John Miller - The Last Day

“They're searching Barney's room,” she told them between her sobs. There were no words for what Ward was feeling as Gene took the warrant and started reading it. Ward tried to put his arms around his wife to comfort her, but she pulled away, crossed her arms, and went outside into the sweltering heat. Firman and Mayes both walked in and out of view, directing traffic. A tech wearing surgical gloves who was carrying Ward's personal laptop computer walked around him, heading out to the closest van.

An hour later, while Ward sat on the couch in black- cloud thought, the last of the FBI search party left the house, leaving a mess behind. Gene had a list of everything they had taken, and, seated beside Ward, studied it carefully. Ward got up and went to the door leading into the dining room where Natasha sat at the table in silence, sipping a glass of orange juice.

“I'll clean up,” Ward told her.

“I work with children,” she said. “Can you imagine what my patients’ parents think?”

“Someone did this to us,” he said angrily. Ward wasn't so much angry as he felt like he wanted to lie down on the floor and die in place so this would end.

She looked up at him, and in all the years he'd known her, and except for the ordeal they'd gone through with Barney's death and its aftermath, he'd never seen her so utterly devastated.

“Who? Why?” she asked.

“He's right,” Gene said.

“Can you prove it?” she asked.

“We will,” Gene said positively.

She shook her head slowly.

Ward wanted to believe him but wasn't any more convinced than his wife seemed to be.

“You can't believe I had anything to do with this?” Ward asked her.

“How does what I think matter here?” she demanded. “My husband's company sent child pornography out to the world. The press has already told everyone he's a pedophile. The FBI questioned me like I was a criminal, destroyed our home, and carted off our computers. My office phone hasn't stopped ringing all morning because our computers sent the trash out to hundreds of people, my patients chief among them. The majority of my new patients have asked for a transfer to one of my partners. I'm out of business, probably for good here. My partners have suggested that I stay out of the office until this is resolved. Do I believe my husband is guilty? What the hell does that matter?”

“It matters to me,” Ward told her. And he had never spoken truer words. “If you don't believe me, who will?” He tried to look at her eyes but couldn't, so he looked down.

“Your hands…” he said, noticing that her fingers were trembling.

He knew he would never forget the look she gave him, and what was left of his heart broke into pieces. And he felt an odd lightness just before the room vanished.

Ward opened his eyes to find himself lying on the floor in his son's bedroom. He looked up at Barney, who was seated on his bed, staring down at Ward. He dangled his legs back and forth. “It'll be all right, Daddy.”

Ward knew this event wasn't real, but he hoped somehow he wasn't dreaming, but that he was dead, too, and this meeting could last forever.

Suddenly the windows darkened, as though fast- moving, rain- heavy clouds had blocked the sun, and Ward felt a sense of growing danger.

“You and Mama have to be together,” Barney said, looking at the windows. His legs stopped swinging.

Ward jerked awake on the couch to the sight of Natasha looking down at him, the odor of ammonia burning his nose.

“Ward?” Natasha said. “He's awake, Gene.”

Ward slowly sat upright and saw the ampoule in his wife's hand.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You fainted,” she told him.

“You okay, buddy?” Gene asked. He had a cell phone in his hand.

“I'm fine,” Ward said, putting his hand to the back of his head. “My head hurts.”

“You hit it on the floor,” Natasha said, studying her husband's pupils for signs of a concussion. “Just rest there for a few minutes.”

“Never mind,” Gene said into his phone. “I won't need EMS. Yes, he's with a physician and she says he's fine.” He closed the phone.

“I couldn't catch you in time. Sorry,” Gene said sincerely.

“It's okay.”

“As soon as you feel steady enough, you need to go lie down on your bed,” Natasha said, in her professional voice.

“I have to run,” Gene said. “I have a meeting with Tom Wiggins, who looks to be your other lawyer.”

Ward had met Wiggins at a formal dinner at the hospital to raise money for the children's oncology wing of the medical center. He was a mild-mannered man in his mid- sixties, and a top- notch criminal attorney from Charlotte who was the attorney of choice for the wealthy-whom everybody usually figured were guilty He was known to the legal establishment, and much of the public, as “Reasonable Doubt Wiggins.”

“I think he's going to be our best shot at getting this crap handled. Any problem with that?” Gene asked.

The bell rang, and Natasha went to the door. When she came back Leslie Wilde was with her. Leslie came over to where Ward was lying on the couch and peered down at her boss.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Her look of concern was comforting to Ward.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just passed out.”

After pausing to place his hand on Natasha's shoulder in a show of support, Gene left for the front door.

Leslie said, “I told the FBI that I started Mr. McCarty's computer, because mine was on the fritz. It's my fault it happened.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Ward said.

“They asked me if I'd put any disks into your computer and I said I had, that my computer was on the blink last week and I used yours a lot when you weren't in your office. I told them that I found some unmarked disks on my desk and that I looked at them to see what they were, but none of them had porn on them.”

“Is that the truth?” Natasha asked her.

She looked at Natasha and shrugged. “The FBI agents are jerks. The truth is that I came in early because I had something to do for Mr. Brooks in accounting, and when I brought my computer up, it started displaying the porn. I didn't call anybody for like ten minutes. If I'd called Paul Wolfe sooner, maybe he could have stopped it. I'm sorry. I have used Mr. McCarty's computer, which is the truth, but I've never put any disks into it that I can recall. So this is sort of my fault. And I know Mr. McCarty didn't do what they said.”

Ward told her, “You shouldn't have put yourself in such a position. I don't want you to lie to anybody. I appreciate your loyalty, but this is bad enough without you being pulled into it.”

The doorbell rang.

“That's probably Todd. I called him after the FBI left the office,” Leslie said. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course I don't mind,” Ward said. “Maybe he can offer some suggestions.”

Natasha shook her head. “I feel like the maid in a sitcom, except there's nothing amusing about this,” she said, leaving to answer the door.

When she came back, Todd Hartman was with her. He put his hand out and gently squeezed Leslie's before letting it drop, turning his eyes toward Ward.

“Leslie told me what happened,” he said. “Maybe I can help.”

“Mr. Hartman,” Natasha said, “can I get you something?”

“Nothing for me, Dr. McCarty,” he said. “Thanks anyway.”

“Todd,” Ward said. “This is all totally insane.”

“It's all over the radio,” Todd said. “I made some calls and found out from a friend in the sheriff's department that the deputies were going to be pulled off their guard detail here after the FBI finished their search,” Hartman said. “So I took the liberty of putting two of the security guys I use at the end of your driveway to make sure you aren't bothered. I hope you don't mind.”