Leann Sweeney - Dead Giveaway

The woman looked up from her clipboard as the interns and residents began to file past us. "You family?" she asked.

"Um, no. But I was hired by family to find this woman." My eyes were on Sara. She wore one of those awful, hang-off-your-shoulders gowns, and though she was now thirty-five years old, she looked like a terrified child. Her walker was in a corner, far from her reach.

Sara stared at me. Her slack jaw and weakened facial muscles couldn't hide the perceptiveness I saw in those eyes.

"Oh," the doctor said. "You're the detective. A police sergeant called and told me you'd be coming. She may not be able to communicate well, but she understands everything you say. Talk to her. She could use some friends."

The woman then hustled after her pack of interns.

Kate was already at the bedside. She picked up one of Sara's hands and said, "I'm Dr. Rose, a clinical psychologist. Can my sister and I talk to you, tell you why you've been brought here?"

Sara looked at Kate with questioning eyes, then at me.

"Remember me? You saw me through the window last night. I'm Abby."

Sara nodded slowly. A yes.

Kate, still holding onto Sara's hand, dragged over a nearby chair using her foot. She sat down. "Things have happened over the years, Sara. Things you probably know nothing about. My sister knows all of it, though, and we want to tell you what she's learned. Some of what you hear may be very difficult. I'm here to support you through that. If you're not ready, let us know somehow."

She made a sound then, a combination groan-grunt, almost like she was in pain. She lifted her free hand with effort. Though her hand was limp, I knew she was pointing at me. And then came her first words, slurred but understandable. "You. Tell."

"That's why I came," I said with a smile, pulling over a plastic chair to sit next to Kate. "Do you remember Lawrence?"

Sara rolled her head left away from us, squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Then she used her hand to make an L and rested the fingers against her heart.

Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. Kate's tears were already slipping down her cheeks.

"You know he's in prison?" I said.

She nodded.

"And that he's innocent?"

Another nod, stronger this time.

"We'll get him out. We have proof now, but it may take time," I said.

She closed her eyes, hit her finger-made L against her chest several times.

"There's more," I said. "Do you remember your baby?"

She looked at me again. It was Sara's turn for tears now. As they ran down her thin, tired face, she worked hard to speak and finally said, "Dead."

"No," I replied, way too loud for hospital pros to like. "He's not dead."

She stared at me, eyes wide, while Kate grabbed a tissue and wiped Sara's cheeks.

"He's not. He wants to meet you," I said.

Sara began to shake her head, and Kate clutched her hand tighter, saying, "It's true. It's real."

Sara struggled again to speak, each word, it seemed, like climbing a mountain. "Look... at... me."

Kate said, "Are you saying you don't want him to see you like this?"

Sara nodded.

"He's a special young man," I said. "And he's the reason we found you. I promise, he wouldn't care if your head was screwed on backwards."

One side of Sara's mouth turned up in a smile. This time she answered by making a fist, and with effort turned her thumb to the ceiling.

Kate had already advised me not to mention Noreen's death or Pastor Rankin's arrest, so we were grateful when an aide interrupted us to take Sara for a CAT scan. We told her we would be back and left.

Next stop was Thaddeus, and I was relieved to find him in far better shape than when I'd last seen him.

He was sitting in his wheelchair by the window, the roses I'd sent on the bedside stand. "Going home soon, Abby," he said. "Few more stable days is all I need. But you got my heart racing bringing in a woman as good-looking as your friend here."

"Thaddeus Washington, my sister, Kate Rose," I said.

"Figures you two would be related," he said with a smile.

Kate went over and shook his hand. "I've heard wonderful things about you, Mr. Washington."

"Everybody calls me Thaddeus." He looked at me, his expression now serious. "Lawrence ever gonna speak to me again, Abby?"

"How about on the outside? I'm hoping we have what we need to set him free," I said with a grin.

"Did I hear right?" came a voice from the door. It was Joelle, carrying a big bottle of Evian and a box of sugar-free chocolate-chip cookies.

"You heard right," I answered. "I'm meeting with a defense lawyer when I leave here. He'll get things rolling. The sooner we're on this, the sooner he'll be out."

After I introduced Kate and Joelle, Thaddeus said, "Was it something Lawrence told you that helped him?"

"He told me about Will's mother and headed me in the right direction." I didn't want to be too specific. Thaddeus may act strong, but I'd learned my lesson about stress and his blood sugar fluctuations.

"About time that son of mine came to his senses," Thaddeus said.

"Joelle helped, too," I said, looking at her. "One of those wrongs Frank worried so much about will soon be righted."

She placed the cookies and water on Thaddeus's bed, walked over and wrapped her arms around me. "Thank you, Abby. Thank you so much."

We visited a little longer, and after we left the hospital, Kate drove me to police impound to pick up my car. She had afternoon patients to see, so we said good-bye and I headed for Mark Whitley's law office on Houston's southwest side. Mark had helped me on another case a few months ago, but this was far more complicated.

Defense attorneys as successful as Mark make big bucks, and he'd poured plenty of that money into his office, a stand-alone redbrick building off the Southwest Freeway. I noticed his Porsche parked in his marked spot, and when he came out to greet me, he could have been walking on some fashion runway in Paris.

"Nice," I said, nodding appreciatively at his navy suit with wide lapels and pinstripes.

He smiled. "Like it? Neil Barrett."

"I should have known," I said, pretending I knew who Neil Barrett was. Dark-haired, young and very good-looking, Mark seemed to have it all, including brains.

Once we were settled in his office, me with my Diet Coke and Mark with his Perrier, I spent the next half hour explaining the case and how I needed his help getting Lawrence Washington out of jail ASAP.

Mark leaned back in his black leather chair. "Last time all I had to do was intimidate a small-town police force for you, but this, Abby? Texans take their guilty convictions very seriously."

"But he's innocent," I said.

"You think that matters?" he said, eyebrows raised.

"Wait a minute. We have evidence and—"

"I'm not saying I can't get him out. I will. But we're talking three months at the least. More likely a year."

"He has to stay there a year? I don't get it. Can we try for a pardon from the governor or—"

"Innocence pardons are considered only on unanimous recommendation of an applicant's three trial officials—the sentencing judge, the district attorney and the police involved in the arrest. Then we'll need unanimous agreement from the Board of Pardon and Paroles. Can you see there might be a lengthy delay?"

I sighed and leaned back against the cushioned client chair. Damn. After my last meeting with Lawrence, I was pretty sure he'd be thrilled to know Sara was alive, happy to know I'd told the truth about his son. But he'd never let them inside that prison to visit. He wouldn't want them to see him in that place.

I looked at Mark. "Is there anything you can do to speed this up? Because the one surviving arresting officer, Randall Dugan, will never cooperate. You'll have a major barrier right off the bat."