Twisted Justice (4 page)

“Laura, is what you want a separation?” Roxanne pressed. “It's got to be about what you want. The kids will be okay either way. What's right for you will be right for them.”

“Maybe. The truth is Steve and I have each gone our separate ways. He's become ‘Mr. Newscaster Celebrity' and I've become a surgeon.” Laura snuffled and reached for a handful of Kleenex. “I've been thinking about this all night and no matter what I do, I
have to face him this morning — after I talk to Mr. Ruiz.” Laura grabbed a wad of tissue and wiped off her glasses. Then she used it to blow her nose. “What's the update there?”

Roxanne sighed. “I've dropped by twice. First time he was still too groggy to talk, so I checked on the other kids. The eight-year-old had a splenectomy, and the six-year-old had a skull fracture with a subdural hematoma and multiple extremity fractures. Both boys. They'll be okay. The five-year-old, Jose, is still in the ER, if you can believe it. I stopped by and had hot chocolate with him. He's so adorable, such big black eyes. He's looks so pathetic in that skimpy hospital gown, I'm going to buy him something else to wear. He doesn't know about his mom yet,” she said quietly. “Peds psychology will see him this morning.”

Guilt stabbed inside Laura. Her problems were minor compared to this. “So sad,” she murmured.

“I stopped by again, about an hour ago. Mr. Ruiz had been told about his wife and the baby, and he was, well, inconsolable.”

“You didn't tell him about Wendy?”

“No, Laura, we agreed you'd tell him — it's expected that the doctor will, of course. But I had no idea what you'd been through at home.”

“You did the right thing. It's something I have to do.” Laura brushed her wet hair back and secured it with a plastic clasp. She grabbed a clean, starched lab coat and stuffed a handful of tissues in the pocket.

“Come on, let's go see him. Wait a sec, though. Let me call my housekeeper. I want her to take the kids to my mom's for the weekend. I need to hash things out with Steve, but not in front of them.”

They found Louis Ruiz in a semiprivate room on the orthopedic floor. The door to the room was open and the other bed vacant. As Laura and Roxanne approached, the man lay silent, staring straight ahead, not even noticing them. His longish black hair had been combed neatly back, accentuating the pallor of his skin. Both legs
were elevated and wrapped in pneumatic cuffs below the knee to minimize the chance of blood clots. Bulky dressings covered both hips and thighs, and a trapeze-like contraption hung over his chest.

“Mr. Ruiz,” Roxanne began softly, “this is Dr. Nelson. Remember I told you she'd be in first thing this morning.” Her voice broke as he turned his sad, intensely black eyes to her. “Laura, this is Wendy's father.”

“Mr. Ruiz, I am so sorry.” Laura faltered. “About your wife and your baby.”

“Thank you,” he said weakly. “But—?”

“Last night we operated on your daughter Wendy. She had serious injuries.”

“How is she? Can I see her?” He struggled to sit up. “Her mother, the baby — I have to tell her.”

Roxanne reached for his free hand, the one unencumbered by the intravenous needle. “Please don't try to move.”

Laura held onto the bed railing and spoke quickly. “She…Wendy…had a fracture in her neck and a big piece of glass in her chest, piercing the big artery leaving the heart. Mr. Ruiz, she didn't make it. She died on the operating table. I'm so sorry.”

Laura paused. Experience told her to expect any reaction from violent outcry to stony silence. She watched Ruiz's dark eyes search Roxanne's as if she could defy this report, yet only tears flowed as Roxanne grasped his hand.

“I want you to know that we did everything possible for Wendy, Mr. Ruiz. Her injuries were just too severe. Again, I'm so sorry.” Laura looked to him for a response, but there was none. She chose not to tell him that even if Wendy had lived, she would have been a paraplegic.

After a few moments, Roxanne broke the silence. “You've got rounds, Dr. Nelson. I'll stay here for a while.”

Laura left quietly and completed her patient rounds before heading home at nine o'clock to face her own life. As she approached the parking lot exit, she heard her name.

“Dr. Nelson!”

Laura turned, shifting her bag on her shoulder as a middleaged man with thick wire-rimmed glasses trotted toward her. He was tall and lanky with tufts of gray hair sticking up behind a severely receding hairline. “May I have a word with you?”

She assumed he was a relative of one of her patients. “Do I know you?”

“I'd like to talk to you about the Ruiz family,” he drawled, sounding distinctly native Floridian.

“Are you a reporter?” she asked, careful to remain civil. Though her husband was a newscaster and depended on these reporters in the field, Laura disliked them intensely.

“Ah, no,” he said. “I saw you coming out of Ruiz's room and I know you operated on one of the kids and that the kid died on the table.”

“Who are you?” He surely didn't look like a close relative.

“I'm a personal injury lawyer,” he said. “Representing the interests of Mr. Ruiz. Wrongful death, that sort of thing.”

“There's nothing I can do to help you.”

“Here's my card,” he said, holding it out. “Sam Sanders. Give me a call if you change your mind.”

But Laura just turned away, leaving him with his hand outstretched.

Laura was nibbling a crumb cake at the round table in the sunny breakfast room when her husband came down at nine thirty. Warm sun pouring in the windows abated her shivers, but she wished it could warm her heart. This room had always been her haven, where she spent most of the time with the kids over breakfast and dinner, homework sessions, doing puzzles, playing board games. The décor was bright with yellow and white patterned wallpaper, light oak cupboards and floors, and stark white appliances. The room had never failed to cheer her, but as of today, she knew things would be different. While her coffee went cold, Laura waited for Steve. She'd pulled her hair into a hasty ponytail and wore dark prescription glasses over red-rimmed, puffy eyes.

Steve plodded down the stairs, tousled in his green corduroy robe and baggy gray sweatpants. His hair had been forgotten and he hadn't shaved. He yawned as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Coffee, Laura? You okay?”

“Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “We need to talk, Steve.”

“Okay. Where are the kids?” He glanced around the silent kitchen. “I barely slept last night.”

“I asked Marcy to take them to Mom's,” she answered. “I'll pick them up tomorrow.”

“Mike has baseball practice,” Steve said.

Laura almost screamed. Here was Steve sitting here like nothing had happened. Just a Saturday morning, sharing a casual cup of coffee. She wanted to lash out, to bite him, hit him, hurt him, but
she had warned herself to keep it together. To say what she had to say, to forego yelling and screaming. Her problem: she didn't know what she was going to say. She didn't know which direction to take. Her life and the lives of her kids hung in the balance.

“This is more important than baseball practice. This is about what we're going to do with our lives.” Try as she might she couldn't keep the rage out of her voice. “You should have worried about Little League before you totally screwed up all our lives.”

“Whoa!” Bleary eyed, Steve slumped into the closest chair. “Honey, last night was a big mistake that will never happen again. I already told you. You're too important to me, you and the kids.”

Laura burst into fresh tears and pounded her fists on the oak table. “I just can't believe it.”

Steve jumped to his feet and began pacing. “Honey, I'm so sorry, beyond sorry. What else can I say?”

“I don't know what you can say,” she cried, starting to sound hysterical. Then out of nowhere she felt a jolt from somewhere inside her so powerful that her body stiffened. She said, “All I know is that our marriage is over.” Then Laura's hands flew to her mouth as she processed the finality of what she'd just blurted. Until the words issued from her mouth, she hadn't been sure of what she wanted.

“What? You can't be serious — we have five kids. Last night was just a stupid mistake.”

Laura grimaced. Shaken, but strangely resolved, she shook her head. “Maybe, Steve, but what's done is done. We can't pretend it never happened.”

“For God's sake, Laura, we've been married for fifteen years. I'm so sorry, I really am.” He pulled out the chair next to hers, sat down, and reached for her hand, which she jerked away.

“The truth is,” she sniffled, “we haven't been happy since I don't know when. We've both been working so hard and, you have to admit, we've both changed.”

“So what? We're still the same underneath it. We still love each other.”

“Really?” Laura's voice broke. “If that was true you wouldn't be with —”

“Laura, last night was the first —” he finally backed off as she continued to inch farther away from his touch — “and the last.”

Laura blinked back more tears. “Don't deny it. Things between us haven't been good —”

“Nothing we can't work out, Laura. You work such crazy hours, and I've been under tremendous pressure at the station.”

Laura shook her head and averted her eyes. “After last night, it doesn't matter what you say.”

Steve raked his hands through his hair. “Hey, c'mon. You need me. You're so attached to your career, you couldn't handle the kids alone. Besides, I'm there for them, and they need me. Especially Patrick.”

“Do they now? And don't use Patrick as a pawn. He's fine and you know it.” Laura cupped her hands over her face, telling herself to ease up, to keep this horrible conversation as civil as possible.

Steve leaned closer and put his arm around her. “Please, let's not let one mistake ruin everything for us. Think of the kids. They need a mom, and I've been a great dad. Everyone knows that.”

Laura hesitated before pushing him away. “No. Let's just talk about how we're going to do this. Now. Today. I want you to move out. Find a place. Stay in a motel. A separation.” She paused, shivering again, not so much from anger as fear. This was her life she was discarding. And Steve was a good father. The kids would miss him terribly. Should she reconsider?

“Look,” he said quietly, “if it'll make you happy, I'll stay somewhere else for a couple of days. I can understand why you're pissed. God, if I ever found you with someone, I don't know —” His voice trailed off. “You don't have to worry about Kim either, she's leaving Tampa.”

Laura winced. “Stop. As long as you're not here, you can be with whomever you want.”

Steve smiled ruefully. “Laura, c'mon. Just cut me a little slack. A mistake. I swear.”

“No.”

“Okay, okay. I'll give you some time. Just don't tell the kids? Say I'm on business. Will you do that?”

“I'm not going to tell them I caught you with Kim in their own house, that's all I know right now.”

“I don't think leaving is a good idea. I know we can work things out.”

Laura shook her head. “After what happened last night, we can do two things,” she improvised as a renewed wave of hurt reinforced her resolve. “Choice one. I go to George Granger and tell him about you and Kim. You know how he feels about me. No way he'll keep you on at the station.”

Steve's face swelled with anger. “You'd try to get me fired? You know he's already on me about the ratings.”

“I'll call him today, right now. I don't want to, but —”

“You wouldn't do that!”

“Or, choice number two. You just leave. It's the sensible thing to do. We'll figure out the best way to tell the kids. The best way for them, not for you,” she continued, sadness softening her voice.

“Laura, please. I'm asking for another chance. Kim doesn't mean anything to me. It'll never happen again. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“You're right,” she said slowly, “it will never happen again — to me.”

Kim Connor opened her eyes, glanced at the clock on her bedside table and groaned. Ten-fucking in the morning. She squeezed her eyes shut and yanked up the covers, but the doorbell chime did not stop.

“Fuck.” She crawled out of bed, grabbing a paisley silk bathrobe on her way to the door. Peering through the peephole, she sighed in recognition and unhooked the chain.

“Carmen? You okay?” Kim reached for her friend's hand. “Come in, honey.”

“I'm okay. Sorry I'm so early, but man, he did a number on you.”

Kim reached up and touched her face. “Must look awful. I'm still half asleep.”

“Hey, you're gorgeous no matter what. Go fix yourself up and I'll make coffee.”

Carmen Williams was the only friend that Kim Connor had — girlfriend, that is. They'd met in a club in Ybor City, Tampa's historic Cuban enclave, ten years earlier. Both twenty-two. Both heavy into cocaine. No money, loaded with debt, they'd resorted to prostitution to support their pricey habit. Not really professional whores, just selling sex when desperate for a hit. Each was Hispanic on their mother's side, and a mix of European on their father's. Kim's Hispanic genetics dominated with her dark hair, olive complexion, and coal black eyes. She was small boned, hot-tempered, and provocatively sexy. Carmen's skin was lighter, her eyes a tawny hazel, her heavier build characteristic of her father's family. Her long, auburn hair was her best feature, and when she bothered with makeup, which was rarely, she could look genuinely glamorous. Unlike Kim, Carmen had never recovered from her addiction.

Soon after they met, the pair of friends was literally taken off the street by Father Sean Darby, a young priest assigned to Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Ybor City. He had campaigned hard with Catholic Social Services for a drug rehab program in his parish, documenting the rise of drug-related crimes in the neighborhood. One scorching summer night, Kim and Carmen, stoned on coke and liquor and looking for their next fix, stumbled into Father Darby and offered sex for cash. The priest, clad in street clothes, simply ushered them into his storefront rehab center. Kim began to recover, and the politically astute priest used his connections to get her a scholarship at the University of Florida, where she excelled in her communications major. Carmen, however, could never beat her cocaine habit and still lived from job to job out on the fringe.