by Annie Jocoby
“Thank you,” I said, carrying Iris into the first bedroom. There was a single bed up against a wall, with very thin sheets and a tattered pillow. I was wearing a heavy coat, and I knew that Iris wasn't feeling the cold now, but might be by the time it was light outside. So, I took off my coat, and put it on her, and gently laid her down on the bed. The bed was more like a cot, with a light mattress and no box spring, on a rickety metal frame. I laid down with her on the bed, covering her with my body and stroking her hair.
She was unresponsive.
I knew that there was a very slim chance that my car would still be out front in the morning, so I called Daniel and asked if he could be on standby to come and pick us up.
“Sure,” he said. “But what are you doing in that neighborhood in the first place?”
“I'll explain later,” I said.
Then I fell asleep, holding Iris in my arms.
Even though I was on a flimsy cot, in the middle of a dilapidated house without heat, I felt comfortable and safe for the first time in over two weeks.
I slept better that night than I had since Iris went missing.
When I woke up, Iris was apparently coming down. She was twitching violently, and I saw goose pimples on her flesh. She was also visibly shivering. Her head was shaking and twitching, over and over. She looked at me and appeared not to recognize me.
However, it was now light, so I felt more confident taking her down the stairs.
This time, however, when I picked her up, she was able to put her arms around my neck. I could feel her entire body convulsing, which also made me nervous with regards to our flight down the stairs, but I knew that I had to get her out of there and get her into a hospital as soon as possible. I took a deep breath, and negotiated the stairs carefully, taking each step one at a time. When I got to the bottom step, and the floor below, I let out a sigh of relief.
Flashlight boy was nowhere to be seen, but I did see other people lying around, and some were starting to twitch like Iris.
I walked out the door with Iris in my arms. She was twitching violently and shivering. To my surprise and delight, my Porsche was still out front. It was missing all four hubcaps, but that didn't matter. When I laid Iris on the passenger's side seat, I discovered that the interior was intact, much to my further surprise and delight. I honestly thought that the interior would be stripped of the GPS and satellite radio, but that was not the case.
Then I drove Iris towards St. Joseph Hospital, which was a hospital across town, and was the hospital where Iris lay for months in a coma.
Oh, Iris, what drove you to this? I knew that she was in real trouble, and I was right, but the question was why? Why would she go off the grid like this and live among the junkies? Iris was never a drug abuser. Never a drug abuser.
But she was shot up with black tar heroin. That made her more susceptible to doing something like this. She seemed to be fine. She recovered from that. She moved past that. I thought that she was safe. I never, in my wildest dreams, could imagine that she would do something like this.
Why?
Next to me, Iris was now twitching violently, her entire body and head going into what looked like convulsions. I thought about taking her to a closer hospital, but the closest hospital was one that I didn't trust to give her the best care. And I knew that what she was going through right now were the normal symptoms of coming down off of a powerful heroin high.
My heart broke with every twitch and every shiver. I was kicking myself for not being more prepared with a heavy blanket for her. I was coming down in this area looking for her. I should've known that this was a possibility. Why didn't I bring a blanket? The heat in the car was turned up to as high was it could go. This made me feel uncomfortably warm, but she was all that mattered right now. Her comfort was all I was thinking about. I knew that the cold was coming from within, that nothing I did would make her warm, but that knowledge didn't stop me from beating myself up about not being more prepared.
I finally got to the hospital and checked her in.
Only to be informed that there would be a 9-hour wait for an available bed.
Screw it. We could be in Los Angeles in a little over three hours, and she could be checked into the best facility in the country. But could she fly in this condition? At least here, she could have an Emergency Room bed, and they could give her fluids and monitor her vitals.
I could fly her out to LA once she is stabilized.
So, Iris was given an ER bed, and they hooked her up to a saline tank and gave her methadone to help ease her withdrawal symptoms. I sat next to her, holding her hand. I stroked her hair and talked to her soothingly. She probably was aware of my presence, even if she couldn’t show it.
“There, there, my beautiful girl. You're back safe, if not sound. And I love you, and will never leave you again.” I bowed my head, realizing that there would be yet another long leave of absence from my job, as I helped Iris recover from this.
I started to reconsider even being there at all. What harm would there be if I simply became a trust fund baby, and spent all my time with my lovely wife?
I answered my own question - the harm would be that I would be leaving a job that I was good at. I had the business acumen of my father, without the cold-blooded ruthlessness. I was able to finesse negotiations, like the one in Tokyo, and that made me valuable.
At the same time, perhaps it was time to move on. There wasn't a reason why I should be working for somebody else. I could buy my own company, start it from the ground up. I could choose passion projects, something that could do some real good in the world, as opposed to simply acquiring pieces of silver.
I called my job and told them what happened. They understood, of course. They really didn't want to lose me. They told me to take all the time that I needed.
Inwardly, though, I knew. I knew that it was time to move on. When Iris gets better, I could make my next move in life, and it should be something that would include her. Opening up an animal sanctuary was something that I could do, and we could do it together. When she gets well, I will bring this up to her.
But, for right now, her getting better is what was most important. Period.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Iris
I was laying down at the bus stop, waiting for a bus to pick me up and take me to parts unknown. My mind was a blank, except for focusing on how it was I could get away from what happened to me in that house. I couldn't go back into that house. But my thoughts were jumbled, incoherent. They didn't make much sense, even to myself. I didn't have a plan, I only knew that I had to get away.
And yet...there was a vague memory in my brain. The memory that was in my cells of a euphoric sensation that I had never experienced before or since. The mental and physical pain that I was experiencing right then was excruciating, worse than anything that I had ever experienced.
I was desperate to get back to that euphoria.
The euphoria I was remembering was the feeling after Rochelle shot me up with all that heroin. That was what I needed right then. Euphoria.
Which gave me a plan. I needed to find a drug house so that somebody could give me what I started to desperately crave. The voice inside my head was at top decibel now, telling me that I somehow deserved what just happened to me. That I really never did escape my misfit situation, I just got into a new one. And all I could think about was the feeling of the belt tightening around my neck, and the threats that every protest, every kick, and every scream would result in death for me, as that man would strangle me and leave my body right there in the kitchen.
And the physical pain was more than I could bear.
But I really didn't know exactly where to go to get some drugs that would help me ease my extreme mental and physical pain. I knew that I was very naïve about all of that, never having been in that world. I just figured that I would be able to go to the seedy part of town and go on a street corner and find somebody who would deal to me.
That wasn'
t going to work.
I could go to a rape crisis center. But they might expect me to tell them who did this to me. It was a retired government assassin. I wouldn't last two minutes in this world if I ever breathed a word about him.
And Ryan...lovely Ryan. He wasn’t here. I couldn't rely on him to fix me this time. Besides, this was his fault. I told him a million times that I didn't want a bodyguard, but did he listen? If he just would've listened to me, this never would’ve happened.
I just needed to get away. I needed to find a way to get back to that extreme euphoria that I experienced before. My cells had memory. They remembered what it felt like to float above the world, as if I were in heaven. I had to stop my physical and emotional pain, otherwise I simply didn’t know what I would do to myself. I knew what I was capable of when I was experiencing extreme emotional pain – I was capable of hurting myself so badly that I was at the point of death. Now I had something to really give me pain, and I didn't want to go down that road again.
I laid at that bus stop until the sun came up and the bus came around to pick me up and take me downtown. I had actually formulated a plan in my head for how it was that I would be able to find some drugs. It was such a simple plan it was genius.
I simply had to find out the names of people who were being charged with drug distribution.
So I decided to sit in on some initial appearances, which were the first appearances that defendants have in court, where the judge reads them their charges.
I needed to find some addresses of drug dealers.
I entered the courtroom. I didn't even think about how I looked. In reality, I was dressed in Hello Kitty pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and my winter outer-wear, not bothering to change after my...attack. I couldn't bring myself to say the R word, even in my head. It was simply an attack, like what happened to me with Rochelle.
Every time I started to think about how I was sexually violated, a huge swell of panic threatened to engulf me.
I went right up to the prosecutor and asked to see his files.
“Iris,” the prosecutor, Randy Davis, said to me. “You, uh...how've you been?”
“Fine,” I lied. “Listen, I have a client on your drug docket here. You’re doing the initials for the drug docket, right?”
“Yes,” he said, still looking at me strangely. “Did you just get out of bed?”
I wondered why he was asking that. I wasn't thinking about my attire. I was only thinking about how I could score a name from this guy.
Then he said “I didn't think that you were practicing anymore.”
“I'm not. But I got a name from somebody. I didn't want to be completely out of practice.”
“What's the name?”
“Oh, shoot,” I said. Then pulling a first name out of a hat, I said “his name is Shaun. That's his first name. I can't for the life of me remember his last name. I'm so sorry.”
He looked at me skeptically, then reviewed his files. I prayed that there was somebody with the first name of Shaun in there.
He handed me a file. “Here. Shaun Jefferson. Is that the guy?”
“Yes, yes. That's him,” I said. “What's he charged with?”
“Possession with intent to distribute. First offense.”
“Thanks.”
“You gonna represent him in your pajamas?”
“Well, I'm going to represent him. But I'll let the public defender handle the initial appearance.”
“Yeah. Looks like you probably better go back to bed.”
I smiled, not even feeling humiliated. After what happened to me on the kitchen floor, nothing could touch me.
I took the file, making sure that Shaun didn’t already have a private attorney, then borrowed a pen and wrote the address for Shaun Jefferson on my hand. Then gave the file back to Randy. “Thanks, Randy.”
“Yeah. You take care of yourself, Iris. No offense, but you're not looking so good.”
“Filter, much?” I said.
“I call them as I see them. Get in touch with Cindy, she's the prosecutor for this case.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Then I went out the door to catch another bus that would take me to the neighborhood of one Shaun Jefferson.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The bus dropped me off within a few blocks of Shaun Jefferson's home. I knew that it was a first offense for him, so he was probably out on bail, if there even was a bond for him. He probably had a signature bond, which meant that all he had to do was sign his name and an oath that he would appear for his court appearance.
I waited around after having been dropped off. Shaun wouldn’t be at his home just yet. He would be in court, at his initial appearance. Those dockets sometimes take hours, so I hoped that it wouldn’t be the case today.
I walked around the neighborhood in a daze. I only could think about getting ahold of some drugs, some way to ease the pain I was feeling.
The neighborhood was not one that I had ever really been in, although I had hung out in similar neighborhoods when I was a kid. My aunt used to live around here somewhere. We used to visit her back in the day. Some evenings we held séances, trying to contact the spirit of the dead guy who used to live in that house. Other times, I would wander around the neighborhood with my cousin Lynn. One time, we were gone the entire day, but never told anybody where we were going. We walked all the way to the Hyatt Regency, riding the glass elevators up and down, and generally making trouble. When we arrived back home after several hours of being “missing,” my mother was frantic and had almost called the police. She was like that, anyhow, but, to be fair, two young girls alone in this rough neighborhood, just wandering around – I didn’t blame her for being panicky. I would’ve been as well.
This was the sort of neighborhood where many of the houses were boarded up, and the ones that weren’t had overgrown weeds in front of them, and cars that were on blocks. There were very few vehicles that didn’t have some type of major dent, and also very few cars that were newer than 1990.
Most of the houses were bounded by a front fence, and behind many of these fences were ferocious-looking dogs. A house in this neighborhood could be bought for under $15,000, and these homes were pretty large, considering their price. Most of them were shirtwaist, which is a particular style of Kansas City home. Popular around the turn of the century, the shirtwaist was characterized by a first floor that was made of brick or stone, and the second floor was made of siding, wood shingles or stucco. These homes had two and a half stories, which means that the first and second floor were typical box-style, and the third level is more of an A-frame style, with slanted ceilings and picture windows. A shirtwaist could be a beautiful old home, with bay windows, a well-constructed stone porch, and lots of room. That is, if the home is well-kept. These homes were not. Most of them had stripped siding, roofs with holes, and crumbling foundations.
I wandered around this neighborhood for a couple of hours, looking at all the houses, saying hello to the barking dogs that abounded, and encountering more than a few friendly people who were sitting on their porch and drinking.
I stayed around in that neighborhood because I was determined to find some drugs. I found that, while I was concentrating so hard on finding some drugs, I was able to put the incident behind me. Still, it was bubbling just below the surface, along with the Rochelle attack not nine months ago. It was threatening to overwhelm me, but I fought it down as I finally, after several hours of walking around, approached the house where Shaun lived.
I knocked on the door.
I thin blonde kid answered the door.
“Hello,” I said, not really sure how to approach this perfect stranger to ask him if he had any drugs available.
“Yeah,” he said. “What's up?”
I suddenly realized that my appearance would help me in talking to Shaun. I probably looked the part of a druggie looking for a fix.
“You're Shaun Jefferson?”
“Who's asking?”
&nbs
p; “My name is Iris,” I said, then decided that I would just be honest and let the chips fall where they may. “I need drugs.”
“Who sent you here?”
“Actually, I'm an attorney, believe it or not.”
He stood there looking at me with a very puzzled expression, apparently trying to decide if I was there to trap him, or if I really was an attorney who just randomly showed up at his house, asking for drugs.
Finally he said “come on in.”
I went into the house. The furniture was second-hand and run down, and the house had a musty smell to it. There was a Barcalounger with several holes in the seat cushion, and the sofa was not on legs, but was resting on the floor. Nothing matched – the Barcalounger, which was probably left out on the curb by somebody else, was a dark red, and the couch on the floor was an old-lady gold with old-lady patterns. There were not any curtains up – instead, there were bed sheets held up with thumb tacks. There were several cats running around, and two of them were friendly and greeted me. The rest scurried like roaches away from light. There was a rickety card table that apparently served as a dining room set, with four folding lawn chairs around it. On the table was a roach and a pipe, and a baggie that evidently contained pot. The hardwood floors had seen better days, and were probably original, which meant that the floor was more than 100 years old, which was about the age of the house.
There was also a 72” plasma screen on one of the walls, which was probably worth more than the entire house and all the contents in it.
Shaun motioned for me to sit down, and I did so, on the couch.
“What you looking for?” he asked.
“Horse,” I said.
He nodded.
“How much?” I asked, then realized that I didn't have a single penny on me, after using all my money on the bus fare. I had my debit card for one of the bank accounts in my wallet, which was in my pajama pocket, along with my red diamond engagement ring, and my simple gold wedding band. But no way would I take money out of the bank. That wasn't my money, as far as I was concerned, and I certainly wasn't going to use Ryan's money for this.
