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NEW YORK, NY—COLUMBA University Hospital
Naim Butler backed away from the hospital room windows and the media hounds converging on Columbia University Hospital on the streets below. He felt like a failure. Regret burned in the depths of his soul. His life was last. He should have hired a security team to protect his son.
Paperwork was being written to have Marco released and Naim wanted to go up rather than down to leave. The last thing he wanted was to be accosted by reporters. Obviously going up was a dead end, stopping at the roof. The only advantage to being on the roof was that he could jump off of it, paying for his screw up.
The alternative, going straight down and fighting his way through them. That was tantamount to walking into a swarm of lions: he was sure they’d eat him alive. Running wasn’t an option really, nor was suicide.
A nurse rolled Marco back into the room. Naim smiled at his brave son. He watched Amber rush to his side and felt a deep sense of love between them. He longed for Brandy Scott. Sinia remained by Naim’s side as if they were a happy family.
They weren’t.
“Can somebody tell me about the idiot that shot me?” Marco asked, pushing a button on the side of the bed. He was quite nonchalant for being a shot teen. When he was upright his face scanned all of the supporters by his side.
“Oh, that’s an easy one,” Naim said. “He’s dead. Campus police shot him. Nineteen times.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Overkill.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Sinia said, walking to his bedside. She ran a loving hand along his cheek, frowning at the sling that restricted his left arm. The bullet had torn tendons in his shoulder for which shoulder surgery repaired. “We have to get you back to Raleigh today so that you can rest up without the maddening press outside.”
“Absolutely not going to happen,” Naim said matter-of-factly.
Sinia cut her eyes at him. They screamed for him to shut-the-hell-up.
“Mom...dad,” Marco said, watching the doctor enter the room. “I’m fine. No need to relocate me, mom. I live in New York. Please get used to that. I can deal with the media.” He turned to the doctor and said, “Doc, can you confirm, please?”
“Sounds like a family affair to me, but you’re visibly capable of handling the media,” the doctor replied, smiling at his young, eloquent patient. “Medically, I can say that this was a clean flesh wound and it’ll heal up quite fine. There will be a small scar when we remove the stitches. I’m going to prescribe a painkiller and suggest that you rest a few days.”
“Doc, I hear all of that, but rest really isn’t an option,” Marco said in a friendly, but stern tone. “As you know fall classes began today and I’m not going to fall behind.”
“Listen to the doctor,” Amber suggested. “There will likely be another week off. There’s ten other wounded students and three dead.”
“Five,” said the doctor. “We lost two more less than an hour ago. Marco is the only one not in critical condition and able to leave today.”
“Wow,” Naim said. “Blessed.”
“My ass it is. This city is horrible and dangerous,”—Sinia said, causing every eye to whip in her direction— “and you’re coming back to North Carolina. Today. You should’ve just went to Duke.” She threw her back into a wall. A miniature meltdown.
Naim scoffed sarcastically.
“Nothing is going to happen, mom,” Marco said. “I will relax, or rest, as the good doctor put it, but I will support the deceased families by attending funerals and I will go to classes when they start. With or without this sling. I will not allow anyone to block my education or force me to live in fear. Not going to happen, mom.”
“Spoken like a true Butler,” said Naim. “Daddy’s little man.”
After a brief silence and Sinia picking her chin up from the floor, Naim said, “The prince has spoken.” He grinned from ear-to-ear, antagonizing Sinia. “Now, let’s get you out of here and home.”
Naim looked out the window. The number of reporters had doubled. To the doctor, he asked, “Is there a service elevator and does it lead to the parking garage?” His adrenaline for survival kicked in and he had a plan.
__________
Naim had been exposed to a few life-or-death battles and escaping an area hospital with aggressive reporters looking to pounce on him was one. His life had had many highs, but his mind was concentrated on the lows as he pressed the down button outside of the elevators used for orderlies to transport food and bedridden patients that needed to be kept out of the public’s eye.
The elevator door opened, everyone boarded and Naim pressed “G” for the garage. There were signs on board that ordered him and his clam to keep all patients data confidential and to wash their hands often to avoid the spread of germs. A woman smiled at them from a poster promoting the Labor Day breast cancer awareness walk to raise money for research. A noble cause, Naim thought, vowing to make a financial contribution as soon as the dust settled. The elevator jerked once, and the car darkened and stopped between floors—trapped. A scenario mirroring death, but then moments later the elevator shook and continued down to the garage level.
The door buzzed, lurched open finally, Naim and crew exited and scanned the area for his armored Cadillac Escalade. They also looked for reporters. There were none, but bare mattresses were leaning against a wall like supermarket carts under the open end of a wall shoot. Primitive, Naim thought.
Everyone hopped into the truck, Naim started it and looked at Marco in the passenger’s seat.
Naim said, “It’s quiet now, but I assure you the moment we exit this garage we will be surrounded by the media.”
“Sounds like New York SWAT,” Sinia said, shooting at the City That Never Sleeps.
“You know,” Naim said, looking back at her. “Keep it up and in the trunk you go. Your visual isn’t helpful at all.”
“Screw you,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
“Been there, done that,” he said, turning his head towards his son. “Do you have your statement up and ready to go?”
“I do and it’s partially memorized,” Marco replied, looking at the statement on his cell phone.
“Good. Do not deviate from the message. Maintain eye contact with cameras. And do not say ‘um’,” Naim admonished.
“What do I look like Donna Lincoln?” Marco asked, laughing.
“No, she’s a woman and running for president of the free world. You’re a shot college student,” he replied, chuckling, trying to lighten the tension trapped in the car.