Death Rattle

by Alex Gilly

  “What were they caused by?”

  “They were caused by sulfuric acid.”

  “The kind of acid found in car batteries?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Woods, can you describe the effects of sulfuric acid on human flesh?”

  Again, he hesitated. At the periphery of her vision, Mona discerned people shifting uncomfortably in the jury box.

  “It’s pretty horrific,” he said, keeping it vague.

  That wasn’t good enough. Mona wanted him to give details. Joaquin handed her a sheet of paper.

  “According to Survivors International, these are some of the effects that battery acid has on human flesh: ‘Sulfuric acid eats away at the skin, the layer of fat beneath the skin, and the bones beneath the fat. It causes coagulation necrosis, thrombosis, and third-degree burns. It causes lifelong physical and psychological problems.’” Mona turned to the jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to show you a photo of Carmen’s wound.”

  Mona switched on the overhead projector and showed the photo she’d taken many months previously of Carmen’s flesh. Shocked gasps from the jury. Several turned their faces away.

  The judge intervened. “Take it down, Ms. Jimenez.”

  “Your Honor?”

  “I said take down that photo.”

  “Your Honor, this photo illustrates—”

  “Goddamn it, take it down right now or I will hold you in contempt!”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Mona took down the photo. She did not turn off the projector. The white square of light remained on the screen. Everyone stared at it, at the ghost image of Carmen’s torment.

  “Dr. Woods, what treatment did you give Carmen Vega?”

  “I prescribed her a pain medication.”

  “What kind?”

  “OxyContin.”

  Mona nodded. The doctors had prescribed her OxyContin after her crash. She knew the peculiar bliss the drug gave, like laying your head on a cool, soft pillow. She understood why Carmen had it in her system.

  “Dr. Woods, when you said earlier that you suspected Carmen Vega had nodded off, which drug did you think she had taken?”

  “Well, I assumed she had taken OxyContin.”

  “The medication you had prescribed her, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not a drug smuggled in, as Jared Davies suggested in his testimony?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any cause to believe Carmen took illegal drugs?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t think she was trading sexual favors for heroin?”

  He shook his head.

  “You’re shaking your head, Dr. Woods. For the record, does that mean you don’t believe Carmen Vega was trading sexual favors for heroin?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you. So you assumed that she had nodded off from taking too much OxyContin? What dose did you prescribe Carmen?”

  “Fifteen milligrams, immediate-release tablets, twice a day.”

  “How was it administered, Dr. Woods?”

  “She presented herself to the infirmary twice a day. Either the nurse or I gave her the pill.”

  “Is it possible to overdose from fifteen milligrams of OxyContin?”

  “No.”

  Mona took a long look at Dr. Woods. Late thirties, overweight, thinning hair. No wedding band. She remembered the last time she had seen Carmen, interviewing her in the yard. Carmen had said she’d been feeling unwell. Mona had asked her, “Did you ask to see the doctor?” She remembered Carmen hesitating before saying, “Yes. He gave me some medicine.”

  “Dr. Woods, given the severity of Carmen’s wounds, and given the fact that she was unconscious, and given that this country is in the middle of an opiate epidemic, why didn’t you tell the nurse to call 911 right away?”

  Dr. Woods rubbed his face. He looked terrified. He looked on the verge of tears.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did you take almost an hour to reach her, Dr. Woods?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Very softly, Mona said, “Dr. Woods, were you angry with Carmen?”

  He started crying.

  “I gave her everything she wanted,” he sobbed.

  “Did you delay coming back to the center to punish her?”

  “I gave her everything she wanted,” he said again. “She wanted more drugs, I gave her more drugs. I told her I’d help find the best skin-graft surgeon in the country. All I wanted was for her to be nice to me, you know?”

  Mona sat down and leaned her crutches against the bar behind her. She felt suddenly profoundly tired. She wanted to go to the Eden Inn and sleep for a week.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  * * *

  When it was Morrison Scott’s turn to cross-examine Dr. Woods, he spent a long moment conferring with his colleagues before standing up. The doctor, sitting alone on the stand, looked pathetic. Mona wondered how Scott was going to play it. He couldn’t argue that the doctor had followed protocol. Not now.

  Scott stood up. He wore a concerned look.

  “Dr. Woods, do you feel able to continue?”

  The doctor nodded. “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Thank you, Dr. Woods, I appreciate it. It’s been an emotional afternoon. I can understand the toll it might have taken on you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Very well. Then I’ll get started.” He turned to the jury and said, “I’m sure you all know what a preexisting condition is, but I believe it may be useful if I provide you with a legal definition. A preexisting condition is a medical condition that occurred before a person’s health benefits went into effect.

  “In September of 2018, Carmen Vega suffered a horrendous acid attack. Really, the most terrible thing. However, the attack occurred in another country and several months before she was placed in Paradise Detention Center. If Carmen had applied for health insurance on the date she was incarcerated, and failed to disclose on her application that she had third-degree burns to her torso, then the insurer would be within its rights to declare the policy void.

  “Now, I can imagine how that might seem to you. It’s hardly Christian charity. But that is in effect the situation we have here, legally speaking. When Carmen was placed in the care of the BSCA, she had already suffered the burns. They did not occur inside the prison. My point is, the BSCA is not liable for the burns to Carmen Vega’s body.”

  Mona pulled herself up. “Objection. Your Honor, the defense is misleading the court. No one is arguing that the BSCA is responsible for the acid burns to Carmen’s body. This is about what happened on April 22.”

  Scott said, “Your Honor, I apologize. I’m afraid I misspoke. I don’t mean to assert that the defense is claiming that the BSCA is liable for the acid burns to Carmen Vega’s body.”

  The judge raised an eyebrow. He looked at Mona and said, “There’s your answer, Counsel.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Also, if the defense could ask an actual question, I’m sure it would be much appreciated by all.”

  Mona sat down and eyed Morrison Scott suspiciously. What was he up to?

  Scott smiled. “Dr. Woods, why did you give Carmen Woods OxyContin?”

  “To stop the pain.”

  “And how much did you give her?”

  He shifted. “Like I said, fifteen milligram immediate-release—”

  “No, I mean, how many pills did you give her? To take with her?”

  Dr. Woods hung his head.

  “I gave her a packet of thirty,” he said.

  “To be clear, you gave her a pack to keep? Not to be dispensed to her one at a time in the infirmary?”

  “No. She said she needed it at night. So I gave her the pack.”

  “Is that allowed, sir? Giving inmates large quantities of drugs?”

  The doctor shook his head. “No.”

  “Thank you. You must have felt strongly for the yo
ung lady to risk your career for her.”

  Dr. Woods started crying again.

  “Dr. Woods? Would you like us to stop?”

  “No.”

  “Dr. Woods, you gave Carmen OxyContin to mitigate her pain and suffering. Is that a fair way of putting it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you read the coroner’s report, Dr. Woods?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So you know that the toxicology testing conducted by the coroner found high levels of OxyContin in her blood.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recall how much?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I have it here. The test showed that she had 2,012 nanograms per milliliter of OxyContin in her blood. In your professional opinion, Doctor, is that a high level?”

  “Yes. It’s a lot.”

  “More than you had prescribed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to make her nod off?”

  “It depends on her tolerance.”

  “Okay. Enough to make her feel no pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Dr. Woods, is it fair to say that OxyContin, in a high enough measure, will make you groggy?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Would it perhaps give you a sense of euphoria? Reduce your anxiety?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Woods, is it possible that Carmen Vega took too much OxyContin, to the point that she was so numb, she did not notice when she got bitten by the snake?”

  Mona got to her feet as quickly as her cast permitted. “Objection! Your Honor, this is pure speculation—”

  “Overruled! The deceased had OxyContin in her blood. It’s a fair question.”

  “Your Honor, no one gets bitten three times by a snake and doesn’t notice!”

  “I said overruled. Sit down, Counsel.”

  Mona sat. She saw the concerned looks on the faces of the jurors. Scott addressed them directly.

  “These are difficult truths, ladies and gentlemen, but they must be said, and I’m afraid it falls on me to say them. The plaintiff has claimed $50 million in punitive damages from the BSCA, on the basis that Carmen Vega endured horrible pain and suffering when she died. But as you’ve just heard, Carmen had an exceptionally high level of a powerful narcotic in her blood. She may well have felt nothing at all. She may have just nodded off like Jared Davies said and simply never woken up. Not even when the snake bit her. It is a terrible tragedy, what the poor young lady endured. Of that, there is no doubt. But, ladies and gentlemen, that is not the question you have to consider. What you have to consider is whether the BSCA is responsible for what happened to Carmen Vega. And the law is crystal clear: if there is even a 1 percent chance that Carmen contributed to her own death, then the BSCA cannot be held responsible. Carmen Vega arrived at Paradise Detention Center with a preexisting condition, one that made her vulnerable. Carmen Vega, of her own free will, took drugs that rendered her incapacitated, too groggy to avoid the snake the way a prudent person would. Carmen Vega was so high, in fact, that when she died, she felt nothing at all. No suffering, no pain. She just went to sleep and never woke up. Ladies and gentlemen, let me remind you of the odds of dying from a snakebite are vanishingly small. If Carmen hadn’t taken so much OxyContin, she may well have alerted someone when she was bitten. She may even have noticed the snake, heard its rattle, and not stepped on it at all. I’m afraid we’ll never know. All we can go on are the hard facts, the evidence we have before us: the high level of OxyContin in Carmen’s blood.”

  * * *

  After the court had adjourned, Mona hobbled out of the courtroom on her crutches. Joaquin walked with her, carrying the document box.

  He was fuming. “This is judicial misconduct, plain and simple,” he said. “He’s not getting away this.”

  Mona disagreed. She remembered what the public defender had told her at Carmen’s indictment back in April.

  “He’s untouchable. He’s the most popular person in Paradise.”

  She felt utterly defeated.

  Joaquin and Mona passed Morrison Scott in the corridor. He was talking to Lewis Anning, the Chattel House lawyer. Scott broke away and approached her.

  “Ms. Jimenez, the company has revised its offer.”

  He handed her a folded piece of paper.

  She knew she shouldn’t look at it, but she was so depleted after the day, she couldn’t help herself. She glanced at it.

  “Fuck you,” she said.

  She screwed up the paper and threw it in a trash can. Scott and Anning started laughing.

  On the piece of paper, one of them had written ONE DOLLAR.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  AT eight in the evening of the Fourth of July, the headlights of Finn’s truck illuminated a sign attached to a fence saying that the cement plant he had parked next to was patrolled by armed guards. Finn killed the engine and the headlights with it. Then he lowered the window. He was in an industrial park. There was no one around. He could hear the distant hum of cars traveling along the interstate. On the passenger’s seat was the White Queen in her box. He said out loud, “I’m here.”

  Inside the box was a large, hollow rock made from resin, known as a hide. The hide gave the reptile a place to retreat to. It also gave Finn somewhere to plant the listening device. Klein had said, and Finn had agreed, that it was too dangerous to wire Finn. So they’d wired the White Queen instead.

  Finn saw headlights approaching in his side mirror. A truck drove past, no logo on its white box. It was the same kind Finn had seen outside AmeriCo. It pulled over about twenty feet in front of Finn’s sedan.

  “A truck’s just pulled up,” he said. “A white box truck.” He read the plate number out loud. “We might have to move.”

  Klein was sitting in his F-350 dual cab a mile down the road, alone. Finn had refused Wilkins’s offer to help. Wilkins had a wife, three kids. Finn didn’t want to drag him into this. He hadn’t mentioned it to Gomez or Chinchilla. Klein was the only person he felt was sufficiently unencumbered to help him do what he needed to do. The only one with the leeway to help him if things went wrong. Like Finn, he was ex-navy. There was a kinship there.

  Klein had “borrowed” an M4 from the Long Beach Station. The plan was, if Finn did what he came to do on his own and got out safely, Klein would quietly slip away, return the rifle, and carry on with his retirement. If Finn needed assistance, he’d use a code word to call for help over the wire. Klein would then come in, kill Soto if necessary, and get Finn out. The code word was corridor.

  For five minutes, nothing happened. Then two men jumped down from the cab of the white box truck, one from the passenger’s side and the other from the driver’s side. Finn could see their silhouettes walking quickly toward him. “Two men approaching from the truck,” said Finn.

  The guy who’d come from the passenger’s side had something in his hand. Finn could not make out what it was. He reached under the seat for what he still thought of as Mona’s Glock.

  The guy got closer and pointed the thing in his hand at Finn. A beam blinded him—turned out, it was just a flashlight. Finn raised his hands. The guy said, “Please get out.” He was polite.

  Finn got out of the car, careful not to make any sudden movements.

  “Are you Cascabel?” The flashlight guy didn’t say anything. The other guy approached. “Raise your arms, please,” he said. He was also polite.

  Finn raised his arms, expecting a patdown. Instead, the guy scanned him with one of those wands security personnel used in airports. It beeped over Finn’s hip pocket.

  “Just my phone,” said Finn.

  “Leave it in the car,” said the guy with the wand.

  Finn dropped his phone on the driver’s seat. The guy scanned him again. No beeps. “Okay,” he said. The guy with the flashlight motioned to Finn to move toward the truck.

  “What about the snake?” said Finn.

  The guy shone his light on the plastic box.<
br />
  “Don’t do that. You’ll upset her,” said Finn.

  The guy hesitated. “You carry it,” he said.

  Finn carried the box containing the White Queen to the back of the truck. The guy with the flashlight lowered the tailgate. Finn stepped on. The guy hit a button, and the hydraulics lifted Finn up, then shuddered to a halt when the tray was level with the cargo bed.

  Finn stepped into the dark.

  * * *

  He sensed a presence.

  “Hello?” he said.

  A flashlight switched on, blinding him. Finn heard the hydraulic whine of the tailgate lift closing behind him.

  “Cascabel?” said Finn.

  The man holding the flashlight stepped forward and lowered the beam. Now Finn could see him more clearly. He wore black slacks, black boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt hanging loose. Finn recognized him from Carmen’s Facebook photo.

  Soto pointed at the box. “Put it down, please.”

  Finn put down the White Queen.

  Soto squatted and unclipped the lid. Finn resisted an urge to step back. Soto glanced at him, then rested his flashlight on a pallet loaded with cartons of Papas Santas chips so that its beam passed over the top of the reptile box, rather than directly in it.

  “My God. She is so beautiful. More beautiful even than in the photos,” he said.

  Perhaps it was because of the shadow cast by the indirect light, or perhaps it was the effect of looking down on her rather than seeing her side-on as he had through the glass of her vivarium in Butterfield’s house in Pasadena, but the White Queen seemed much larger to Finn than he’d remembered. In Pasadena, Finn had figured her body was as thick as his wrist; now it looked equal in diameter to his forearm. And while in Butterfield’s house she had lain coiled in a way that had disguised her true length, he had assumed she was around four feet long. Now, looking down at her body roped around the edge of the box, he could see that she had to be at least six feet. Her glossy white scales seemed brighter for being contrasted against the dull brown of the wood chips at the bottom of the container. He caught the glint of her strange blue eyes. She had her hood flared, the white chevrons faintly visible.

  Soto stared at the snake, spellbound. Finn remembered what Wilkins had told him about the single-mindedness of collectors. He could see it now in Soto, the man bent over the serpent as if it were a holy relic. Finn knew he was looking at a sadistic killer. But right now, he saw only a pathetic figure.