Then he remembered. It was at summer camp. He was eleven—no, twelve—years old. A sudden stomach cramp while swimming far from the raft. In an instant he was on the bottom, pain strangling his gut and water forcing its way into his lungs. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain and the terror had vanished. In their place, the same detached peace. He was dying—then and now—helpless and dying.
The sergeant’s radish cheeks puffed in a grin. “Glad to see you’re feelin’ better,” he said. “The night boys were worried. Said you weren’t even able to hold a dime, much less make the phone call they tried to give you.” When David didn’t answer, he added, “You are feelin’ better, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m okay, thanks,” David said distantly, still testing his body and his feelings for pain. “Wh … where am I, anyway?”
“District One,” the man answered. He looked at David with renewed concern. “You’re in the jail at District One in Boston. Do you understand that?” David nodded. “We have to go now. You’ve got to go to court. The judge and the people at the court will help you. Don’t you worry.”
David watched with bemused curiosity as the policeman clicked a handcuff on his right wrist and led him out of the cell. He smiled politely at the black, silver-haired prisoner who was snapped into the other cuff. Calmly, fuguelike, he focused on the manacled hands—black and white—and followed them into the back seat of a squad car.
“Name’s Lyons,” the black man said as the car pulled away. “Reggie Lyons.” His wise face held countless thin lines, etched by years of hard living, and several thicker ones, clearly carved by more tangible items.
“David. I’m David,” he answered.
“You ain’t never been this route before, David, have you?” Lyons asked. David shrugged, looked out the window, and shook his head. “Well, you is in for a treat. The tank at Suffolk is the worst, man. I mean the pits.” David stared at a motorcycle cruising next to them and nodded. “Hey, you all right? Well, it don’t matter much one way or tuther. Crazy’s prob’ly better. You just stick close to ol’ Reggie. He’ll take care of you.”
The tank was, in fact, a cage. The holding room for prisoners awaiting court appearances. Twenty men, all “presumed innocent” were packed inside—rapists, drunks, vagrants, murderers, flashers. Around the outside, half a dozen lawyers were vying to be heard over one another and over the din inside. “Perkins, which one of you is Perkins? …” “Frankly, Arnold, I don’t give a flying fuck if the kid is guilty or innocent. He either cops the first charge and saves us a trial or he ends up going down for both and spending three to five in Walpole …” “Look, kid, I know what you’ve seen on Perry Mason, but that just ain’t the way it works. Today we don’t talk guilty or not guilty. Today we talk money. If you have some or can get some, we bail you out. Otherwise you wait for your trial in Charles Street. Nobody cares about your story today. This is just for bail. Understand? Just for bail …”
David wedged himself in one corner of the tank and stared through the chain link at a high window that was opaque with grime. Bit by bit, reality—and the terror—was returning. He thought about the hospital. The operating rooms would already be on their second cases of the day.
“Hey, David, you got a lawyer?” Reggie Lyons stood next to him, leaning against the cage. A cigarette, wrinkled and bent, popped up and down at the corner of his mouth as he spoke.
“Ah, no, Reggie, I don’t,” David said absently. “At least, not that I know of.” An uncomfortable pressure grew beneath his breast bone. He tried to remember when he had last eaten. When he had last run by the river. He looked about the cage, awareness growing every second and with it an abysmal despair.
“Shelton? David Shelton. Which one of you is Shelton?” The bailiff was a dumpy man in his late fifties. There was an air about him—a look in his eyes—that suggested his favorite pastime outside of court might be pulling the wings off insects.
Reggie Lyons leaned over and whispered, “David, don’t you be scared now. Jes’ go in there an think about the beach or your favorite broad or somethin’. All the uniforms an’ robes is jes’ dress-up. A game they play to impress one another an’ scare the shit out of us.”
David turned and looked at Reggie’s aged, ageless face. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely. “Thanks a lot.”
The man stared at him curiously, then took one of David’s hands in both of his. His palms were thick with calluses. “Good luck, man,” he whispered. “Don’t give in to ’em.”
The paunchy bailiff snapped handcuffs on David as he stepped out of the tank. Moments later, he was seated in the prisoners’ dock. The three-foot-high, four-foot-square pen was a wooden island, separating him from the rest of the courtroom. Told to stand, he braced his legs against one low panel as new words, new voices and scenes worked their way into his nightmare.
The clerk who read the charges was a spinsterish woman who looked as if she had been born into the ornate old courtroom.
“As to complaint number three one nine four seven, your complainant, John Dockerty, respectfully represents that in the City of Boston in the County of Suffolk in behalf of said Commonwealth, David Edward Shelton of Boston in the County of Suffolk on the second day of October, in violation of the General Laws, chapter two six five, section one, did wrongfully murder one Charlotte Winthrop Thomas with intent to murder her by injecting into her body a quantity of morphine sulfate.
“The court has entered a plea for the defendant of not guilty.”
David leaned more heavily against the panel as the district attorney, a slick young man with two rings on each hand, briefly outlined the case against him. Disconnected words and phrases were all that registered. “… premeditated … unconscionable misuse of his skill and knowledge … clandestine injection … positively identified as … murder, as heinous as any committed in passion.… ”
“Dr. Shelton, do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?” the judge said mechanically. David nodded. “Speak up, please. Do you understand the charges?”
“Yes,” David managed.
“And do you have a lawyer?”
For several seconds there was total silence in the room. Then a voice called out from the last row of seats. “Yes, yes, he does, Your Honor.” A thin man, dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit, rose and walked briskly down the aisle toward the judge.
“You’re representing this man, Mr. Glass?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Let the record show the defendant is represented by Mr. Benjamin Glass.”
David’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man who had come forward to champion him. Black hair … thinning … strands combed carefully across the top … scuffed brown leather briefcase … broad gold wedding band, intricately carved.
Glass walked to him and smiled encouragement. “You okay?” he asked softly. David managed a nod. “You’re white as a ghost. Do you need to see a doctor or anything?” This time a shake. The lawyer’s face was dark, nearly olive colored—unlined and youthful, yet at the same time seasoned and assured. Dark circles underscored the intensity in his eyes. “Sorry I’m late. Lauren didn’t connect with me until this morning. Let me get you out of here, then we’ll talk.”
Ben Glass approached the judge. “Your Honor, I would like to move for bail and petition for a probable-cause hearing.” He looked slight to David, almost frail. But his stance, the tilt of his head exuded confidence.
It was his world, David realized, his operating room. “Thank you, Lauren,” he whispered. For the first time the flicker of hope appeared in his nightmare.
“On what grounds?” the judge said.
“Your Honor, Dr. Shelton is a respected surgeon with no criminal record and no recent history that would suggest the need for psychiatric observation and evaluation. ”
“Very well. Fifty thousand dollars cash.”
“Your Honor,” Glass said with just the right incredulity, “this man may be an M.D., but I as
sure you, he is no millionaire. Please save us a trip this afternoon for review by a supreme court justice. Make it a hundred thousand, but let me pay a bondsman.”
The judge tapped his fingertips together for a few seconds, then said, “All right, Mr. Glass. One hundred thousand dollars bail it is.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Ben took David by the arm and, with the bailiff close behind, led him from the courtroom. “You’re almost home, David,” he said. “My friend the bondsman will want ten thousand dollars. Have you got it?”
“I … don’t think so,” David said.
“Family. Can you get it from your parents or someplace?”
“My parents are dead. I … I have two brothers and … a … oh, an aunt who might help. What if I can’t come up with the money?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to have that happen. The place you stayed last night is a palace compared to Charles Street, where they’ll send you now. Tell you what. Maury Kaufman, the bondsman, has gotten so fat off my clients that he owes me. He’ll agree to cuff this one for a day rather than risk losing my trade. Today is Wednesday. I’ll get you until Friday morning to come up with the cash. Okay?”
“Okay,” David said as the bailiff removed his handcuffs and motioned him back into the tank. “And Mr. Glass—thank you.”
“David, I hope this doesn’t shake your confidence too much, but while you were taking Godliness one-oh-one in medical school, I was one of those hippie weirdo flower children getting pushed around at antiwar demonstrations. It’s Ben. You can only call me Mr. Glass if it makes it easier for you to come to grips with the fee you’re going to have to pay me.” He turned and headed down the hall as the bailiff clanged the tank door shut.
“Hey, David, is that Glass dude your lawyer?” A toothpick had replaced the cigarette in the corner of Reggie Lyons’s mouth.
“I … I guess he is,” David said, pleased with the bit of animation that had returned to his voice.
“Well, then. I guess I can stop gettin’ all worked up ’n’ worried about you. He don’t look like much, but I seen him prancin’ around in court a few times. The dude’s a tiger. I mean he is the man.”
“Thanks for telling me, Reggie. It helps.” David actually grinned. “You’ve really been great to me. Say, what are you here for anyway?”
Lyons smiled and winked. “Jes’ bein’, pal,” he said. “I is here jes’ for bein’.”
* * *
The sign over the bar said, “Paddy O’Brien’s Delicatessen: Home of the world’s best chopped liver, and the most famous Irish Jew since Mayor Briscoe.”
“I’ve never even heard of this place.” David smiled as he slid onto the wooden bench across from Ben. Shamrocks and Stars of David were everywhere. On the wall over their booth the photograph of a ragamuffin group of Irish revolutionaries hung side by side with one of a spit-and-polish Israeli tank unit.
“Are you Jewish?” Ben asked.
“No.”
“Are you Irish?”
“No.”
“I rest my case. It’s no wonder you’ve never found your way here. Sooner or later, though, most people do. And here you are.”
“Thanks to you.”
“It’s what I do,” Ben answered matter-of-factly. “If my appendix bursts someday, then I might end up here savoring the chopped liver, thanks to you. That’s the way it all works, right?”
“Right,” David said. He knew that the easy talk they’d shared since leaving the courtroom had been as carefully orchestrated by Ben as his choice of this gritty, vibrant restaurant. He also knew they were wise choices. Bit by bit, he was relaxing. Bit by bit, he sensed the resurgence of hope.
Ben ordered a “sampler of delights” that easily could have fed ten. They ate in silence for a while, then he said, “It’s probably unfair to have waited until after you’ve eaten to discuss my fee, but it is how the wee ones at home get fed. It’s ten thousand dollars, David.”
David startled momentarily, then shrugged and took a sip of water. Suddenly finding himself $20,000 in debt was little more than a gnat on his nightmare. “I don’t have it,” he said flatly.
“I’m a bit more lenient in my payment schedule than Maury the Bondsman,” Ben said, “but I expect to get paid.”
David’s lips tightened. “I guess that after being accused of murder and spending the night in a cell, there’s really not much place for false pride. I’m sure I could borrow the money if I can just sit on my vanity long enough to ask. My brothers would probably be willing to help. And I have this friend who owns the Northside Tavern—”
“Rosetti?”
“You know Joey?”
“Not well, but enough to know that he’s a good kind of friend to have. Somehow Rosetti’s always been able to straddle the fence between the North End boys and the establishment without falling off on either side. If he’s your friend, I say give him a call.”
“If it comes to that, I will.”
“Well, like I said, I expect to get paid.” David nodded. “We’re in business, then,” Ben said, reaching over to shake his hand. “Now I can tell you what you get for your money—and what you have to do to keep me. You get everything I can give you, David. Time, friends, influence, sweat—whatever you need. In exchange I want only one thing from you—besides the fee, that is.” He paused for emphasis. “Honesty. I mean total, no-crap, no-bullshit honesty. There are no second chances. If I catch you in even a tiny fib, you find yourself another lawyer. There are enough unpleasant surprises in this job as is without constantly worrying about whether I’m going to get one from my client.”
“We’re still in business,” David said.
“Fine. Why don’t you start by giving me some background on yourself. Assume I don’t know anything.”
At that moment a sprightly little man with freckles and graying red hair bounced over and leaned on the table. He wore a grease-stained apron with a large green Star-of-David on the front. His high-pitched brogue made every word a song. “Benjy, me boy. Openin’ the annex to your office again, I see.”
“Hi, Paddy. It’s been a while.” Ben shook his hand. “Place looks good. Listen, this is my friend, David. He’s a surgeon, so you’d best keep this rowdy crowd quiet while we’re working or I’ll have him graft your precious parts to your dart board.”
Paddy O’Brien laughed and patted David on the shoulder. “Go ahead, if it’ll make ’em work any better. Benjy here’s the best there is at lawyerin’ and at bummin’ the check, so watch out. You boys go on about your business. I’ll have two pints sent over—courtesy of the house.”
“Make that one, Paddy,” Ben said. His eyes met David’s for an instant. “For me.”
“One pint and one Coke comin’ up,” the little man said without batting an eye.
“So, assume you don’t know anything, huh?” David was smiling.
“I was late this morning because I was talking to John Dockerty,” Ben explained. “I didn’t stay long enough to learn too much, but I will tell you he hasn’t put this thing in a drawer. Please, humor me and just assume I know nothing, okay?”
“Okay.” David shrugged. “How far back?”
“It’s your story,” Ben said.
“My story …” For a moment David’s voice drifted away as pieces of events, bits of people flashed through his thoughts. “Began innocently enough, I guess.” He shrugged. “Two older brothers. Decent, loving parents. White picket fence. The works. When I was about fourteen, the whole thing unraveled. Mother got cancer. It was in her brain, before anyone even knew she had it. Even so, she lived for almost eight pitiful months. My dad owned a small store. Appliances. He ended up selling it so he could nurse mother—in between her hospitalizations, that is. A few weeks before she died, he had a coronary. Dead before he hit the floor, they told me.
“I’m still not sure why, but from that time on all I wanted to be was a doctor. A surgeon, too. Even back then.”
It had been years since
David had sat and gone through the whole thing. He felt surprise at how easily the words came. “Is this the kind of stuff you want to know?” he asked. Ben nodded.
“My aunt and uncle took care of me until college, then I was essentially on my own. I was never any great genius, but I knew what I wanted and I clawed and scraped to get it. Scholarships and jobs all the way through medical school. I’d find what I thought was my limit, then I’d push myself past it. By the middle of my internship it was starting to get to me. I was sort of a Wunderkind in the hospital, but outside I was coming unglued. Smoking too many cigarettes, sleepless nights, depressions that didn’t want to go away. I fought the problem the only way I knew how. I pushed myself even harder at work. Looking back, I feel sure that if it weren’t for a stop sign some kids had stolen, I would have gone off the deep end.”
Ben startled at the strange association, then he smiled. “A woman?”
David nodded. “Ginny. Her car and mine smacked together at an intersection. The sign her way was missing. The irony is still really painful. I met her through an auto accident, then …” For the first time, words became difficult.
Ben raised a hand. “David, if this is too hard for you right now, we can do it another time. Sooner or later, though, they are things I have to know.”
David toyed with his glass, then said, “Nope, I’m okay. Just stop me if it gets too maudlin—or too boring.” Ben grinned and waved him on. “We got married six months later. She was an interior decorator. A rare and gentle person. My whole life changed just by having her there. Over the next four years there was magic in everything I did. The head of the surgical department at White Memorial asked me to stay on an extra year as chief resident. That job is about the only way a surgeon can get a staff appointment at WMH. So it was all there. For a little while at least.
The Sisterhood Page 18
