Dying Declaration (14 page)

“Don’t get in anybody else’s business.”

All of Buster’s incredible power was not enough. The weights on the bar, the fatigue of his muscles, and the sudden thrust by A-town and his ally had forced the bar down hard onto Buster’s neck. The big man’s scream was trapped in his throat. He still pushed with all his might, his broad back arched, but the bar pressed down tighter. Buster’s face turned purple, the veins bulging and eyes popping out, his mouth open in a silent scream. Only his amazing strength in those fateful seconds kept the bar up just enough that it didn’t instantly snap his neck.

“Trust no one.”

A few more steps. But A-town heard him coming, let go of the bar, switched the knife to his right hand, and thrust it hard toward Buster’s heart.

23

AS A-TOWN LUNGED
with the knife, Thomas left his feet, landing his shoulder squarely against the middle of A-town’s back. The blow nearly snapped A-town in half and drove him hard to the ground. Thomas landed on top. The jarring violence of the hit knocked the knife loose just inches before it sliced into Buster, sending it skidding across the hard turf. A dazed A-town reached out for it, but Thomas brought his elbow down with a brutal thud against the back of A-town’s head, the sound of a dropped watermelon,
and the smaller man was stilled.

Without thinking, Thomas reached over and grabbed the knife.

Buster, meanwhile, had managed to squirm out from under the weights. As A-town got tackled, the man with the scar had turned and momentarily released his downward pressure on the bench-press bar. That was all it took. With his last ounce of power, Buster pushed the weights off to the side and slid himself off the bench and onto the ground.

He gasped for breath and coughed. He tried to stand and go after the man with the scar, but Buster’s eyes went glassy, his legs wouldn’t cooperate, and his knees buckled. He collapsed in a heap.

The crunch of Thomas’s flying tackle drew attention to the bench-press area. The inmates and deputies came running over, and bedlam erupted. Everybody started arguing at once and assessing blame. The scar man accused Thomas of an unprovoked and malicious assault on A-town and Buster. Thomas had, after all, been caught red-handed with the knife.

A-town was unconscious but still breathing. The hospital would later confirm a small fracture of the skull and a closed head injury. Buster was also okay, though shaken, and it fell to him to describe what had happened.

“Who attacked you?” the guard asked.

The glassy eyes of Buster moved from Thomas to A-town to the man with the scar and then back to Thomas.

“Trust no one,”
Nikki had said.
“I mean it.”

Buster’s eyes narrowed, a flash of venom returned, and he pointed a thick index finger straight at Thomas.

Against her better judgment, Nikki was getting emotionally involved. How could she not? It was her own childhood all over again. Every day with Tiger and Stinky brought back memories of the sweet man who had adopted her and nurtured her through some of the best years of her life.

She knew Judge Silverman had set her up. He had stuck her with these kids like some warped attempt at social engineering,
to somehow complete the circle—so she could give herself to them, at least temporarily, the way her adoptive dad had given himself to her. She did it because she had no choice and, truth be told, out of some strange sense of duty. Payback time. She really did it for her father.

She didn’t know that the kids would steal her heart. Sure, they were a pain. But they were also a lot of fun. They had been with her only two days, and already she was dreading the loneliness of the condo without them.

It was now late Thursday afternoon. The hearing next Wednesday would be crucial. Judge Silverman would read the report from the Child Protective Services caseworker, then make a ruling on custody. Either Theresa would win back custody of her kids pending trial, or they would be sent to a foster home. Nikki had already decided that a foster home was not an option. The kids had been through enough. If Silverman couldn’t see his way clear to return these poor little rug rats to their mother,
then they would stay with Nikki for the foreseeable future.

She hoped they liked Chinese takeout.

And that is why, though she was not officially part of the defense team, Nikki found herself standing at the desk of the clerk of court and looking at the Hammond file. Tiger and Stinky were running around in the hallway, probably riding the escalators. Nikki’s experienced fingers leafed through the perfunctory legal pleadings and stopped with the good stuff.

She started with the probable cause affidavit. This document had undoubtedly been drafted by the Barracuda, signed by a police officer, and submitted to a magistrate. They used it to justify their search of the Hammonds’ home. The magistrate had, in fact, authorized the search—they always did. But that’s not what interested Nikki. She read the affidavit to get a glimpse of the commonwealth’s case: the witnesses the prosecutors intended to rely on and the evidence they intended to submit.

According to the affidavit of the investigating officer, the medical examiner had determined that the cause of death was peritonitis and septic shock occasioned by an acute case of appendicitis. It was a condition that was seldom fatal in small children if properly treated. The affidavit also contained details of the officer’s conversation with the treating physician: Dr. Sean Armistead. Nikki read the paragraphs describing the anticipated testimony of Dr. Armistead twice, then blew out a long breath. Pretty strong stuff. She put the file down and stared into space.

“It all comes down to Armistead,” she mumbled.

Then she carried the file over to one of the computer terminals in the clerk’s office and ran a quick records check on the doctor. The computer turned up no criminal cases, but it did register two civil cases. They both appeared to be medical malpractice actions involving Armistead as a defendant as well as various other doctors. Both cases had been closed out more than three years ago.

Nikki hailed the clerk again and talked her into retrieving the two Armistead civil files. The first one contained little substance, a standard malpractice case that had been settled quickly. But the second file proved more fertile. Another malpractice case, but this one involved a young child who had presented with what appeared to be a simple ear infection—otitis media. Armistead checked the child, had her monitored by a physician’s assistant for a little while, then discharged the girl with a prescription for antibiotics. But Armistead had apparently missed the diagnosis. The child was brought back to the emergency room two days later in acute distress. Armistead, who was again working the ER, first tried to treat her at Tidewater General and belatedly decided to transfer her to Norfolk Children’s. The child died during transit. It turned out that the child had leukemia, and the plaintiff’s attorney contended that Armistead had missed several indications of a blood disorder in the initial visit. Unlike the other case, this one had been extensively litigated.

The plaintiff ’s lawyer who filed the suit had taken the deposition of Dr. Armistead. The deposition itself was not in the court file, which did not surprise Nikki, since attorneys typically did not file depositions with the court. But the plaintiff
’s attorney would have a copy, and he happened to owe Nikki a few favors.

She was on her cell phone instantly.

“Law offices of Mr. Smith.”

“Is Mr. Smith in?”

“No, ma’am. He’s in court. Can I take a message?”

“Is he really in court?” Nikki asked. She knew the runaround.

“Of course,” the snippy receptionist said. “He’s been in court all day.”

“Well, then tell him that Nikki Moreno called with a promising new case I just picked up on my police scanner. Tell him I
thought it looked every bit as promising as the Harris case that I hustled for him, but unfortunately, this victim needed a lawyer right away—”

“Can you hang on for a second?” the receptionist interrupted. “This might be him now.”

There was a brief pause on the phone. Then, “He just walked in, Ms. Moreno,” she said chirpily. “He’d be delighted to take your call.”

“It must be my lucky day.”

By the end of the conversation, attorney Smith had promised to send Nikki a copy of the Armistead deposition. Smith didn’t remember much about the case, except that Armistead was arrogant and defensive at his deposition. It had not been a pleasant day.

“By the way,” Nikki said, as she prepared to sign off, “how was your day in court?”

“About as fulfilling as that new case you promised my receptionist,” Smith said.

They both laughed and ended the call.

There was one more item that Nikki needed to check before she returned the court files to the clerk and went looking for her little terrors in the hallway. She thumbed through a few more documents and found what she was looking for—the inventory list from the search of the Hammonds’ trailer. For some strange reason, she had a bad feeling about this.

She forced herself to look down at the page, read the single item on the list, and frowned. The police would never have seized it if it didn’t contain damaging evidence.

It was not, of course, presently in the file. The Barracuda would have it locked up somewhere in an evidence closet. Nikki jotted a note reminding herself to visit the commonwealth’s attorney’s office and look at it. But she wouldn’t really need the note. The single entry was already seared into her memory, causing her to speculate wildly.

The Prayer Journal of Theresa Hammond
, it said.

Thomas Hammond couldn’t believe his eyes. He had risked his life for Buster Jackson, and this was the thanks he received? If Thomas hadn’t put himself in harm’s way, if he hadn’t tackled A-town and taken him out, Buster would be a dead man. And now the man who owed every breath he took to Thomas was standing there gasping for air, sucking in the precious oxygen, and pointing directly at Thomas in response to the question of who had caused the attack.

Thomas would have said something in protest, but he immediately realized that he had no defense. A-town, the instigator of this mess, was lying on the ground unconscious. Buster, the same man who had tried to choke Thomas yesterday, had just been nearly strangled to death with the bench-press bar. And the most likely man to be seeking revenge, Thomas himself, was standing there with a switchblade in his hand.

“That man’” Buster coughed, as he pointed at Thomas and tried hard to catch his breath—“saved my life.”

“And that man—” he turned his accusatory stare and big index finger on the fallen A-town—“tried to kill me.”

Thomas slowly exhaled and dropped the knife. “Thank You, Lord,” was all he could think to say.

On the ride back to Nikki’s apartment, the questions started flying.

“Why is my daddy in jail?” Tiger wanted to know.

Nikki hesitated for a beat. This was sensitive, and she wanted to choose her words wisely.

“Because some people are confused and think he did something wrong and ought to spend some time in jail for punishment.”

“What did he do wrong?” Tiger pressed.

“It’s kind of complicated,” Nikki said, again speaking slowly and reassuringly. She didn’t know how much to say, but sooner or later they would figure it out, so she might as well be the one to break it to them. “When we get a chance to tell the judge in the big courtroom what really happened, I think they’ll let your daddy out of jail. But some people think it’s his fault that Joshie died.”

“That’s not true!” Tiger exclaimed. “It wasn’t my dad’s fault that Joshie got sick. And besides, my daddy took him to the hopsicle.”

“I know, Tiger. That’s what we’ll tell the judge.”

They drove on in silence for a few minutes while Tiger and Stinky appeared to be deep in thought.

“I miss Joshie,” Tiger said at last. His voice quivered.