these off?” Marc asked, referring to the handcuffs.
“Nope. Not unless the judge okays it,” the guard answered as he pushed himself away from the wall and began leaving. “I’ll be right outside the door. “
“He’s not going anywhere,” Marc continued. “Take these things off.”
“Sorry, counselor. We have our rules too.”
“You think I’d risk my license to bust him out?” asked Marc, obviously irritated, to the guard’s back as the door swung closed. “Asshole.”
“It’s all right, dude. They aint that tight. I’ll be cool.”
Marc took the chair directly opposite his client, no more than three feet from him. The two men sat silently for almost two minutes, Marc sitting back in the chair with his legs crossed, his head still light from the startling revelation from Margaret Tennant. Raymont continued staring at the floor, obviously reflecting on his immediate future and its bleak prospects. Finally, Marc came back to the present reality and quietly asked, “So, you okay with this? You ready for this?”
“Yeah, man. I’m okay,” Raymont responded, sighing audibly as he sat up in his chair, rubbed the stubble on his face and looked directly at Marc. “You know what’s bullshit about this? I’m gotta say I did the one thing I didn’t do; try to kill someone. You know it, I know it, everybody knows I didn’t try to kill nobody.”
“Yeah, you’re right, Ray. It’s ironic.”
“Yeah, right. Ironic, man, whatever the hell that means,” he laughed.
“Look, Ray. They have the bullet, they have the gun, they have witnesses,” Marc began to explain, once again.
“I know, I know,” said Raymont, cutting him off. “I’m cool, okay. Like I said, man, I did what I did and I’ll take it like a man. Besides, man, I can do six years.”
“Four with good time.”
“Yeah, okay. Four with good time assumin’ I behave,” Raymont said. “But what the hell, the brothers’ll think I’m a bad ass.”
Just then, there was a light knock on the conference room door. Marc looked over at it just as the deputy opened it slightly and said, “The prosecutor’s here. Just wanted to let you know.”
“We’ll be out in a minute,” Marc replied.
“Okay, counselor. I’ll let the judge know,” the deputy said as he quietly closed the door.
“You ready?” Marc asked after he turned back to his client.
“Yeah, man. Let’s do it.”
SEVENTEEN
Jake Waschke, dressed in a flimsy hospital gown, sat on the edge of the hospital bed in which he had spent the night. He stared at his reflection in the mirror through the open door of the bathroom. The pounding he had felt in his head when he first awoke had been replaced by a dull, steady pain. More of an irritant than anything debilitating.
As he looked at the image in the mirror, he gingerly reached up to his forehead and lightly ran his fingers over the white patch covering the egg
-shaped purple knot and the gash with the dozen or so stitches holding it closed. He ran his fingers back through his graying head of dirty hair, over the stubble on his face and thought about how good a shave and shower would feel. Jake continued to stare at the image of the middle age man in the mirror. The eyes looked old and tired, as hazy and unfocused as his memory of the night before. He had been awake almost two hours now and had spent the entire time trying to get his mind and memory of the past evening’s events to come into focus.
Gradually, over the last two hours, the haze in his head had begun to dissipate and his memory began to return, recalling the chase, the sighting of the suspect and a vague recollection of an accident. It was only now that the details were coming back but only in bits and pieces. Like out of focus pictures flashing on a screen.
Just then, the door to his room slowly opened and a doctor who, to Jake at least, looked to be all of twenty-five, came through the door and into the room with Deputy Chief Holby hard on his heels.
“How’s the head?” the young doctor asked.
“Still there, I guess,” Jake replied with a weak smile while remaining seated, his bare, white legs dangling above the floor.
“I meant the headache.”
“Not as bad.”
“I’ll give you a prescription for Tylenol with codeine.”
“Great, I know where I can sell those on the street.”
“Very funny, Jacob,” the deputy chief said.
“I’ll just get some regular ibuprofen and I’ll be all right. Just get me my clothes so I can get out of here,” he growled in reply.
“You should stay another day, at least, so we can keep an eye on you,” the doctor said as he stepped in front of his uncooperative patient. He removed a small pen light from the pocket of his white hospital smock, bent slightly at the waist and gently held open Waschke’s eyelids and examined the pupils with his light. “You have a concussion, Lieutenant and we can’t be responsible if you leave too soon. I recommend that you spend another day here.”
“I’ll be all right,” said Jake as he slid off the edge of the bed, his feet lightly slapping the cold, tiled floor.
“Did anything significant leak out of that hole in his head?” the deputy chief asked, obviously pleased at the chance to make a joke at Waschke’s expense.
“We did a very thorough examination of his head,” said the young doctor in mock seriousness, “and found absolutely nothing.”
“Very funny, you two. You should go on stage with that act.”
“Seriously, Lieutenant,” the doctor continued, “you should stay.”
“I got things to do, Doc. I’ll be fine. Is this thing gonna scar?” Jake asked, lightly touching his forehead.
“Oh, yeah,” said the deputy chief sarcastically. “A scar would really detract from that face.”
“How’s my car?” Jake asked Holby, knowing the damage he had done to his police vehicle would be a sore spot to his superior.
“Not funny, Waschke,” Holby replied. “The whole front end, including the engine and undercarriage, is totaled.”
“Oh, sorry,” Jake replied meekly, a smile on his face, knowing this attitude would annoy Holby even more.
“Not yet you’re not. You will be, though,” said Holby.
“Yeah, right. Why do I doubt that? Anyway, I need to get out of here, Doctor. I have things to do.”
“That’s your choice,” the doctor wearily replied. “We have plenty of other patients. The neurologist is on the way up. Stick around a bit longer and let her check you over first. Okay?”
“How long?” Jake asked.
“Not long. I spoke to her a few minutes ago and she said she’d be right up.”
“Okay. I’ll wait.”
“I’ll give you this prescription anyway,” the younger man continued as he tore a page from the prescription pad he had been writing on and handed the slip of paper to the big cop. “If you feel like you need it, get it filled.”
“If you’re done, Doctor,” said Holby, “I’d like to talk to him alone.”
Holby patiently waited for the physician to leave then turned to Jake and said, “So, tell me what happened last night.”
“Well, let’s see,” Jake began as he massaged the back of his neck with his left hand attempting to relieve the stiffness and pain in his head and neck.
“You probably have some whiplash,” said Holby.
“I’ll be okay,” Waschke said, irritated. “What happened last night?” he continued. “I remember getting the call from dispatch, that reminds me, how’s the other cop? What’s-his-name?”
“Foley. He’s fine. Sprained ankle and bruised hip. He’ll be okay in a couple days.”
“What happened to him, anyway?”
“Slipped and fell in the rain chasing our guy through one of the yards. What can I tell you, shit happens.”
“Yeah, tough break. We might’ve had him if he hadn’t gone down. Anyway, I’m following over the radio. I come wheeling around a corner, go down this street and see a guy running down the sidewalk right at me. I jerk the wheel around to cut him off and the next thing I know, I wake up here.”
“Did you get a look at him? Did you see him?”
“I don’t know. Yeah, maybe. It happened pretty fast and it was raining and dark. I remember he was in dark clothes.” He closed his eyes trying to concentrate and after a moment said, “A white guy. I got enough of a look to know that. About average size and height. Nothing unusual. Nothing to distinguish him. That’s about all. It’s all pretty hazy.”
“Shit,” said Holby, obviously disappointed. “Well, maybe it’ll come back to you. In the meantime, we found number six,” he continued as he reached in his inside coat pocket and pulled out a small notebook. “Donna Anderson, twenty-six. Brown and brown. Five eight, one hundred twenty pounds, according to her driver’s license. We’re running her down now. Should know more later today.”
“It all sounds too familiar,” Jake said. “What happened after I crashed.”
“That’s the bitch about the whole damn thing,” said Holby, his voice rising in anger as he began to pace about the small room. “We had ten cars in the neighborhood within five minutes and the whole square mile completely sealed in fifteen. Spent the whole damn night and a lot of overtime searching every house, yard, you name it and found nothing. Knocked on every door. He just slipped by us.”
“Run down an alley and you’re on Lake Street in two minutes. From there,” Waschke continued, “a car, a bus, whatever and he’s gone.”
“Yeah and now the media’s really howling. Calling for the chief to resign , all kinds of crap.”
“They’re idiots. They’re just using this to sell newspapers and TV time. Who cares what those assholes think,” said Jake, obviously annoyed.
“Yeah, easy for you to say. Unfortunately the mayor can’t take that attitude with them. She’d like to but it don’t work that way.”
“I guess,” Jake replied with a resigned shrug.
“You look like shit,” said Holby.
“Thanks.”
“What’re friends for. Look, when you get out of here, go home for a while. Clean up, get something to eat, maybe take a nap. Come downtown around 4:30. Everybody’s out on the streets trying to track down the victim’s whereabouts last night or maybe see if we can locate another witness.”
“Another witness?” Jake asked, surprised.
“We have one, sort of. Some old guy out walking his dog found the body and saw the freak. Scared the shit out of him and the dog.”
“Did he see anything? Give a description?” Jake asked, as calmly as he could.
“Nah. Nothing useful. Pretty vague. When the old man saw him he was wearing a hoodie or a mask on his head. He must’ve taken it off cause Doug Foley caught a glimpse of a white guy, like you. The old guy couldn’t even give us that much.”
“Too bad,” Jake replied, doing his best to keep the relief he felt out of his voice.
The door opened and a woman in a doctor’s coat with a stethoscope draped around her neck walked into the room, looked over the two men and said, “I’m Dr. Canby and you must be Lieutenant Waschke,” she said as she stepped over to Jake as he sat back down on the bed. She removed the same style penlight that the first doctor had, turned it on and looked into Jake’s eyes, pointing the light into his pupils.
“Don’t they have any real doctors around here? You know, gray haired old guys,” Waschke asked.
“Great. Just what I need this morning. A dinosaur,” answered the thirty- something blonde woman.
“Aww, come on Doctor. I’m just kidding,” he said with a weak laugh.
“Oh, that was a joke. I’ll remember to laugh later.”
She spent the next two minutes poking and prodding, trying to annoy him as much as she could without being too obvious. Finally, satisfied with her inspection, she pronounced him likely to survive if she didn’t kill him herself.
“You’re a class act, Jake,” said Holby as the door clicked closed after the neurologist had left.
“I was trying to flirt with her,” he said, defensively. “How was I to know she couldn’t take a joke?”
“I’ll get the word out to everybody to be back by 4:30. We’ll have a briefing then to see what, if anything, anyone’s turned up. Meantime, you go home for a while and that’s an order.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I don’t feel much like pounding the pavement today, anyway. I’ll need a ride.”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 9
