Stephen White: Blinded

She eyed me as though she’d finally decided that she’d let me stay. She lofted the IV tubing. “That was fentanyl. For the pain. That position he’s in is a killer.” She returned Sam’s water glass to the bedside table. “You did good work yesterday,” she told me. “We got him early enough that we were able to bust his clot in the ER. Because of that he’s going to walk out of here with most of the heart he came in with.”

She was gone in a flash.

Sam mumbled, “Nurses are nice to cops. Don’t know why that is.”

Gingerly, I placed the plastic heart on his rolling bedside tray and watched his eyelids grow heavy as the fentanyl continued its work and the inevitable sedation went along for the ride.

His eyes suddenly popped open, and he said, “Marriage is a funny thing. Love isn’t enough, you know? People think it is, but it isn’t. Other things happen sometimes. They do.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, honestly curious.

He didn’t respond.

I sat beside him for a few moments more and watched his breathing get into the uniform rhythm of narcotic semisleep.

I was aware of an impulse to run home and make Sam an umbrella for his heart. Rigid foam rubber, plastic strips, some filament tape. That should do it. Something to shield his heart from whatever out there might want to bruise it. And to protect it from whatever he might be inclined to do to it, too.

I whispered, “Nurses are nice to cops because most of the time the cops deserve it, Sam. That’s why.”

I sat beside him for a few more minutes, silently rehashing what Gibbs Storey had told me that morning. In my mind I asked Sam what a cop like him would say to a story like hers. I asked him what the Boulder police were likely to do after the police in California informed them that they had a killer in their town.

Sam slept through it all.

In the dozen-plus years I’d been in practice in Boulder, I’d referred at least a dozen women-and one man-to Boulder Safe House. I helped Safe House raise money each year. I was an advocate for all they did.

But I didn’t know where the actual sanctuary was located. None of my patients who used the services had ever told me. None of the Safe House staff had ever told me. My wife, the DA, had never told me.

Why? The more people who knew the location of the building, the less safe Safe House was.

So I wasn’t surprised when Diane’s message informed me that the five-thirty meeting with the Safe House director to discuss Gibbs Storey’s situation would be at our offices on Walnut Street, not at Safe House.

Celeste Clayton-CeeCee to her friends-was a contemporary urban balabosta . She was all smiles and hugs, competence and compassion. If she couldn’t tuck you in, feed you, or wipe away a tear, her day was ruined. Ten minutes late for our meeting, she bustled into my office with a big smile and with her arms spread wide to engulf Diane in an embrace.

My turn was next. I’d been perfunctorily introduced to Celeste at a couple of fund-raisers and had spoken with her on the phone a few times about mutual clients. Still, the hug she gave me was every bit as robust as the one she gave Diane.

She plopped onto the chair across from me, looked around my office, and said, “Nice digs.”

Diane said, “Don’t be fooled. The decorating panache is mine. He just wrote the checks.”

It wasn’t completely true, but Diane knew that I wouldn’t contradict her in front of company. I said, “Celeste, thanks for doing this on such short notice.”

“ ‘Notice’ is a foreign concept in my business. People don’t usually anticipate when they will need emergency shelter from abusers. So what’s up? Diane said this one would raise my eyebrows. That’ll take some doing. I’ve been in the battered spouse business for so many years that I know most of the stories before anybody tells me word one.”

I handed Celeste a signed release from Gibbs Storey. She glanced at it and proceeded to stick it into a fat Day-Timer that screamed “black hole.” I was confident there were papers stuffed in that book that were older than my Social Security card.

“Years ago, ten or so, Diane and I briefly treated a married couple. The wife’s name is Gibbs Storey. They left-”

“Gibbs. That’s b-s ?”

Diane laughed. I said, “Yes. Well, two b s and an s .”

“Go on.”

“The Storeys left town after what, Diane, three or four sessions?” Diane nodded. “Neither of us heard from them again until ten days ago when Gibbs called me for an appointment that took place this morning. She told me they’d moved back to town a few months ago. Within a few minutes she went on to implicate her husband in an unsolved murder in California.”

“Implicate?” Celeste asked.

“She accused him of murdering a friend of theirs with whom he was having an extramarital affair.”

“Wow.” My impression was that Celeste wasn’t registering amazement at the facts. She was registering amazement that she was really hearing a new battered woman story.

“Gibbs feels that she will be in significant physical danger from her husband once he discovers that she has spoken with the police. I don’t have any valid reason to question her conclusion.”

“Is there a history of battering?”

Diane spoke up. “We’re in a difficult position with you on that, CeeCee. Alan and I saw the Storeys as a couple. Virtually all of what we know about him comes from that couples treatment. That therapy is confidential-we can’t talk about it without his permission.”

“Even if she’s in danger?”

“Danger’s not enough,” Diane replied. “He would have had to make a threat against her for us to breach privilege. Sterling”-she cleared her throat-“hasn’t done that. At least not in our presence. Absent the overt threat, we can’t talk about him without a release.”

Celeste said, “Something tells me he’s unlikely to grant the release, isn’t he? How about I just assume that I wouldn’t be here if his history in the bully department was untarnished? Is that an assumption that we all can live with?”

Neither Diane nor I contradicted her.

I thought, And that is how the high hurdles of confidentiality are effortlessly cleared.

“Well, good. Where is Ms. Storey right now?”

I said, “She went home after our session this morning. She feels certain that her husband doesn’t suspect anything. She insists she’ll be safe until the police show up to talk with him.”

Celeste smiled ruefully. “I can name this song in three notes. In case you’re wondering, it’s a very sad song.”

“I did my best to keep her from going home.” I don’t know why I felt the need to protest my innocence, but I did.

“I know how it goes. I’ve beaten my head on that wall a few hundred times myself, Alan. Kids? Please tell me there are no kids.”

“None, thankfully.”

“You’ll talk to her again when?”

“Tomorrow morning. At that point I hope to get her permission to contact the police in Laguna Beach and pass along her suspicions about her husband. She prefers not to do it herself. Obviously, the moment that occurs-should they believe her-she’ll need protection.”

Celeste said, “Her suite at the palace is ready.”

Diane said, “This could be high profile, CeeCee. You sure you’re ready for the publicity?”

“There’s no reason for anyone to know she’s at Safe House. If someone does connect the dots and is irresponsible enough to go public with the information, we’ll deal with it. That’s what we do. We’re here to protect women at risk. This sounds like a woman at risk.”

“You’re sure?” Diane asked. “The press will be all over this.”