Sullivan's Law (15 page)

When Daniel ran, he had to be careful, as he wasn't used to watching out for cars. At Chino, he'd jogged around the yard during afternoon exercise. All he had to look out for at the prison were other inmates, and the majority of them stayed clear of him.

Prison was a strange place, a world within a world. During his first year, the inmates had ganged up on him. He'd suffered through some ordeals too terrible to mention. Even before Warden Lackner took a shine to him, however, most of the inmates had begun to avoid him. By that time, rumors had circulated that he was mentally ill. Even the most hardened inmates didn't want to tangle with a crazy person.

Daniel stopped, keeping his legs moving as he waited for the signal light to change. Several cars drove past. Then a black SUV pulled up close to the curb and he caught a glimpse of a man's face leaning out the window.

He never saw the gun.

The explosion reverberated inside his ears. Daniel felt a searing pain in his upper abdomen, only inches away from his heart.

Images raced through his mind. He saw a beautiful little girl smiling up at him, then extending her arms for him to pick her up. Her face was so sweet and tender, looking at her made him want to cry.

He remembered the Christmas his father had given him his first watch. He'd run straight to his room and taken it apart. Then he saw their new TV disassembled on the living room floor. Ruth's bloated face frowned at him as she beat him with a belt.

“Why do you do these things?” his mother screamed at him. “Why do you tear everything apart? Your father saved for a year to buy us a new TV.” The belt cut into his legs. “I'm not going to stop whipping you until you answer me. You tried to take Mrs. Clairmont's washing machine apart last week. People think I have an idiot for a son.”

“Please, Mother, don't hit me again,” Daniel had sobbed. “I want to find out how things work.”

As the pain from the gunshot wound intensified, the memories from the past retreated.

Several vehicles slammed on their brakes when they saw a man standing in the middle of the road, blood gushing out of his abdomen. Another driver began honking his horn. A woman got out of her car and waved her arms around, shouting for someone to call an ambulance.

Daniel's body contracted at the waist in a violent muscle spasm. He didn't realize he'd been shot until he looked down and saw the blood oozing out around his fingers. Then he recalled the look of hatred on the man's face as he'd leaned out the window with his arm outstretched.

He staggered forward a few more feet, then slumped to the pavement, a pool of blood spreading beneath his motionless body. He blinked several times, struggling to remain conscious.

The woman who'd called for help knelt down beside him, rolling up something that looked like a beach towel and pressing it against the bullet wound. She was heavyset and resembled Daniel's mother. “Hold on,” she said, breathless from running. “You've been shot. You're going to be all right. Try to stay calm until the paramedics get here.”

“Are…you…going to hit me again?”

“No,” the woman said, tears gathering in her eyes. “Don't talk. I'm going to pray for you. God will send his angels to help you.”

Daniel suddenly felt at peace. The woman wasn't his mother. Ruth was dead, buried with the rest of his family at the Queen of Angels Cemetery. He'd taken the bus to Los Angeles, gazing at the vacant plot that his grandmother had purchased for him. In life, there had never seemed to be a place for him. At least in death, he told himself, he'd have a permanent home.

A
fter her meeting with Arline Shoeffel, Carolyn picked up a file and went into a room to dictate her report on the Sandoval shooting.

Lois Mason, the sixty-seven-year-old victim, had recovered from the bullet wound in her shoulder, but emotionally and mentally, she would never be the same. During the interview, the woman had sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, answering most of Carolyn's questions with a yes or a no as if she were on the witness stand.

In a pre-sentence investigation, when a victim wasn't able to provide information, the probation officer would turn to the closest relative. The woman's daughter had cried when Carolyn spoke to her on the phone.

“My mom wasn't afraid of anything. Now she won't leave the house, she isn't eating, and we can't even get her to communicate with us. We may have to put her in a home.”

The only reassurance Carolyn could provide was that Carlos Sandoval would go to prison for life. A violent act perpetrated against an elderly female was tantamount to a homicide. She didn't have the heart to tell Mrs. Mason's daughter that a life sentence did not mean the prisoner would never be released. Life without the possibility of parole meant what it said, yet Sandoval's crime legally didn't merit such a sentence.

Regardless of what kind of punishment her attacker received, Lois Mason knew there were other men like Sandoval in the world. As tragic as it sounded, death might come as a relief.

After dictating her report, Carolyn glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to three and she hadn't checked in with Daniel yet. Not only that, she'd planned on leaving the office early and picking up John and Rebecca at school. Once they had the cell phones, she could relax somewhat. She'd have to call the school, though, and arrange permission for them to keep the phones on during class in case she needed to reach them in an emergency. She also had to rent a car. She couldn't keep Leighton's BMW forever. Her indebtedness to this man was substantial. Cooking him a meal wouldn't do it—she'd have to find some other way to repay his kindness.

Using the Internet, Carolyn found contact information for Liam Armstrong and Nolan Houston. Armstrong was a commercial real estate agent in Los Angeles, and Houston owned a chain of golf stores called Hole in One.

She pulled up an article from the Ventura paper about Nolan Houston from years back—the typical “hometown boy makes good” story. The former football player had switched sports and ended up playing on the P.G.A. tour. Since Carolyn didn't follow golf, his success had passed without her knowledge. Houston had retired from golf five years ago, trading on his name to establish a twenty-one-store chain of retail stores.

Carolyn was attempting to find out more about Liam Armstrong when her phone rang.

“Your man's been shot,” Hank told her. “I'm at the crime scene. The shooting occurred around two-fifteen.”

Carolyn's adrenaline surged. “Metroix?”

“Who else?”

She shoved her chair back from her desk, clasping the phone with both hands. “How bad?”

“Don't know yet,” Hank said, yelling over the background noise. “Way it looks, the shooter was aiming for his heart. Ended up hitting him in the stomach instead. Metroix has earned my sympathy this time. I've been down that road myself. A bullet starts dancing around inside your gut and you've got nothing but misery ahead of you.”

“Where did it happen?”

“On Anchors Way, near the Seagull Motel. From what the witnesses say, it may have been a drive-by. I'm sending Trevor White to the hospital now. Since White was with me when we arrested Metroix, he'd rather see your face than one of ours.”

Why hadn't she remembered to call him? Daniel must have become restless. Carolyn felt lightheaded and had to brace herself against her desk. “I told him not to leave the motel room.”

“What motel room?” Hank asked. “Did he go back to squatting again at the Seagull? Good grief, woman, why didn't you stash him somewhere else?”

“I did,” Carolyn said defensively. “I drove him to the Comfort Inn from the jail. Why would he go back to the Seagull? He doesn't drive and it's miles away.”

“How would I know?”

“Did they take him to Good Samaritan?” Carolyn asked, devastated that Metroix had once again been victimized.

“No,” Hank said. “Ambulance took him to Methodist. Couple of surgeons called in sick today at Good Samaritan. They're diverting anything that requires surgery to Methodist.”

Carolyn grabbed her water bottle off the desk and took a long swallow, her throat suddenly parched. “Who did this, Hank?”

“All we know is the vehicle was a dark-colored SUV, more than likely black, but possibly a deep shade of green. Our best witness says she isn't a car person. She claims she can't tell one SUV from another. She thinks the license plate had a three in it, and the first letter might have been either a G or an O.”

“Was Metroix conscious?”

“For a while,” the detective said. “Mrs. Olson didn't think to question him. You can't fault her on that. Her clothes were covered in blood, and she said Metroix kept asking her if she was going to hit him. They'll have to cut the bullet out and sew him up. Everything depends on what kind of ammo the shooter used and how much damage it caused. Getting him into surgery will take time. He might come to, though, and be able to give you a description of the suspect and the vehicle.” He paused and then added, “You don't have to waste your breath convincing me that someone wants Metroix dead, Carolyn. I'm going to back you up a hundred percent on this one. I don't give a shit if Charles Harrison used to be head of the CIA. If he's behind this, he's going to pay the same price as any other criminal.”

“I'll call you later,” Carolyn told him, grabbing her purse. “I'm on my way to the hospital now.”

“Go get your kids before you do anything,” Hank instructed her. “Oh, and I told White to stand guard over Metroix. I'm beginning to get bad vibes about this thing. Harrison's a sick man. And I'm not merely referring to his liver problems. Hired killers are vicious. They don't care who dies. All this kind of scum cares about is payday.”

 

Carolyn rushed to Jefferson Junior High to pick up Rebecca, then swung by Ventura High to pick up John. Once they were both in the car, she told them what had transpired.

“Is he going to die?” Rebecca asked from the backseat.

“I hope not, sweetheart,” her mother said. “I know you and John must have homework. I don't want you to be alone. That means you'll have to come with me to the hospital. You can start on your schoolwork in the waiting room. I shouldn't be too long.”

John cut his eyes to his mother. “I'm really behind at school, Mom. We're having a calculus test tomorrow. Take Rebecca. I can't study in a hospital. There's too much noise.”

Carolyn felt her pulse pounding. Both she and her children had been under too much stress. But this wasn't your everyday situation. Hank Sawyer was far from an alarmist. He wouldn't have cautioned her if he didn't believe his concerns were valid. “You have to do what I say, John,” she told him, deciding to get everything out in the open. “I'd much rather see you fail an exam than have you end up in the morgue.”

“Isn't a morgue where they take dead people?” Rebecca asked.

“Can't you shut up for a change?” John asked his sister, craning his neck around. “Mom and I are trying to talk.” He took a breath, then turned back to Carolyn. “I'm sorry this guy got shot, okay? Look at this logically, though. Whoever did this has solved their problem. Why would they hurt us now? They were only mad at you because you got in their way. I'll be fine. Take me to the house.”

Carolyn shook her head, shocked that he would defy her this way. “I'm the one who makes the decisions in this family,” she told him, pulling over to the side of the road. “I refuse to let you stay home alone.”

John slapped back against the seat. “Why is everything always so hard for us? Why can't we be like other families? I'm doing everything I can to make something out of my life. You should be worried about me instead of some stranger who just got out of prison.” He opened the car door and took off down the sidewalk.

“Stay here,” Carolyn told her daughter. “I'm going to lock the car when I get out. I won't go where you can't see me. Is that all right?”

The girl nodded, pulling her backpack onto her lap.

“How dare you walk off like that!” Carolyn shouted, once she'd caught up to her son. “You think life is easy for me? I barely have time to keep up with my job, let alone the extra pressure of trying to get my law degree. Your father hasn't given me a dime in years. You want to go to MIT. None of the other schools are good enough for you. I need to save for Rebecca's education too.”

“I thought Neil was going to take care of our college tuition,” John told her. “He opened a savings account for us last year. I remember signing the signature cards.”

“Your uncle's paintings were selling very well then,” Carolyn explained. “The economy has taken a nosedive. When their businesses are failing, people don't buy art. Neil set up college funds for you and Rebecca, but he only put in a small amount. It will take years for the accounts to mature. Neil may settle down one day and have his own family. All I'm trying to say is that we shouldn't depend on other people.”

John had been staring at the ground. He slowly raised his eyes to his mother. For a long time, they remained silent, both of their chests heaving with emotion. “What about dropping me off at Turner's house? It's five blocks away and his mother doesn't work. Not only that, his two brothers are as big as tanks.”

“That's acceptable,” Carolyn told him. “You still owe me an apology.”

He walked over and draped an arm around her shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly, stepping back. “Let's not waste any more time. If you want me to get a scholarship, I can't afford any days off.”

Carolyn felt certain John would succeed. He not only possessed the intellect, he had the drive. It didn't make up for his disrespectful behavior, however. He could become the richest and most accomplished person in the world, but if he didn't learn to respect those around him, he would ultimately be despised. “Can you spend the night with Turner?”

“Sure,” John told her. “He has an extra bed. His mother told me I was welcome to stay there anytime I wanted.”

“Good,” Carolyn said bluntly. “I accept your apology. We need to put some space between us, though.” Without waiting for him, she spun around and marched back to the car.

 

By the time they made it to Methodist Hospital, Daniel Metroix was being prepped for surgery. With Rebecca at her side, Carolyn spoke to a pretty black nurse named Ann Brookings, suited up in green scrubs.

“The bullet didn't damage any major organs,” the nurse said. “The physician performing the procedure, Dr. Silver, isn't anticipating any serious problems. Mr. Metroix appears to be in fairly good physical condition, which generally helps.”

Carolyn glanced over at Trevor White leaning back against the wall. All four of them were standing behind a red line and the words
DO NOT ENTER
printed on the floor. Carolyn leaned forward and whispered, “Make certain the police officer doesn't leave his post. This isn't only for the patient's safety. Tell the rest of the staff that if they see anything even slightly suspicious, either advise Officer White or dial 911 immediately.”

Brookings started to pull her mask down over her face in preparation for entering the operating room. Instead, she moved a few inches closer. “You really think we should be that concerned, Ms. Sullivan?”

“Yes,” Carolyn told her, raising her arm so that she could see how tightly she was holding onto her daughter's hand. “How long will he be in surgery?”

“Two hours, minimum,” she said. “He'll be in recovery for at least two more hours, if not longer. If I were you, I'd take my girl and go home.”

“A detective named Hank Sawyer will be here shortly,” Carolyn told her. “If Metroix says anything you think might be related to the crime, please write it down and advise the police. We need to know if he saw the man who shot him.”

“The patient's going to be on heavy narcotics for several days,” Brookings said. “He'll be alert off and on tomorrow. When he's awake, he'll be screaming or talking gibberish from the dope.” She paused and smiled. “I don't make it a habit to speak so candidly. I'm trying to tell it like it is, you know. You seem like a nice lady.” Before she slapped open the double doors leading to the operating room, she added, “Your man probably did see the person who shot him, unless the shooter wore a mask. Masks aren't in style these days.”

They were discussing a violent act. “In style…”

“I grew up on the street,” she said, placing one hand on her hip. “Remember carjackings? How long has it been since you've handled a carjacking? This may have been a drive-by, like the cute little officer over there said. As for me, I personally don't buy it. Drive-by shootings aren't that popular either.”

“What's makes you think he saw the shooter?”

Ann Brookings gave a warm smile. “Frontal wound.”

 

Back in the BMW, Rebecca turned to her mother. “At least I won't have to worry about my homework,” she said. “I did most of it in the car. You know, while you and John were fighting.”

“We weren't fighting,” Carolyn said, inserting the key in the ignition. “We had a disagreement, that's all.”

“Humph,” Rebecca said, fastening her seat belt. “Sure looked like a fight to me. Where are you taking me now? To the morgue or something? And is a bunch of bad guys really chasing us, or are you having a nervous breakdown?”