J. Jance: Trial By Fury

"Great!" He glanced at Joanna Ridley’s somber face. She stood there silently, biting her lower lip. He curbed some of his youthful enthusiasm. "Sure thing," he said. "If you’ll wait here for a couple of minutes…"

He disappeared down a short hallway. I offered Joanna a chair, which she refused. Instead, she walked over to the doorway and stood peering out. Harborview Medical Center sits on the flank of First Hill. Even from the ground floor she could look down at the city spread out below and beyond the early evening hazy glow of parking lot lights. Eventually, the tech came back for us.

"Right this way, miss," he said. I winced. He wasn’t going to win any prizes for diplomacy, or for observation either, for that matter.

He led us down the same hallway and stopped in front of a swinging laboratory door. He pushed it open and held it for her to enter. Joanna seemed to falter. I didn’t blame her. Eventually, she got a grip on herself and went inside. I followed her, with the tech bringing up the rear.

A sheet-draped figure lay on a gurney in the far corner of the room. "This way, please," the tech said.

Joanna Ridley didn’t move. She seemed frozen to the spot. I stepped to her side and took hold of an arm, just above the elbow. Gently, I led her forward.

The tech moved to the head of the gurney and held up a corner of the sheet far enough to expose the still face beneath it. In the quiet room, Joanna gave a sudden, sharp intake of breath and turned away.

"I need to lie down," she said.

I led Joanna Ridley into a small, private waiting room and helped her lie down on a dilapidated couch. The tech brought a glass of water. "Is she going to be all right?" he asked nervously. "I can call somebody down from Emergency."

Glancing back at her, I saw tears streaming down her face. She didn’t need a doctor or a whole roomful of people. "No," I told him. "She’ll be okay. I’ll let you know if she needs help."

The tech backed out of the room. I set the water down on a table without offering any to her. She didn’t need plain water, either.

For several long minutes, I waited for her sobs to become quiet. Eventually, they did, a little. "Mrs. Ridley," I asked gently, "is there anything I can do to help? Someone I can call?"

Her sobs intensified into an anguished wail. "How could this happen when the baby…"

She broke off suddenly, and my adrenaline started pumping. "The baby! Is it coming now? Should I call a doctor?"

Joanna shook her head. "My baby’s not even born yet, and his father’s…" She stopped again, unable to continue.

My own relief was so great, I walked to the table and helped myself to her glass of water, all of it, before I spoke, offering what comfort I could. "It’ll be all right. You’ll see. Really, isn’t there someone I can call?"

Her sobbing ceased abruptly. Raising herself up on one elbow, she glared at me angrily. In her eyes I was something less than an unfeeling clod. "You don’t understand. My baby’s father is dead."

Unfortunately, I did understand, all too well. I knew far better than she did what was ahead for both her and her baby. From personal experience. Except my mother hadn’t had so much as a marriage certificate to back her up when I was born. Society was a hell of a lot less permissive back in the forties.

"My mother did it," I said quietly. "You can, too."

She looked at me silently for a long moment, assimilating what I had said. Then, before she could respond, the technician burst into the room. "Dr. Baker’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you, Detective Beaumont." The tech bounded back out of the room with me right behind him. "He wants to know who it was," he said over his shoulder.

"How the hell did he find out?"

"He told me to call if we came up with something."

"What do you mean we?" I fumed.

He led me into another office, picked up a telephone receiver, and held it toward me. I snatched it from his hand.

" Beaumont," I growled into the phone.

"Understand you’ve got a positive ID. Good work, Beau. That was quick. What have you got?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me to the phone like this? I just barely found out myself. All I know so far is a name and address."

"Well, get on with it for chrissakes."

"Look, Baker. That poor woman just learned her husband’s dead. I’ll start asking questions when I’m damn good and ready."

"Don’t be a prima donna, Beau. Give me what you have."

"Like hell!"

I flung the receiver at the startled tech, who stared at me dumbfounded. I hurried back down the hall to the room where Joanna Ridley waited. The phone rang again, but I didn’t pause long enough to hear what the tech said to his irate boss. Besides, I was sure Baker’s next phone call would be to either Captain Powell or Sergeant Watkins.

Hustling back into the waiting room, I startled Joanna Ridley, who was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. There was no time to waste in idle explanations. "Come on," I said, helping her up. "Let’s get out of here."

"Where are we going?"

"I’ll take you home. We’ve got to go now, before we’re overrun with cops and reporters."

The tech had followed me. We ran into him head-on in the doorway. He was carrying a metal clipboard and had a pen poised to take down information. "Detective Beaumont, you can’t leave."

"Oh, yeah? Watch me!"

"But I need some information…"

"You’ll have it when I’m damn good and ready."

"What’s going on?" Joanna managed as I hurried her, half-resisting, out the door and down the hallway.

"This place is going to be crawling with officers and reporters in about two minutes flat."

The technician trailed behind us, whimpering like a scolded puppy. " But Dr. Baker says…"

"Piss on Doc Baker. You had no business calling him! Now get out of here."

I helped Joanna into the car and slammed the door behind her for emphasis. The technician was still standing with his mouth open and clipboard in hand when I fishtailed the Porsche out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Dodging through a series of side streets, I paused at a stop sign on Boren, signaling for a right-hand turn, planning to drive Joanna Ridley back down to her home in Rainier Valley to talk to her there.

"I don’t want to go home," she said.

Surprised, I glanced in her direction. She seemed under control. "Are you sure? I’m going to have to ask you some questions. It might be easier."

A marked patrol car, red lights flashing, raced past us on Boren. Obviously, Baker had sounded the alarm and troops were out in force to pull J. P. Beaumont back into line. I waited until the car turned off toward Harborview before I eased the Porsche out into the intersection and turned left.

"I understand what you did back there," Joanna said quietly. "Thanks."

"No problem."

I wondered where to take her. Obviously, we couldn’t go to the department, and my own apartment was a bad idea as well. I settled on the only logical answer, the Dog House.

The Dog House is actually a Seattle institution. It’s a twenty-four-hour restaurant three blocks from my apartment that’s been in business for more than fifty years. I’ve needed. almost daily help from both McDonald’s and the Dog House kitchen to survive my reluctant return to bachelorhood.

You’ll notice I said the kitchen. The bar at the Dog House is a different story.

Steering clear of the scene of my previous night’s solo performance, I took Joanna Ridley through the main part of the restaurant and into the back dining room. It was closed, but I knew Wanda would let us sit there undisturbed.

She brought two cups of coffee at the same time she brought menus. Joanna accepted coffee without comment, but she refused my offer of food. Groping for a way to start the conversation, I asked what I hoped was an innocuous question. "When’s the baby due?"