Living Stones (7 page)

With siren screaming and red lights flashing, the Medic One van charged into the ER receiving area and backed up to the door. The medics rushed Ashley on their wheeled stretcher into Harborview Medical Center, oxygen mask covering her face and IV solution pouring in at a rapid rate. She lay on the gurney under a large light in a treatment room with a tile floor and glass cabinets lining the walls. Several people in scrub clothes gathered around her. A nurse and physician stripped off her bloody clothes under a hospital gown and began to examine her injuries while hearing the medics’ story of the explosion and finding her on the sidewalk, bleeding.

While examining Ashley, Dr. Eric Thompson shouted orders: “Stat blood draw and emergency lab profile! Type and cross-match six units of blood, stat chest and abdominal X-ray! Push in lactated ringers’ solution as fast as possible. Bring me a central venous catheter kit and a chest tube insertion tray and water seal with pump.” A team of several nurses and two surgical residents sprang into action. An X-ray tech and lab person appeared.

“Alert the OR,” Dr. Thompson ordered. “Any family with her, Melanie?”

“No, she’s by herself. I’ll check her purse here on the stretcher,” the nurse responded. She found Ashley’s wallet, which contained emergency contact information—Mr. and Mrs. Frank Wells in Oklahoma City, with their phone number.

“Get them on the phone and I’ll talk with them. Stay on the line, Melanie, to monitor the conversation and verify permission to take her to the OR.”

Melanie grabbed two wireless phones and soon had Mrs. Wells on the line. She handed one to Dr. Thompson, who stripped off his bloody gloves.

“Hello,” Mrs. Wells answered.

“Mrs. Wells, this is Dr. Thompson at Harborview Medical Center in Seattle. We have your daughter here in the emergency room. She’s been injured. Our nurse Melanie is also on the line.”

“Oh, no! What happened? How is she? You sound so calm. Is . . . is she OK?”

“We hope she will be, Mrs. Wells. But she has multiple injuries and—”

“What kind of injuries? Frank, get on the line!”

“Frank Wells here. You’re saying that Ashley had an accident?”

“Yes, sir. Pieces of a building from a bombing struck her in the back, breaking some ribs, causing a collapsed lung and bleeding into her abdomen and chest. She does not seem to have a severe head injury or any brain damage as far as we can tell. But she needs a chest tube to re-expand her lung and blood replacement. Then—”

“Oh God, help her! Will she live, Doctor?”

“We think so, sir, but she needs to go to the operating room. We suspect she is bleeding from a ruptured spleen, and if so we’ll probably have to remove it. There could be other injuries, including in the chest, that need repair as well. So we would like to have your permission to move her to the OR and take care of any problems we find.”

“Can she get along without a spleen?”

“Yes. There is a small increased risk of some kinds of infections in the future, but they are rare and can be prevented for the most part with an immunization. Right now she needs an operation, and she
could have complications, further bleeding, infection, and she could die. Do you understand?”

Dr. Thompson waited for a reply. Finally Mr. Wells spoke. “Yes, we do. Does Ashley understand the situation?”

“No sir, she’s in shock and doesn’t know what has happened.”

“Do what you need to do to save her life, Doctor. Do you agree, Dorothy?”

“Oh yes! We’ll be praying for you and her. We’ll fly out there as soon as possible.” Mrs. Wells broke into sobs.

“Did you hear that, Melanie?”

“Yes, Doctor. We have permission from Ashley Wells’s parents as next of kin to take her to the OR for an abdominal procedure and whatever else is necessary.”

“Do you understand that you have given us permission for Ashley’s operation?”

“Yes, Doctor.” Frank Wells sighed.

“I’ll call you when we finish.”

Najid could not fully grasp what had happened as he sat locked in a cage in the back of a Seattle police car. The explosion had stunned him. He had tried to help Ashley and then they took her away. He had walked away in a daze after seeing her blood on the sidewalk. His ears still rang.

The policeman had said he would return in a few minutes and that they would go to the station. Najid didn’t understand what
station
meant. Did he mean jail? Would he be beaten? And why did the officer need to put the uncomfortable handcuffs around his wrists and push him into the car? Did they think he blew up the synagogue? Did they think he would run away?

And what about Ashley? His special American friend. He’d never met any girl like her, so friendly, so bright, so open and fun. They took her somewhere to a hospital. Was she still alive?
“Oh heavenly Father, be with Ashley right now, and keep her alive and give her doctors’ wisdom to know what to do.”

He sat for what seemed like an hour, waiting, for what? He didn’t understand why, of all the people gathered around the scene, he should be picked out. What had he done wrong? Should he have
stayed by that bloody sidewalk after they took Ashley? It must have been wrong to leave. What could he have done to help with all the police and firemen arriving? If he were still in Israel, he would probably be stripped and beaten now, to get information. Finally two police officers arrived, removed the handcuffs and drove him away.

The officer in the right front seat turned to the back. “You are being detained as a person of interest. You are not being arrested at this point. You have Miranda Rights. You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Do you understand?”

Najid did, and he nodded. “Anything you do say may be used against you in a court of law. Do you understand?”

Najid thought a moment, and then nodded. The policeman continued explaining the rights he had.

Najid trembled. The reality of being in a foreign land and not understanding the system or why they should think he was a terrorist suddenly hit him. If he insisted on getting a lawyer, wouldn’t that make them think he was guilty? Would he have to stay in jail longer? Would the police be angry if he wouldn’t answer questions? Would they beat him to get him to talk? What should he do? Maybe he should answer their questions. He had nothing to hide.

“Well, what is your answer?”

Najid swallowed and took a deep breath. He sat up straight. “I am a foreign student here from Israel. I did nothing wrong. We were talking in front of the synagogue we were about to visit when the explosion happened. I will answer any of your questions. How long will you keep me?”

“Save your explanations and questions for the detective at the station.” With that the policeman turned around and chatted with his fellow officer as they drove downtown.

A policeman led Najid into a bare room with only a desk and two chairs. The florescent lighting glared from the ceiling. No outside windows. The detective sat down behind his desk, looked briefly at some papers, and then stared at Najid. “Please, sit down.” A dark interior window faced him. Najid sat, looked back at his inquisitor,
and did not avert his unblinking gaze. Finally the detective spoke.

“A terrible crime occurred today. A rabbi died and a young lady suffered severe injury. This happened because some criminal terrorist or group exploded a powerful bomb in a synagogue. We have the right to investigate any crime and detain anyone we have reason to believe might be involved.”

Najid shifted in his chair.
They must think I did the bombing
.

“We found you at the scene, injured a bit, and walking away. You come from the Middle East and are from an Arab background, and although we don’t hold that against you, it does increase our need to check you out. We are not saying you are guilty at this point. You are what is commonly called ‘a person of interest.’ We can lawfully hold you without any charges for twenty-four hours. During that time we will investigate to determine whether any formal charges are justified. Do you understand?”

“I think so. Formal charges mean what?”

“That would be taking the step of accusing you of being a suspect, possibly involved in the crime. Then we would arrest you, take pictures and fingerprints, and keep you longer pending further investigation, although you could be free on bail. You would eventually face a trial if the prosecutor or grand jury thinks you could be guilty.”

“So you are not arresting me? Will I be beaten? I am willing to answer any questions. I have nothing to hide. I am so sorry the rabbi died and my friend got injured. We had planned to go to the synagogue service and talk with him afterward.”

The detective smiled and shook his head slightly. “We understand that you are willing to answer our questions without a lawyer present. No, you will not be beaten. However, because the investigation will last until tomorrow, we will have to lock you up overnight.”

“Jail?”

“Yes.”

That began a long series of questions about Najid’s background, his coming to the USA, and his work at the university. Then they focused on what he did during the time leading up to the blast. The detective wanted to know why he and Ashley planned to visit the synagogue, who his friends were here, and what kind of Muslim sect he favored.
The officer seemed surprised when Najid explained his Christian faith. Finally he served Najid with a search warrant and asked for keys to his house and room. The detective explained that this was normal investigative procedure to check out his paper records, passport, and computer files. They would also be inquiring with the U.S. Immigration Office and the University of Washington.

Najid complied and walked willingly into a holding cell where he sat on the metal bench, exhausted. He surveyed the metal bed and toilet, the sink on the wall, a few paper towels, and waste basket . . . and the wall of bars between him and freedom. He thought of the dead rabbi and his family. And his dear friend could be dead. Could she have lived through the blast? Who could have done such a thing in America? No terrorist had succeeded since 9/11. His parents wouldn’t know he had landed in jail. He thought of them, struggling to survive on such a meager income while supporting his six siblings. It all piled up for Najid. The tears came. He couldn’t control them.

Ashley awakened in the recovery room. She moaned with pain both in her chest and abdomen. “Where, where am I?” She looked up into the face of a young woman in scrub attire.

“You’re in the recovery room in Harborview Medical Center,” the nurse replied. “You had a bad accident and an operation.”

“I did?” Ashley grimaced with pain. “What happened?”

“We’ll talk about it later, Ashley. Do you need more medicine for pain?”

“I think so. My chest and stomach really hurt every time I take a breath.”

With the IV morphine, Ashley drifted back to sleep.

Frank and Dorothy Wells eased open the door of Ashley’s room on the surgical floor and tiptoed in. The sound of the footsteps brought her out of the medicated sleep she’d been in since yesterday’s transfer from the recovery room. She watched as their
eyes widened approaching her bed and all the tubes. A monitoring screen showed a moving cardiogram and several numbers.

“Mom and Dad!” She winced with pain. “What’s going on? Nobody tells me anything except that I’m doing great and it won’t be long before I’ll be out of the hospital . . . I don’t even know how I got here, or how I got hurt.”

“Ashley,the whole world knows what happened.”

“Well I don’t. C’mon you guys. Clue me in on what’s going on!”

“Dr. Thompson will explain your medical situation, your injury, and what they did to treat you.”

“I have a vague memory of the recovery room. I know I had an operation, but not much else. What’s this tube coming out of my chest?”

“You’ll need to ask your doctors, Ashley. It seems that you were out in front of a synagogue yesterday when a horrible explosion occurred. You were injured”—his voice broke as he swallowed several times—“and they rushed you to the hospital emergency room.”

Ashley pushed her medication button again. As another small dose of morphine soon eased her pain, Ashley’s mind focused and she found it easier to talk.