Hard To Breathe, page 10
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
“You've always found a way.” Combining Mesh's brains, high-level contacts, and Dan’s well-directed payoffs had never yet failed. Also being Big Dan Ogren's son still meant something to a lot of powerful people. “Beth won't say anything. I made sure of that.”
Mesh raised both hands as if to stop traffic. “Don't say anything more about that.” He shook his head. “If you hurt her that's sick. I don't want to know.”
“Attorney-client privilege covers what I say,” Dan said. Despite a lifetime of brushes with the law, Dan still didn’t know a lot about the legal system, but he knew this.
“Don't play lawyer,” Mesh said. He ran a hand over his scalp. “There's no reason for us to discuss anything further. I need to tell you something you're probably not going to like.”
“Damn, Mesh. That's the way women usually start bitch-sessions.”
“Okay. I'll be direct.” Mesh looked Dan in the eye. “I’ve wrestled with this, but now I’m sure—I can't do this anymore. I'm removing myself as your counsel. You need to find someone else to represent you.”
What the hell?
“No way.” Dan shook the racket. “No effing way. You can't bail on me. I won't let you.” The self-righteous, gutless little prick.
“It's best for both of us. I’ll still take care of the business, but you need an attorney who specializes in domestic abuse defense, and I—”
“No. You're my attorney.” Dan extended the racket, putting it under Mesh's chin and forcing his head toward him. “I'm not asking. I'm telling.”
Mesh played by the rules, but one time in order to get Dan clear, they hadn’t. Dan had made sure he had Mesh's involvement documented. Subsequently he'd subtly let Mesh know it. “I'm not giving you a choice.”
“Or else what?” Mesh said.
“You know.” Dan shifted the racket to Mesh's throat. “Don't make me go there.”
Mesh didn't play dumb convincingly. His eyes flashed. He'd lose his license to practice law. He understood Dan’s threat.
Mesh had been loyal. He probably figured he and Dan were friends. That acting job had been one of Dan's longest running and most important.
Mesh didn’t want to defend Dan but too bad. What Mesh wanted or deserved meant nothing. He lowered the racket.
“Besides being an asshole you just don't get it, do you?” Mesh said. “There's nothing I can do for you. It doesn't matter what I say. It doesn't matter what you say. If the doctor testifies her injuries are due to abuse, you'll be convicted. If Beth says you hurt her, you'll be convicted. From there on it's unstoppable. If Beth divorces you, it's all a done deal.” Mesh tapped a finger against his temple. “Can you get that into your twisted head?”
Shit! Yeah—unfortunately he could. Mesh had never steered him wrong. The picture his on-top-of-everything attorney painted was grim.
If he got convicted and Beth divorced him, he'd lose the dealerships, his property, and his wealth. Even worse, he’d lose his sport screwing, drugs, and booze—his life. He'd go to jail.
He'd totally blown it this time.
Mesh was the only one he trusted to defend him. The guy always looked ten steps ahead. He outsmarted everyone. I need him. He put a hand on Mesh's shoulder.
“Mesh, I trust you. You're the smartest guy I know. And my best friend. You're my guy. You have to stay with me. Please.”
Mesh looked tortured. He'd always looked out for Dan. Had never abandoned him no matter how justified. The little guy was a slave to loyalty, conscience, and responsibility. Dan knew he’d hit all the right notes.
And Mesh knew the threat to get him disbarred was real.
“Will you listen to me and do what I say?” Mesh said.
“Yes. You have my word.”
“You have to understand going in that I don't see a way out. I think you'll be convicted of at least a misdemeanor. The best we can hope for is damage control.”
“There's gotta be something,” Dan said.
“Something has come up but it won't be useful in court,” Mesh said. “The doctor who reported you has been in the news. He had an assault conviction in the past.”
Dan had sensed there was something about the doctor.
“That's got to help,” Dan said.
“I expect not. It's trouble for him but it does you no good. He was a licensed physician in good standing when he cared for Beth. There's no way his testimony could be excluded. Conversely, his assault record will not be admissible.”
“What if he didn't testify?” Dan said.
“The prosecution would have to use the written medical ER record. Those are brief and focus on the medical aspects. Without the doctor on the stand, it's a much weaker case. His testimony is key. The prosecution will make sure he's on the stand. They'll subpoena him if necessary.”
Dan had tried to buy the doctor off in the ER—no way. Could he be stopped from testifying?
Mesh already seemed beaten. Wimping out. Giving up on the case because of the damn ER doctor...
Something Clara had said jumped into his mind. It had seemed just another of her “out there” comments at the time. Trying to impress him with her intelligence, always chirping about being smarter than all the doctors—as if he cared. But she was really smart. All the hospital people had said so.
He thought about what she’d said.
According to the smartest guy he'd ever known, he was on the path to losing everything. Clara's words pointed the way to an intense gamble. Did he have any alternatives?
Maybe Clara had more to offer than getting his rocks off?
Dan would not give up the life he had.
Bold steps. He'd do whatever it took.
Chapter 20
RV campground, late morning
“Can you have her call me as soon as she's out of court? It's urgent.” Beth listened, then nodded—the movement caused pain. “Thank you.” She disconnected from the attorney's secretary.
Beth had ditched her personal cell phone and bought the prepaid disposable at Walmart. She knew Dan could use her personal cell phone to track her. She set down the prepaid and began to pace along the forty-foot luxury recreational vehicle's carpeted length.
Last night after the ER had been miserable. Even with the pills. Today she hurt worse. And her face—scary.
She didn't want to look in the mirror again. Her left eye was purple and almost swollen shut. Her lower lip was fat and beneath it six black stitches held her chin together. Her tongue ran over the stitches and damaged tissue inside her mouth. It tasted like blood.
The doctor had said she should be with someone for forty-eight hours. She couldn't do it.
She opened the freezer of the RV. She'd been applying bags of frozen peas to her chin and eye. A goofy sounding suggestion from the ER doctor but it worked. The frozen vegetables molded around her injuries and soothed. She held the bag of peas to her chin. The RV had everything a house did. So strange for this to be her sanctuary. Thoughts of what Dan had engaged in here in his “party barge” were enough to make her ill.
Where else would she go? Her mother lived in Wisconsin, and Beth didn't have many friends—or any that she wasn't too ashamed to see.
After the ER she'd stayed overnight with Katrina. They were both volunteers at the Animal Rescue center. Katrina was like Beth—what Dan sneeringly called an “animal freak.”
Katrina had volunteered her home for longer, but Beth couldn't impose.
Most importantly, Katrina was taking care of Kidder. Beth could trust Katrina. She understood what the puppy meant to Beth. Beth had “rescued” the flop-eared setter-mix puppy from the pound. Truth was, the four-month-old puppy had rescued Beth.
The thought of what Dan had done caused a rush of horror and loathing to pass through her.
The domestic abuse counselor in the ER had shared the typical reactions of abuse victims. What Beth had thought was sick and unique, she learned was predictable and common. Shame. Guilt. Anxiety. Isolation. The counselor had laid out her feelings as if she'd been living in Beth's skin.
Beth had Katrina bring her “home” early in the a.m. Before getting out of the car, she’d checked to make sure Dan's vehicle was not there. As she gathered up what she needed, she'd spied the keys to the RV hanging in the kitchen. In the moment it had made sense. She could stay almost anywhere—all she needed was a parking spot and an outlet. The luxury appointed rig was warm and comfortable. Beth's farm-girl background made handling the vehicle no problem.
Leaving Kidder had hurt, but Beth recognized she was not up to taking care of anyone beyond herself. The task she had in front of her would take all she had.
Dan had written off the RV as a marketing expense for Ogren Automotive. The business bought tickets for the University of Minnesota and the Twin Cities' professional sports teams. Dan, with his degenerate hangers-on—and God knew how many women—made the vehicle a fixture at sporting events, concerts, and even the state fair. He wrote off all his decadence as “work-related.” Beth had attended a couple of events when they were first married, but the drinking and decadence had been too much.
She knew now that Dan had no doubt been thrilled when she'd left him on his own. Bastard.
In hindsight it jumped out at her. From shortly after the wedding, he used work obligations and other responsibilities as excuses.
After too long a time, she realized the RV was one part of a life of alcohol, drugs, and women. She'd been so trusting—so stupid!
For the longest time she'd fooled herself.
He was the best-looking man she'd ever seen. And he could turn on the charm. She'd believed he loved her and had been happy to marry him.
Now it was obvious. He couldn't love. His charm was an act—a sales job. Fun-loving Dan Ogren. That was his pose. The real Dan Ogren—narcissistic, a sexual fanatic, selfish, cruel, an abuser of alcohol and drugs—had so many fooled. He'd kept getting worse—or maybe he just hadn't cared enough to hide it anymore?
Along with her pain and anger came shame. She was ashamed that she let herself be humiliated and beaten. Yesterday's abuse was the worst but not the first. He’d always been careful not to leave marks. His apologies were as phony as his charm. She'd heard the “never again” lies before.
And, as the counselor had shared, his bogus remorse was one more example of an abuser’s standard pattern.
It had taken all she could muster to call the attorney. Her emotions surged—sadness, shame, anger.
How had she ended up so pathetic?
Beth wished the attorney would call back. She had to follow the plan before she turned coward.
She looked out the window. The wooded campground lay in Dayton, a township on the edge of the Twin Cities' suburbs. She'd called and the fellow who managed it said they'd technically closed for the season. He'd said that if she took responsibility for getting the big vehicle out if a snowstorm hit, she was welcome.
Bare-limbed maples and oaks extended to a huge marsh. Acres of golden cattails bent and riffled in the frozen marshland surrounding the island of leafless hardwoods and high ground that formed the park. The manager lived in a farmhouse a quarter mile down the road.
Just Beth in the ten-acre campground on the outskirts of the metro. She'd never felt more alone.
She shifted the bag of frozen peas to her eye. Never again, Dan.
Never again.
***
It had been just over twenty-four hours earlier that Dan had come home after another of his all-nighters. He led off with a transparent lie—the kind of feeble story she'd fooled herself into accepting so many other times. Work and a meeting downtown. Had a couple of drinks. Time got away from him. He’d been worried he might be close to the legal limit so didn't want to chance driving. He'd slept at the club.
“Sorry, should have called, “ he said then tried to hug her.
Bloodshot eyes, the odor of alcohol and sex—he'd gotten so casual he came home smelling of it. He was still high.
Her memory pinned each of the next moments.
“I'm not an idiot,” she said. She had been—but no longer.
“What do you mean?” His mock confusion was pitifully unconvincing.
“You're a cheating, lying, drunken prick. You disgust me.” The words felt good.
His head snapped upright and the curtain closed on his innocence act. His eyes blazed. The flipped-switch shift to rage she'd seen so many times had occurred. She tensed.
She knew what would happen if she said more. I must get free of him!
He turned for the stairs.
“You're sick.” Somehow the words came out of her. “A pervert. A limp-dick who can't have sex unless you hurt—”
He spun and had her by the throat pinned against the wall in an instant. He snarled, the tendons in his neck taut, and a vein on his forehead standing out like a hose.
“Shut up, bitch.” His breath foul and hot. “Shut up and I'll let it go.”
She could not breathe, her throat in a vise, his strength terrifying. As the hellish seconds passed, she could see his wheels turning. The myth of anger that he couldn't control, once again calculating how much he could get away with. His hand relaxed and her feet touched the floor. Trying to act as if he were letting her off easy while she knew it was about not leaving evidence. He hadn’t left a mark. Brutal bastard!
She gasped, bent over, a hand to her throat.
“Answer this,” she said her voice cracked and weak.
Dan stood over her with raised eyebrows, open-mouthed that she dared to speak.
“How is it possible that a worthless coward like you is the son of a man like Big Dan Ogren?”
Her vision flashed red in an explosion of pain and light. Another blow struck. Her face was in agony. The taste of blood filled her mouth.
On the floor, fetal-curled with her arms over her head, the wait was endless. Her battered daze cleared. The attack had ended. He’d hurt her bad this time.
It had to end.
Chapter 21
North Minneapolis
Drake slowed as he approached the two-story, weathered-brick building. The university chemical storehouse in Minneapolis's north side lay surrounded by decaying blacktop. A wire fence separated the lot from high-rise complexes containing hundreds of subsidized housing units. The low-income, high-crime neighborhood and the distance from the main campus made rental space cheap.
After shots had rung out on a pitch-black night several weeks earlier, Dr. Jon Malar's near-lifeless body had been found sprawled on the asphalt. The police's initial thought had been a robbery victim. That assessment had almost cost Drake's friend his life.
The first floor of the building held little-used offices. The second floor housed the space Drake, Rizz and Jon had used as their laboratory for the past four years.
Drake parked near the separate entrance to the stairwell leading to the lab. He opened the car door and the December cold gripped him. He stepped out, then locked the door.
Drake looked at the asphalt and swallowed hard. Was Jon's blood still part of the discolored, crumbling asphalt? Jon had survived, but his healing remained incomplete. Would Jon ever recover from the damage the bullets and emotional trauma his wife's greed and betrayal had inflicted on him?
Their miracle drug—the breakthrough that had been Drake's long-held dream—had triggered treachery, misery, and death.
But Drake was not giving up. The drug showed promise in treating one of humankind’s cruelest afflictions. Rizz’s paralysis made Drake’s hopes for what D-44 might do both desperate and personal.
He unlocked the building's outer door, then climbed the stairs to the second level. The steel door out of the stairwell was heavy and fire-resistant. It shut behind him with a soft clank. Countless times over the past four years, Drake had followed this path.
Until a few months ago, his efforts had yielded nothing. That had changed. Even now, despite all the tragedy, entering the lab lifted him.
The sunlight streaming through the multi-paned windows revealed high ceilings, a warped parquet floor, and several slate-topped work tables. The walls were crisscrossed with exposed pipes and ductwork. It wasn't fancy, but the space accommodated the cat kennels, lab equipment, and other needs of their research activities.
The cats sensed Drake. The cedar shavings in their kennels rustled, and a yowl greeted him. He crouched to look into the first of the five occupied kennels stacked along the wall. The little black-and-white cat meowed. FloJo, his current and forever favorite.
Drake’s world had been sent spinning by the smooth-furred, undersized cat.
***
Lab, Four months earlier
“Rizz, are you sure this cat's deficit met protocol?” Drake opened the research log book.
“Absolutely.” Rizz continued putting away equipment. “That's specimen D4, female, 2.1 kilograms, fully med-checked. You performed the procedure at 0730 hours, forty-eight days ago. I confirmed zero motor function at 1930 hours that evening, then infused study drug D-44 at 2100 hours.” He mock-bowed. “I am a slave to protocol, research master.”
Drake shook his head looking at the records. “I can't believe what I'm seeing.” He indicated the smallish black-and-white cat. “She has function.”
Rizz cocked his head. “No shit?”
Drake’s examination of the cat revealed movement—a slight twitch of the tail and claw extension on a hind foot. For a spinal cord injured animal, it was as if she'd done a back flip. Could it be real?
“I hope it's not a technical error.” Drake checked the healed incision midway down the cat's back. He rubbed the cat’s forehead with a fingertip.
“Not likely,” Rizz said. “Your surgical skills might be even better than mine. Whatever screwed up, it probably wasn't your technique. And it wasn't me. It's something else.” He went back to gathering his gear.
“I'll review the data trail and video records. If there's an error, it means this little one went through surgery for nothing.”
“Don't beat yourself up,” Rizz said with a shrug. “Remember these kitties were headed for the great catnip field in the sky before we gave them a last chance to help their human buddies.”
