Hard To Breathe, page 15
part #2 of Drake Cody Series
The screen flickered, then a frozen black-and-white video image appeared. A large black male in a do-rag and Raider's jacket stood in front of a short, slim nurse who appeared to be offering him some papers. They were in a hallway with gurneys and other equipment lining walls interrupted by curtained doorways.
“The location is Memorial Hospital ER. Can you identify your client, Barry? The affidavit identifies him as Quentin Jackson. Street name ‘Q’,” Lloyd said.
The judge raised a hand. “You're straining propriety here, Lloyd. Where are you going with this? I warned you we will not be trying this case in chambers. Considerable damages and a man's future are involved.”
“Exactly, sir. It is my client, Dr. Drake Cody, who is facing devastating damage.” Lloyd met the judge's eyes. “Just the filing of this suit has injured his reputation and threatened his professional future. Give me one more minute, and I'm sure you'll agree bringing this case into your courtroom would be a further injustice. “
The judge sighed. He addressed the young attorney.
“Any objections, Barry?”'
“Let's see what he has.” The blond attorney shrugged, still the picture of ease. “I think Lloyd here might consider dropping law and trying out for community theater.” He looked at his fingernails. “And yes, the individual of color in the video, who came to the ER seeking care, is my client. He was upset and near-crazed with pain. And by the way,” he glanced at the judge, “if this were court, I'd object to Lloyd identifying my client as ‘Q’ and referencing a ‘street name.’ Clearly prejudicial. It's simply a nickname and of no relevance.”
“I would sustain that objection.” The judge nodded. “Lloyd, you're being granted great leeway. Don't abuse it.” He made a go-ahead gesture.
Lloyd started the video.
Quentin Jackson stood in the middle of the corridor with the nurse facing him. Her lips moved.
Quentin reacted, jutting his head forward as he jawed at her. He advanced and his posture became more threatening. His face twisted. The nurse shrank back. She said something and once again offered the papers.
The big man slapped the papers out of her hand, then moved even closer, his posture menacing. The petite nurse now stood backed against the wall, fear on her features.
A sturdily built young man in blue scrubs moved into the field. He wore a smile and had his hands held wide. A stethoscope was draped around his neck. His lips moved, a friendly expression on his face.
Lloyd paused the image. “That is my client, Dr. Drake Cody.” He restarted the video.
The big man facing the nurse turned his head to Dr. Cody with his face a snarl. He jawed toward the doctor, then faced the nurse again. Lloyd paused the image again.
“This is Patti Verker, the charge nurse, a fifteen-year veteran of the ER. Her affidavit regarding the incident is in the folder in front of you.” He restarted the video.
The agitated big man drew back his hand, then jabbed Patti twice in the chest with his knuckles. She rocked back with the blows, pain evident.
Drake Cody stepped forward and his smile was gone.
The big man pulled his fist back. As it advanced to strike Patti again, the doctor’s hand flashed and deflected the blow.
The action then moved very fast on the small screen.
Without hesitation, Quentin Jackson twisted and rifled his fist towards Drake Cody's face.
The doctor slipped the big man's punch and drove a hand into the man's ribs.
The out-of-control patient threw another looping roundhouse. The doctor, fist blurred, beat the punch and buried a blow in the big man's gut. The man doubled forward and Dr. Cody met the man’s face with a slashing elbow. Blood erupted from the man's nose.
Dr. Cody then took Patti and moved her clear.
The man gathered himself and lunged. Dr. Cody fired a kick into the man's groin and the attacker dropped. The doctor slipped behind him and wrapped his arms around the man's neck.
The video ended.
Silence.
The judge spoke first. “Barry, I assume you had not seen this.”
The young attorney sat forward and blew out a long breath. He shook his head. “No, Judge. Had not.”
“Please discuss things with your client,” the judge said. “Let me know as soon as you've decided about proceeding.”
“My client, yeah.” The GQ stylish and smooth attorney had lost his smug visage. He sat stiff and upright, biting his lip with his gaze off to the side.
When he turned back, Lloyd saw worry in Barry Ward's eyes.
Chapter 31
Calhoun Beach condominiums
Clara tore open the two-pound bag of blue nacho corn chips. Dan should arrive before long. A visit before dark—another first.
She removed the plastic lid from the jumbo tub of guacamole then looked out the window at the ice-covered lake. The cold snap that had hit the Twin Cities had turned Lake Calhoun to ice without the influence of wind or snow. The surface was a mirror. Daylight was waning and the scene was an Ansel Adams study in black and white.
She loaded a chip with guacamole, then put it in her mouth. No longer did she feel guilty about her eating. Sometimes it just felt right.
Right now she tingled as she considered how her and Dan's love had blossomed. God, he couldn't stay away from her.
There was more than enough time for her to relax a bit then make herself ready for him. She opened the bag of nachos more fully and filled both hands with the salty blue chips. She sat cross-legged on the sofa, her legs wrapped around the tub of guacamole, and deposited the chips on her scrubs-attired lap. Her “Best of the Nineties” compilation played in the background.
For a while she relaxed and ate, not letting things bother her. Forgetting about Dr. Bart Rainey's humiliation of her. Ignoring the countless slights she'd suffered. And especially not thinking about the greatest injustice of all. She was aware but none of it touched her. Issues roiled beneath but eating provided comfort.
As she chewed she savored the music, the smells, the flavors, the textures. The dry peanut-like odor of the nachos. The solid crunch of the chips as they fractured and ground between her teeth. The citrus and cilantro accent of the smooth, rich guacamole. The taste of the salt, corn, oil, and avocado accompanying the brilliant tactile contrast of crunch versus the buttery-soft dip.
The flavor waned and the smells faded, but she continued to eat. For minutes she loaded, dipped, chewed and swallowed. Something about the food—no, not the food, something about eating. Load the chip, place it in her mouth, her teeth crunching and crushing it to a mash, swallowing.
It was like work, but a gratifying work at which she was incredibly adept.
She'd long ago quit self-analyzing. She'd gotten past the “this is wrong” arrogance of the in-patient eating disorder treatment center her parents had sentenced her to as a teen. Instead she simply ate and erased things later. Not a big deal.
Two-thirds of the family-sized bag of chips and a like portion of the jumbo tub of guacamole had disappeared.
The next song on her collection started. “Magic Man” by Heart. In her mind she changed it to “magic Dan” and almost laughed out loud. In her feeding reverie she'd accepted something. Not accepted—embraced. Dan Ogren's love for her had been her miracle in waiting. His intellect did not match hers, but his magnificent body and his worship of her had changed her. The years of waiting had been worth it. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. The moment she saw him she'd known she had to have him.
The years of battling her weight and the guilt about the purges—she'd put that behind her years ago. She ate, she purged, she worked out intensely—she’d never felt good about her body, but she knew no one could work Dan’s incredible staff harder than she did. She provided him what he needed and he delivered pleasure she'd never imagined possible—her magic man.
Some would say it was wrong because he was married, but his marriage had died long ago. He made a mistake marrying his ingrate of a wife, but now he's found me!
What she and Dan had was alive. So very alive. And special. So very special.
She checked the clock. Time to go erase and get ready for him.
She knew what would happen with Dan when he arrived. He was an addict and she was his drug.
***
Dan approached the elevator. The smell of exhaust hung in the Calhoun Beach condominium building's underground garage. The virtually unused rear service elevator went to the sixth floor within fifty feet of Clara's door.
He hit the button and waited.
So many things worked out with this setup. Clara accepted that they couldn't be seen together because of his wife. And she worried about knowledge of their involvement compromising her at the hospital. As far as he could tell, Clara had zero friends—none. That assured she didn't engage in the girlie-girl tell-all about their boyfriends like some of his cock-stops in the past had.
End result—he'd been playing pelvic pogo stick and other carnal sports with her for a few months and nobody knew.
No one had seen them together. No one knew they had anything to do with each other. Perfect.
That’s why the idea that had popped into his head seemed possible. A risky gamble with high stakes, but if Clara knew half as much as she said she did, it could work. No one could expect he knew the kinds of things she shared with him.
The doors pinged open. He stepped into the sixth floor hallway
When he didn't have her servicing him, Clara talked nonstop. Syrupy fairy-tale junk about their “magic” love, but also talk about the hospital and her job. How she was smarter and knew more about medicine than most of the doctors on staff. Generally he just tuned it out and left as soon as he'd got his rocks well-and-truly off, but one night after a killer sweat and moan fest, he'd gotten her to turn off her oldies chick-tunes and turn on local radio. They heard a radio report about a death—a suspected murder.
That had started it. Clara had talked about how someone with advanced medical knowledge could kill and get away with it. She'd sounded convincing.
It had stuck in his memory—and popped up today as Mesh had shared his forecast of upcoming doom and gloom.
Dan stood before her door.
Since today’s meeting with Mesh, maintaining his lifestyle dominated Dan’s thoughts.
He had to beat the domestic assault charge. Nothing else mattered.
He knocked.
Chapter 32
ER
Drake stood in front of the Captain, who was sitting on the bare cot in the otherwise barren psychiatric holding room. The clock showed Drake's night shift—perhaps his last—would end in less than an hour.
“Captain, no one wanted to interfere with your mission,” Drake said. “You were climbing on the outer span of the Hennepin Avenue Bridge at three-thirty in the morning, in the freezing cold. You told the police you were looking for a high spot. You had a bottle and smelled of booze. They were afraid for your safety.”
The good-natured, schizophrenic and alcoholic homeless man averaged more than forty ER visits a year. The Captain's belief in his role as an intergalactic scout, as well as a truly unfortunate inclination for alcohol, serious trauma, and critical illness made him the most unique of many ER “regulars.”
Drake had not seen him since the events on the Mississippi River flats where people had died. The Captain's actions had helped Drake save his family that day.
“Of course I smelled of alcohol, Bones.” The Captain's birthdate showed him to be in his forties, though the tall, gaunt man looked to be at least sixty. “Earth's fermented beverages are among your species’ finest achievements.” The Captain's fixed delusion involved his role as an advance scout for an extraterrestrial civilization checking on Earth's suitability for colonization. He consumed huge amounts of alcohol and had a tolerance beyond any Drake had seen. “I sought a high spot for interference-free communication with my orbiting interstellar drone.”
This visit his blood alcohol measured .36%. Most people would be unconscious and require a ventilator. The captain had been climbing on a bridge support high above the Mississippi River.
The Captain resisted all efforts at “improving” his life situation. He roamed the streets of downtown Minneapolis wearing two oversized coats and two hats year-round. The always-friendly Captain posed no risk to anyone, but his vulnerability had spurred Drake to initiate multiple social service interventions in the past.
The intergalactic scout rebuffed the efforts of Drake and the social service professionals to get him sober and off the streets. He responded with smiles and comments such as, “You have not evolved enough to know where value lies. My mission is clear. Some day you may understand.”
Currently, less than three hours after his arrival, the Captain demonstrated good balance and clear speech, and his baseline delusional beliefs were as strong as ever. He was not and never had been suicidal—if nothing else, his mission was too important for him to quit.
Drake handed the Captain a bologna sandwich taken from a stash in the emergency department refrigerator.
“If I let you go, do you promise to stay away from heights?” Drake truly cared for the kindhearted man. Mixed among the Captain's delusional ramblings were sage comments and remarkable insights. Drake felt the scruffy street person had an almost mystical gift hidden within his disordered mind.
“Certainly, Bones. My transmissions have been completed for this reporting period.” He examined the sandwich. “A manufactured meat product consumable—most delightful. I thank you.” He took a large bite.
As the Captain chewed, Drake bent close to the weathered, blue-black skin of the Captain's cheek. A whitish, almost imperceptible four-inch line ran from near his left temple to the corner of his mouth. Drake had repaired the wicked slash wound several weeks earlier. If not for the pigment difference, the scar would have been unnoticeable.
“Your face looks good.”
“Thanks to you, Bones.” The Captain called all the doctors “Bones”—thought to be of Star Trek origin. “This interstellar explorer salutes you.” He raised his sandwich. “I also much appreciate the nutrients. You've achieved a higher plane than most on your planet.”
Drake would like to believe the minimal scarring was solely a product of his skills, but the Captain's healing abilities were a known wonder. He'd survived so many life-threatening illnesses and injuries that some suggested he be given an honorary medical school professorship based on the training he'd provided the physicians who treated him.
The man's recuperative abilities were almost otherworldly.
“Thanks for the kind words, Captain, and you're welcome. You can sleep a bit and then the nurses will discharge you. Please take care of yourself, my friend.” Drake held out his hand.
The Captain flashed a big smile. He set his sandwich down on the cot and grasped Drake's hand in a two-handed grip like a minister after Sunday services. As he shook his expression changed. His mouth opened and his eyes widened. He released Drake's hand, then slid off the cot to his feet. He shook his head.
“Bones, your aura has attracted negative energy.”
“No worries, Captain.” Drake patted the man's shoulder. The Captain often shared sayings like the “could-fit-anybody” vagaries printed in newspaper horoscopes. Rizz believed the Captain’s pronouncements to have been prophetic in the past.
The Captain sat forward, his manner grave. “Be careful, Bones. Good intent is not a shield against ill fortune on this planet.”
The Captain couldn’t know that his predictions of “negative energy” had already come to pass. The concern in the homeless man's voice made Drake smile. Regardless of how delusional the Captain might be, his kindness was deep and true.
Few could know the pleasure of connecting with a man such as the Captain. Drake found caring for him, be it life or death, or simply sobering him up and providing a sandwich and friendly word, a special pleasure.
The opportunity to connect with people of all sorts in a deeply human way occurred daily in Drake's work in the ER.
God above—he would miss it.
Chapter 33
Memorial Hospital
Drake pulled his coat tight as the ER doors hissed closed behind him. He'd fallen in love with Minnesota in his four years here, but the winters were insane. The temperature had dropped forty degrees in the twelve hours of his shift. In a rare turn of events, he'd gotten off a few minutes early as his relief had arrived and his patients were managed. Six-fifty a.m., still completely dark and much colder than Cincinnati had ever been.
The air bit at his nostrils and his face stung. He kept his head down and his gloved hands buried in his pockets as he hiked toward the parking lot. The subzero temperatures snatched at his breath and penetrated the thin fabric of his scrub pants as if he were naked. It felt as if he were in the Arctic. Unlike many of the native Minnesotans, Drake was glad that the first snow had yet to arrive—there'd be more than enough and it stayed forever. He speed-walked the block and a half to the Chicago Avenue outdoor lot.
He took off a glove and retrieved his car keys from his jacket pocket, then fit the key in the car door and got in. The old Dodge's upholstery felt icy and crackled like wrapping paper under his weight. The outside of the windshield lay covered by a layer of frost. His breath immediately formed a frozen film on the inside of the glass.
The starter groaned but spun, the engine fired and caught. It ran hard and whined in its coldness. He turned the heater to max but knew it would be a while before any warmth resulted. Glove back on, he climbed out and used the windshield scraper to attack the frost.
Dead tired but his mind raced. Long night—was it his last? The research—he needed to stop by the lab. Damn. He scraped the frost, a harsh “scrack” sounding with each stroke. The outer glass scraped clear, he climbed back into the car.
