Justice Lost (Darren Street Book 3)

by Scott Pratt

“We’re close to getting it done,” she said, “but it’s his thirtieth wedding anniversary. I’ll have to wait until Monday.”

  “How lucky for me,” Fraturra said. “Forgive my lack of decorum, but my experience has been that some women find straight talk sexy. The way I see it, one of two things is going to happen: either the two of us are going to spend the weekend together in luxurious and amorous bliss, or we aren’t. I would prefer that we do. You can stay at my house if you’d like—I’m single—or you can stay at your hotel and we can maintain a little space if you’re more comfortable doing so. Everything will be on me—food, drink, mood-altering substances, if you’re into that sort of thing. I have a five-thousand-square-foot home overlooking the Tennessee River, an incredible pool, absolute privacy, and an insatiable sexual appetite. All you have to do is say yes, and we’re out of this place.”

  The beeper vibrated again, and Fraturra became irritated. He pulled it from his belt and looked down.

  “What kind of medicine do you practice?” Davis said.

  “OB-GYN.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? The look on your face says something is wrong. Is there an emergency? Someone having a baby?”

  “No, no. Nothing wrong. No emergency. I’m not even on call this weekend. I just need to take care of something. Will you excuse me for a few minutes?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

  Fraturra made his way out of the crowded bar and into the men’s room. He would have gone outside, but a severe thunderstorm had suddenly blown into Knoxville, and rain was falling in sheets. He dialed a number on his cell.

  “Bernie? Yeah, yeah, I need a favor. I’m on call tonight. A patient has come in, and I can’t make it. Can you cover for me?”

  Fraturra listened to the answer, something about a daughter’s volleyball game. He stepped into a stall and lowered his voice.

  “C’mon, Bernie, I’ve done you plenty of favors in the past,” he said.

  “Really?” was the response from Bernie Weinstein, a member of Fraturra’s medical group. “Name one.”

  Fraturra cringed. “Give me a break, Bernie. This is important.”

  “Where are you?” Weinstein asked. “Your speech is slurred. You’re drinking again, aren’t you, Nick?”

  “No, I’m past all that. I just need you to cover for me.”

  “You’re lying. You’re drunk. Which bar are you in, and I’ll call Bill Taylor, have him come and pick you up. Taylor won’t say anything to anyone.”

  “I’m not in a fucking bar! My mother fell and broke her hip. I’m driving to Murfreesboro.”

  “And this fall happened when?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of hours ago, I think. I just found out.”

  “Why didn’t you call Jenkins? He’s the boss.”

  “Jenkins is a dick. You know he doesn’t like me.”

  “He’s your ex-father-in-law, and you’re the father of his grandson. He’s also kept you employed far longer than anyone else in his position would have. He feels loyal to your father. That’s the only reason you weren’t out on the street a long time ago.”

  “He also financed his daughter’s divorce from me.”

  “Who can blame him? You were screwing everything you could get your hands on. Listen, Nick, I’d like to help you, but we’ve been down this road. I just don’t believe you. I think you’re in a bar somewhere, probably trying to get laid, and you’re trying to dump your call responsibility on somebody else. I’m not going to risk getting sued, I’m not going to risk my job at the medical group, I’m not going to risk my medical license, and I’m not going to cover for you. So either you call Jenkins right now or I will. Is there a patient who needs care in labor right now?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve gotten a few pages and two calls from Southside Birthing Center.”

  “And you’re on call there tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t answer.”

  “Did they leave you a voice mail?”

  “I haven’t listened to it. Jesus, Bernie, babies practically deliver themselves. How do you think the human race got this far in the first place? The nurses can handle it.”

  “Are you listening to yourself, Nick? What the hell’s the matter with you? Whatever you’re doing, stop it right now. Call Jenkins—no, I’m calling Jenkins—but you get your ass over there and see about your patient. I just hope everything is all right.”

  “Fine, asshole,” Fraturra said. “I’ll find somebody else to cover.”

  “I’m calling Jenkins,” he heard Weinstein say as he disconnected the call.

  Fraturra started going through his contact list of the other doctors in his group as he walked out of the bathroom. He was thinking about cocaine, Viagra, and what he was going to do to that voluptuous blonde named Danielle Davis. When he walked back into the bar, he didn’t see her. He stepped to his stool and motioned the bartender over.

  “Where’s the blonde who was here?” he said.

  “She paid and bolted as soon as you went into the bathroom,” the bartender said.

  “Shit,” Fraturra muttered under his breath. “Bring me my tab.”

  CHAPTER 3

  About half an hour after we arrived at the birthing center, I began to get the distinct impression that something was wrong. Fraturra still hadn’t shown up, and the nurse’s demeanor had changed. Her face was tight. She was moving quickly. She kept checking the monitors, and she kept feeling Grace’s baby bump and talking quietly to Grace. She left the room several times.

  “Have you heard from the doctor?” I said to her when she walked back in after leaving for the third time.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  “Everything okay with Grace?”

  “Of course.” She turned and gave me a strained smile. “Everything is fine.”

  She ran her hands over Grace’s belly again, looked at all the monitors again, and turned to me.

  “Excuse me, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said.

  “You just got here,” I said as she hurried out the door.

  When she came back about five minutes later, she had an older woman with her, also wearing a nurse’s uniform.

  “Hi,” the woman said to me. “I’m Allison Broyles, a registered nurse. I’m just going to take a look at a couple of things.”

  “What’s going on?” I said. “And don’t say nothing. Don’t tell me everything is fine, because I can tell from the look on your face that everything isn’t fine.”

  “Your baby’s heart rate has dropped some,” Nurse Broyles said. “That concerns me a little.”

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “We called the head of his group. He’s on his way.”

  “But where is the doctor who was supposed to be here when we got here?”

  Nurse Broyles turned, looked at me, straightened her back, and said, “I don’t know, sir. We’ve been trying to reach him, and he isn’t responding.”

  I got up and walked over to the bedside. I took Grace’s hand.

  “Do you feel okay?” I said.

  “I feel a little strange,” Grace said, “but I think I’m okay.”

  “No pain?”

  “No. I feel a little woozy, but no pain.”

  “We’re going to need to move you to another room,” Nurse Broyles said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  “What room?” I said.

  “We’re going to move her to an operating room. When the other doctor gets here, if the baby needs to be taken out quickly, we want to have her ready.”

  “This doesn’t sound good,” I said.

  “It’s just a precaution. Everything will be fine.”

  A couple of orderlies showed up just then, and I reached down and kissed Grace on the forehead.

  “I love you, Grace,” I said. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll be waiting for you. See you
soon.”

  A tear slipped from Grace’s eye, and she smiled up at me.

  “I’ve been waiting for months to hear those words,” she said. “I love you, too, Darren.”

  She blew me a kiss, and they pushed her out of the room.

  “Nurse Diaz is going to accompany you to a special waiting room while we take Miss Grace to the operating room,” Nurse Broyles said.

  Just then, a large man walked through the door. He was wearing a brown sport coat, a white, button-down shirt, and brown slacks and shoes. He was around forty and had curly, dark hair and wore wire-framed glasses. I immediately noticed bloodshot eyes behind the lenses.

  “Dr. Fraturra,” Nurse Broyles said. “Nice of you to join us. Jenny, would you take Mr. Street to the waiting room?”

  As we started to walk out of the room past Dr. Fraturra, I stopped dead in my tracks. Jenny was in front of me, and Nurse Broyles was behind me. “You’re Dr. Fraturra?” I said. “Where the hell have you been? Have you been drinking?” I moved up close to him and pointed my finger at his nose. “You smell like a distillery.”

  “Go on to wherever you were going,” Fraturra said. “I don’t have time to fool with you right now.”

  “How would you know that?” I said. “You just got here. You don’t have any idea what’s going on.”

  “Are you a doctor?” Fraturra said.

  “I’m a lawyer, and you’re late, your speech is slurred, and you stink of booze. I’m your worst nightmare right now, you drunk piece of shit.”

  I turned around and looked at Nurse Broyles. “Is the other doctor here yet? There’s no way this drunk is touching Grace.”

  I felt a hand on my arm. It was Nurse Jenny. I don’t know whether she was trying to soothe me or restrain me, but neither was working. Nurse Broyles walked past us and out the door.

  “The other doctor is probably here by now,” Nurse Jenny said softly. “Let’s go on to the other waiting room.”

  “I asked you a minute ago where you’ve been,” I said to Fraturra. “I want an answer. “You’ve been in a bar, right? Which one? Or do you just sit at home and drink when you’re on call?”

  “You’re crazy,” Fraturra said. “Get the hell out of here. Get out of my face.”

  “Come on, Mr. Street,” Jenny said. “Please, there’s nothing you can do here.”

  I pulled my arm away from Jenny and stepped to within a foot of Fraturra.

  “You’re right about me being crazy,” I said, lowering my voice. “And if any harm comes to Grace or our baby, getting sued is going to be the least of your worries.”

  “Is that right?” Fraturra said, puffing up like a toad and leaning in toward me. I desperately wanted to break his jaw. I saw Jenny out of the corner of my eye as she moved to the doorway. I figured she was ready to push a panic button or call security. Fraturra inched closer. “Are you threatening me?” he said.

  I lowered my voice even more, hoping Jenny couldn’t make out what I was saying, and locked my eyes on Fraturra’s.

  “I promise you this. If anything happens to Grace or the baby, I’ll cut your head off with a dull knife and bury you in the mountains.”

  Fraturra took two steps back. I had his attention now. I turned back to Jenny and walked toward her.

  “Where’s that waiting room?” I said, and we walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  The waiting room where I was taken was small and isolated. I kept thinking it was the kind of place where bad news would be delivered. I walked out several times and made my way to the nursing station. Jenny wasn’t there, and neither was Nurse Broyles. The only person at the station was a thirtysomething brown-haired paper pusher whose dress looked like a denim tent and who wore the tired face of someone who just wanted to get the hell out of there and go sit in front of a television set and eat cookies.

  “What’s going on with Grace?” I said to her each time I walked in.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have any news other than they’re working on her.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked the third time she repeated the phrase. “Working on her? Do you mean they’re operating on her? Are they delivering the baby?”

  “I really don’t know, sir,” she said. “I’m just a record keeper.”

  “I’ve been in that waiting room for a half hour,” I said, my voice rising along with my anger. “I want some answers. I want to know if Grace and our baby are all right. I want you to go, right now, and find someone who can tell me something, or I’m going to go find Grace myself.”

  “Don’t get belligerent with me, sir,” she said. “I’ll call security and get the police here.”

  “Good, good, let’s just have a reunion. Call security. Call the police. They know me. Tell them it’s Darren Street. I’ve been in prison before, and I’m suspected of committing several murders, although they’ve never been able to prove a thing. Tell them to come on down. Your choice.”

  I couldn’t believe how cavalier she was acting. I was going crazy with worry over Grace and the baby. I was being cooped up in a small waiting room with only my imagination to tell me what was going on, and what my imagination was telling me wasn’t good. And then every time I walked out to try to get some information, I was faced with this cud-chewing cow, who obviously couldn’t have cared less about me or Grace or the baby or anything else except when she would eat next.

  “Either you can call security and the police and there’ll be a hell of a scene, or you can just get off your lazy ass and go find somebody who can tell me what’s going on with Grace and our daughter,” I said. “What’s your name, anyway? I might want to catch up with you later.”

  “What did you say? Did you just threaten me?”

  “Did you hear me say a minute ago I’m suspected in four murders? I wasn’t kidding. Go find out what’s on.”

  “Will you go back to the waiting room?” she said meekly.

  “For ten minutes, tops.”

  She got up and waddled off down the hall in the opposite direction of the waiting room. I did what I told her I’d do. I went back to the waiting room and paced. I looked at my phone the second I walked in and marked the time. The countdown began. At the seven-minute mark, a man wearing gray surgical scrubs and looking tired and defeated walked in. He was my height, about five nine, and had short, curly, salt-and-pepper hair, a strong build, and a thick stubble of sideburn and beard on his face. His eyes were hazel surrounded by pink. He appeared to be on the verge of tears.

  He offered his hand and I shook it.

  “I’m Dr. Frank Jenkins,” he said. “I’m the managing partner of the obstetrics and gynecology group that was responsible for Miss Alexander’s care.”

  “Was?” I said, and I felt my legs begin to go limp. I backed up and managed to fall into a chair before I hit the floor. I thought I noticed someone else walk in, but I couldn’t really see. The world had gone gray; shapes had become indistinguishable.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m going to try to explain this as simply as possible,” the doctor said.

  He sounded as though he were in a barrel, a canyon, an echo chamber. It was a sound I’d heard only once before, the night a police officer named Bob Ridge told me my mother had been murdered. The echoes began to thicken, like he was underwater. I was able to process only bits of information.

  “Uterine rupture . . . extremely rare . . . separated . . . torn . . . baby slipped out . . . abdominal cavity . . . hemorrhage . . . baby suffocated . . . mother bled . . . everything I could possibly do . . . tried to save them . . . there just wasn’t enough time . . . again, so sorry . . .”

  The noise that began to emanate from me came from a primal place, a place so far removed from present day that I could very well have been sitting in a cave sharpening a spear when I received the news. I cannot describe it because I did not hear it. I felt it, though later I barely remembered the feeling. It was a wail of desperation so deep and painful that the only thing I could possibly have hoped to achie
ve was to bring Grace and the baby back before they got too far away.

  Please, wait for me, Grace. I can’t take any more of this pain. I’ll be along soon.

  CHAPTER 5

  Grace and Jasmine were flown to San Diego, where they were buried in a beautiful cemetery on a hill overlooking the Pacific. I didn’t call her parents—I wasn’t able at the time—but Jenny Diaz, the nurse who worked so hard to save their lives, turned out to be one of the kindest people I’d ever met. She took it upon herself to contact Grace’s parents, and they made all the funeral and burial arrangements. I called Grace’s mother once, two days after Grace died, and was told that I was not welcome at the funeral or the burial. I didn’t know why she was projecting so much anger onto me, although I suppose I had caused Grace more than her share of heartache. But I wasn’t responsible for her death, so I ignored what her mother said about the funeral and the burial, and I flew to San Diego. I sat in the back at the funeral, kept my mouth shut, and kept my distance at the burial. I was on a flight back to Knoxville less than twenty-four hours after I left.

  Another change had come over me, one of which I was aware but powerless to do anything about. I was back in the same tunnel-visioned, laser-focused, emotionless state that I had entered when my mother was killed and the police told me they had a suspect. I already had my suspect. His name was Dr. Nicolas Fraturra. I had to make certain of two things, though: First of all, I had to gather as much information as I could about exactly what happened in that birthing center. I remembered something about uterine rupture, so I began to research the subject. I learned it was extremely rare and could be deadly to both mother and baby. But I also learned that given prompt attention, both mother and baby had an excellent chance of survival without any long-term effects. The key was to quickly and accurately diagnose what was going on, and once the diagnosis was made, to immediately get the mother into an operating room so the baby could be removed and the doctors could stop the mother’s bleeding. Typically, from everything I read, the doctors had between ten and thirty minutes to operate once the uterus ruptured.

  I stared at the computer screen in my apartment and thought about that night. It had only been a week. I first knew something was wrong when Jenny Diaz, the nurse, brought the second, older nurse in to look at Grace. That was when they told me they were moving Grace to another room. If Jenny Diaz had noticed something and gone to get the second nurse, the countdown started when Jenny walked out of the room. That moment, I believed, was when Jenny Diaz began to believe Grace’s uterus may have ruptured.