THURSDAY 6:58PM
Busby crossed her arms. “Sanchez, what were you saying to Williams?”
“Dispensing relationship advice.”
Busby arched an eyebrow. “You’re one to be offering guidance.”
“I’m only trying to help.” Miranda tilted her head. “Are we going to see Rick or what?”
“The nurse said he’s in room 426. Shouldn’t be much further.”
The corridor was filled with antiseptic smells. Overhead, florescent lights flickered, creating eerie shadows on the pale blue walls. Busby imagined one day walking down this hall, or one like it, full of confidence with the earned look of respect in her colleagues’ eyes.
They turned the corner and found Rick’s room. He lay in the near bed, leg suspended in a cast, a pair of bandages on his face. A partition screen hid the other bed.
“Rick!” Busby raced from the door and hugged him.
“Ow, watch it, sis.” Rick returned the hug half-heartedly. “They won’t give me anything stronger than aspirin.”
“You’re okay.” Tears filled Busby’s eyes again. “I mean, the nurse wouldn’t say anything for the longest time. Then she said stable, whatever the hell that means, but still wouldn’t give me any details.”
“I’m fine, except for the leg.” He pointed at the cast. “Snapped my tibia. I’m out for the season.”
“Who cares about stupid football?” Miranda plopped in the chair by the door and tapped her phone. “I’m updating Dmitri with the good news.”
Rick turned his head and grimaced in pain. “Oh, hey there, Miranda, got any word on how Vince is doing?”
She rolled her eyes. “How would I know, and why would I care?”
“That’s a little harsh, Sanchez,” Busby admonished.
“So, no word on Vince?” Rick frowned.
“Vince was with you?”
“Yeah, him and a couple of girls. Oh man, I wonder how the Ford made out. I really love that truck.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. You won’t be driving for a couple of months.” A knock drew their attention. In the doorway stood a man in a white lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck.
“Good evening, I’m Dr. Singh. Just coming by to see how our patient...” He glanced at the tablet in his hand. “Frederick Tilden, Jr. is doing.”
“My name is Rick. And I could use something a little stronger for the pain.”
Dr. Singh checked his tablet again. “I’m afraid we can’t give you anything stronger until all the alcohol is out of your system.”
“You were drinking?” Disappointment and disapproval replaced the concern in Busby’s voice.
Rick shrugged as best he could with his leg suspended in the air. “Just a couple of beers.”
“Yeah, right.” Miranda rolled her eyes.
“Anyway, Frederick.” Dr. Singh stepped to the bedside. “The CT scan came back negative. No concussion. Just the broken leg and some contusions. I want to check your heart and blood pressure, but we should be able to discharge you in the morning.”
“It’s Rick. And do you know how Vince Murphy is doing?”
Dr. Singh didn’t answer. The room plunged into an awkward silence. The doctor placed his stethoscope on Rick’s chest. He flinched as the cold plastic of the diaphragm touched his skin. The doctor stared at his watch for fifteen seconds, then withdrew the scope. He looped the blood pressure cuff around Rick’s arm, inflated it, squinted at the dial, and ripped off the cuff. “Heart and BP are fine.”
Rick grunted. “But what about Vince and Briana and...that other girl?”
Dr. Singh tapped his tablet. “They aren’t my patients. I wouldn’t know.”
“No one knows anything.” Rick sighed.
“If there are no further questions, I’ll be on my way.”
After the doctor left, Rick growled, “You’d think someone could tell me how Vince is doing.”
“Who’s Briana?” Miranda looked up from her phone.
“A girl we picked up on South Campus. Her and...” Rick paused like he was searching his memory for the name. “Her friend. Sis, can you find out something? Maybe put your boyfriend Kolchak on the case?”
“Let’s not talk about Williams.” Busby frowned.
Rick chortled. “Is there trouble in paradise?”
Busby slapped Rick’s cast.
Rick convulsed in pain. “Jesus H. Christ, sis. That was totally uncalled for.”
“Let’s change the subject. Mom called and—”
“Excuse me. I’m Deputy Clayton, and I’m looking for Frederick Tilden, Jr.” A tall blond man in a yellow rain slicker stood in the doorway.
“It’s Rick.” He slapped the bed. “Jesus H. Christ. My name is Rick.”
Clayton nodded. “Is it okay if I ask you a few questions about the accident, Rick?”
“Sure, but it’s all still kind of fuzzy.”
“Can we stay?” Busby pointed at Miranda.
Clayton nodded. Busby took a seat next to the bed and held Rick’s hand.
“I understand things might be jumbled.” Clayton pulled out a notebook. “Do the best you can. What do you remember about the accident?”
“Not much. We were driving down Route 32 toward town. Rain was heavy. Pretty dark. Lightning hit nearby.” He shook his head. “That’s the last thing I remember.”
“Do you recall what side of the road the truck that struck you was driving on?”
Rick paused for a moment. “I don’t even remember the other truck.”
Clayton scribbled in his notebook.
Miranda looked at the deputy. “Are you saying the other truck caused the accident?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m trying to establish what happened.” Clayton glared at her. “But if you want to stay, I’ll ask that you not interrupt.”
While still tapping on her phone, Miranda made the zipping her lips motion with her free hand.
Clayton turned back to Rick. “Had you been drinking?”
Rick started to speak, but Busby slapped her hand over his mouth. “Don’t answer that.”
Clayton glared at Busby. “And you are?”
“Busby Tilden. His sister.” She removed her hand from Rick’s mouth, made eye contact with him, and put a finger to her lips.
“Ms. Tilden, I’m just trying to establish the facts. The hospital drew blood from your brother when he was admitted, so he’s not really hiding anything by refusing to cooperate.” Clayton addressed Rick. “It’s best if you’re completely honest with me.”
Rick looked from Busby to the cop and back to Busby, staying silent the whole time.
“That’s it, Rick, Don’t say anything.” She pointed at the deputy. “Maybe you should leave.”
“The young lady is correct,” a male voice announced from behind the partition separating the room.
Busby and Rick exchanged puzzled glances.
“Who said that?” Clayton demanded.
The screen drew back to reveal a fifty-something man in a white hospital gown. He had silver-and-gray hair and a face sagging like a basset hound. “I did. Alan Berg, attorney-at-law.” He glanced at Rick. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the conversation was getting rather vocal. Your sister is correct, Mr. Tilden. You shouldn’t answer any questions. Not until you are represented by competent counsel.”
Clayton pointed at the lawyer. “Mr. Berg, are you representing Mr. Tilden?”
Berg shook his head. “Nope, just handing out some free legal advice to my roomie.”
Busby sat up straighter. “See Rick? I’m right. Say nothing.”
Rick frowned at the deputy. “I’m done answering questions.”
The cop sighed. “I thought you’d want to assist our investigation. Help out your friends who were in the truck with you.”
“What happened to them?” Miranda put down her phone.
The deputy glared at her. “Who are you?”
“What does that matter?”
Clayton flipped through his notebook. “Briana Sorenson is in stable condition with a concussion and three broken ribs. Jacqueline DiBernardo has been discharged with a broken wrist. Vincent Murphy was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital.”
“What?” Rick’s voice dropped. “Vince?”
“Vince?” Miranda’s lips quivered.
“What do you care?” Rick snapped. “I thought you had a boyfriend.”
“Take it easy, Rick.” Busby squeezed his hand. “We’re all upset.”
Miranda tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She burst into tears, stumbled out of the chair, and scrambled out of the room.
“Now you can understand why we want to get as much information about the crash as possible.” Clayton snapped his notebook shut.
“Rick, it’s more important than ever not to say anything until such time that you’ve secured representation.” Berg cleared his throat. “Everyone’s emotions are running high right now. It’s better to wait and deal with this rationally.”
“If you’re not his attorney, you can leave.” Clayton pointed at the door.
Berg grinned. “But this is my room.”
“I still think you should leave.” Busby waved her hand at Clayton.
“It’s up to you, Rick.” The deputy held up his notebook. “Do you want to cooperate?”
Rick looked from Busby to Berg to Clayton. “No, I think I’ll talk to you guys later.”
“Suit yourself.” Clayton tipped his cap to Busby and left the room.
Berg sat on the side of his bed. “Ooh. Shouldn’t have gotten up.”
Rick looked at him for an explanation.
“Hemorrhoids.” Berg grimaced.
Busby struggled not to laugh. “Thanks for the advice, Mr. Berg. Is Rick in real trouble? Could you be his lawyer?”
“Slow down.” Berg raised a hand. “First of all, I specialize in Civil Rights law. Employment discrimination. First Amendment and such. I don’t do criminal law.”
“Criminal law?” Rick replied. “I’m no criminal.”
“I didn’t say you are. But from what I gather, one of your passengers was killed in the accident and there may have been alcohol involved. This is a tricky area, and even if you are innocent, you require a competent, experienced attorney who specializes in these kinds of cases.”
“If you are innocent. What is that supposed to mean?” Busby scowled.
“Settle down, sis. He’s just explaining the situation.”
“Thank you, Rick. Yes, Busby, I didn’t mean anything by it. That’s how lawyers talk.”
“If you can’t defend Rick, can you recommend someone who could?”
Berg’s eyes lit up. “I can. My wife, Allison.” He rose from his bed, shuffled to the closet, retrieved a wallet from his slacks, and pulled out two business cards. He handed one to Busby and one to Rick. “She’s the best in Stuyvesant County, and I’d say that even if we weren’t married.”
Busby inspected the card; the scales of justice filled the upper left quadrant. Alison Adams, Attorney-at-Law, Criminal Law, DUI, Traffic Cases. Underneath that, the phone, email and website addresses were listed. “Thanks, Mr. Berg.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Berg winced. “I better return to bed.” He shuffled across the room. “Remember if the police, or anyone else for that matter, ask about the accident, don’t say anything. Give Allison a call in the morning. Good evening.” He closed the curtain.
Rick’s chin sunk to his chest.
Busby sighed. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Are you kidding, sis? Vince is dead. The cops are looking to pin it on me. And now I need a lawyer? I can imagine calling up Dad and asking him for the money to hire one.”
“Actually, I don’t think you’ll have to call.”
“Why not?”
“I was talking to Mom earlier. She and Daddy are coming up.”
Rick groaned. “Why? It’s only a broken leg.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know that at the time.”
“Call them back and tell them I’m okay.” He paused for a moment. “No, it’s probably best that they come.”
“What about the accident?”
“The lawyer told me not to talk about it with anyone.”
“Not funny.” Busby made a fist and pounded him on the shoulder. “Seriously, Rick. How much did you have to drink? Was it more than a couple?”
He let out a weary breath. “Maybe. But I was not drunk. Just a little buzzed. And you heard the cop’s questions. Sounds like the other truck is the one at fault.”
“Possibly, but you’re not sure.”
Rick shook his head. “No, I can’t remember at all.”