“So what? They found what’s probably the murder weapon and the gloves the killer wore. But none of that ties to me,” Matt said.
“No, but they can use the drug possession charge to hold you while they work on connecting you to the murder.”
Matt took a long breath in through his nose and let it out slowly through pursed lips. “Okay. What’s next?”
“They’ll probably question you later today,” Sandra said. “They’d love to get a confession, of course. Depending on what kind of case they can put together, they can at least charge you with the drug possession. If they do that, there’ll be a bond hearing, probably on Monday, and the amount of the bail will depend on the charges.”
“Doesn’t matter. I doubt that I could make bail of any amount. I’m pretty much at the limit of my resources.”
“Let’s don’t worry about that right now,” Sandra said. “God will provide.”
As they had with increasing frequency lately, words from his brother, Joe, echoed in Matt’s mind. “Remember, little brother. We may not see it, but God’s got it under control.” Matt certainly hoped so. Maybe there was a ray of sunshine in there somewhere, but right now all he could see in his life were storms.
Lou knew he should feel a little more relaxed today when he stood before the mahogany desk. After all, killing Edgar at the direct command of this man should have forged some sort of bond between them. On the other hand, a few days ago the boss had leveled a pistol at him, making him fear for his life. No, there might be a bond, but deep down, Lou knew the man on the other side of that desk would always be in charge, willing to kill anyone who got in his way—even Lou.
“I take it that Edgar is no longer in the land of the living,” the big man said.
Lou thought he’d done it right, but that didn’t mean the boss would. He shifted his weight from side to side. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “Yeah. And from what I hear, the police fell for the setup. Newman’s in custody while they look for the gun I used.”
“Wiped clean of fingerprints?”
“No prints on it, and I used latex gloves—the kind they wear in surgery.”
The boss made the leap immediately. “And Newman’s a surgeon. He probably had a few pair lying around for when he painted or did something else that would get his hands dirty.”
“On the nose. I found them when I was in his house the first time, most of them still in the paper wrapper. I pocketed a couple of pair in case I needed them. Turns out I did.”
“Are you sure the police will find the gloves?”
“I dropped both the pistol and the gloves into the first storm drain I came to. That’s generally where the police start looking, and since we’re in the worst drought in years, nothing’s going to wash the evidence away before they find it.” Lou felt his heart rate slowing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the police have them already.”
“And the drugs?”
“I had Edgar buy some and give them to me. His fingerprints are all over the bag of heroin I dropped by his hand after I spilled some of it on the floor.”
“You said ‘give them.’” The boss narrowed his eyes. “Was there more than the heroin?”
Whoops. Lou hadn’t intended to mention the crank Edgar bought. That was a little bonus Lou planned to keep for himself, considering the price of methamphetamines. “Slip of the tongue. Just the H. That’s all.”
There was a period of silence during which Lou felt his heart creep up into his throat. Finally the boss opened his desk drawer, and Lou tensed, ready to drop to the floor, wondering if he could draw his gun before the first bullet hit him. Instead, the big man reached in and withdrew a roll of bills. He peeled off ten that bore the image of Benjamin Franklin. “Good work. Now lay low. I’ll be in touch when I need you again.”
Lunch for prisoners was a bologna sandwich on limp white bread, accompanied by something that might have represented pasta salad, a few chunks of fruit swimming in sugary syrup, with watery orange Kool-Aid to wash it down. Matt gobbled it as though it were a T-bone from Bob’s Steak and Chop House.
An older man in an orange jumpsuit like Matt’s delivered the lunch tray. Before the man rolled the cart away, Matt called, “When’s the evening meal?”
The man, probably a trustee, didn’t pause or turn, just spoke over his shoulder. “About five.”
“What’ll it be?”
The cart was out of sight now, but Matt heard the reply from down the hall. “Look at what’s on your tray. That’s what you’ll get, lunch and supper most days. Get used to it.”
How long was this going to go on? If they charged him and moved him to the general population, would he eat in the mess hall? Surely the food couldn’t be any worse there. Or could it? Besides, Matt remembered all the stories he’d heard of how dangerous prison life could be. Inmates getting stabbed with “shanks” made from toothbrushes or spoons stolen from the mess hall, their handles sharpened into weapons. And what went on in the communal shower didn’t bear thinking about.
Matt slumped onto the edge of his bed, buried his head in his hands, and wondered again how this was all going to play out. Without particular conscious thought, he began to pray silently.
God, I could pray for deliverance, but it’s either going to happen or it isn’t, and whichever way it goes, You’ve already planned it out. So what I really need is patience to get through, and wisdom to do the right thing. I guess I should just pray the way You taught us. ‘Our Father, which art in heaven . . .’
Matt continued on to the end of the prayer, although the words “Thy will be done” stuck in his throat.
What had Sandra said? They had to charge him pretty soon, although she’d been vague on the exact time limit. Before that they’d question him some more. He wished he had a watch, or a clock, or even a window so he could keep track of time by the progress of the sun. But he had none of that.
He passed the afternoon pacing his cell, his mind darting back and forth like a trapped animal, looking for a way out of the mess he was in. Every time there was a noise in the corridor, his heart leaped. Maybe Sandra was waiting to see him. He’d even take more questioning by Grimes and Ames. Anything to escape the confinement of these bars.
The familiar rattle of the food cart brought him to the cell door. He took the tray, grateful for the break in his routine, although not particularly pleased to see that the trustee who brought him his lunch hadn’t lied. Another bologna sandwich, a mound of mushy green peas, more fruit chunks, and a paper cup of Kool-Aid, grape this time.
If supper was being served, that meant it was about five o’clock. No word from Sandra. No summons to meet with the detectives. So Matt would spend another night in the cell. He didn’t know if he could stand it.
More important, he’d been without his medicine for a day now. What if he had a seizure? What if the next one wasn’t just an absence spell, but a full-blown convulsion? Would he get medical help? And if so, how would that affect his life after he got out of jail, assuming he got out of jail at all?
He ate as he thought, chewing and swallowing without really tasting, knowing he had to stoke the fires, keep up his energy. Matt wasn’t sure how much he could take. Only God knew. That brought a wry smile to his face. Sure, God knew, but He wasn’t saying. The best Matt could do was take one minute at a time. He stretched out on his bunk and tried not to think about what might lie ahead.
TWENTY
Sandra stabbed the numbers into her cell phone as though she were punching Detective Grimes in the eye. She didn’t know what type of vendetta the detective had against Matt, but she couldn’t imagine a simple thirst for justice driving a man this hard. Surely there was something in his background—maybe a grudge against doctors—that made Grimes act the way he did.
She steered her car out of the parking garage, her mind working a mile a minute. It was Monday, and she’d received a phone call less than an hour before that Matt was going to be arraigned at eleven a.m. on the drug charge. Sandra was worried abou
t the matter of bail. Her hope had been that the police would drop that charge, or if not, that she could cast enough doubt on their findings for the judge to throw out the case. Judging from what Frank Everett had told her when he called, he’d managed to get the case on the docket of a judge who owed him a few favors. It was beginning to look like her client would continue to spend time in jail unless she could work a miracle.
“Dr. Pearson.”
Sandra almost dropped her cell phone when her call was answered. “Rick, this is Sandra Murray. I’m Matt’s attorney.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Rick said. “What’s up?”
“Can you be at the courthouse at eleven o’clock? Sorry for such short notice, but Matt’s being arraigned, and I need a character witness to testify that he has ties to the community, a steady job, and such.”
There was silence on the line for so long Sandra wondered if the call had been dropped. She was about to check her signal strength when Rick said, “Sure. I’ll be there. Do you think he’s going to be in jail long? I mean, I don’t mind working a double shift occasionally, and some of the other docs would probably do it once or twice, but . . .”
“That’s the second thing I wanted to mention. I’m going to do my best to get him released on bail, and it would help if you made it clear that he has a steady job.”
Rick’s forced exhalation was like a north wind in her ear. “Sandra, I’ve stuck my neck out for Matt so far that I look like a giraffe. The hospital administration has gone along with me to this point, but this arrest might be the last straw.”
“He’s being framed, and I think we have a pretty good chance of proving it. But it’s going to take time, and I’m trying to keep him a free man while I do it.” She wondered what else she could say to convince Rick. She settled for, “Just do what you can for him today, will you? We’ll figure out tomorrow when it comes.”
“On your feet.”
The voice of the guard startled Matt. This one was a burly African-American, his shaved head glinting in the pale light of the corridor. If Matt had been tempted to try to overpower his earlier escort, no such thoughts crossed his mind now. This man looked like an offensive tackle who’d just been released by the Pittsburgh Steelers and was angry about the experience.
Matt backed up to the cell door and held his hands behind him. “Where to this morning? Does Detective Grimes want to talk to me again? Is it my attorney?”
“Nope, you’re headed to court.”
“Am I going to be tried? Already?”
The guard shook his head, apparently amused at how little this jailbird knew. “You must be new at this. This is your arraignment. They tell you what you’re charged with. You enter a plea. They talk about bail. I’m betting I’ll see you back here before my shift ends.”
Matt stumbled through the routine of transport to the courts. There he exchanged a few words with Sandra before he was herded into the courtroom and seated in the front row along with a number of other men and women in prison garb.
He’d told her that if the judge set bail at anything over a few hundred dollars, he wasn’t going to be able to meet it. As he waited, he ran through the problem once more. Was there someone he could call? Thinking about that depressed him even further. His parents were dead. His brother was a missionary whose life exemplified the phrase “poor as a church mouse.” Friends or colleagues? Aside from Rick, no one he’d ask to put up bail. And Rick had already done too much for him.
When Matt first entered the courtroom, he didn’t see Sandra, and he felt panic building in his chest. Had she been called away? Was something wrong? Did this mean he was going to be sent back to jail and brought back tomorrow? He wasn’t sure he could tolerate another night in that cell. More bologna sandwiches. Hours of trying to sleep despite the noise all around, intensified at times by someone beating on the bars of his cell or yelling incoherently. “Get used to it,” the trustee had said when Matt asked about jail food. He wasn’t sure he could get used to any of it.
When Sandra slipped in through a side door, stowing her cell phone in a large purse, Matt relaxed. He tried to anchor his emotions to the smile she gave him, but couldn’t do it. Sandra would try, but he knew things were hopeless.
Matt listened to other prisoners being arraigned, but kept losing his concentration. He heard a door close at the rear of the room, and turned in time to see Rick ease into one of the back seats in the courtroom. His colleague flashed him a tentative thumbs-up and winked, but it was obvious to Matt that Rick’s heart wasn’t in it.
When Matt’s name was called, the bailiff tapped him on the shoulder and motioned him to step forward and stand by his attorney before the bench. The judge asked questions in a bored monotone, and Sandra answered as though she’d said the words hundreds of times—which, come to think of it, she probably had.
“Do you understand the charges?”
It took Matt a moment to realize the question was addressed to him. He looked at Sandra, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes, sir.”
“How do you plead?”
This time Sandra answered for him. “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”
“We’ll set the date for trial. Do you have a motion for bail?”
“We ask that my client be released on his own recognizance. He has a spotless record, has roots in the community, and I have a witness in the courtroom who is prepared to testify that my client is of good character and holds a responsible position with a major hospital here.”
A middle-aged man in an ill-fitting gray pinstripe suit rose from his seat at the table behind Matt. “Your Honor, the prosecution opposes bail. This man is a person of interest in two murders. The victims were found in his car and his home respectively. It would be a travesty—”
The judge rapped his gavel twice. “Your objection is noted, Mr. Everett. However, I believe the matter before us is possession of narcotics, not suspicion of murder.”
The prosecutor eased back into his chair, but not before casting a look at Matt that would have melted ice.
“Your Honor—” Sandra began.
The judge steamrolled right past Sandra, who clamped her lips shut. “I believe I’ve heard enough, Counselor. I will grant bail in the amount of—” He paused and stared off into the middle distance, as though the sum were written on the far wall of the courtroom. “One hundred thousand dollars.”
Matt’s heart sank. He could handle one hundred dollars, even a thousand. But a bail bondsman charged 10 percent of the amount of bail, and ten thousand dollars was out of the question.
The next words out of Sandra’s mouth caught Matt’s attention like a cold towel to the face. “Your Honor, we’re prepared to meet that. Shall I make arrangements with the clerk?”
She took Matt by the elbow and herded him to a small desk at the side of the courtroom. He opened his mouth, but she silenced him with a look.
Sandra bent over the desk and whispered to the man there as she pulled her cell phone from her purse. “We’re prepared to put up surety in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars. I’ll need to make one phone call, and I can let you speak with a banker who will provide that guaranty.”
In an hour, Matt—now dressed in his own clothes, including a new shirt Sandra had purchased and brought him—walked beside her toward her car. “Okay, now tell me. How did you manage that?”
“Hang on.” Once they were inside the car, she turned so she was half-facing him. “As I was about to enter the courtroom, I got a call on my cell phone. I didn’t recognize the number, but the caller ID said Hargrave and Banks. That’s one of the most prestigious law firms in the city—maybe in the whole Southwest—so I decided to take the call.”
She started to put her key in the ignition, but Matt stopped her. “Hold on. If this has to do with why I’m free instead of eating a bologna sandwich and listening to the guy three cells down rattle the door to his cell, I want to hear it all.”
“Well, it gets better from here,”
Sandra said. “It was Ernest Banks himself calling—Hargrave is long deceased, by the way—asking if I represented you. When I told him I did and explained you were about to be arraigned, he said, and I quote, ‘My client is prepared to guarantee his bail, and if we can offer any assistance to you as you prepare his defense, simply call me.’
“I was stunned, but had the presence of mind to ask how high they’d go on your bail. You’re not going to believe what he said.”
“I’m not believing any of this,” Matt said.
“He said, ‘Up to a million dollars. If it’s higher than that, call me, and we can probably arrange it.’”
Matt’s brain was doing loop-the-loops. “Who would do this for me?”
Sandra smiled at him. “Let me test your memory. Do you remember a patient that came into the ER with blood in the sac surrounding his heart? You did an emergency procedure to decompress it—probably saved his life.”
“Sure. I was scared to death at the time because I’d never done a pericardiocentesis, but there was no other option.”
“Well, whatever that long word means, you clearly saved the man’s life. But the clincher is that you showed you cared about him. You visited him in the hospital the next day. You talked with his mother, answered her questions, tried to comfort her.”
“You mean—”
“Apparently news of your arrest reached Mrs. Penland. She picked up her phone, called her lawyer, and told him to find out who was representing you and offer assistance, including getting you bailed out.”
Matt didn’t know what to say. This was truly an answer to prayer—a prayer that he’d offered not totally believing God had any interest in hearing him. “I still can’t believe she’d go to such lengths . . .”
“Again quoting my new best friend, Mr. Banks—who now insists I call him Ernie—Mrs. Penland said you weren’t the kind of person the police said you are, and you didn’t belong in jail. She thought you should be in the ER, saving lives.”
Stress Test Page 19
