Dying Declaration (19 page)

After the hearing, on the front steps of the courthouse, Rebecca Crawford thrust her head back and looked self-assured for the cameras. She predicted victory in the form of a conviction for the two negligent parents. It was not, she told the press,
the type of case she relished, but someone had to speak on behalf of the deceased child.

“Let’s not forget,” said the thick red lips of the Barracuda, “that an innocent young child is dead here. And worst of all,
it was an avoidable death. Young Joshua didn’t ask to be born to parents who would rather let him die of a burst appendix than seek medical treatment that would have surely cured him. Young Joshua didn’t choose a faith that would deny him the right to live. Somebody needs to speak for young Joshua. There’s so much focus on these parents and on their rights as parents. But my job is to be the advocate for Joshua, who wasn’t given a chance, and for all the other Joshuas out there.”

The Barracuda paused, reminding herself that good sound bites, not long speeches, made the evening news.

“What kind of parents can sit there and watch their child die slowly and painfully without even seeking medical attention? We have a word for that in this jurisdiction. We call it
murder
.”

She paused for a beat and stared at the camera for dramatic effect. Then she walked boldly down the steps and headed for the commonwealth’s attorney’s office on the other side of the complex. She swaggered as she walked, the strut of a gunslinging sheriff ready for a shoot-out. She hoped it was a slow news day and that some of the local stations wouldn’t fade out until they had shown her walking off into the sunset.

It
was
a slow news day and another tough day of coping in the life of Erica Armistead. She had not yet found the courage to confront her husband with what she had seen on Saturday night. Until that night, it had been relatively easy to keep on living separate lives, to ignore the painful and obvious truth that their marriage had become a sham. But she could no longer live that lie.

Her anger had turned into bitter disappointment. She would confront him and hope for an apology. She was ready to forgive,
ready to make any changes necessary to make it work, but first he must admit his failure. She just wanted her husband back. She just wanted to start over with their marriage.

But four days later she had yet to find the strength and the right time to bring it up. Perhaps it was her fear, a premonition even, that he wouldn’t care. Perhaps it was a voice deep down telling her that it was already over, that the last thread holding her life together had already been severed.
What will I do if he just shrugs and walks away? How can I go on living, fighting this disease that’s tearing me apart, without him?

She had become more lethargic and listless than ever. The tremors had worsened and become more constant. She spent her days watching television and reading, losing herself in the sagas of others.

It was only a short story on the local news, buried fifteen minutes into the evening newscast. It had something to do with parents who didn’t seek medical treatment for their child and a young boy who later died. But it wasn’t the story that caught Erica’s attention. It was the young lady expounding about the case on the steps of the courthouse. The same businesslike and arrogant face Erica had seen in the bar on Saturday night. The same hair. The same eyes. The same angular profile. The same full, red lips.

Then, as if the news producer had read Erica’s mind, a caption flashed on the screen identifying the woman as Rebecca Crawford,
deputy commonwealth’s attorney. Erica immediately turned up the volume to better hear the last of the woman’s comments about the case. Then she watched, mesmerized, as the news announcer explained scheduling details for the trial and the camera showed the woman marching confidently down the steps.

It was in that very moment that Erica found the courage that had evaded her the last four days. Her husband was at work—or so he said—but he was no longer the target of her wrath. She would confront her husband later, but she would not start with him.
What kind of ruthless woman lures away the husband of someone with Parkinson’s? What kind of desperate woman can prey on my failure to meet my husband’s needs?

Tomorrow, Erica vowed, she would get some answers. She would dress up, march straight down to the commonwealth’s attorney’s office and confront this Rebecca Crawford. She would demand an explanation, and she would get one. Then she would demand that this seductress leave her husband alone, or she would blow the whole thing wide open—scandal in the commonwealth’s attorney’s office and in Chesapeake high society.

And Erica would do it, she promised herself, because she had nothing to lose. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She would sleep well tonight. And she would strike tomorrow.

30

FOR NIKKI MORENO
it had already been a busy morning, and it was not even ten. She had dropped the kids off at school, ignoring the usual protests from Tiger about the latest ailment that ravaged his body. By the time school let out for the day, Tiger would be cured and would register no further complaints until the next morning, when another sickness would suddenly overtake him.

Nikki had given up on the chocolate-chip pancakes routine after the first morning. It was too messy and too time-consuming. Now she just resorted to threats and commands: “You
will
go to school, Tiger,” “I don’t care if you don’t feel well, Tiger,” “You’ll feel better once you get there, Tiger.” She had never actually had to drag him out to the car—threats had done the trick—but she was prepared to physically carry him if that became necessary. The morning routine was getting old, but school would finish this week. She wondered if the same diseases would attack Tiger when it was time to start going to day care.

Chocolate-chip pancakes had been replaced by granola bars for Nikki and Pop-Tarts for the kids. Making beds and doing dishes were luxuries that time would not permit. Laundry was neglected altogether. The kids didn’t seem to mind, or if they did,
at least they didn’t complain.

She wondered how her father had done it—raised her while working full-time. She had never before appreciated the sheer exhaustion he must have wrestled with on a daily basis, the endless chores that never got done.

The kids had taken the news pretty well last night, but then again, Nikki had soft-pedaled it. “In three more weeks we’ll get to tell the court what really happened,” she promised. “In three more weeks we can get your daddy out of jail, and you can stay with your mommy and daddy again. In the meantime, you’re stuck with me.” Stinky and Tiger just took it all in, eyes wide, heads nodding. Nikki did notice that Stinky snuggled particularly close last night and that Tiger thrashed around more than usual on the floor. All in all, though, the kids seemed to be pretty resilient.

After dropping the kids at school, she stopped by attorney Smith’s office and picked up the deposition of Dr. Armistead from the medical malpractice case. She took the deposition out to her car and read it cover to cover before leaving the parking lot. She wasn’t disappointed.

Armistead had made a bad judgment call. A young child presented to the Tidewater ER with some classic signs of a possible blood disorder: fever and vomiting, a history of gum bleeding, and some dried blood in her nostrils. The little girl probably should have been referred to a hematologist at Norfolk Children’s. Instead, Armistead, missing the diagnosis, prescribed antibiotics and released the child. Two days later, the mom brought the kid, fevered and lethargic, back to the ER, but it was too late. Despite the best efforts of Armistead and his colleagues at Tidewater General, the child died a few hours after admission while in the process of being transferred to Norfolk Children’s. The autopsy revealed that the little girl died from an infection caused by acute lymphocytic leukemia, a condition that could have been diagnosed on the initial visit and, in all probability,
successfully treated.

What intrigued Nikki even more than Armistead’s lack of judgment was the strategy employed by Smith. Instead of being content to portray the facts as a simple case of physician negligence, Smith tried to paint them in a far more sinister light. He dug deeply into Armistead’s background during the deposition. Smith learned that Armistead had applied twice—and been rejected twice—to the prestigious residency program at Norfolk Children’s. In the view of Smith, that fact alone explained why Armistead had not referred this child to Norfolk Children’s for further testing during the child’s first ER visit. It also explained why Armistead didn’t immediately transfer this child to Norfolk Children’s when she presented in critical condition at her second ER visit. Armistead had nursed a grudge against Norfolk Children’s all these years because they had snubbed him as a young doctor. And now this child, a pawn in his game, had paid with her life.

Nikki loved the approach. It gave some pizazz to an otherwise bland malpractice case. At the very least, it would allow them to attack the credibility of the main witness for the prosecution and, at the same time, inform the jury that Joshua Hammond was not the first child to die under this doctor’s care. It would be critical for the jury to have someone to blame other than the parents. As far as Nikki was concerned, she had found just the right person.

As she left the parking lot, the mastermind for the defense mulled over her newly minted theory. It
could
work, she decided. It just
might
create reasonable doubt. All she needed was a lawyer who could make it happen.

Since the defendant was a blue-collar redneck fundamentalist, he might appeal to the jurors who were farmers in the southern part of the city or blue-collar workers. But Thomas Hammond would also turn off all the liberals and minorities. To appeal to them, Nikki would need a lawyer with a little more color.

She would take care of that detail at her next stop.

Regent Law School was part of the elegant and sprawling campus of Regent University in the heart of Virginia Beach. The buildings were large brick structures constructed in the Colonial Williamsburg tradition and separated by acres of perfectly manicured lawns.

The law school’s mission was to train Christian lawyers to impact the world. Because of its unique mission, the school still struggled to gain national recognition. But the academic reputation of the professors and the quality of the students could easily stack up against the more prestigious national institutions with ivy-covered walls.

Nikki had spent little time on the campus of Regent Law School. The school was too stuffy for her taste, and frankly, the place gave her the creeps. She was on the opposite end of the political and religious spectrum from these folks. They were fanatics in her eyes, although she had to admit she actually liked a few of the graduates she knew.

But she had been doing a lot of strange things lately, a lot of things out of character. And now, for the sake of Stinky and Tiger, she was walking down the halls of the beautiful and ornate law school building and posing as a prospective student
(at least that’s what she told the admissions officer) on her way to observe the constitutional law class of Professor Charles Arnold.

She found room 104 and checked her watch. It was 11:05. She was only five minutes late, and she was pretty sure that no college or graduate school class actually started on time anymore. Especially in summer school. She grabbed the handle, flung the door open, and strolled into the classroom.

Thirty-five law student heads turned and stared in her direction. Unfortunately, the door she had just entered was at the front of the classroom, and the students were sitting in stadium-style elevated seats all looking down on her. Nikki felt herself begin to blush, then decided, as usual, to go on the offensive. She figured she knew more about the practice of law than the combined wisdom of these wet-behind-the-ear lawyer-wannabes anyway and quite possibly more than the man currently serving as their professor.

“Are you Professor Arnold?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes. And you are?” She could tell from the look in his eyes that he remembered her from court last week. It didn’t surprise her; people usually remembered the first time they met Nikki Moreno.

“I’m Nikki Moreno. I’m visiting the school. Thinking about becoming a lawyer.” She walked over to Professor Arnold, extending her hand.

He shook it. “Nice to meet you. Have a seat. We actually started five minutes ago.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Nikki climbed the stairs to the back row and watched in satisfaction as she turned the heads of a few male students. She slouched into her seat, propped her chin on her hand with a half smile, and gave the handsome Professor Arnold her most flirtatious look.

He was in lecture mode, looking debonair in a pair of stonewashed jeans and a golf shirt—a nice contrast to the expensive suit she remembered from court. He paced back and forth as he talked, never taking his eyes off the students.

“For your benefit, Ms. Moreno, we were just discussing a potential class project on a criminal case I have recently agreed to handle. A young African American named Buster Jackson was recently pulled over by the Virginia Beach Police and arrested for selling cocaine under circumstances that make me suspicious of racial profiling.

“Just before you, uh, entered the classroom, I was asking for volunteers to help with a sort of lab project. We’ve just been studying the Fourth Amendment prohibition against unreasonable searches and seizures. If Buster’s stop was racial profiling,
then it certainly violated the Fourth Amendment. As his lawyer, it’s my job to suppress any evidence seized illegally. But I’ll need statistical proof at a motion-to-suppress hearing. I had just asked for volunteers to help, reminding them that they will be jeopardizing their driving records and may have to testify at the hearing if they decide to sign up.”

Nikki nodded her head, never taking her gaze off the professor. This level of commitment to even a scoundrel like Buster Jackson only confirmed that Charles Arnold was the right guy for the Hammond case.

“So if I could have a show of hands of those who might be interested. I’ll send around a sign-up sheet but just wanted to get a feel . . .”

Hands darted up all over the classroom. Nikki noticed that all five of the African American students volunteered, as did a couple of Hispanics. The whites were about evenly divided. Nikki suspected there were some who secretly hoped their professor would lose.

“Thanks,” the professor said. “We’ll have plenty. Now let’s turn to the case of
State v. Cromwell
, page 409 of your text.”

While the pages shuffled, Nikki decided to make her play. Her hand shot up but appeared to go unnoticed. She cleared her throat a few times until some of the students turned around to give her disdainful looks. Professor Arnold tried to ignore her but finally gave in.

“Ms. Moreno?”

“Yes, um, I’m new at this constitutional law stuff. But I was just wondering, do you think that this guy Buster is guilty? I mean, do you think he really was selling drugs?”

Eyes began rolling up into foreheads all over the classroom. These were sophisticated law students aching to be aggressive lawyers. They could not afford the luxury of getting hung up on guilt or innocence.

“That’s a good question that many of us have wrestled with at some point,” the professor explained patiently. “But at the end of the day, it’s not a question for us to answer as criminal defense lawyers. Our job is to vigorously represent the defendant. That’s our only job. And part of that job is to ensure that the Constitution is followed.

“If you’re going to be a criminal defense lawyer, Ms. Moreno, then you must believe in your heart of hearts that it is better for ten guilty men to go free than for one innocent man to go to jail. If you can’t buy that notion, then maybe you should be a prosecutor.”

He turned back to his book, signaling his intention to move on. This time Nikki didn’t even bother to raise her hand. “So what you’re saying then, Charles—” he shot her a look—“I’m sorry, I mean Professor Arnold, is that a good criminal defense lawyer has to be willing to take cases that are unpopular?”

“Exactly,” the professor said.

“Even if you might dislike the defendant?”

“Yes,
particularly
if you dislike the defendant and
particularly
if there’s an overriding constitutional principle at stake.”

“Then let me pose you a hypothetical situation,” Nikki said, ignoring the professor’s sigh, “to make sure I understand this. Let’s say there’s a fundamentalist white redneck whom you don’t like as a person, but you’re pretty sure that he is being prosecuted for political reasons. Let’s just say that a deputy commonwealth’s attorney, who will probably run for the top prosecutor’s job in November, decides to prosecute this man simply because he failed to take his son to the hospital for medical help when his son first got sick. And let’s also suppose that the reason this man didn’t take his son to the hospital is because he has strong religious convictions against receiving any kind of medical treatment, which means there is an important constitutional principle at stake, namely the principle of religious freedom. Now let’s assume this hypothetical redneck asks you to be his lawyer.” She paused for emphasis—the whole class had turned and was looking at her, some shaking their heads. “Would you take that case?”

Charles smirked and shook his head too. “That’s quite an elaborate hypothetical, Ms. Moreno. And here’s my hypothetical answer: Part of being a good lawyer is realizing that you can’t personally handle every case, that you’ve got to trust the system to mete out justice in most situations. You can only pick and choose those cases where you would make the most difference. In this case, I would assume, hypothetically speaking of course, that our alleged criminal would have a public defender who could make the necessary arguments to ensure that justice was done. So you can therefore tell your hypothetical redneck friend, Ms. Moreno, that I would not be available to offer my assistance.”