Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  “Who told you that?” He managed a smile.

  “My editors. They warned me not to let anything happen to you.”

  Three doctors were waiting, alerted by radio. I recognized Dr. Alonso, a famous corneal surgeon. It was a comfort to see him, immaculate in a white lab coat, brilliant, the best, but his look of concern made the gravity of Lance’s situation clear.

  How would this look in the national press? Lance’s movie was to be the lynchpin in Miami’s comeback from the storm, the tourist murders, the violent crime statistics, the mass felony arrests of University of Miami football players, and the Panthers losing their shot at the Stanley Cup. We were going to look so good. Damn, I thought. Lance does not deserve this. Neither do we.

  “Anybody check the pH?” Dr. Alonso asked.

  “Didn’t have any litmus paper aboard,” a medic said.

  They whisked the patient into an examining room. No waiting with this type of injury, no litany of insurance questions first. Corrosive chemicals could be burning their way into the inner eye, and every second counts. Being Lance Westfell did not hurt either. More nurses than you would have expected to see on duty in the entire hospital suddenly became extremely busy in the immediate area, sneaking peeks at the superstar, who did not look so heroic at the moment.

  “Check the pH of that bottle’s contents,” the doctor snapped.

  “What does pH mean?” Niko asked.

  “Tells us whether it’s acid or alkaline,” the nurse answered. She dipped a small, clear strip of paper into the milky substance.

  “Don’t let it be acid,” Niko beseeched.

  “Actually,” she said brightly, “the chances of permanent injury are far less if it is acid. Both can cause the same initial damage, but acid won’t penetrate. An alkaline isn’t neutralized as quickly by the body, so it continues to seep into inner layers.”

  “What would be alkaline?” I took notes.

  “Bleach, chlorine, lye.” She shrugged. “With them, the aftermath is worse.”

  Chills rippled up and down my arms. I blinked at the thought of a million optic nerve fibers shutting down, short-circuiting the electrical impulses to the brain. The test paper turned yellow-orange and she disappeared into the examining room. Before the door closed behind her I heard a doctor leaning over Lance say, “It’s a little off, six point four.” I had no idea what he meant but hated the sound of it.

  “I can’t believe I let this happen.” Niko’s fists were clenched together as he rocked back and forth. “Son of a bitch! He wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen. He’s been too exposed ever since we got here. I warned him. He can’t just walk around in crowds without at least three security people on him.” The pain on his face was real.

  “You can’t beat yourself up,” I said. “Stephanie had us all distracted. Who would have thought?”

  “I can’t believe this,” he said. “Women. I hate tussling with them. You can’t deck ‘em, and they’re hard as hell to hold on to. I’d rather fight ten men. I hate this, twice in one day. I shoulda seen—”

  “Nobody can see everything.” I tried to keep us both from panicking, tried not to look at the dock, knowing I should call the paper. “How long have you worked for Lance?”

  “From the beginning.” He hunched in his chair, hands to his head. “We played ball in high school. Lance was quarterback, I was left end. Got out of the Marines just about the time he first got into acting. I studied acting too, got into martial arts. We wound up working out at the same gym. I had some problems, he got me squared away. Saved my life. First starring role he had, I was his stand-in. Been stand-in, trainer, security, ever since. He’s good people, the best. I shouldn’t have hesitated, man. I should’ve broken her fucking neck.”

  A Miami cop interrupted. They had information on the contents of the bottle. The chief had assigned his best man to the case and he was en route.

  Lieutenant Kendall McDonald exuded no sense of urgency, concern, or even surprise at seeing me. I flew halfway down the hall to meet him as he sauntered toward us. Niko was right behind me.

  “Any word on what the stuff was?” I asked anxiously. “Was it acid?”

  “Still baby-sitting the matinee idol, huh?” he drawled.

  “Yes,” I said impatiently.

  He frowned and looked thoughtful. “Isn’t this your day off?”

  “Yes.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “McDonald!” I wanted to pound his chest. “Did you find out what it was? The doctors need to know. Now!”

  “I’m sure the cowboy will survive.”

  “This is frightening for him, for all of us. If you know anything, spit it out.”

  He shrugged. “Her name is Karen Sawyer. Fan and wannabe actress /model.”

  “And?”

  “Upon hearing that aggravated battery is a first-degree felony, she suddenly became cooperative.”

  “And?” I wanted to clutch his throat to force out the words. Niko seemed about to do so.

  “When she heard the matinee idol was in Miami, Ms. Sawyer paid a visit to a friendly Santeria priestess and invested in a super-powerful love potion.”

  “Love potion?” Niko and I chorused.

  “Guaran-goddam-teed to work. Spray the object of your affections, and he is yours for life.”

  “What was in it?” Niko demanded, as I sighed with relief.

  “We talked to the priestess. Interesting concoction. Mother’s milk, rose water, a few herbs and roots. Nothing toxic.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Mother’s milk?” Niko grimaced.

  McDonald fought a grin. This is serious, I thought indignantly. What is wrong with this man?

  “It definitely did not work,” Lance mumbled, when told of the love potion. The alcohol-based rose water had stung his mucous membranes, but his sense of humor remained intact. No permanent injury but, Dr. Alonso explained, the doctors had to “flip his eyelids over to be sure no residue remained in the little cul de sacs of his upper lids.” Each tiny crevice in his lids had to be cleaned out with Q-Tips. I winced. Lance was a trouper. McDonald did not mind at all. In fact, he smiled a lot.

  “He should be fine in twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” Dr. Alonso said. “The conjunctival fornices have been explored and found to be uninvolved. We’ll treat him topically. Three sets of eyedrops, including cortisone and an antibiotic. The third will enlarge the pupil and inhibit ciliary spasms, so the movement of the pupil is not painful,” he explained. “We will need to see him again in a day or so. We could keep him here.”

  “He won’t want to stay in the hospital,” Niko said.

  “He’s already indicated that,” the doctor said. “We can discharge him, then see him again to remove the patches.”

  “Patches?” Niko asked.

  “The surface skin of his eyes is so irritated that he’ll have to wear them for twenty-four hours or so. The poor guy. I saw The Last Gunfighter,” the surgeon said. “He was really good.”

  Niko nodded. “Is there a way to get him out of here without the press all over him? We don’t want pictures.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange something,” the doctor said.

  McDonald’s bedside manner stunk. “The chief asked me to express his regrets,” he was telling Lance, who was seated in a wheelchair, patches covering both eyes. “He’s at a chiefs’ meeting in Tallahassee or he’d be here himself. But he wanted me to assure you that the department is at your disposal and will continue to be, should you need protection in the future—from fans intent on spraying you with mother’s milk or anything else.”

  He struggled to keep a straight face.

  “That guy’s got an attitude,” Niko growled as McDonald departed.

  “You know how cops are,” I said.

  “Uh-oh.” Niko leaned out into the corridor. “Look who’s here.”

  “Who?” Lance gripped the armrests of his wheelchair.

>   “Sorry,” Niko said. “Wendy and Richard Van Ness.”

  Lance relaxed. “Could be worse. I thought you’d spotted Stephanie, Lexie, or the bad blonde with the bottle.”

  The producers burst into the room, Wendy dressed like a wren, Van Ness in tennis whites.

  “Lance! What the hell happened?” Van Ness blurted, shocked at the sight of his star.

  “I got the key to the county.” Lance shrugged. “I was warned. Apparently it’s the kiss of death. At least I’m not a fugitive yet.”

  “How could you let this happen?” Wendy whined at Niko.

  “It looks worse than it is,” Lance said. “No damage, the docs say I just have to wear these for a day.” He gingerly touched the patches over his eyes.

  “We were staggered when we heard,” Van Ness said dramatically. “Lexie is alarmed. We were playing tennis … What the hell is wrong with this town?

  “Sure you’re okay, champ?” He clamped a bony fist on Lance’s shoulder. Lance reacted, startled by the sudden touch. “Where’s the doctor in charge?” Van Ness boomed. “We need to talk to the doctor. No problem starting work this week, is there, champ?”

  “No problem.” Lance was stoic. “Tell everybody it’s no big deal. Stung like hell. Just thought it should be checked out.”

  “Definitely. We’re here for you, champ. Anything you need. Anything.” He and Wendy set out to track down the doctor, seeking assurances that Lance would indeed be ready to work in a matter of days. How heartwarming, I thought.

  “What are the chances of keeping this out of the press?” Van Ness asked me when he returned reassured. “That’s your department, isn’t it?”

  “About as much chance as winning a murder conviction in LA. Reporters are already downstairs. Somebody shot video of the whole thing. I plan to write a story myself,” I added.

  Van Ness looked annoyed. Wendy glared.

  “Love potion? Mother’s milk?” Van Ness grimaced and fingered his mustache. “Ludicrous. Makes our star look silly.”

  “Security is a problem,” Wendy said, turning on Niko.

  “Right. I’m handling it,” he replied.

  “Hope you do a better job than we’ve seen so far,” she said.

  We returned to Star Island in a hired limo. Lance leaned back in the seat, hands on his knees. “You were right all along, Niko. I should have listened. Light me a cigarette, will you?”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, amigo.” Niko lit a Marlboro and passed it to Lance. “From now on I’m armed. The permit can be expedited through the governor’s office, but I’m gonna be packing, starting now. We’ll have three people on you at all times, front, back, and flank. I’m point man. If it’s okay, I want to call Pauli, Dave, Frank, and A1 in LA. They catch the next flight out, they can be here by morning. We’ll have at least one off-duty cop stationed at the house at all times. Maybe somebody on the gate.”

  It seemed to me like an overreaction, but this could have been worse. What if she had had a gun? Or if it had been acid?

  Lance exhaled and looked pained. I wondered which hurt more, his mucous membranes or the total loss of his privacy and spontaneity. “Whatever you say.” He sounded bleak.

  “I got the number of a registry to bring in a nurse until the patches come off.”

  “No, Niko. No.” Lance leaned forward, deep voice intense. “I’m with you on everything else, but … no. I’m spooked. I can’t see a damn thing. No fucking strangers in the house while I’m like this. Britt?” He groped in my direction, and I took his hand. “You’re the only person I can trust here, aside from Niko. Stay at the house to help out? Just till I can see?”

  No way, I thought. I had to write my story, then pick up my mail, my messages, and my dry cleaning. I had to go feed Bitsy and Billy Boots and walk the dog. I had to wash the car, write out my bills, and balance my checkbook.

  “Sure,” I heard myself say. “You can count on me.

  “What the hell’s going on up ahead?” The limo driver slowed down.

  No chase cars had pursued us from the hospital because the doctors and the producers had called a press conference as we beat it out the back door and the pack had fallen for it.

  But now, traffic jammed the Star Island entrance: TV trucks, marked news cars, and camera crews. Choppers throbbed overhead. I recognized one as a local TV station’s “Sky Spy.”

  “We’ve got us a welcoming committee,” Niko said, guiding Lance’s hand to the ashtray. He instructed the driver to go on by, as though headed for South Beach and used the car phone to warn the security man at the guardhouse to clear traffic; we were about to barrel through without stopping.

  The driver turned back west. A motorcycle cop cleared a path. Our driver floored it and the gate lifted just in time. Though our windows were tinted, shouts went up as we roared through. I recognized many of my colleagues and some freelance paparazzi among them.

  “Vultures!” Niko muttered.

  Since the streets are public thoroughfares, no one can be barred from the island. Security is limited and the guard chiefly a deterrent. His task: inquire as to destination, record the time and tag number, then raise the gate. He did his job now, but in super-slow motion. Laboriously, he wrote the destination of the news car behind us on his clipboard, consulted his watch, and strolled to the rear to copy the license tag number by number. Then he trudged back into the guardhouse, in no hurry to press the button. He did slow them down.

  They must be screaming I thought, as I watched out the rear window.

  Other reporters were already on the island, camped out on the swale. Lance slid down in his seat as Niko jumped out, door locks snapping behind him. Had the garage door opener not been in the Town Car, still parked at Metro-Dade Center, we could have driven directly through and into the garage. Instead, Niko dashed to open the gate, besieged by cameras and reporters with microphones. In the dusky twilight it was easy for the press to initially mistake him for Lance. They looked so much alike, particularly with his ponytail tucked inside his collar. An overweight paparazzo, whose specialty is stalking stars for the tabloids, leaned dangerously out of a rented chopper overhead.

  We pulled into the driveway. Niko closed the gate, then opened the garage. As the door closed behind us, paparazzi were coming over the walls.

  Lance and I sat waiting in the dark as Niko hit the lights and went inside to check the house and close the drapes. This had to be what it was like when his marriage to Lexie was breaking up, I thought. What chance did they have? I often pursue people reluctant to talk to a reporter, but on my beat it is usually only once that scandal, crime, or twist of fate makes someone newsworthy for a brief moment in time. What must it be like, I wondered, to live day in and day out with the wolf pack on your scent, most ravenous at times of personal crisis but always circling?

  “You’re home,” I told Lance cheerfully.

  Niko and I exchanged a glance as we helped Lance into the house. To my relief, he did not say it, but I knew what he was thinking. I could have easily been part of that pack. To be on the other side was oddly disorienting, especially for someone who has always believed her path to be righteous.

  That feeling would not make writing my story any easier.

  With Lance comfortable in a chair, his feet up, I called my landlady, Mrs. Goldstein, who agreed to take care of Bitsy and Billy Boots. Then Niko made calls while I fixed tea for them and Cuban coffee for me and heated soup in the gloriously appointed and well-stocked kitchen. Surrounded by shiny chrome and marble-topped ambience, I stirred the soup with a long spoon and thought of little Misty Oliver, stirring soup and fixing sandwiches in a grease-spattered, ill-furnished, government-subsidized apartment, struggling to mother her ever-increasing number of small siblings. Suddenly I wanted to sob. But I didn’t. What was wrong with me?

  Niko was watching, an odd expression on his face. “I have to file a story,” I said briskly, glancing at the clock.

  The cit
y desk put me right through to the last person I wanted to talk to.

  “Where have you been, Britt? Where is Westfell?” demanded Gretchen, the assistant city editor from hell. “They said you were with him. How far are you from writing?”

  “I’m at Star Island,” I said. “He’s here and he’s okay. I can do it right now.” I could send the story by modem from a computer room off the kitchen.

  “What about art?”

  I knew what she meant but pretended I did not. “The cops must have a mug shot of the woman available by now.”

  “I meant Westfell. Villanueva can shoot it. He’s there right now, outside the Star Island house.”

  “Westfell doesn’t want pictures,” I said tersely. “He’s wearing patches over his eyes.”

  “Great!”

  “He is not comfortable.”

  “Talk him into it, Britt. You can do it.”

  “No chance.” I wouldn’t even try.

  Niko listened from the kitchen door, one eye on me and the other on Lance.

  “No,” I repeated. “But there is good art out there somewhere. I’ve got the name and number of a man who shot the whole thing on videotape.”

  “They’re already promoing it, as an exclusive on Hard Copy tonight,” she snapped.

  “A lot of people were snapping pictures when Lance left the commission chambers. I’m sure Karen Sawyer, the woman who did it, is in some of them, in the same frame. The ones shot near the elevator. He was talking to two teenage girls. Both had dark hair; one had a flowered blouse. Sawyer’s the blonde, to their left, in a pink dress, carrying a shoulder bag. That was less than a minute before it happened.” Stephanie might even be in the same shot, I thought, but did not mention her.

  Gretchen’s final words were conspiratorial. “Go let Villanueva in, Britt. You know you can talk Westfell into it.”

  Niko showed me how to use the sophisticated computer setup. I tapped out the story, questioning Niko and Lance about what they remembered, and checked with the cops on Karen Sawyer. She had been charged with assault and battery.