Monday, April 7
I’d felt sorry for Miriam, being cooped up in a hospital for what might be days or weeks, without the benefit of family support. Antonio, while loving and devoted, had school and a job to contend with. And it was impossible for me to picture her high school friends visiting Miriam, confined to bed while she waited to deliver babies she wouldn’t keep.
But I was less than pleased to learn, shortly after Miriam’s labor was forestalled, that her parents were back in the picture.
Julie Wutherspoon knocked on my door one morning, clearly aggravated. “Got a minute?”
“Sure. C’mon in and sit down.”
“Everything okay with Miriam?” I asked, but I already sensed this had nothing to do with the pregnancy itself.
“Long story short,” she said, “Ted and Lucille Buffington, Miriam’s parents, are threatening to bollix the deal. All of a sudden, they’re at the hospital with candy and flowers, gushing about how they’ll work it all out. Lucille’s childless niece in Omaha got wind of the situation and put in a pitch for the kids, and now Lucille thinks ‘it would be best for them to be raised by family.’ Ted is behind it, too, because he’ll do almost anything to keep his wife from bitching.”
Paralyzed by the rush of blood to my head and the cacophony of my hateful thoughts, I could barely sputter. “We have a contract.”
“A contract no judge in the world will enforce if Miriam doesn’t agree to it after the birth. You know that.”
I did know it, and it scared the bejesus out of me.
“And what’s Miriam’s take on it?” I asked, half-afraid to hear the answer.
“She’s a good, honest kid who has strong feelings about who she wants to adopt her kids. If she’d wanted Cousin Betty, or whatever her name is, from Omaha to adopt them, she would’ve said so in the first place. My only concern is she’s pretty vulnerable, and her folks may try to blackmail her for a college education.”
“Is there anything we can do?” I asked, unable to mask my desperation.
“If you’re praying people, I’d give that a shot. Otherwise, I guess we just wait. I’ll keep you posted.”
Too upset, even, for Rosalee’s consolations, I grabbed my cell phone and headed out for a walk. The spring flowers outside the Capitol resembled a Monet painting through my tears. After three circuits around the square and fifty or so silent prayers, I was calm enough to sit and dial David’s office.
As I waited on hold for him to finish another call, I thought of our guest room cum nursery. Maybe my Greek friend Karen was right about it being bad luck—or Karma, or whatever Greeks call it—to prepare the nursery until kids are born. Or, in this case, in our arms.
I wish we would’ve left those cribs unassembled in their Babies R Us boxes. It’d be some consolation, however small, to get our money back if this falls through.
“What’s up?” David asked.
I told him.
“You know there are no guarantees in this life,” he said. “It is what it is.”
Quit talking in fucking clichés! I wanted to yell at him. But I couldn’t argue with his underlying message. “No use crying over spilled milk,” I said.
“Sarcasm’s not your best attribute,” he said, chuckling. “But if we don’t laugh, we’ll cry. And that won’t help anything.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I just cried and walked and prayed my way around the square several times like a crazy lady, and I do feel better.”
“Hey, whatever it takes. I love you and we’ll get through this—however this turns out.”
I sat a while longer after I hung up and finally gathered enough momentum to move. A fresh-squeezed lemonade from the Asian food cart would have been welcome, but I’d left my wallet in my office. Just head back to the office, I was telling myself, when Tom Robbins and Doug Connaboy walked up beside me.
“Hey, Sugar,” said Tom, wrapping a hefty arm around my shoulder. “We were just talking about you. Got time for a word?”
I started to say no but realized the distraction was just what the doctor ordered. “If one of you’ll front me the money to buy a lemonade, I’d be happy to chat.”
The sunshine and positive regard from two old friends made the discussion bearable. Doug broke the news about the toxicology tests: Kate died from a heroin overdose. Analysis of the drug residue found in her cell revealed the drug was virtually pure.
Tom told me about the jail’s in-house investigation: They’d reviewed the video from all of the security cameras and found no clues as to how Kate had gotten the drug. Although the jail deputies’ union wouldn’t allow across-the-board polygraphs, Tom had interviewed all of them and heard nary a rumor about staff involvement. The usual inmate snitches, who would roll over on their grandmothers if they could, knew nothing.
“Maybe she brought it in with her,” Doug said, “although the marshals and the federal prison folks say it’s unlikely. Carter Ellingson’s had FBI agents interviewing staff and inmates alike in Dublin, California, and at every detention facility Kate was housed in along the way here. Nothing. Nada.”
“What about Joe Ames?” I asked. “He’s been the prime suspect in my mind, whether or not he ever dealt heroin before.”
“He’s been in lock-down at the Jefferson County Jail for weeks, and the only person he’s been allowed to see or talk to is his lawyer. Benson’s an asshole, but I don’t think he’d stoop to this,” Doug said.
“How about that Nigerian? Thorpe Akani. He had all sorts of tricks up his sleeve,” I said, although I realized I might be grasping at straws.
“It’s a remote possibility, since he’s never been apprehended,” Doug said. “But Ellingson got a fairly reliable tip that Akani was murdered in Nigeria a couple of months ago. He’s still trying to confirm, but we’re almost certain Akani couldn’t have had anything to do with Kate’s death.”
“We’ll never know?” I asked.
“Looks like it. Sometimes we’ll get a confession or a useful tip months or years after the fact, but I wouldn’t count on it in this case,” Doug said.
“So it goes down as a suicide, and no one’s responsible for giving Kate the drug.”
“’Fraid so,” Tom said, with another hug. “But if it’s any consolation, Ames is going down in federal court.”
“We’ll see,” I said, as I walked away. Nothing in this whole case had gone the way it was planned. I had little confidence things would change now.