Steve Martini - The Arraignment

One of the EMTs checks the bandage on my arm, and I wince.

“You can roll him out in a minute,” says Ortiz. “I want to talk to him just for a sec.”

The guy checks the I.V. quickly, then moves away to gather his equipment.

“For a lawyer, you don’t seem to get it,” says Ortiz. “You’re supposed to hand out your business cards to the injured, not the dead.” He’s holding my card in his hand. The one with the note on the back to Espinoza.

“You wanna tell me what this was all about?”

“I used the card to get in. He had them.”

“Who?”

“The mother. The child.”

“The nine-eleven call. Domestic violence.”

I nod.

“I see. And who gave you the cape and tights? Why didn’t you wait for us?”

“No time. Where are they?”

“They’re all right. She’s gonna have a shiner in the morning. But she’s alive. More than we can say about her uglier half over here.” He motions toward the dead body on the floor next to me.

“Must say she’s taking it pretty well, considering. Then again, it probably wasn’t a picture-perfect romance. Who beat her up? Saldado?”

I nod. “You get him?”

“No. We got here, he was already gone. But we got people out looking, checkin’ every house, looking in the sewer. Everyplace we can. He’ll turn up.”

“Don’t think so.”

“What, you know something?”

I shake my head.

“Trust me. We’ll get him.”

If they didn’t snag him coming out of the apartment, they won’t find him now. People who do what Saldado does for a living move without suitcases and call signals without a huddle. They would have a dozen contingencies worked out before the cops came knocking, holes they could dive into or pop out of, places to hide, be picked up from, or dropped off at. In a few hours, after dark, if I hadn’t shown up, Espinoza, his wife, and baby would have each been gift wrapped, dumped in the back of the dark Blazer, and probably headed for a shallow grave somewhere in the desert east of the city. Unless I miss my bet, Saldado or whatever his real name is, is long gone, probably on his way to Cancun.

Ortiz breaks from note-taking to inspect my arm and head, then adds a few entries for his report. “He sure as hell did a number on you.”

“Like they say. You shoulda seen the other guy.”

“What did you do, serve him with process?”

“Broke his ribs.”

He looks down at me smiling, incredulous. “With what, your finger?”

“Tire iron.” I point under the front edge of the sofa.

Otriz pushes the couch a little until it slides a few inches, exposing one end of the tire iron.

“Jack. Something over here you missed.”

One of the evidence techs comes over, hands in surgical gloves.

“Did Saldado touch it?” says Ortiz.

I nod.

“Dust it for prints, then tag it,” he tells the tech. “You’ll need to get his prints too, to eliminate ’em. And blood,” he says. “See if you get any traces. We might get lucky. DNA for an I.D. Our man here says he broke a few ribs with the thing there.”

I cough, clear my throat to get his attention again.

“What is it now?”

I tap the front of my shirt, on my chest on the other side, away from my cut arm.

“What are you saying?”

“His blood.”

Ortiz comes down for a closer look. Where the Mexican coughed it up when we hit the floor. There is a fine mist of tiny specks, little dots of dried blood like bits of rust across the chest of my white shirt, some on the side of my face.

“Jack. Get a pair of scissors.”

A second later the evidence tech comes back. A few snips and he cuts a four-inch-square swatch out of my shirt.

“You become more cooperative somebody sticks you with a knife. I’ll have to remember that next time I come to your office for an interview. Anything else you have?”

I shake my head. “That’s good for now. You’re lookin’ a little peaked,” he says. “You guys want to get him outta here?” To the EMTs now, “That arm’s gonna take some stitches. If I call ahead to the E.R. and tell ’em they got a lawyer on the way, I’m sure they can find their biggest needle.” He smiles at me.

“Fine idea,” says the evidence tech. “Tell them to get that fuckin’ harpoon they use to close on autopsies. That’ll give him something to talk about when he rolls up his sleeves at bar meetings.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Ortiz, now wearing his dark glasses again, is smiling. “You want me to call your partner?”

I nod. I try to form the words, but nothing comes out. I try again. “My daughter.”

“You want me to have him call her?”

Quick nods.

“They’re gonna hold you at least overnight. For observation,” he says. “And we’re gonna talk some more tomorrow, hmm? So that you know, don’t try and tell me there’s no connection between your friend here and the other client, Mr. Metz. Cuz I know there was.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t bother,” he says. “I’m also going to assume you’re gonna tell me about it, when you’re feeling better, like tomorrow?”

Before I can respond, Ortiz has turned around to talk to one of the uniforms. “I want a hold put on him. Material witness,” he says. “He doesn’t get a release from the hospital until I sign him out. Personally. You understand?” Then he looks down at me and winks. “See you in the morning.”

Espinoza’s murder is all over the front page of this morning’s paper, along with pictures of Saldado’s apartment building fenced off from the street by yellow tape. Harry has brought copies along with a change of clothes to my hospital room at County General. Security is sitting outside my door, making sure I don’t leave.

“Even made the evening news,” says Harry.

“When do I get out of here?”

“Relax. It could be worse.”

“You want to tell me how?”

“You could be sharing a room with someone else.”

“I am. With you.”

“You could be here under a managed-care plan.”

“There you have me.”

“Try turning on the soaps.” Harry points to the overhead TV. “Take your mind off of things.”

“That’ll take my mind all right.”

“Relax. At least Saldado didn’t cut a nerve,” he says.

Harry is right. My arm is hurting like hell this afternoon, throbbing all the way to my armpit, from there to my brain right behind my eyeballs, like little strikes of lightning.

“One of the few times I agree with the cops,” he says. “Tell them what you know, and let’s get back to work for the American people,” says Harry.

“What do I know? Espinoza’s dead.” Harry has brought me slacks and a clean shirt, so I change as we talk. Gingerly I roll the sleeve down over my bandaged arm and button the cuff at the wrist.

“Looks like you’re going to be writing with your left hand for a while.”

“I take it they didn’t find Saldado?”

Harry shakes his head. “They’re still checking the neighborhood, talking to people. My guess is they’re wasting their time. You had a stiff in your living room, would you stick around?”

I don’t answer him.

“Me neither,” he says.

“With a broken rib, could you run like that?” I ask.

“Depends what I was running from,” says Harry.

I’ve got one foot up on the side of the bed trying to tie the shoelace with a stiff arm.

“You want me to do that?”

“When I start drooling, you can put me in St. Florence’s home for extended living. Until then I can tie my own shoes,” I tell him.

“Fine. Just trying to help.”

“How long can Ortiz keep me here?”

“Tell you one thing. Wouldn’t want to be your nurse,” he says.