Lat waited until the wheelchair was actually pushed out the front doors of Jackson Memorial Hospital’s Ryder Trauma Center before he walked up to the man seated in it. ‘David Alain Marquette?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Jesus Christ! Not here!’ shouted the older gentleman in dress slacks and a sweater who walked carefully alongside the chair. He had the slight cadence of an accent that had been worn away over many years, which Lat couldn’t quite place. Lat figured it was Marquette’s father, who had been successfully ducking the police since his arrival in Miami a couple of days ago. A handsome woman – probably Marquette’s mother – flanked the right. She was dressed impeccably in an expensive suit with well-coiffed silver-white hair that was pulled back tight into a chignon. She looked elegant and reserved, but scared. The man now moved protectively in front of the wheelchair.
A private ambulance sat waiting underneath the awning. The two EMTs that had moved to assist Marquette hesitated, looking around dumbly for someone to tell them what to do. Steve Brill held up his badge. Although he had no jurisdiction outside of Coral Gables, no one besides Lat knew that. ‘Mr Marquette and his family won’t be needing your services anymore, boys,’ hesaid. At that precise moment, three MDPD cruisers pulled up, their lights flashing. ‘See, we’ve made other arrangements for him.’
‘Are you Alain Marquette?’ Lat asked the older man.
‘Go to hell!’
‘Step away from the wheelchair,’ Brill cautioned.
‘I’m Detective John Latarrino, Miami-Dade Police,’ Lat said.
‘He is sick!’ said the man, his tone desperate.
‘Step back, sir,’ Brill said again, and the man finally did. Family members were always the ones you watched during an arrest. Emotions ran high and you never really knew what someone was capable of.
The figure in the wheelchair was pale. His light-gray eyes darted everywhere. An oxygen tube ran from his nose to a tank on the side. A portable IV connected more tubes to his veins.
Lat was unmoved. Images of the slaughter that he’d seen at the house flashed in his head. The crumpled, broken body of little Emma, hiding behind her Hello Kitty chair in her pink princess room. For as long as he lived, he’d never forget that scared, swollen face, her blue eyes wide open, the soft streams of sunlight from a new morning bathing the bloody carnage in a golden caramel hue. Lat nodded to a uniform. The nurse backed away as the officer took her spot, turning the wheelchair around and back toward the hospital. On the other side of Jackson, and a building away from the Ryder Trauma Center, was Ward D, the part of the hospital reserved for in-custody defendants who required hospitalization. Marquette would be booked in there, just a few short pushes away. Ward D was handled like a jail, with bolted doors and high security. But no matter how bad it might be, at the end of the day it was still a hospital, not a jail cell. For Lat, that was just not bad enough.
‘Get Mr Levenson on the phone. Now!’ shouted the man.
‘Alain, calm down!’ said the woman.
‘Just do it!’
‘His lawyer ain’t gonna help him tonight, folks,’ piped in Brill.
A blue Channel Seven news van pulled up fast behind one of the cruisers. The door slid open and a breathless Teddy Brennan jumped out, microphone in hand, Willie in tow. ‘Dr Marquette!’ he shouted while running toward them. ‘Did you kill your whole family? Why did you do it? How do you feel right now? Or are you the victim here?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Lat shouted, shaking his head and waving in the direction of the uniformed officers. ‘Get them the hell out of here!’
Only a few limited ears at MDPD, the State Attorney’s Office and Coral Gables PD knew about Marquette’s arrest and Lat certainly hadn’t authorized anyone to contact the news, even going so far as to keep it off the radio so no one would pick it up off the scanners. It didn’t take a quantum leap to figure out the boat had a leak. As if on cue, another news van pulled up and a reporter scurried out, this one from local NBC Channel Six.
‘Is it true there’s a full confession?’ yelled Brennan, ignoring the uniforms and pushing closer, hoping it was his question that got an answer, not the competition with the next microphone over.
‘Was Jennifer Marquette raped before she was murdered?’ shouted the newcomer.
‘Is this a Miami-Dade case now?’
‘Are you seeking the death penalty?’
‘Where the hell is your warrant? Where’s your warrant?’ the old man shouted angrily at Lat. He, too, moved toward the wheelchair.
Another news van pulled up. Another reporter came a-running.
‘Step back, sir,’ commanded Brill, his hand on his taser. ‘I said step the fuck back! You, too, Geraldo!’ he yelled at Brennan.
‘He’s sick! He’s sick!’ pleaded the woman. Her handsome face had turned ashen white, matching her hair.
‘Freedom of the press, Detective! We have a right to be here!’ shouted Brennan, thrusting his microphone at the woman, and pressing close enough to Brill that Lat knew it was simply a matter of time before something really bad happened.
Time to wrap this up. ‘David Marquette, you’re under arrest for the murder of Jennifer, Emma, Daniel and Sophie Marquette,’ Lat began. ‘You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You also have the right to an attorney, but you obviously know that one already. Alright,’ he said to Brill and the uniform, nodding back to ward the electric double doors. ‘Let’s go. Get him out of here.’
That was when the woman fainted face-first onto the pavement with a thud, Alain Marquette started to scream and sob for the cameras, and all hell broke loose in front of Jackson Memorial.