Greg Iles - Turning Angel

”He’s innocent, Quentin. And they’re about to enter the death phase of the trial. At the least, Ellen’s story could introduce enough doubt to keep the jury from voting for execution.“

Quentin looks down at a vase of wilted flowers. After about a minute, he looks up, his eyes filled with resolve. ”All my experience and instinct tell me that would be a mistake. With this D.A. and judge, it’s the wrong way to play it. We should save the impact of Ellen’s story for the appeal.“

”Fuck the appeal,“ I mutter. ”I want a new trial.“

Quentin’s eyes darken. ”I’m chief counsel, Penn.“

”This isn’t your call. It’s Drew’s.“

The old lawyer sighs angrily. ”If you really want to upset him like that, I’ll go down to the jail and put this to him.“

I shake my head. ”I’m going with you.“

”You can barely make it to the bathroom.“

I raise myself onto my hands and sit up. ”I’m going with you, Quentin.“

He picks up his coat and walks to the door.

”Go back to the hotel,“ I tell him. ”If I haven’t called you in a half hour, go talk to Drew alone. Fair enough?“

He nods once. I expect him to offer an olive branch-or fire a parting shot-before he goes, but he does neither.

After he’s gone, I pick up the plastic device that connects me to the nurses’ station and punch the Call button.

”Yes, Mr. Cage?“

”Is my father still in the hospital?“

”His light’s on.“

”Would you page him and ask him to come to my room?“

”Yes, sir.“

”Thank you.“

Ten minutes later, my father walks into my room and closes the door.

”What’s the matter?“ he asks.

”I need to get out of here, Dad. You’ve got to help me.“

”What’s going on? I heard they convicted Drew.“

”Ellen Elliott just confessed to Kate’s murder. Right here in this room.“

Dad’s mouth opens, but no sound emerges. Then he says, ”You believe her?“

”I do.“

”Jesus Christ.“

”You’ve got to get me out of this bed. I’ve got to see Drew face-to-face, and that means going to the jail. I want to overturn his conviction, but Quentin doesn’t see eye to eye with me on that. I’ve got to make sure Drew has a chance to save himself. If nothing changes between now and the sentencing phase, I’m afraid he’ll be sentenced to death. His son shouldn’t have to go through that, even if the decision is reversed six months from now.“

Dad sits on the side of my bed and surveys me from head to toe. ”You’re in bad shape, Penn.“

”How bad?“

He sighs deeply. ”Your heart’s sounding better, but the vasculitis is still a serious problem. If you start moving around, you’re going to have hydrostatic problems with your blood pressure. You could faint very easily.“

”It’s not my blood vessels that are keeping me in this bed. It’s the withdrawal. I get horrible muscle cramps when I move. If I stand for ten minutes, I fall down and twist into a ball of agony. That’s what I need help with.“

”The methadone’s not helping?“

”Not enough.“

Dad makes a clucking sound with his tongue.

”Drew saved my life,“ I say quietly. ”You remember.“

”I remember, all right.“ Dad taps his right fist into his open palm. ”There’s one thing I could try. It’s unethical as hell, but…Hang on, I’ll be back in a minute.“

”Where are you going?“

”Hospital pharmacy.“

He’s back in less than five minutes. In his left hand is a bottle of pills, in his right, a mortar and pestle.

”What’s that?“

”Oxycontin.“

”Will that help me?“

His eyes glint beneath raised brows. ”We’re about to find out.“

He takes out two yellow tablets, drops them into the china vessel, and crushes them to powder. ”Abusers crush the tablets because they’re time-release formulas,“ he says. ”Crushing them gives you the full dose almost instantaneously. It’s a lot more like mainlining heroin.“ He takes a white card from the flowers by my bed and carefully brushes three quarters of the powder into the glass of water on my bedside table.

”Drink it down.“

I swallow the bitter mixture.

”That ought to give you some relief.“

”How long will it last?“

”I don’t know. But don’t do that yourself. When the pain comes back, just take one pill by mouth.“

Dad dons his stethoscope and lays its cold bell against the skin beneath my left nipple, over the apex of my heart.

”What are you listening for?“ I ask. ”My heart slowing down?“

”No. With a narcotic dose like this, your respiration will slow down, but your heart may race to try to provide more oxygen. It’s called reflex tachycardia.“

The rush doesn’t come as quickly as the one from Blue’s syringe, but come it does. After five minutes, I feel the warmth spreading from beneath my heart. ”Jesus,“ I murmur. ”That’s it. The pain is gone. “ I flex my arms, then stretch gloriously in the bed. ”Talk about a miracle drug.“

”There’s a reason opium has hung around since Alexander the Great.“ After a while, Dad removes his stethoscope and says, ”Your heartbeat’s within normal limits.“

I take several deep breaths, then sit up and hang my feet over the edge of the bed. Dad takes hold of my arms and helps me stand.

”I feel like a new man. Literally.“

”Only while the drug lasts,“ he says. ”Remember that. You’re like Cinderella at the ball.“

”Right.“

”Your mother would boil me in oil if she knew about this.“

”Don’t tell her.“ I suddenly feel light-headed, but I mask my difficulty by sitting on the bed again.

”Are you going to the jail now?“ Dad asks.

”Yes.“

”I’ll drive you.“

”That’s all right. Kelly will take me.“

”Even better.“ Dad looks me from head to toe again. ”Let’s get some clothes on you.“

”Where’s Ellen now?“ Drew asks in a voice I can barely hear.

”At the hospital with my mother.“

Drew blinks rapidly, then looks down. Even through the bulletproof glass of the visiting window, I can see he’s close to breaking. His skin is so pale that he looks like he’s suffering from severe anemia. With Quentin standing behind my chair, I’ve just recounted what happened between Ellen and Kate at St. Catherine’s Creek. To his credit, Quentin did not interrupt once.

”Drew, you’ve got a big decision to make,“ I say. ”And it’s yours alone.“

He closes his eyes. Quentin lays a hand on my shoulder, but before I can turn, a single, racking sob bursts from Drew’s throat. His mouth makes it appear that he’s laughing, but I’ve seen that effect in many distraught people. I wish I could shatter the glass separating us and hug him, but there’s no way to do that. As I watch helplessly, he starts banging his forehead against the window like an autistic child.

”Drew? Drew!“

He doesn’t seem to hear me.

I rise and put my mouth up to the metal vent in the window.

”Drew!“

”Dr. Elliot!“ Quentin barks from behind me. ”We’ve got to make a decision about this matter!“

Drew stops banging the glass and stares at Quentin. ”Decision?“

”Your wife wants us to take her confession to the district attorney.“

He blinks in shock. ”Take Ellen to Shad Johnson?“

”That’s what she wants,“ Quentin says. ”She’s ready to confess to Shad that she killed your lover.“

I glare at him, but Drew is already shaking his head. ”No,“ he says. ”Absolutely not. She can’t do that.“

Quentin looks at me in triumph. ”Those are exactly my feelings, Doctor. The D.A. wouldn’t believe her anyway. Neither would Judge Minor. We have to focus on your appeal now.“