Hard To Breathe, page 13
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
Shortly after the initial call, Beth had drifted into a medication-fogged sleep. She’d awakened sweaty and fighting for breath twenty minutes later, with no idea where she was. Awareness had not brought relief.
She counted the minutes as she waited to hear back from the attorney.
Big gusts of wind shook the RV. She trembled inside as her fear and self-doubts grew. Could she do what needed to be done?
***
She jumped as her phone trilled. The number showed “blocked.” Beth hit “answer” and held the phone to her ear, afraid to speak.
“Hello? Beth, this is your attorney, Nancy Dudley, getting back to you.”
“It didn't show on caller ID.”
“Good job. Don't talk to anyone until you know who they are. Later I may instruct you on comments for the media, but for now I recommend you talk only to me. I've got a number of things moving. I've filed for the restraining order, reviewed the prenuptial agreement, and spoken with a contact of mine in the district attorney's office. I know everything feels out of control right now. I wanted to give you an idea of what the future may hold. “
The attorney, similar to the women's advocate in the ER, seemed to know what was happening in Beth's head. Her future? The future scared the hell out of her. She wanted to go to sleep and wake up safe from Dan with her new life ahead.
Dan. Her husband. The man she’d been in love with. The one she'd believed had loved her. An unfeeling animal.
“Can you hold a moment?” the attorney asked.
“Yes.” Beth had the urge to hang up. Everything felt out of control. No! There could be no going back. She had to follow through.
But she was so very afraid...
She flashed back to lying on the floor after Dan's attack, her head reeling, the taste of blood in her mouth.
She heard him moving. She looked up. He’d connected Kidder’s leash to his collar and held her puppy dangling off the ground. Kidder’s neck stretched grotesquely and twisted as Dan hung her. Her puppy's eyes bulged, his legs swimming in air as he made horrible choking sounds.
“No!” she screamed. She tried to get up but he placed his foot on her chest, pinning her to the floor.
His eyes locked on hers, his expression flat, his tone matter-of-fact. “You pissed me off. You tell no one. I can do this and more to anyone who needs it.” He removed his foot.
She fought to get to her feet but before she could, he flipped her near-dead pup to the floor next to her.
“Did you hear me? Hello? Are you there?” the attorney's voice sounded from the phone.
“I'm sorry.” Beth said. “I-I'm here.”
“I'm not sure if you heard me. Let me repeat. I reviewed the domestic violence clause in the prenuptial and it's clear-cut. A conviction completely nullifies the agreement. There’d be no limits in the case of divorce.”
“I never wanted a prenup,” Beth said. “He worried about his father's money.”
“Common these days.”
“My mother made me put in the violence clause. My grandmother had been a victim. I never knew.”
“It's often hidden, perhaps even worse back then,” the attorney said. “I spoke with a contact I have in the district attorney's office about the case. Apparently the ER doctor who treated you is a prosecutor's dream—sympathetic and credible. He's in the news for a previous conviction, but it’s unlikely that will be admissible or reflect on his testimony for your case. The part we need to improve is your report. You told the doctor and the police that you had fallen. We can correct that. The law recognizes intimidation and extenuating circumstances. I'll arrange for you to amend your statement with the police.”
“I don't want to go to the police station. Please.” She wanted to go to sleep and wake up when it was all done.
“We can avoid that,” the lawyer said. “I'll make everything as smooth as possible, but you need to understand what to expect going forward. You'll have to be strong. It's not easy. Many abusers plead out before trial to a minimal offense and are sentenced to anger management classes and little more. Because of the prenuptial and your husband’s wealth, they'll almost certainly fight for a complete wash. That means this case will likely go to trial.”
Each word increased the weight of Beth’s fatigue and pain. Could she go through with it?
Damn him! It had to stop. She took a huge breath. Just a step at a time. One foot in front of the other until things came to an end.
“If he's convicted of even the most minor abuse offense, the prenuptial agreement is void and you're in the position of any other wife seeking divorce. Actually, considerably better,” the attorney said. “Judgments in cases of spousal violence are invariably favorable to the abused. You'd likely be awarded most of his assets.”
Beth knew it was positive news, but it didn't feel like it. How many women had to sit in court and face that humiliation? But it shouldn’t get to that. She hoped it wouldn’t get to that.
Her hands shook. It was all a nightmare.
Tears ran out of her good eye, the other still too swollen. Could she do what needed to be done?
She knew she was not truly alone, but she felt more isolated than ever before in her life.
She'd taken the first step. There could be no turning back. It was as if she'd jumped off a cliff with water far below—now she was plunging through the air in what seemed like a forever fall bracing for the impact.
Chapter 26
An hour into his shift, and Drake hadn't had a spare second. His call to Beth Ogren in the minutes between his grim meeting with Jim Torrins and the beginning of his shift had not been answered. He'd hoped to check on her injury status and encourage her to keep herself safe. U.S. statistics showed three women a day were killed by abusive partners. The unanswered call increased Drake’s concern for Beth Ogren’s safety.
The incoming stream of patients had him and the rest of the staff running. The noise and nonstop action suited him. It left little time to worry about his disastrous personal predicaments.
In the time he had left, he wanted to fully engage in the work he loved.
He placed a patient chart in the rack for discharge with one hand while grabbing one from the patient-to-be-seen rack with the other. He scanned the paperwork as he headed for the new patient's cubicle.
The meeting with Torrins had his mind spinning.
“Whoa—Dr. Cody? Hold up, please.” An unfamiliar, deep voice cut through the ER din from behind.
He turned to find a large man in a charcoal three-piece suit pushing through the corridor towards him. Among the gowns and scrubs of the ER patients and staff, he stood out like a crow in a flock of sparrows. He was about six feet tall, with wide shoulders, a big head, a walrus mustache, and thinning brown hair. An expensive-looking briefcase hung from one oversized hand. He looked to be in his fifties and wore a big smile.
“Do I know you?” Drake could not have forgotten meeting this guy.
“You haven't had the pleasure, Doctor.” He held out a business card. “S. Lloyd Anderson. Attorney-at-law, CPA, and arbitrator of all things legal, commerce, and conflict related. You have problems. I find solutions.
The man was as broad as a collegiate lineman and fit-appearing. Underneath bird's nest eyebrows, his eyes were green and lively. The tanned face showed deep creases. The guy could be older than Drake first thought but he radiated energy. His expression suggested he amused himself.
The man extended a hand.
Drake shook the big mitt.
The clothes, ring, and briefcase all spoke of style and the quality. Under it all the guy looked a bit shaggy. His burly dimensions, the eyebrows, the hair on the back of his hands—he looked like a Viking raider who’d undergone a makeover.
“May I?” The attorney raised the briefcase, setting it on the small counter outside an exam room. He opened it. “I know you're busy here, but we're already way behind in protecting your interests.” He seemed quite at ease for a non-medical person standing in the hallway of a bustling ER. “Neither of us have time to waste.”
The guy reminded Drake of Rizz and rare others he'd met who seemed at home in whatever setting they found themselves. How had he been allowed into the department?
“You've made a mistake,” Drake said. “I can't afford an attorney.” His awareness of his need for legal help had become greater with each of his issues. As a resident at the end of his many years of training, he had no money and massive debt. “Are you looking for pro bono work?”
“Lord above! Don't even say pro bono around me.” Again the self-amused smile. “I charge top dollar and I'm worth it. I'm aware of your problems related to medical licensure, right to practice, and the threatened civil actions against you citing racial discrimination and assault. Additionally, I'm able and eager to represent you and your colleagues in protecting your intellectual property rights to D-44.”
What the heck? The attorney had succinctly summarized the issues that threatened to end Drake's dreams. The man’s words and manner impressed, but Drake had spoken to him for less than a minute—and had nothing to pay him with. And how does he know so much?
The attorney pulled out a sheet of paper then held it out to Drake. “This is quick, but your situation demands immediate action. Please read it over and sign—”
“Wait a minute. I don't know you. I can't pay you. And how do you know so much about me anyway?”
“My apologies. I thought Rizz had informed you. Dr. Michel Rizzini is a good friend. He contacted me. My retainer has been paid. Whatever service you require I'll be compensated for. If you are comfortable having me, I simply need you,” he clicked a gold pen and offered it, “to sign this document establishing our attorney-client relationship.”
Rizz knew the best and brightest in the cities. Drake trusted his judgment. The fact that Rizz had warned them against using Faith for their legal work echoed. If only they'd listened.
“Doc, you can fire me at any time but I need to get moving on things.”
“Who’s paying you? Who will I owe?” Rizz always seemed to have money for partying and indulging, but no way did he have big-time attorney retainer bucks.
“Talk to Rizz about that. For now, please just sign. There's no time to waste.” He pulled his sleeve back and scanned a Rolex on a furry wrist. “I need to get to work trying to save your ass.”
Chapter 27
Quentin Jackson placed a sliver of crack in the glass pipe's bowl. He snapped his lighter, set the product bubbling, and inhaled smooth and long. Too fast and he'd torch his throat. He'd done that once. It had hurt to swallow for two days.
He held the smoke in as each beat of his heart floated his head higher. The rush started there but passed like an electric current throughout his body.
He exhaled long and slow as he rode the rush.
The girl sat cross-legged, smiling as she watched “Scooby-Doo” on the flat screen in his living room.
Her momma had told Q the girl had “Downer Symptom,” and the bitch wasn't even trying to be funny. How messed up are you when you can't even get your kid's medical condition right? Seventeen years old but she looked like twelve. The girl's face was kinda whack but she was always smiling. Her momma had been leaving her with Q since he first sold product to her a while back.
Now all the crack-momma wanted was some supply now and again, and the girl worked for him. She knew how to clean house and cook. She did dishes and washed clothes—just like he had his own maid. And she didn't cost him anything beyond the product he gave her momma. The girl didn't even want to get high. TV and Fruit Loops cereal—she'd smile and be happy.
Best of all, she carried his product whenever he went out to sell or deliver—his very own drug mule. A minor and messed up—she could be caught with twenty pounds of flake and an assault rifle and no way she'd be prosecuted. He wished she'd been around before. She could have saved him from the eighteen months hard-time he'd done in Stillwater for possession with intent.
Q loaded fifty Vicodin tablets into his food processor and flipped it to “grate.” He let it chatter and whine until the pills were powder. He kept his drugs, tools, scales, processor and other equipment in a reinforced trunk with a strong lock. He only took his drugs and equipment out to process or prepare for transfer and sale. The rest of the time he kept everything stashed and locked away.
Q hadn't been out in public holding even a single joint since the ER shit went down. He took every precaution. You couldn’t do business if you were locked away—and business was very good. With the girl doing all his carrying and his other precautions, he was damn near untouchable.
After Q was arrested in the ER, his attorney had pushed it as a race deal and drummed up pressure. Barry Ward cost plenty but was one smart law-boy. Q had got out in less than twenty-four hours. A few days after that, the charges were dropped. The police and courts were backing off anything that looked racial.
He smiled. Getting the charges dropped had been good, but now it looked like his arrest and the beating he took could pay off big time.
The lawyer had called and said they'd found the ER doctor had a previous assault conviction. The lawyer said both the hospital and university had deep pockets, and they'd want to avoid the bad publicity of a trial. He figured they’d pay plenty to settle. A chance to score some real money. Hell, yeah!
The ER dude hadn’t been like any doctor he'd seen. No regular white-bread doctor could kick Q's ass.
Q's ribs had finally stopped hurting and his broken nose looked okay now.
The good part was that Q's injuries had scored him a ton of oxys from the doctor who fixed his nose, and then a mess of oxys, Dilaudid, and Vicodin from the clinics and Urgent Care doctors he'd visited while his face looked bad and his ribs were healing up.
He'd visited sixteen different clinics and ERs in the first five days after his injuries and multiple more in the weeks following. He’d milked his injuries to the max, altered the prescriptions for bigger quantities, and then filled them at drugstores all over the city. With all he scored plus his regular sources, he had a huge stash accumulated. He ground up much of the Vicodin and codeine tablets, then tripled the volume by adding synthetic THC, bath salts, and talc. His custom “value-added” product got people off big time and it sold for top dollar. The Dilaudid, oxys, Percocets, and other high-test prescription narcotics were gold right out of the bottle.
Q's chemistry teacher mother hated how he lived. She'd pushed junior scientist experiment kits at him since he was a kid. He'd started getting high big time in eighth grade. Right from the first time, there was nothing he enjoyed more. He liked every kind of high. His appreciation helped him in business. He fashioned some truly righteous product. He hadn't turned out the way she wanted, but too bad.
Some of the street dogs called him Doctor Science. He liked that.
He used a small spatula to remove the powder from the blender and placed it on wax paper.
Hadn't seen his mother in more than two years. After the first few arrests, she didn't even show for the court appearances. She still called him sometimes. Whatever.
What mattered was what those on the street thought. His reputation mattered for business, bitches, and keeping from getting ripped off or beat down. Being big and naturally strong usually kept others from messing with him. He avoided getting physical unless someone pissed him off. He was into making money and staying out of jail. But when he needed to, he could get real.
Q hadn't heard from his mother since the ER arrest when his picture had been damn near everywhere. He'd looked high and ass-kicked. Q had planned on tracking the ER doc down and taking care of business. Nobody could do him and walk.
Wayne, a wannabe banger in the neighborhood, had dissed Q about getting his ass done by a doctor. Said Q had been punked.
Q had beat Wayne's face to jelly. No one else had said anything, but the story of the ER doc kicking his ass was still out there.
The ER boy would never know how lucky he was. If not for this chance at a lawsuit pay-off, Dr. Whitebread had been in line to be dealt with.
With the chance to get rich by suing the hospital and everyone else, Q would let it go—for now. He flicked the lighter and took in another load of smoke. Good thoughts rode the rush.
He had a huge supply of top-dollar product, serious lawsuit money coming, and his little Fruit Loops mule keeping him safe from the police.
Things had never been better.
Chapter 28
Rachelle looked around the room at the others participating in the YMCA's course offering, “Women’s Self-Defense”—approximately twenty women of various ages, clad in everything from jeans to designer workout attire. The two policewomen instructors looked fit and capable. They carried themselves like people who knew how to defend themselves and others.
One of the instructors opened the course. “Women are assaulted, raped, or killed every day. Ten women are physically assaulted each minute in the US. It is estimated that more than six hundred women are raped each day. Self-defense is a survival tool for women.”
That is what Rachelle sought. A similar course she'd taken years earlier had taught her some basic survival guidelines. She’d used them to help her and the children endure their recent kidnapping and abuse.
The instructor was outlining some of the general cautions that Rachelle knew well. Her mind drifted.
Her constant worry was unhealthy, but she couldn't get herself to accept that she and her family were out of danger. It was different for Drake. He tried to reassure her, but he hadn’t lived the life she had. Not that he’d had it easy—definitely not. But he was strong and not afraid of anything.
She was not strong and knew terrible things could happen anytime. She'd been visiting a counselor once a week to help control what the therapist called “hypervigilance and threat anxiety.”
