Song of the Blackbird (Albatross Prison #1)

by DB Michaels

  Chapter 11

  “I can’t believe he forced Smith on me.”

  Emma fumed silently as she watched Sam mop the floor at the Urgent Care. Her two nurses were on lunch break and Dr. Ross was down at the OHU admitting a new patient, a man with possible flu. Dr. Ross was older and distinguished-looking with a kind face and bushy eyebrows. He had insisted on Emma not seeing patients so that she could recover from yesterday’s ordeal.

  “I think it’s a great idea.” Sam wrung the mop with his hands. “But better if you’d taken his other offer and quit. Jesus, you could’ve died, Em. It’s dangerous in here.”

  Sure, working at Albatross was a bit risky, but what place was truly safe these days? Wasn’t it the other day some crazy guy had killed a urologist in Newport Beach right in his clinic? And what about that angry family member shooting the doctor at Johns Hopkins Hospital a few years ago?

  “There’s violence everywhere,” Emma said. “Don’t worry. I’ll press my alarm more quickly next time. I’m sure it was a one-time thing. Chambers is going overboard with this. I’ll never be able to see you in private.”

  “We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

  “That’s not enough.” She fiddled with her pendant and checked the doorway. Lucky for them, no one had come back yet. “Sam, I want us to catch up. Can we meet somewhere?”

  Her brother glared at her and kept on mopping, his long arms rhythmically moving up and down. “Don’t be stupid, Em. Do you want to get fired or something? We can’t meet.”

  “We could if you were my patient. But now that stubborn, arrogant man ruined all my plans.” She couldn’t believe she’d thought Maxim considerate last night. The morphine must have totally gone to her head. “Why doesn’t he mind his own business?”

  “He’s trying to keep you safe. That’s why there’s a lockdown today.”

  “Lockdown? What’s that?”

  “It’s when Custody restricts us to our dorms. No one can go anywhere except to chow hall and medical appointments.” Sam dumped the dirty water and filled the bucket with fresh water from the sink. “Didn’t you notice the yards were empty? Everyone is locked down today.”

  “Because of what happened to me?”

  “Yes. They always do that after a fight or an assault.” Sam scanned the entranceway and resumed mopping. He was on the last row of tiles now. “I’m only here ’cause I’m the porter. They let some of us out.”

  “Hey, you’re doing a great job.” She grinned. “Much better than when you were living with us. Wanna clean up my place when you get out?”

  “You wish.” He wiggled the mop at her and she laughed. Thank goodness there was still a trace of that mischievous boy left in him.

  “Dr. Edwards.” Officer Smith suddenly appeared in the doorway. “You shouldn’t be alone with an inmate. Warden’s orders.”

  “He’s the porter.” Emma jumped down from her seat on the gurney. How much had Smith heard? Hopefully he hadn’t been there long.

  “Doesn’t matter, Doc.” Smith gave Sam a frosty stare. “Are you done yet? No loitering if you’re finished.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam pushed the bucket and mop to the hallway.

  “So you’re going to be my shadow?” she asked the guard when they were alone.

  “I know you don’t want me around but Mr. Chambers insisted.” Smith gave a self-conscious smile but straightened his shoulders.

  “I know, but I only need you when I’m seeing patients,” she said. “And since I’m not seeing any patients today, you have the day off. Go do whatever you want.”

  “Sorry. He said to always be around. In case you need me.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I don’t need you with me all the time. It’s overkill.”

  Smith shuffled his feet and adjusted the badge on his shirt. “Like I said, sorry. Mr. Chambers’s orders.”

  Emma bit back a groan. But it wasn’t Smith’s fault. He was only doing his assigned task and the man probably did a ton of errands for the warden in the past, no matter how unpleasant some of them must have been. Take driving her car from the prison back to her studio last night. She was sure he had better things to do with his time than be at the beck and call of his boss.

  “Hey,” she said, knowing she should have said it earlier. “Thanks for driving my car back for me last night. I really appreciate it.”

  “What? What car?” Smith gave her a blank look.

  “You know. Mr. Chambers said he’d have you drive the car back for me.”

  “He asked me to move his car, but he didn’t say anything about yours.” The officer slapped a palm to his forehead. “Oh my God, did he tell me and I forgot?”

  “No,” she hastened to reassure him. “I don’t think he actually said your name, now that I think about it. No worries.”

  Maxim must have driven her car back himself. How strange he didn’t have one of his minions do it for him. Before she could think more about it, Julien came down to help her fill out the 115 form, a report of the assault. The chief assured her that with the 115, Ransom would definitely get his sentence prolonged. After that, it was time to check on Mr. Nash. Today the old man looked stronger and was sitting, watching TV with a thin blanket wrapped around his spindly legs.

  “How are you doing today, sir?” The room was a lot warmer than before. “Looks like your heater is working again.”

  “Sure is, Doc.” He tapped her hand. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She squeezed his hand and smiled. “Anything else I can do for you while I’m here?”

  “Not really.” He stiffened when he saw the officer by the door. “Am I in trouble?”

  “Of course not.” She signaled with her head for Smith to move out of the room but the man didn’t budge. “He’s here to watch over me. Don’t worry. He’s not going to hurt you.”

  “Okay, that’s good.” Mr. Nash swallowed a couple of times before bursting into a prolonged coughing spell.

  Emma held his hand through the attack and after it was done, she poured him a cup of water from the pink plastic container on his nightstand. Next to the container was a small Bible with a picture of a little girl taped in the front.

  “Is that your granddaughter?” She pointed to the picture. The girl was beautiful, with curly blonde hair and clear blue eyes.

  “Yes. That’s Sarah.” Mr. Nash showed her the picture. “She’ll be eight next month. She lives with my daughter Amy in Visalia. You know where that is?”

  “Central California, right?”

  “Close, near Sequoia National Park.” The frail man brushed his index finger over the picture. “Last time I held her, she was only three years old. She’s grown up so much since then.” He swallowed and clasped the book between his hands. “She’s healthy and growing up safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I don’t regret it one bit.”

  “Regret what?”

  “My son-in-law was an alcoholic. He beat up my daughter so many times I stopped counting. She wouldn’t press any charges.” He coughed again and took another sip of water. “There was only so much I could take. Then he started hitting Sarah, and I had to do what I had to do. I don’t regret it one bit, even if it landed me here.”

  “Maybe you’ll get the compassionate release.” How odd that his story was similar to Sam’s. But Sam was young. He was going to parole in a couple of years. He wasn’t going to die in prison all alone like Mr. Nash. She had to help this old man get his freedom somehow. How could the justice system not release him early to spend time with that beautiful granddaughter? He’d shot to save another life.

  “Doctor!” Smith suddenly yelled from the doorway. “They need you stat in room five. Patient’s coding!”

  “What?” Emma rushed out. Room five was Mr. Jones’s room. The man who’d had the hernia repair.

  She raced in and found Dr. Ross doing CPR on Mr. Jones, who was lying still in his bed, his face deathly pale. Sam stood by their side, holding the AED machine. Ms. Bryant and Ms. Carter ar
rived at the same time as Emma.

  “What happened?” Emma sprang forward to check the man’s carotid pulse.

  “Don’t know. Porter found him unresponsive a few minutes ago,” Dr. Ross huffed out.

  “Morris? Hold CPR for a second.” Ms. Bryant ripped up the AED pads and slapped them on Jones’s chest.

  “Lift him to the ground.” Damn. No pulse. “The bed’s too soft. Morris, lift him with Smith. Now, please.” Sam’s face was filmy with sweat but she couldn’t stop to reassure him in any way.

  The two men grunted and lifted Jones’s sizable form off the bed to the floor. “Anyone call 911?” Emma asked. “Smith, you do it. Ms. Carter, bag the patient. Ms. Bryant, I need an IV. Check a sugar, too. Yes, Dr. Ross, keep doing CPR. What’s on the monitor?”

  “Wide complex tach, Doc.” Ms. Bryant poked Jones’s finger with a lancet. “ACCU-CHEK one hundred.”

  “Hold CPR. Is there a pulse?”

  Ms. Carter shook her head. “So it’s PEA?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “Pulseless electrical activity. Push epi one milligram. No IV yet? No veins? Where’s the IO kit? You don’t have one?” Emma felt frantically for a femoral pulse. “Get me the central line kit!”

  “I need help here,” Dr. Ross said as his arms slowed.

  “Morris, switch with Dr. Ross. You know CPR, right?” Emma dimly recalled showing him how to do it on one of her breaks from medical school.

  “Thanks,” Dr. Ross said as Sam kneeled on the floor and took over the CPR. Someone shoved a central line kit at Emma and she ripped it open. She doused the bottle of Betadine on Jones’s right groin and blindly inserted the needle, guessing where the vein might be. No rush of blood back. She shook her head and angled it more medial. A twinge of pain shot up her wrist but she held the position until blood flashed in the bevel of the needle. Thank God something was going right. Emma threaded in the catheter and secured it with a couple of stitches.

  “Any pulse?” Emma asked.

  “Still in PEA,” Dr. Ross said.

  “Give him one milligram of epi.”

  The femoral line flushed beautifully but after several rounds of epi and CPR, there was still no pulse.

  “Hang me a bag of fluids,” Emma said. “Any ideas of what else we can do, anyone?”

  “Ambulance is on its way,” Smith said as he ran back into the room.

  “Excuse me, Doc.” Sam’s eyes met hers over Jones’s chest. “I think he OD’d on something.”

  “What, porter?” Dr. Ross demanded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Sam kept silent and continued pushing up and down on Jones’s chest.

  “It’s okay, Morris. Tell me,” Emma urged.

  Sam swallowed. “I saw him holding a syringe this morning.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Ms. Bryant’s beady eyes narrowed at Sam. “Or did you give it to him? Been dealing drugs, porter?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said softly, looking down again.

  “That was uncalled for, Ms. Bryant. Thanks, Morris.” Emma tried to smile at Sam, but his eyes were glued to Jones’s chest.

  “Get the Narcan,” Dr. Ross said as he took over bagging the patient.

  “Fresh track marks.” Smith lifted Jones’s left arm and showed them the pinprick holes in the antecubital fossa.

  “Give him two milligram of IV Narcan,” Emma ordered.

  All eyes turned to the patient as Ms. Bryant pushed the medicine. Jones remained unresponsive.

  “Check another pulse. None? Resume CPR.” Emma flipped open Jones’s lids and shined a flashlight into his left eye. She swung the light over to the right eye. Pinpoint, both of them. Damn. Another OD. Sam was right. It was probably heroin.

  “Asystole,” Dr. Ross said, his eyes on the monitor.

  That was never a good sign. “Give me another one milligram of epi.”

  The paramedics arrived at that moment and intubated the patient. They continued the code for another ten minutes but Mr. Jones never recovered.

  “Time of death, 12:05 p.m.” Emma ripped off her gloves and wiped a hand over her forehead. Except for some post-op pain, the man was as healthy as a horse yesterday. How could he be lying as stiff as a board today? A horrible sinking feeling gnawed at her guts. She’d denied him the T3. Was that why he’d used the heroin? To treat his pain? The logical part of her knew she wasn’t to blame for his death—that he pushed the drug on his own. He was an addict, an N number. But did she contribute to it somehow by refusing him the narcotic?

  “I have to notify the warden.” Smith covered Jones with a white sheet. “There’ll be an investigation.”

  Sam gasped and turned deathly pale underneath his dark skin. He stumbled out of the room. Emma rushed after him.

  “Morris. You did really well. Thanks for telling us about the syringe.” Too much staff was nearby for her to reassure him more.

  “It didn’t help.” Sam lifted a trembling hand to his forehead. “You don’t think I’m in trouble, do you?”

  “No. Of course not. The warden told me another inmate died of a heroin overdose last year in SNY.”

  “The nurse—”

  “Forget about Bryant.” Emma placed a hand on his arm. “I can’t believe she said that to you. Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble. You tried to save him. Your CPR was great.”

  “Dr. Edwards.”

  Emma let out a silent groan. Kaye, Julien, and Maxim were striding down the hall toward her. None of them looked too happy. Maxim was scowling at Sam, and she hastily took her hand off his arm. Her brother cast her a worried look before limping down the hall the opposite way.

  Chapter 12

  “I can’t believe you’re chatting with an inmate,” Kaye said as soon as she got close. “A patient died. Why aren’t you with him?”

  “The code just ended.” Emma rubbed her temple. Another headache was definitely coming on. “I was thanking Morris. He helped with the CPR.”

  “You let an inmate do CPR?” The CMO’s voice rose. “What the heck were you thinking? They can’t be in a code. Where were the nurses?”

  “Managing the airway and pushing meds. What do you want me to do? Let the patient die rather than ask an inmate for help?”

  “What the hell happened?” Maxim demanded. “Why did he code?”

  “He OD’d. There were track marks. His pupils were pinpoint. We tried everything but nothing worked.” Emma rubbed her hands up and down her arms, ignoring the mild pain in her wrist. She felt cold all of a sudden. Jones’s dead face suddenly floated before her vision. Only yesterday, he was pleading for more pain medications. Goose bumps popped up on her arms. She swallowed and rubbed her hands harder. “I’m sorry. I need a minute.”

  She dashed into the staff bathroom across the hall. Her stomach roiled and she doubled over and vomited twice into the toilet. She stumbled to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. Some of it sprinkled onto the mirror. It was no use. Jones’s dead face kept staring at her whenever she closed her eyes.

  “Dr. Edwards, are you okay?” Julien’s voice called through the door.

  “Yes. I’m fine.” Did she have to look so pale? Whatever makeup she’d applied that morning had rubbed off. She pinched her cheeks and bit down on her lips, trying to give them some color. Taking a deep breath in, she opened the door and almost barged straight into Maxim.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his silver eyes scanning her face.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” Julien said. “Come on. Let’s sit down in the office. Have you had lunch yet?”

  “Where’s Dr. Kaye?” There was no sign of the blonde.

  “She’s on the phone with headquarters.” Julien touched her arm. “Relax. It’s okay. She won’t be back for a while.”

  “Hey. What happened?” One of the Urgent Care officers, a burly elderly man with a balding head and a trim mustache, rushed up to them.


  “Sergeant Peterson.” Maxim patted the officer on the shoulder. “Just the man I need. Find out what’s going on. Room five OD’d.”

  “I thought with Roberts gone, things would’ve been better. We swept through SNY yesterday. No drugs. Want me to set up some cameras around the prison?” The sergeant rubbed his bald head. “That will monitor them more.”

  “That’s a good start. Come. I want to see if there’s any evidence in the room.” Maxim’s penetrating eyes flicked Emma’s way. “Take the rest of the day off, Doc. You look awful.”

  Gee, thanks. The man was as charming as usual. Yet a part of her craved the warmth he radiated. She shivered and rubbed her hands on her arms again as Julien led her back to the Urgent Care.

  “You look pretty shaken up.” Julien placed a cup of water in her hands as soon as she sat down. “Here, drink this.”

  She gulped down the water and took in a deep breath. At least she wasn’t shivering quite as much. “I think I may have killed him.”

  “How?” Julien’s eyebrows rose as he scoffed. “Did you give him the drugs? Did you draw it up for him or help push it in his vein?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then how did you kill him?”

  There was nothing but sympathy on the chief’s face. God, she was so lucky to have him as a supervisor. “I didn’t give him the T3 yesterday,” she confessed. “He wanted it, said he was in a lot of pain. But he looked so comfortable, Julien. Lying there, reading his magazine. I was going to give it to him but then I changed my mind.”

  “Forcing him to turn to heroin and therefore making you an accomplice in his murder?” Julien shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Emma. You had nothing to do with his death.”

  “You don’t think so?” The gnawing sensation eased in Emma’s gut.

  “Of course not.” Julien squeezed her shoulder. “Every year we have an inmate or two die of an overdose. We’re in a prison. There’re addicts all around you. You’re not responsible for how they behave.”