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“Are you saying that someone’s physical appearance, something they can’t change or do anything about, like the color of their skin, is enough to cause you to be afraid of them?” I asked.
The doctor frowned at me, thinking through what I’d said. “I did not say anything about the color of his skin. He’s white.”
“Are you saying you have a problem because he’s white?”
“No, of course not.”
“Are you saying that you would have a problem if he wasn’t white?”
“No, of course not!” The doctor was starting to be indignant.
“Blake,” Newman said softly. I think he was warning me to stop poking at the doctor.
The doctor typed something on his phone. “Marshal Blake, what’s your first name?”
“Anita,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, h
e said his name was Blake.”
“No, I was talking to Marshal Blake. I’m Marshal Win Newman.”
“Can you spell your first name, please?”
Newman did. Then the doctor turned to me. “You’re Marshal Anita what?”
“Blake, Marshal Anita Blake, and you are Doctor what?” I asked.
He typed my name before he said, “Dr. Jameson.”
“Dr. Jameson, what?” I asked.
“Corbin Jameson. Why does it matter what my name is?”
“I just want to make sure your name goes on the wrongful-death suit along with ours. The more the merrier, you know.”
That stopped him enough that he looked at me, really looked at me, maybe for the first time. “What are you talking about?”
“Tell him why we’re here, Newman,” I said.
Newman explained in the briefest terms that we were fighting a time limit, and when it was over, he would be forced to execute Bobby Marchand, but that we weren’t convinced he was guilty of the crime. “That’s why we’re here, Dr. Jameson: to try to gather enough information to either clear the accused of the crime so we don’t kill the wrong man or gather evidence that absolutely proves his guilt. Jocelyn Marchand is the only living witness to what happened that night, except for the accused. We can’t trust that his information isn’t self-serving, so that’s why we’re here.”
“You are all just murderers with badges,” Dr. Jameson said.
“Sometimes that’s what it feels like, but this time I’m trying to save a life. Won’t you help me save a life, Dr. Jameson?” Newman said.
The doctor looked at all of us, thinking for longer than I thought it should take, but we were ahead right now. I didn’t need to do anything but keep my mouth shut. I think we all tried to look harmless and sincere. Some of us were better at it than others, but Olaf did his best.
“I want your name, too,” Dr. Jameson said, looking at Olaf.
“I am Otto Jeffries, Marshal Otto Jeffries.”
Dr. Jameson typed the name into his phone and then put it back in his coat pocket. He looked at us one at a time, studying us individually for a long time. It was like he was trying to weigh and measure our worth, or maybe he just thought if he looked at us long enough, we’d crack under his steely gaze. At least two of us looked at him calmly. Newman was having trouble with his blank cop face today.
“Very well. If you give me a number to reach you at, I’ll let you know when the sedative wears off enough for Ms. Marchand to be able to speak with you, but only with myself and at least one nurse present. Is that clear?” He gave us his hard look again. It must have played hell on the nerves of his interns, but the three of us managed to remain calm.
Newman gave him his cell phone number and mine as a backup. We got the doctor’s assurance that he would let us question Jocelyn when she woke up. It was the best offer we were going to get, so we took it and left.
