It's Nothing Personal

by Gorman MD, Sherry

  “You already know everything. What’s some dumb-ass lawyer going to do for me now?” Hillary hissed.

  Before Detective Morris had the chance to say anything else, she hung up.

  Hillary’s parents remained seated at their modest, maple kitchen table. The cups of coffee in front of them had long since grown cold. Harold grabbed his wife’s hand and held it tightly. Janice sullenly looked around at her cheerful kitchen. Filled with memories, the room had always been her favorite place in their home. Janice loved the chipper, yellow wallpaper speckled with pretty, white daisies. The pine floors were marked up by years of love, laughter, and horseplay. Hillary’s mother glanced over to the stove, where she had dotingly cooked her family’s favorite meals. To Janice, her kitchen symbolized her family’s lives. At least their former lives, she thought sorrowfully.

  The morning sun filtered through the windows of the breakfast nook. Instead of radiating warmth and comfort into the cozy space, the sunlight cast a condemning spotlight on Hillary, as she took her seat at the table.

  Hillary’s mother stared at her daughter as if she were looking at a stranger. Janice strived to remind herself that Hillary was once an innocent child. However, each memory was promptly overshadowed by the chilly presence of the woman sitting across from her.

  Glancing at one of her most cherished photographs hanging on the wall, Janice sighed. Hillary was about three years old with ivory skin, long black hair, and big brown eyes full of mischief and joy. Janice smiled to herself as she reflected on what a truly beautiful and amazing little girl Hillary had been. The picture had been taken on a beach vacation in Key West as Hillary played in the sand, lost in her own imaginary world. Her parents snapped the photograph without Hillary’s knowledge. No posing, no cheesy smiles, no looking awkwardly into the camera. It captured the natural sparkle, tenderness, and grace of their only child.

  Hillary squeezed her mother’s hand and said softly, “I remember that beach.”

  “You do?” Janice’s voice cracked. “You were so little. Those were good times.”

  Janice looked back at Hillary. Hillary’s formerly flawless skin was now marred by piercings and tattoos. Her once twinkling eyes now bore the dark patches and sunken look of many years of hard living and drug use. Hillary’s previously black hair was bleached out, uncombed, and greasy. Janice studied her daughter, dressed in a tattered, black T-shirt and overly tight jeans. To her, it was obvious that somewhere along the way, the delightful little girl filled with promise and hope had transformed into a monster. Although this acknowledgement broke Janice Martin’s heart, she knew it was true. The little girl she loved so dearly would never have committed the acts carried out by this woman sitting at her table.

  Hillary stroked the back of her mother’s hand with her thumb. “Mom, you did a good job. Don’t ever forget that. All this had nothing to do with you, or Dad. You both did everything right. I’m just a fuckup.”

  It broke her parent’s hearts to admit it, but Hillary was right.

  Instead of responding, Harold and Janice each put their feelings of shame and anger aside and grasped Hillary’s hands. They sat there at the table, forming a triangle filled with love and despair. No one spoke a word. Over the past week, Hillary had confessed everything to her parents. There was no sense in rehashing the shock and disgrace that her actions brought upon her family.

  Eventually, the cuckoo clock interrupted the Martins’ time together. The little bird only cried out one “Cuckoo” and then retreated into his wooden box. Janice Martin, shaken from her trance, looked at Hillary and said, “Well, I guess we better all get ready. We’ll need to leave here in an hour.”

  The Martins’ unlocked hands and stood from the table. Hillary rushed over to her parents and buried herself in their embrace. While her mother and father held her, Hillary sobbed uncontrollably. Finally, she pulled away and stared at them with eyes that were wet, red, and puffy. A clear stream ran from Hillary’s nose toward her lips, but she made no attempt to wipe it away.

  Through her sniffles, Hillary pleaded, “Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry. Please, no matter what I’ve done, please never abandon me.”

  Harold’s words were unsteady. His characteristic strength and confidence had long since dissolved.

  “Hillary, your mother and I will always be there for you. We promise you that.”

  Both of her parents nodded, with tears in their eyes.

  Hillary smiled gratefully and then walked away to get ready for the meeting she dreaded.

  An hour later, Hillary and her parents left for the police station downtown. During the drive, the Martins were silent. Hillary watched the familiar images of the city pass by from her window in the backseat. When they passed the football stadium, she remembered the fall games she went to with her dad. Driving by the McDonald’s reminded her of Happy Meals on the run, while her mother chauffeured her from one activity to the next. Hillary had the window open and embraced the warm June air. She had an overpowering urge to cherish every moment of the car ride.

  Hillary and her parents arrived at the police station, and her mother started to steer their car into the parking lot.

  “No, Mom,” said Hillary firmly. “I’m going in alone. Just drop me off in front.”

  At first, Janice was hurt that Hillary did not want them to come with her, but she also had to respect her daughter’s wishes. She reluctantly pulled in front of the police station and glanced back at her daughter. Hillary’s hair was still dirty and stringy, she had not bothered changing clothes, but she had put on some makeup. Unfortunately, the dark eyeliner only accentuated the bags under Hillary’s eyes.

  Hillary sprang up between the front seats and gave each of her parents a kiss on the cheek. Without saying another word, she opened the car door and walked up the cement steps to the entrance of the police station. Reaching the glass doors, Hillary contemplated looking back toward her parents. Instead, she chose to focus straight ahead and entered the station.

  Janice watched her daughter disappear into the gloomy building. Once Hillary was out of sight, Janice’s body went limp, and a torrential flood poured from her eyes. Harold reached over from the passenger seat and turned off the car’s ignition. He held his wife tightly as they both wept. Neither of them said the words, but at that moment, they both knew their daughter was gone forever.

  CHAPTER 5

  Hillary shuddered as the glass door of the police station slammed behind her. She could not escape thoughts of iron bars clanking shut and locking her in, which was how she feared her day would end. The warm, summer air instantly vanished, replaced by a cold blast from the building’s air conditioner. Hillary forced herself to move forward, each step requiring a quantum amount of strength.

  Inside the lobby, Hillary spotted an information desk staffed by a middle-aged, overweight female cop, busy on a phone call. The officer caught sight of Hillary approaching and defensively held her finger up in Hillary’s face in a shushing gesture. Hillary closed her mouth and waited. While the policewoman continued her conversation, Hillary turned around and studied her surroundings.

  This was not Hillary’s first time inside a police station. She had been arrested several times for petty crimes – shoplifting, underage drinking, and possession of marijuana. This station resembled all the others. The cracked tile floor was permanently stained by years of dirt and grime. Fluorescent lights provided a depressing, artificial glow. Uniformed officers meandered this way and that. Some carried cups of coffee, while others guided handcuffed men and women to their destinations. Random, undecipherable squawks from police radios provided a unique form of white noise. People from every sector of society, ranging from drug dealers to middle-aged soccer moms, filled the station.

  Five minutes later, the phone call ended. With blatant irritation, the officer asked Hillary, “Can I help you?”

  Unappreciative of the officer’s attitude, Hillary smacked her gum a couple of times and then answered, “Yeah, I’m here to meet Detectiv
e Morris.”

  “Your name?”

  “Hillary Martin.”

  Hillary impatiently tapped her fingers on the officer’s desktop. The woman scowled at Hillary’s hand, refusing to do anything until the drumming ceased. Thirty seconds later, Hillary stopped.

  The policewoman pointed to a row of chairs across the lobby. “Go take a seat.”

  Hillary wanted nothing more than to give the officer a piece of her mind, but she held her tongue and walked away. It turned out that Hillary did not have time to sit in one of the filthy chairs before she noticed two large men in dress shirts with identification badges around their necks headed straight for her. Once they were within feet of her, Hillary read their names. The taller, older man with graying hair, a small gut, and a prominent bald spot on top of his head was Detective Bob Morris. His cohort, Detective Joe Pacheco, was younger, leaner, and much more attractive.

  Never having met either of these detectives face-to-face, Hillary was taken aback by the fact that they certainly seemed to recognize her.

  Detective Morris introduced himself and his partner. Hillary stood in front of the men with her thumbs tucked in her back pockets and simply nodded. She was much too nervous to speak or shake hands.

  Not wasting any time, Detective Morris pointed toward the back of the lobby and said, “Follow me.”

  Hillary felt her mouth go dry as she trailed behind Detective Morris, while Detective Pacheco took up the rear. She could not shake the impression that this line up was strategic, in case she tried to bolt. The threesome maneuvered through a maze of tight hallways and corridors until they came to a room at the end of a hall. A sign on the door read, “Interview Room 4.” Detective Morris opened the door and gestured for Hillary to enter.

  The room itself was intimidating by its mere simplicity. The space was small, no more than 10 feet by 12 feet. In the center sat a standard foldout table with two plastic chairs on one side and a single chair on the other. A video camera was mounted in a corner of the room near the ceiling. Hillary followed the trajectory of the lens and realized it was pointed directly at the chair she assumed she would occupy. A red light below the lens flashed on and off. She was already being videotaped.

  Detective Morris followed Hillary inside the room. Pointing to the solitary chair, he said, “Please, take a seat.”

  Hillary sat down and noticed there was a one-way glass on the wall behind where the detectives took their chairs. Staring at her own reflection, knowing that strangers were likely behind the glass watching her, made Hillary feel self-conscious and vulnerable. There were three bottles of water on the table. Detective Morris offered one to Hillary, took one himself, and gave the last one to Detective Pacheco. With shaking hands, she accepted the bottle and twisted off the cap. Noisily, she swallowed one large gulp, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Ms. Martin,” said Detective Morris, “just to lay the framework for our interview, I need to make sure you understand that your statements today are completely voluntary. You can end this interview any time you want. You also need to understand that anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. Is this all clear?”

  Hillary slouched in her chair and tucked her unwashed hair behind her ears. Without looking up, she answered, “Yes.”

  Detective Morris continued, “Do you also understand that you have the right to have an attorney present during questioning? If you can’t afford one, the court can appoint one for you.”

  “Yes.” Hillary continued to speak in the direction of the floor.

  Detective Morris handed a document and a pen to Hillary. “If you still wish to proceed with this interview without an attorney, I need to have you sign at the bottom of this form.”

  The gravity of the situation smothered Hillary as she held the pen. Glancing at Detective Morris, much like a daughter asking her father for advice, she questioned, “Do you think I should have an attorney?”

  Detective Morris responded with cool professionalism, “I can’t advise you one way or the other. It’s up to you. But if you want one, now is the time to make that request.”

  Hillary placed the paper on the table, signed her name, and snickered, “I guess you guys pretty much know what’s been going on already.”

  With the formalities completed, Detective Morris said, “Probably a good place to start is for you to tell us why you think you’re here.”

  Hillary’s response was flat and detached, “I’m here because, you know, I need to turn myself in. There are charges against me from St. Augustine Hospital involving drugs.”

  Detective Morris kept his focus on Hillary as he shifted topics. “Can you tell me how long you’ve been a scrub tech and where you’ve worked?”

  Hillary lifted her head slightly, but still avoided any eye contact. “I got my first job in 2007, in Nevada. A year later, I moved with my boyfriend to Los Angeles. I was pregnant, and he had gotten a really good job there. We were trying to make the best life we could for the baby. Before my daughter was born, I worked in L.A. as a scrub tech for a while. And, of course, I worked at St. Augustine.”

  Detective Morris asked, “Were you fired or disciplined at either of the first two facilities where you worked? In Nevada or California?”

  Hillary’s voice was raspy. “I left the job in Nevada on good terms. I only quit because we were moving. In L.A., I was fired because of attendance issues. I had a lot of problems with the pregnancy and missed a lot of work. I always had doctors’ notes to excuse my sick days, but they didn’t care. It was just as well anyway, because the baby was about to come.”

  “So after you lost your job in L.A., and before you moved out here to work at St. Augustine Hospital, what did you do for money? You did have a baby to support, right?”

  Hillary answered sadly, “Well, yes and no on the baby part. I did have a baby, a little girl named Amber. Me and her dad split up pretty much right after she was born. I couldn’t work and take care of Amber, so her dad took her up near San Francisco, and they lived with his mom. She helped take care of the baby while my ex worked. I moved in with some friends in L.A., but I didn’t have a car, and I couldn’t find any hospital jobs nearby. I did some waitressing for a while. Then, last fall, I called my folks. I think they could tell I needed help – I guess they could hear it in my voice. Anyway, they invited me to come back home. Once I moved out here, I got hired at St. Augustine almost immediately. I guess it was a lucky break.”

  Detective Morris tapped his pen on the wooden table. He leaned closer to Hillary and asked, “Since I’m not in the world of medicine, and I’d like to understand things as best I can, can you explain what a scrub tech does and the qualifications for the job?”

  Hillary’s eyes brightened. For the first time since the interview began, she sat up straight and turned to face the detective directly. With her head held high, Hillary confidently explained her job.

  “Well, in order to become a scrub tech, you have to go to a certified program for about eighteen months. The scrub tech’s job is to assist the surgeon on cases. Before the surgery started, I would go into the OR and open the instruments onto the surgical table. Then I would have to scrub in.”

  Sensing Hillary enjoyed playing the role of the expert, Detective Morris strived to maintain the momentum. He interjected, “What does that mean . . . ‘scrub in?’”

  Hillary became more animated and comfortable with every word. “Oh, that means I scrub my hands and arms with a special soap and sponge. Then I put on a sterile gown and gloves. The point is that no surface of my skin or clothing is exposed, or else I would contaminate the sterile surgical equipment. Sorry, I forget that not everyone knows what goes on in the OR.”

  “No need to be sorry. I find this fascinating. Please continue.”

  In response to Detective Morris’s compliment, Hillary smiled. Speaking with authority, she continued, “Once I was sterile, I would set the instruments up for the case. Then, me and the circulating nurse would
count everything on the table. When the surgeon came in, I would help him or her get into a sterile gown and gloves. Then I’d help place sterile drapes over the patient. During the case, I would pass instruments to the surgeon and assist them on whatever they needed help with. When the case was done, me and the circulating nurse would recount all the instruments, you know, to make sure nothing got left inside the patient. Once the case was done, I would gather up all the instruments and send them down to be sterilized.”

  “As a scrub tech, did you ever have to access medications for the surgical procedure?”

  “The only meds that I had anything to do with were the ones used by the surgeon. Stuff like local anesthetics or steroids. The circulating nurse would open those meds and dump them into bowls on my surgical table. Then I would draw up the medication into a syringe and hand it to the surgeon.”

  “Are any of those medications that the circulating nurse would put on your table narcotics?”

  “No,” replied Hillary. “Only the anesthesiologist has the narcotics.”

  Detective Morris saw Hillary had already consumed her entire bottle of water and was starting to fidget with the bottle.

  He asked her kindly, “Would you like more water?”

  “Yeah, that would be great.”

  With that, Detective Pacheco took his cue as the junior detective and left the room to fetch more water. Detective Morris took advantage of the break in the conversation and asked, “Hillary, I need to make sure, before we go any further, that you still wish to voluntarily continue with this conversation and that you do not want an attorney.”

  Hillary defiantly interlaced her fingers and straightened her arms in front of her. The sound of knuckles cracking permeated the air. Hillary forcefully rolled her neck in alternating circles, as if preparing for a street fight. Once she was done, she said, “I’m fine. Let’s keep going.”

  CHAPTER 6