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Swags of tubes and electric leads ran from her arms up an IV pole, over to a cardiac monitor.
“He’s my husband,” the woman said in a drugged, barely audible voice. “Alan’s my husband.”
I examined Feirstein’s license, my stomach shrinking, my heart sinking.
This guy wasn’t armed, had no buttons on his person. Shit, he even had the sticker for organ donation on his license.
“What are you doing here?” I asked weakly.
“I’m spending the night,” he said. “Carol has lymphoma. End-stage.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m so very sorry,” I said to Feirstein. “What just happened was an awful mistake, and I can’t apologize enough.”
The guy nodded, letting me off the hook, for which I was grateful. I told his wife, “You take good care, okay?”
Then Cappy and I walked out into the hallway.
“Man,” I said, “I feel terrible, Cappy. It sure looked like some kind of deal was going down. The guy was sneaking in to sleep on the floor! How could I have been so dumb?”
“It happens, boss,” he said, shrugging. “Back to square one.”
Cappy returned to his post, and I returned to the waiting room outside the ER.
I was disappointed and embarrassed, but worse, I’d never had such a feeling of grabbing at smoke.
Carl Whiteley, the hospital’s silky CEO, had stated repeatedly that the mortality rate at Municipal was within range for similar hospitals, and that the caduceus buttons were a joke.
I’d gotten Tracchio to go along with me based on little more than my instincts.
Risky for him. Risky for me.
The vending machines in the corner of the ER waiting room hummed, ready to dispense cheerful colored boxes of goodies in this bleak, soul-sucking place.
I dropped a dollar in quarters into the slot, stabbed a couple of buttons, and watched the orange packet of Reese’s Pieces clunk down the chute.
I was here for the night. I wanted to believe that we were going to unmask a depraved killer and save lives.
But there was an awful possibility that all I was doing was making an ass of myself. Jesus, that poor guy and his wife. What a disaster.
Part Six
THE VERDICT
Chapter 102
OF ALL THE DAMN DAYS to be late.
Cindy grappled with her oversized handbag, shifted her computer bag to her left shoulder as she walked quickly up McAllister toward the Civic Center Courthouse, thinking how she hadn’t missed a day of court since the trial started four weeks ago.
Now the grueling testimonies and scalding cross-examinations were over.
Today O’Mara and Kramer would make their closing arguments whether or not she was on the courthouse steps when the doors opened.
God.
If she lost her seat to another reporter—it was a possibility too grim to consider.
Cindy sprinted across McAllister against the light, crossing to the courthouse, a pale stone block of a building cut on the diagonal, facing the intersection of McAllister and Polk.
