"Whose dog is it?" she asks, looking from Marcel to me then back to Marcel.
Marcel nudges me. "It's his. Michael Gresham."
"Wait," I interrupt, "it's not my dog. We found it in the road."
The admitting clerk is very serious. Her white face and black-rimmed glasses give her a ghostly glow under the fluorescent lights. "We'll have to euthanize him if you don't claim him."
Euthanize? That is too similar to Cache's predicament, at least in my exhausted mind.
"I own him," I tell her. "You want a credit card?"
"Yes."
"American Express work?"
"Yes."
I pass her the card and shut my eyes while she fills out several forms and then runs my card. She hands it back to me. Marcel and I finally sit down. It's been a long day. Marcel looks down and sees all the blood on his arms. He's up and strides back to the admitting clerk. I can hear him ask for a wet towel. He gets much of the blood off his hands. Then he heads to the restroom for the rest of the cleanup.
Now I'm worried about the dog. What am I going to do with a dog in Gig Harbor, Washington?
Two hours later, the same vet tech materializes before me. I've been dozing off.
"Good news," she says to my sleepy face. "He's going to pull through. Dr. Knight repaired his leg, he's splinted and has a plastic collar on so he can't get his mouth around to the wound. What's his name? Just for our records."
"His name's Lucky," Marcel says when it appears I have zero idea about a dog's name.
"Lucky it is," says the tech and off she goes to the clerk to add the name to my new dog's records.
Then she returns. "Dr. Knight will be out to talk to you. We're going to need to keep Lucky overnight. You can pick him up around noon tomorrow. That work for you?"
"It works just fine," Marcel says, again answering for me.
"Wait," I say to Marcel, "where am I going to keep a dog? The hotel won't let me have a dog in my room."
"You'll have to get a place. Something furnished that allows pets."
"I can't; I have a family waiting—"
"Michael, you won't be leaving here anytime soon. After you save Cache's life, you're going to have to help with her rehab or her placement. Trust me; rent a studio and buy your dog one bowl for water and one for food."
"This can't be happening," I mutter. "Not in the middle of the rest of this mess."
"Hey, look at the bright side. You have a dog now. Two hours ago you were dog-less. Sounds almost miraculous to me."
It hits me then. Millie. We haven't called her. I ask Marcel to give her a call and explain our situation. He gives me a sour look, but he does it anyway.
As Marcel is calling Millie, Dr. Knight introduces herself to me. She's wearing a white smock and a frazzled look. We talk, and she explains the procedure Lucky underwent and what will happen next. Long story short, I'm to pick up my dog at noon tomorrow. The entire vet bill will be around fifteen-hundred bucks. I tell her that's fine and ask her if she knows of any short-term studio apartment rentals. She gives me a tired look, shaking her head. She retreats through the swinging door.
"She isn't happy," Marcel reports about Millie.
"Tough darts. If it weren't for her, none of this would have happened. She can jump in the lake, isn't happy. Bite me."
"Michael, that sounds nothing like you. What say we go back to your room, order up a porterhouse with mashed potatoes and green beans, and get you tucked into bed?"
"Bite me. You're the reason I now own a dog and need a studio. Why did I ever bring you out here?"
"Why? Because Lucky wouldn't have been lucky if not for me. And oh yes: Larsyn would have seen his next birthday if not for me."
Terrible accident.
My self-restraint has melted away.
I'm all in.
DAY 10/30
Saturday morning rolls around. Time to find a studio apartment. Also, I haven't seen Cache in thirty hours. So I crawl out of bed and my bath and dressing and light breakfast I decide that first I'll check in on Cache. It's a short visit I have planned and then find the apartment. I'm picking up Lucky this afternoon and need a place to go with him. I've called the animal hospital twice, and he's improving every time.
Cache, however, isn't improving. There's just no change. Plus, she has developed bed sores on her pelvic girdle. The sores have Dr. Collingsworth worried, according to the day nurse. So I take my usual chair beside her bed and reach over and pat her ankle. I have my eyes shut and am praying. Good thoughts for her, anyway.
Which is when I feel her leg twitch. The leg attached to the ankle I've been patting. I wait to see if it happens again. Almost imperceptibly, the leg twitches a second time.
I lean back to study her face. No change there. As I'm watching her face, I see her mouth move as if she's trying to speak. The tube, of course, prevents this. As fast as I can get my hands on it, I hit the call button for the nurse. She comes running.
"Watch," I tell her.
Then I reach and touch Cache's ankle ever so lightly. Her leg elevates off the bed an entire inch! The nurse chuckles and says something about calling Dr. Collingsworth, but I'm no longer listening. Cache is again trying to speak—I'm sure that's what the movement of her mouth means. Or maybe it says she feels the tube and it's making her gag.
The day nurse returns with the respiratory therapist. She watches Cache's face while she tickles her ankle. Again, the face moves as if in pain.
"She's awake," says the RT. "The tube is gagging her. Get the doctor," she orders the nurse, who presses the call button on the lavaliere microphone all the staff here wear. She connects with a male voice and explains the situation. He sharply says to do nothing, that he's on his way.
And he is. Minutes later he rushes in and performs several tests with his penlight.
"There's not only pupillary reaction, but she's also even opening and closing her eyes," he announces to the group.
"Angelina," he tells the RT, "let's disconnect the tube and see what we have."
The RT unscrews the hose from the tube, disconnecting the life support system.
It's undeniable: Cache's chest is raising and lowering, raising and lowering.
"Pull the tube," the doctor orders the RT.
"Cough, honey," the RT says to Cache. There's no response; now the RT expertly works the tube up and out while Cache thrashes her head from side to side. Apparently, she's gagging on the tube and doesn't stop until it's withdrawn. Now it's out, and she tries to say something.
"What is it?" the RT asks her. "Do you want something?"
She nods—or appears to. Then we hear her whisper, clear as a bell.
"I want my dad."
I am shocked, and tears flood my eyes. Now I'm openly crying. My shoulders shake. The nurse passes me a clutch of tissues, and I blow and wipe.
My daughter's first words were to ask for me. I can't stand up and hug her fast enough as I whisper in her ear, "Your dad is right here. And I'll be here with you as long as you need."
"Water." Her second request.
"Astonishing," I say to Dr. Collingsworth. He turns to me and nods from her bedside.
"It is," says the doctor. "Her words are a huge hope for complete recovery. I couldn't be happier."
Angelina lowers a plastic cup of water to Cache's lips. Cache tries to lift her head and manages an inch or two. So the RT reaches for another cup, this one with a straw, and tries that. Contact. Cache takes a long drink, chokes, and starts again. We all watch, amazed. I want to jump and shout but manage to control myself.
Millie walks in and stops. Her eyes widen, and her mouth moves soundlessly. Then she rushes to our daughter and takes her hand. Lowering her head, she puts her face beside Cache's and whispers to her. By now, even the guard outside the door leans in to inquire.
"She woke up," I tell him. "We're witnessing a miracle here." He obviously isn't impressed and disappears back to his hallway watch. My guess is that he's calling the prison on
his shoulder microphone about now.
Millie turns and faces me. Her shoulders are shaking as she comes to me and hugs me. "Thank you for being here," she says.
I'm resolute in how I feel about this. "I'd have been here from the start, Millie, if only I'd known."
"I've made a mess of it, haven't I? You're right to be angry with me. I'm so sorry, Michael. I had no right to keep her from you. Damn me!"
"Easy. You're forgiven, and now you can forgive yourself, too. It's all good now, Millie," I finish, ignoring the fact that the original fight for Cache's life has now reared up to challenge us again. But this time I know even more what I'm fighting for. I'm fighting for the life my daughter has reclaimed here today. I'm fighting not just for Cache, although that's ninety percent of it. But I'm also fighting for Millie and me to heal. We've both cried over our daughter.
Now it's my turn to perform. My thoughts immediately focus on Larsyn. How different might the jury verdict have been if they'd heard Cache's story? We'll likely never know.
Suddenly, I feel the full weight of this awesome responsibility settle down on my shoulders again. And I am dumbstruck. There couldn't be more at stake than this.
Back in my room, all things are new. I see the flocked wallpaper at the head of my bed. As I sit to change into my hiking shorts and sandals, I notice the mattress is a pillow top. Room service arrives with a blueberry bagel and plain cream cheese. I see my food again. Darkness has lifted from me, and everything is new. It's a welcome experience.
I've still got time to pick up Lucky. I call the hospital and tell them I should be there in two hours.
I open my laptop and begin typing. An hour later, I access the court file online and see I've been added as counsel on the case with the right to file pleadings. I've prepared a counter-motion to the state's motion to accelerate the execution. I'm asking for the court to order the guards on shift at the prison when Cache hung herself to cooperate with me in a recorded interview.
My plan is twofold: first I'm going after the state on the theory that its negligence in failing to supervise Cache has resulted in cruel and unusual punishment in that her attempt to kill herself was easily anticipated had they only been acting reasonably. Then I prepare a second motion, this one asking that the case be re-opened for new evidence based on the negligence of her attorney, Kelly Larsyn, who didn't allow her to testify. I go into details here, including an affidavit to be signed by Millie recounting the conversation between Judge Maxim and Larsyn where Larsyn's ascension to the bench is discussed. With this, I also include a prayer for relief that we be given access to the state bar association's file on the appointment to fill Judge Wilberforce's judgeship. My logic tells me that I'm going to turn up a letter written by Judge Maxim encouraging the appointment of Larsyn to fill the opening. After all, Maxim is the chief judge, and his recommendation carries a ton of weight. Accessing that recommendation only serves to add fuel to our position that Larsyn purposely kept Cache from testifying to please Judge Maxim, the uncle of Judge Wilberforce. The uncle with the ax to grind. The uncle out for payback.
I read a third time then expand the motion to include another argument, this one proposing that the trial court's verdict be vacated for the reason that Larsyn colluded with the trial judge to see Cache convicted. This prong of the counter-motion will cause some people to squirm and will open eyes to possibilities as yet unseen.
Finally, I request a change of judge from Judge Maxim to an unbiased judge, someone who hasn't encouraged her conviction by colluding with Larsyn. It's a straightforward motion and will be supported by Millie's affidavit and the letter of recommendation in the state bar association's file that I'm sure we're going to turn up. I believe it's enough to hound Maxim into recusing himself and appointing a new judge. We'll have to see.
Millie is called, and I request she drop by the front desk to sign the affidavit I've prepared. The office has a notary available so she can sign under oath. I don't invite her to my room because I don't want to be alone with her, true enough. But even more important: I have a dog to pick up from the animal hospital. He's there waiting to go to his new home.
Now I'm off to collect him up and find a small apartment that extends a welcome to us both. There's also dog food to consider, bowls, and the rest of what Lucky will need. Mental note to self: rawhide bone. Don't forget a rawhide bone.
The hotel concierge has located a small publication that lists all the rentals available in the area. I circle the dog-welcoming ones and begin to make calls. Three appointments are made.
Beside me in my rented SUV sits Lucky, who, I've been told, is probably a purebred Springer Spaniel. I don't know much about dogs, so I assume that's a good thing. The animal hospital advises me the humane society is running an ad to try to locate Lucky's real owner. The ads are rarely successful, I'm told.
Lucky and I don't strike paydirt until we try the third apartment complex. They are friendly to dogs and have a furnished studio I can move into today. I pay first and last month's rent, sign a six-month lease and give them a security deposit and a pet deposit as well.
Now the place belongs to me. And Lucky.
The Petco out on Borgen Boulevard lets me bring Lucky inside the store. We grab a cart and head down the aisles. A clerk helps us locate a favorite pellet dog food and loads a fifty-pound bag of the good stuff into my cart. Other necessaries are located after walking the aisles for ten or fifteen minutes, and now Lucky's needs can be met. We go through checkout and, just inside, just beside the exit doors, is a machine that makes a name tag for your dog. You can also include your telephone number on the reverse side. I loop Lucky's leash around my wrist and begin typing the particulars into the machine. The tag pops out. It easily attached to Lucky's new collar. So does his vaccination tag from the animal hospital.
Now we're all set, so back to the new apartment.
We unload and head inside. The utilities are included; everything is ready for this new tenant plus one. An hour later, Lucky has eaten, and I've ordered a pizza and quart of root beer. A grocery delivery service comes at seven p.m. with several bags of necessary—and some unnecessary—groceries. The kitchen is fully outfitted, including coffee maker, so now I have fresh coffee in the supplied navy mug, and I'm settled in front of the TV with my new companion on the couch beside me, licking his balls.
Great. It probably says something about my taste in dogs, but I don't even begin to go there. I do have some pride remaining.
It's probably two hours later when I get a call from a cell phone with a private number. Probably a burner, a throwaway phone. Knowing I might very well regret it, I answer. I have to play the message through twice before I realize what it is I'm hearing. Someone has dictated into their computer and what I'm hearing played back is the computer's artificial voice delivering me a message. It includes the words "yellow" and "terrible accident."
I know what I know. Marcel has just tipped me off.
It's coming.
Marcel
Marcel dials the number Inder Singh has given him. He speaks with the girl, a sophomore at the local university. Yes, she tells him, she has been with Mr. Larsyn on many occasions. Marcel has confirmed the setup and the process.
Her name is Iris Cambell. She's twenty-years-old and majoring in cello. She's at university on a full-ride music scholarship, but it isn't enough to live on and enjoy some of the things she enjoys that cost money.
Like cocaine. She's addicted—thanks to Singh and the others who field calls from her clientele, deliver her to her appointments and take her pay. She's addicted because they want her addicted. All of the girls are addicted to something—Marcel knows this to be a fact. He knows it's how streetworld operates. Without chemicals, the system would come unglued.
He decides she's just what he needs.
Marcel meets Iris at the girls' softball field near her university. It's nighttime and the field lights are off, and there's no one around.
They join up at second base. Sh
e goes to light up a Salem, and he snatches it from her before her lighter can flare and give them away.
"Please, Iris. If anyone sees us together, it's off."
"I need something before I do this. Just a taste to get me through."
"After."
"Will he be there?"
"He will. But he'll be asleep after you give him this."
He passes her a small baggie.
"What is it?"
"A barb. A little something to give him a good night's sleep. A very deep night's sleep."
"What else do I have to do?"
"I just need you to drop in on him. Play like he called for you. He'll take advantage of it because he's mad about you. It should go without a hitch."
"Okay. I give him the stuff in the baggie, then what?"
"Take the pictures with his camera. Post them on his Instagram page. Then leave. Just walk out the door and don't speak to anyone. Keep this hat low on your face. There're video surveillance cameras everywhere. Remember how I showed you."
"Wait. He doesn't have an Instagram page."
Marcel smiles. "Which is why we get to make one for him."
"With--"
"Yes."
She looks up at the stars. They are wheeling—from her view—across the night sky in a dizzying dance. She loves it and almost falls, but he catches her, steadies her, brings her back upright.
Then her face clouds.
"Are you going to give me more money for this?"
"How much are we talking?"
He knows he's being gentle, an alternate universe beyond the pimps. He's letting her control the terms of the deal. This way she won't later have regrets and think she was cheated. This way, she sets the terms, and she knows they're good for her because she chose them.
"I don't know," she says, choosing her words as carefully as she's able. "Another thousand?"
30 Days of Justis Page 10
