David Rosenfelt - New Tricks

Hatchet interrupts. “Have I given you the impression that I care what happens to this dog?”

“Well-”

“Resolve the matter. Either give him to Robinson or find another solution.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Right away.”

The phone on Hatchet’s desk rings, and he looks at it as if it were from another planet. He picks it up. “Clara, I told you that I was not to be disturbed. Now…” He stops, an expression on his face that I haven’t seen before. “I see… put him on.” Another pause, and then: “Just a moment.”

He hands the phone to me, the last thing I would have expected. “It’s for you,” he says.

I am gripped by tension. For Hatchet to allow himself to be interrupted by a phone call for me staggers, and scares the shit out of, the imagination.

“Hello?”

I hear Pete Stanton’s strained and nervous voice. “Andy, it’s Pete.”

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“Andy, I’m at the hospital. Laurie’s been shot.”

I can feel my knees start to buckle, and I half fall toward Hatchet’s desk. “Is she all right? Pete, is she all right?”

“Andy, I don’t know… I just don’t know.”

“Pete, tell me the truth. TELL ME THE GODDAMN TRUTH!”

“Andy, they don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

I THINK HATCHET SAYS SOMETHING, some expression of sympathy or concern, but I’m not sure.

Everything seems a blur, and I literally stagger out of his office, heading for the elevator to take me downstairs. I think Pete said there was someone or something waiting for me down there, but I could be wrong.

When I reach the street level, two uniformed policemen seem to be waiting for me. “Mr. Carpenter?”

I nod.

“We’ll be taking you to the hospital.”

I nod again and follow them to their car. It could be the next-to-last car ride I will ever take, because if Laurie does not pull through, I am going to get in my own car and drive it off a cliff.

I don’t ask the officers what they know, because they probably don’t know anything, and wouldn’t be authorized to tell me if they did. The horrible fear that keeps popping up, easily overwhelming my well-developed sense of denial, is that Laurie might already be gone. If she was, Pete wouldn’t have told me over the phone. He would have done just what he did, which was cushion me for the blow by telling me how badly she was hurt.

The Barnert Hospital is on Broadway in Paterson, about fifteen minutes from the courthouse. There is little traffic, but it feels as if the trip takes three weeks. They finally pull up to the emergency room entrance, and I rush to jump out, only to find that the car door is locked.

“Open the door!” I yell. “Open the damn door!”

I hear a popping noise and this time when I pull on the handle the door opens. I get out and run into the emergency room. Kevin is there waiting, and the stricken, anguished look on his face tells me that Laurie is gone.

But she’s not.

“She’s in surgery, Andy. She went in half an hour ago.”

I am having trouble processing words. “She’s alive? Is that what you’re saying? She’s still alive?”

“Yes. That’s what they told me.”

My feet suddenly feel unable to support my weight, and I move over to some metal chairs. Kevin sits down next to me. “Please tell me everything you know,” I say. “Everything.”

It turns out that Kevin doesn’t know much. Laurie was in the front yard of my house throwing a tennis ball with Tara and Waggy when she was shot. She took the bullet in the upper thigh, which became horribly serious because it happened to sever the carotid artery, causing massive blood loss. Only the quick actions of my neighbor, who called 911 and then rushed over to put pressure on the wound, kept her alive.

For now.

I’m about to hit Kevin with a barrage of questions, when I look up and see Pete Stanton standing over me.

“Pete, tell me…”

“All I know is that she’s in surgery, and she’s getting massive transfusions. It’s touch and go, Andy.”

It flashes through my mind that this sounds like the same injury that killed Sean Taylor of the Washington Redskins. Pete must know that, but he has the good sense not to mention it. Kevin would likely never even have heard of the Washington Redskins.

“Who did this?” I ask.

Pete shakes his head. “Don’t know. According to the neighbor, it was a drive-by. But he got a model, color, and partial plate, so we’ve got a shot at it.”

“Where can I wait for the doctor?” I ask.

“There’s an empty room on the floor; he’s going to come there when he’s finished. By the way, I told them you were the husband.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Gives you access; if you’re not family you have no rights.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Pete, Kevin, and I go up to the seventh floor, which is the surgery ward. We go to an empty room, with a bed, small bathroom, and two chairs. I suppose this is going to be Laurie’s room if she needs one. Please let her need one.

We wait for almost three hours, during which it feels like my head is going to explode from the pressure. The waiting is simply horrible, yet I am clearheaded enough to know that it must mean Laurie is still alive. Otherwise the surgery would be over.

During all the time we’re there, I don’t think five words are spoken, except for Pete getting an occasional cell phone call updating him on progress in the investigation. There doesn’t seem to be much, but it’s early, and I’m not focused on that right now.

I finally realize that Tara and Waggy are alone and unattended, and I mention this to Kevin.

He shakes his head. “I had Willie pick them up. I hope that’s okay.”

As my partner in the Tara Foundation, Willie is as big a dog lunatic as I am, so it’s more than okay. “Thanks, Kevin. That’s perfect.”

Finally, the door opens and a doctor comes in. He’s surprisingly, almost annoyingly, young, certainly under forty. If he isn’t bringing good news, he’s never going to get any older, because I’m going to strangle him with his stethoscope.

I stand as he walks over. I can’t read his expression, which bothers me. I wish he were smiling, or laughing, or doing cartwheels. But he’s not, and I’m scared shitless. The combined pressure of waiting for every verdict I’ve ever waited for pales next to this.

“Mr. Carpenter, I’m Dr. Norville.”

I don’t say a word; I can’t say a word.

“Your wife has come through the surgery. She has an anoxic brain injury, due to blood loss, and she remains in very critical condition. She is currently in a coma.”

“Will she survive?” I manage.

“We’ll have a better idea of that in forty-eight hours. She lost a great deal of blood. And you need to understand that survival is not the only issue.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It is likely that her brain was deprived of sufficient blood for an undetermined period of time. There is the potential for injury.” He pauses, then adds, “Irreparable injury.”

I find my voice and ask as many questions as I can think of, but I can’t get any more out of him, other than the fact that the shorter the coma, the better. It’s going to take time until we know more.

He can see my frustration, and before he leaves, he says, “Mr. Carpenter, she’s alive. At this point, with what she’s been through, that’s saying a great deal, believe me.”

I nod my understanding.

“One step at a time,” he says. “One step at a time.”

I GO HOME to get some clothing and toiletries to bring back to the hospital.