Randy Singer - Fatal Convictions

Alex Madison pulled his black Ford F-150 into the designated clergy parking area, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and walked briskly across the parking lot toward the emergency room door. He clutched a Bible in his right hand and checked his shirt pocket for his pen and business cards with his left. The business cards were double-sided. On one side, Alexander Madison, Pastor of South Norfolk Community Church; on the other, Alexander Madison, Attorney-At-Law.

Alex’s grandmother had called four hours ago to let him know that Evangeline Buford was in the hospital, suffering from an obstructed bowel. Doctors had stabilized her and were trying to treat it without surgery, but they were monitoring her closely. She was in the ICU-a place Alex could find in his sleep.

When the automatic doors slid open, Alex greeted the skinny gentleman sitting behind the intake desk. His name tag said Foster, but Alex had never heard anyone call him that. “What’s up, Bones?”

“The Right Reverend Alexander Madison,” Bones said, looking up from his magazine. “You’re running late tonight. The ambulance got here fifteen minutes ago.”

“That’s because you didn’t call,” Alex said. He opened his Bible, retrieved a church bulletin, and tossed it in front of Bones. “Five bucks off at Shoney’s,” Alex said.

“Your generosity knows no bounds.”

“You got something against Shoney’s?” Alex reached into his back pocket and withdrew two tickets for a Norfolk Tides game.

“Now you’re talkin’,” Bones said, eyeing the tickets. The man could tell stories for hours- had told stories for hours-about every major league star who had spent time in Norfolk on the way to the big leagues.

“You doing anything next Friday night?” Alex asked.

“Callin’ in sick. The Orioles got two players rehabbing from the majors.”

Alex handed Bones the tickets. “You got a room number for Evangeline Buford?”

The information desk was in a different part of the hospital from the ER entrance, and Alex knew that if it were anyone else asking, Bones would say as much. But for Alex, he punched in a few keys. “Four-three-one-two.”

“Thanks.” Alex stood there for a moment, shifting his weight. A mom carrying an infant in one arm and pulling a toddler with the other came through the door and lined up behind Alex.

For some reason, Bones always made him ask. Alex lowered his voice. “Anything serious tonight?”

Bones smiled-the big toothy grin of a man who had something his buddy wanted. “Nothin’ tonight. But there’s a closed head injury in 4103 that transferred in from Chesapeake General last night. She’s still in ICU. Unfortunately for you, she might make a full recovery.”

“Whose fault?”

“Don’t know. Definitely an auto accident.”

Tides tickets were a small price to pay for this type of intel. “I owe you,” Alex said.

“Just say a prayer for me Sunday.”

Alex left the ER and navigated his way through the hospital, breathing in the sterile smell of antiseptics mixed with meat-loaf leftovers from the nearby cafeteria. He said a quick prayer for Bones and tossed in a word of thanks for the new client he was hopefully about to land. His practice needed a closed head injury about now. With any luck, she’d been hit by a truck driver running a red light-a couple of independent witnesses would be nice-and the trucking company would have lots of insurance coverage. The pastor in him hoped the woman would be all right. But the fatalist in him, as well as the lawyer, knew that accidents were bound to happen. And if they did, they might as well happen here in Hampton Roads, to people who would get dragged in to Norfolk General, and they might as well have a long and expensive recovery before being released.

Alex arrived at the elevators about the same time as two older women. When the elevator arrived, Alex turned on the charm and stepped aside, then followed them in. He smiled, and they tried to return the gesture, but their eyes betrayed an unshakable sadness. They thanked him, punched a number, and rode in silence.

The women exited on the third floor, the cancer ward, a place Alex knew all too well. Two years ago he had practically lived there, watching his grandfather waste away. Even now, when Alex got off on the third floor to visit other senior saints from his small congregation, the sadness still washed over him.

His grandfather’s passing had rocked Alex for a number of reasons. It was tough to watch a man who had once been so vibrant-a civil rights lawyer who taught Alex everything he knew about how to practice law-reduced to an emaciated shadow of his former self. Spiritually, Alex had never prayed harder-and never felt more betrayed when his prayers weren’t answered. And emotionally, Alex had lost the man who helped raise him after an automobile accident killed Alex’s parents when he was just twelve.

For Alex, the cancer ward wasn’t hell, but you could smell it from there. He was thankful that Evangeline was on the fourth floor-one story above the scent of Dante’s Inferno.

When Alex entered her room, Evangeline’s face lit up to see him. He told her how good she looked, which was a stretch, even for Alex.

She had multiple machines attached to her body and looked like she had been shrink-wrapped. She wore none of the makeup that she normally layered on for church. Her gray hair was matted against the pillow, and her skin sagged on the exposed portions of her arms and around her neck. Her right arm was blue where the nurse had inserted the IV, and it made Alex feel a little queasy. He would have made a terrible doctor.

Evangeline gave Alex a detailed rundown of her condition, including the precise time and place of her last bowel movement, pausing occasionally to catch her breath. Alex chatted for a few minutes but could tell that the excitement was taking a toll on his parishioner. He held her hands and said a quick prayer.

“You’re going to be all right,” he told Evangeline. She braved a small smile at his words. “The whole church is praying for you,” he added quickly. He didn’t want Evangeline to think her healing would be hanging on his prayers alone.

“You’re the best pastor we’ve ever had,” Evangeline said, her voice hoarse. “Pastor Bob didn’t get to the hospital for two days when I had my kidney stones. I’d passed ’em by then. You practically followed me here.”

“I’m good at tailgating ambulances,” Alex said, but Evangeline didn’t smile. He squeezed her hands. “We’re going to get you through this.”

A few minutes after leaving Evangeline’s room, Alex found himself outside 4103, where he hesitated in the hallway, arguing with his conscience. The woman in the room probably needed legal representation. She could either get it from some shyster who advertised on television, or she could get it from Madison and Associates, a firm that would treat her with a little respect. They would work her case hard and take the insurance company to the brink of trial before cashing in. Most importantly, she would be more than just a case file to Alex and his partner, Shannon Reese. Alex would minister to her spiritually. Shannon would befriend her. She’d get Christmas cards from the firm for the rest of her life.

The nameplate on the door said Ghaniyah Mobassar. Alex decided to call her ma’am.

He stepped inside and flashed a friendly smile-nothing over the top, the professional kind of smile your attending physician might give you.