Ford County_ Stories Part 14

"Well, what kinda lawyer are you? We knew that. My lawyer did his homework, knew ever'thang about Trane. But he couldn't bring it up in court. Too many rules. Four Mercedes. Guess a rich doctor deserves that many."

Cranwell walked to the file cabinet, opened the top drawer, and removed a three-inch stack of papers tightly compressed in a blue plastic binder. Stanley recognized it immediately because the floor of his office was littered with the blue binders. Trial transcripts. At some point, Cranwell had paid the court reporter a few hundred dollars for his own copy of every word uttered during Dr. Trane's trial for medical malpractice.

"Do you recall juror number six, Lawyer Wade?"

"No."

Cranwell flipped some pages, many of them tabbed and highlighted in yellow and green. "Just lookin' at the jury selection here, Lawyer Wade. At one point my lawyer asked the jury pool if any one of them worked for an insurance company. One lady said yes, and she was excused. One gentleman, a Mr. Rupert, said nothin' and got himself picked for the jury. Truth was, he didn't work for an insurance company because he'd just retired from an insurance company, after thirty years. Later, after the trial and after the appeal, we found out that Mr. Rupert was the biggest defender of Dr. Trane durin' deliberations. Said way too much. Raised h.e.l.l if any of the other jurors as much as mentioned givin' Michael some money. Ring a bell, Lawyer Wade?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Cranwell suddenly put down the transcript and took a step closer to Stanley. "Are you sure about that, Lawyer Wade?"

"I'm sure."

"How can that be? Mr. Rupert was an area claims man for Southern Delta Mutual for thirty years, worked all of north Mississippi. Your firm has represented a lot of insurance companies, including Southern Delta Mutual. Are you tellin' us you didn't know Mr. Rupert?" Another step closer. Another slap on the way.

"I did not."

Fingers thrust in the air. "Lie number five," Cranwell announced and waved his tally at his jury. "Or is it six? I've already lost count."

Stanley braced for a punch or a slap, but nothing came his way. Instead, Cranwell returned to the file cabinet and removed four other binders from the top drawer. "Almost two thousand pages of lies, Lawyer Wade," he said as he stacked the binders on top of each other. Stanley took a breath and exhaled in relief because he had momentarily escaped the violence. He stared at the cheap linoleum between his shoes and admitted to himself that once again he had fallen into the trap that often snared so many of the educated and upper-cla.s.s locals when they convinced themselves that the rest of the population was stupid and ignorant. Cranwell was smarter than most lawyers in town, and infinitely more prepared.

Armed with a handful of lies, Cranwell was ready for more. "And, of course, Lawyer Wade, we haven't even touched on the lies told by Dr. Trane. I suppose you're gonna say that's his problem, not yours."

"He testified. I did not," Stanley said, much too quickly.

Cranwell offered a fake laugh. "Nice try. He's your client. You called him to testify, right?"

"Yes."

"And before he testified, long before that, you helped him prepare for the jury, didn't you?"

"That's what lawyers are supposed to do."

"Thank you. So the lawyers are supposed to help prepare the lies." It was not a question, and Stanley was not about to argue. Cranwell flipped some pages and said, "Here's a sample of Dr. Trane's lies, at least according to our medical expert, a fine man who's still in the business and who didn't lose his license and who wasn't an alcoholic and drug addict and who didn't get run out of the state. Remember him, Lawyer Wade?"

"Yes."

"Dr. Parkin, a fine man. You attacked him like an animal, ripped him up in front of the jury, and when you sat down, you were one smug little b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Remember that, Becky?"

"Of course I do," Becky chimed in on cue.

"Here's what Dr. Parkin said about the good Dr. Trane. Said he failed to properly diagnose labor pains when Becky first arrived at the hospital, that he should not have sent her home, where she stayed for three hours before returnin' to the hospital while Dr. Trane went home and went to bed, that he sent her home because the fetal monitor strip was nonreactive when in fact he had misread the strip, that once Becky was in the hospital and once Dr. Trane finally got there he administered Pitocin over the course of several hours, that he failed to diagnose fetal distress, failed again to properly read the fetal monitorin' strips, which clearly showed Michael's condition was deterioratin' and that he was in acute distress, that he failed to diagnose that the Pitocin was creatin' hyperstimulation and excessive uterine activity, that he botched a vacuum delivery, that he finally performed a Cesarean some three hours after one should have been performed, that by performin' the Cesarean too late he allowed asphyxia and hypoxia to occur, and that the asphyxia and hypoxia could have been prevented with a timely and proper Cesarean. Any of this sound familiar, Lawyer Wade."

"Yes, I remember it."

"And do you remember telling the jury, as a fact because you as a brilliant lawyer are always accurate with your facts, that none of this was true, that Dr. Trane adhered to the highest standards of professional conduct, blah, blah, blah?"

"Is that a question, Mr. Cranwell?"

"No. But try this one. Did you tell the jury in your closin' arguments that Dr. Trane was one of the finest doctors you'd ever met, a real star in our community, a leader, a man you'd trust with your family, a great physician who must be protected by the fine folks of Ford County? Remember this, Lawyer Wade?"

"It's been eight years. I really can't remember."

"Well, let's look at page 1574, book five, shall we?" Cranwell was pulling on a binder, then flipping pages. "You wanna read your brilliant words, Lawyer Wade? They're right here. I read 'em all the time. Let's have a look and let the lies speak for themselves." He thrust the binder at Stanley's face, but the lawyer shook his head and looked away.

It could have been the noise, the stifling tension in the room, or simply the broken circuits in his faulty wiring, but Michael suddenly came to life. The seizure gripped him from head to toe, and in an instant he was shaking rapidly and violently. Becky jumped to his side without a word and with a sense of purpose that came from experience. Jim forgot about Lawyer Wade for a moment and stepped to the bed, which was jerking and clicking, its metal joints and springs in need of lubrication. Doyle materialized from the back of the room, and all three of the Cranwells tended to Michael and his seizure. Becky cooed soothing words and gently clutched his wrists. Jim kept a soft rubber wedge in his mouth. Doyle wiped his brother's head with a wet towel and kept saying, "It's okay, bro, it's okay."

Stanley watched as long as he could, then leaned forward on his elbows, dropped his jaws into his hands, and studied his feet. The four men to his left stood like stone-faced sentries, and it occurred to Stanley that they had seen the seizures before. The room was growing hotter, and his neck was perspiring again. Not for the first time, he thought about his wife. His abduction was now well into its second hour, and he wondered what she was doing. She could be asleep on the sofa, where she'd spent the past four days, battling the flu with rest and juices and more pills than normal. There was an excellent chance she was out cold, unable to realize he was running late with dinner, if you could call it that. If conscious, she had probably called his cell phone, but he'd left the d.a.m.ned thing in his briefcase, in his car, and besides he tried his best to ignore it when he wasn't at work. He spent hours each day on the phone and hated to be bothered after he left the office. There was a remote chance she was actually a bit worried. Twice a month he enjoyed a late drink at the country club with the boys, and this never bothered his wife. Once their children moved away to college, Stanley and his wife quickly fell out of the habit of being ruled by the clock. Being an hour late (never early) was perfectly fine with them.

So Stanley decided as the bed rattled and the Cranwells tended to Michael that the chances of a posse roaming the back roads searching for him were quite slim. Could the abduction in the Rite Price parking lot have been seen by someone, who then called the police, who were now in full alert? Possible, Stanley admitted, but a thousand cops with bloodhounds couldn't find him at this moment.

He thought about his will. It was up-to-date, thanks to a law partner. He thought about his two kids, but couldn't dwell there. He thought about the end and hoped it happened abruptly with no suffering. He fought the urge to argue with himself over whether or not this was a dream, because such an exercise was a waste of energy.

The bed was still. Jim and Doyle were backing away while Becky bent over the boy, humming softly and wiping his mouth.

"Sit up!" Jim suddenly barked. "Sit up and look at him!"

Stanley did as he was told. Jim opened the lower drawer of the file cabinet and shuffled through another collection of paperwork. Becky silently crouched into her chair, one hand still on Michael's foot.

Jim removed another doc.u.ment, flipped pages while they all waited, then said, "There's one final question for you, Lawyer Wade. I'm holdin' here the brief you filed with the Supreme Court of Mississippi, a brief in which you fought like h.e.l.l to uphold the jury's verdict in favor of Dr. Trane. Lookin' back, I don't know what you were worried about. Accordin' to our lawyer, the supreme court sides with the doctors over 90 percent of the time. That's the biggest reason you didn't offer us a fair settlement before trial, right? You weren't worried about losin' a trial, because a verdict for Michael would be thrown out by the supreme court. In the end Trane and the insurance company would win. Michael was ent.i.tled to a fair settlement, but you knew the system wouldn't let you lose. Anyway, on the next-to-the-last page of your brief, here's what you wrote. These are your words, Lawyer Wade, and I quote: 'This trial was conducted fairly, fiercely, and with little give-and-take from either side. The jury was alert, engaged, curious, and fully informed. The verdict represents sound and deliberate consideration. The verdict is pure justice, a decision our system should be proud of.'"

With that, Cranwell flung the brief in the general direction of the file cabinet. "And guess what?" he asked. "Our good ol' supreme court agreed. Nothin' for poor little Michael. Nothin' to compensate. Nothin' to punish dear Dr. Trane. Nothin'."

He walked to the bed, rubbed Michael for a moment, then turned and glared at Stanley. "One last question, Lawyer Wade. And you'd better think before you answer, because your answer could be real important. Look at this sad little boy, this damaged child whose injuries could've been prevented, and tell us, Lawyer Wade, is this justice, or is it just another courtroom victory? The two have little in common."

All eyes were on Stanley. He sat slumped in the awkward chair, his shoulders sagging, his lousy posture even more evident, his trousers still wet, his wing-tipped shoes touching each other, mud around the soles, and his unflinching stare straight ahead at the matted and unruly mop of black hair atop the hideous forehead of Michael Cranwell. Arrogance, stubbornness, denial-all would get him shot, though he had no illusions of seeing the morning sun. Nor was he inclined to stick with his old thoughts and training. Jim was right. Trane's insurance company had been willing to make a generous offer before the trial, but Stanley Wade would have no part of it. He rarely lost a jury trial in Ford County. His reputation was that of a hardball litigator, not one who capitulates and settles. Besides, his swagger was bolstered by a friendly supreme court.

"We don't have all night," Cranwell said.

Oh, why not? Stanley thought. Why should I hurry along to my execution? But he instead removed his gla.s.ses and wiped his eyes. They were moist not from fear but from the harsh reality of being confronted by one of his victims. How many others were out there? Why had he chosen to spend his career s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g these people?

He wiped his nose on a sleeve, readjusted his gla.s.ses, and said, "I'm sorry. I was so wrong."

"Let's try again," Cranwell said. "Justice, or a courtroom victory?"

"It's not justice, Mr. Cranwell. I'm sorry."

Jim carefully and neatly returned the binders and the brief to their proper places in the file cabinet drawers and closed them. He nodded at the four men, and they began to shuffle toward the door. The room was suddenly busy as Jim whispered to Becky. Doyle said something to the last man out. The door sprang back and forth. Jim grabbed Wade by the arm, yanked him up, and growled, "Let's go." It was much darker outside as they moved quickly away from the room, around the house. They pa.s.sed the four men, who were busy near a utility shed, and as he looked at their shadows, Stanley heard, clearly, the word "shovels."

"Get in," Jim said as he pushed Stanley into the same Ford truck. The pistol was back, and Jim waved it near Stanley's nose and promised, "One funny move, and I'll use this." With that, he slammed the door and said something to the other men. There were several hushed voices as the mission was organized. The driver's door opened and Jim hopped in, waving the pistol. He pointed it at Stanley and said, "Put both hands on your knees, and if you move either hand, then I'll stick this in your kidney, pull the trigger. It'll blow a sizable hole out the other side. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," Stanley said, as his fingernails clawed into his knees.

"Don't move your hands. I really don't wanna make a mess in my truck, okay?"

"Okay, okay."

They backed along the gravel drive, and as they drove away from the house, Stanley saw another truck leaving, following them. Evidently, Cranwell had said enough because he had nothing to say now. They sped through the night, changing roads at every opportunity, gravel to asphalt, back to gravel, north then south, east, and west. Though Stanley didn't look, he knew the pistol was ready in the right hand while the left one handled the truck. He continued to clutch his knees, terrified any move would be considered a false one. His left kidney was aching anyway. He was sure the door was locked, and any clumsy effort to jerk it open would simply not work. That, plus Stanley was rigid with fear.

There were headlights in the right-hand mirror, low beams from the other truck, the one carrying his death squad and their shovels, he presumed. It disappeared around curves and over hills, but always returned.

"Where are we going?" Stanley finally asked.

"You're goin' to h.e.l.l, I reckon."

That response took care of the follow-ups, and Stanley pondered what to say next. They turned onto a gravel lane, the narrowest yet, and Stanley said to himself, This is it. Deep woods on both sides. Not a house within miles. A quick execution. A quick burial. No one would ever know. They crossed a creek and the road widened.

Say something, man. "You're gonna do what you want, Mr. Cranwell, but I'm truly sorry about Michael's case," Stanley said, but he was certain his words sounded as lame as they felt. He could be sincerely drenched with remorse, and it would mean nothing to the Cranwells. But he had nothing left but words. He said, "I'm willing to help with some of his expenses."

"You're offering money?"

"Sort of. Yes, why not? I'm not rich, but I do okay. I could pitch in, maybe cover the cost of a nurse."

"So let me get this straight. I take you home, safe and sound, and tomorrow I stop by your office and have a chat about your sudden concern over Michael's support. Maybe we have some coffee, maybe a doughnut. Just a couple of old pals. Not one word about tonight. You draw up an agreement, we sign it, shake hands, I leave, and the checks start coming."

Stanley could not even respond to the absurd idea.

"You're a pathetic little creep, you know that, Wade? You'd tell any lie in the world right now to save your a.s.s. If I stopped by your office tomorrow, you'd have ten cops waitin' with handcuffs. Shut up, Wade, you're just makin' things worse. I'm sick of your lies."

How, exactly, could things get worse? But Stanley said nothing. He glanced at the pistol. It was c.o.c.ked. He wondered how many victims actually saw their own murder weapons in those last horrible seconds.

Suddenly the darkest road in the thickest woods crested on a small rise, and as the truck barreled forward, the trees thinned, and there were lights beyond. Many lights, the lights of a town. The road ended at a highway, and when they turned south, Stanley saw a marker for State Route 374, an old winding trail that connected Clanton with the smaller town of Karraway. Five minutes later they turned onto a city street, then zigzagged into the southern section of town. Stanley soaked up the familiar sights-a school to the right, a church to the left, a cheap strip mall owned by a man he'd once defended. Stanley was back in Clanton, back home, and he was almost elated. Confused, but thrilled to be alive and still in one piece.

The other truck did not follow them into town.

A block behind the Rite Price, Jim Cranwell turned in to the gravel lot of a small furniture store. He slammed the truck in park, turned off its lights, then pointed the gun and said, "Listen to me, Lawyer Wade. I don't blame you for what happened to Michael, but I blame you for what happened to us. You're sc.u.m, and you have no idea of the misery you've caused."

A car pa.s.sed behind them, and Cranwell lowered the gun for a moment. Then he continued, "You can call the cops, have me arrested, thrown in jail, and all that, though I'm not sure how many witnesses you can find. You can cause trouble, but those guys back there'll be ready. A stupid move, and you'll regret it immediately."

"I'll do nothing, I promise. Just let me out of here."

"Your promises mean nothing. You go on now, Wade, go home, and then go back to the office tomorrow. Find some more little people to run over. We'll have us a truce, me and you, until Michael dies."

"Then what?"

He just smiled and waved the gun closer. "Go on, Wade. Open the door, get out, and leave us alone."

Stanley hesitated only briefly and was soon walking away from the truck. He turned a corner, found a sidewalk in the darkness, and saw the sign for the Rite Price. He wanted to run, to sprint, but there were no sounds behind him. He glanced back once. Cranwell was gone.

As Stanley hustled toward his car, he began to think about the story he would tell his wife. Three hours late for dinner would require a story.

And it would be a lie, that was certain.

Quiet Haven

The Quiet Haven Retirement Home is a few miles outside the city limits of Clanton, off the main road north, tucked away in a shaded valley so that it cannot be seen by pa.s.sing motorists. Such homes near such highways pose significant dangers. I know this from experience because I was employed at Heaven's Gate outside Vicksburg when Mr. Albert Watson wandered off and found his way onto a four-lane, where he got hit by a tanker truck. He was ninety-four and one of my favorites. I went to his funeral. Lawsuits followed, but I didn't stick around. These patients often wander. Some try to escape, but they're never successful. I don't really blame them for trying, though.

My first glimpse of Quiet Haven reveals a typical 1960s flat-roof, redbrick run-down building with several wings and the general appearance of a dressed-up little prison where people are sent to quietly spend their final days. These places were once generally called nursing homes, but now the names have been upgraded to retirement homes and retirement villages and a.s.sisted-living centers and other such misnomers. "Momma's at the retirement village" sounds more civilized than "We stuck her in a nursing home." Momma's at the same place; now it just sounds better, at least to everyone but Momma.

Whatever you call them, they're all depressing. But they are my turf, my mission, and every time I see a new one I'm excited by the challenges.

I park my ancient and battered Volkswagen Beetle in the small empty parking lot in front. I adjust my black-framed 1950s-style nerd gla.s.ses and my thickly knotted tie, no jacket, and get out of my car. At the front entrance, under the sheet-metal veranda, there are half a dozen of my new friends sitting in deep wicker rocking chairs, watching nothing. I smile and nod and say h.e.l.lo, but only a couple are able to respond. Inside, I'm hit by the same thick, putrid antiseptic smell that wafts through the halls and walls of every one of these places. I present myself to the receptionist, a robust young woman in a fake nurse's uniform. She's behind the front counter, going through a stack of paperwork, almost too busy to acknowledge me.

"I have a ten o'clock appointment with Ms. Wilma Drell," I say meekly.

She looks me over, doesn't like what she sees, and refuses to smile. "Your name?" Her name is Trudy, according to the cheap plastic badge pinned just above her ma.s.sive left breast, and Trudy is precariously close to becoming the first name on my brand-new s.h.i.t list.

"Gilbert Griffin," I say politely. "Ten a.m."

"Have a seat," she says, nodding at a row of plastic chairs in the open lobby.

"Thank you," I say and proceed to sit like a nervous ten-year-old. I study my feet, covered in old white sneakers and black socks. My pants are polyester. My belt is too long for my waist. I am, in a nutsh.e.l.l, una.s.suming, easily run over, the lowest of the low.

Trudy goes about her business of rearranging stacks of paper. The phone rings occasionally, and she's polite enough to the callers. Ten minutes after I arrive, on time, Ms. Wilma Drell swishes in from the hallway and presents herself. She, too, wears a white uniform, complete with white stockings and white shoes with thick soles that take a pounding because Wilma is even heavier than Trudy.

I stand, terrified, and say, "Gilbert Griffin."

"Wilma Drell." We shake hands only because we must, then she spins and begins to walk away, her thick white stockings grinding together and creating friction that can be heard at some distance. I follow like a frightened puppy, and as we turn the corner, I glance at Trudy, who's giving me a look of complete disdain and dismissal. At that moment, her name hits my list at number one.

There's no doubt in my mind that Wilma will be number two, with the potential of moving up.

We wedge into a small cinder-block office, walls painted government gray, cheap metal desk, cheap wooden credenza adorned with Wal-Mart photos of her chubby children and haggard husband. She settles herself behind the desk and into an executive swivel, as if she's the CEO of this exciting and prosperous outfit. I slide into a rickety chair that's at least twelve inches lower than the swivel. I look up. She looks down.

"You've applied for a job," she says as she picks up the application I mailed in last week.

"Yes." Why else would I be here?

"As an attendant. I see you've had experience in retirement homes."

"Yes, that's correct." On my application I listed three other such places. I left all three without controversy. There are about a dozen others, though, that I would never mention. The reference checking will go smoothly, if it happens at all. Usually there is a halfhearted effort to place a couple of calls. Nursing homes don't worry about hiring thieves or child molesters or even people like me, guys with a complicated past.

"We need an attendant for the late-night shift, from 9:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., four days a week. You'll be in charge of monitoring the halls, checking on the patients, caring for them in a general way."

"That's what I do," I say. And walking them to the bathroom, mopping floors after they've made a mess, bathing them, changing their clothes, reading them stories, listening to their life histories, writing letters, buying birthday cards, dealing with their families, refereeing their disputes, arranging and cleaning their bedpans. I know the routine.

"Do you enjoy working with people?" she asks, the same stupid question they always ask. As if all people were the same. The patients are usually delightful. It's the other employees who find their way onto my list.

"Oh yes," I say.

"Your age is-"