Resuscitation (19 page)

The man pointed to the note. “And that’s all I have to do is make the call, say that I’m Doctor Hastings, and follow these instructions?”

Julian nodded. “That’s it.” He leaned toward the man. “Any questions?”

The man thought for a minute. “None.”

As Julian turned, ready to walk away, the man grabbed his arm. “If ever you need me again, Bud, I’m always available to make an easy buck.”

The California Courts had imprisoned Simon Kwosokowski in Pelican Bay State Prison, a two-hundred-seventy-five-acre Supermax facility located in Crescent City, three hundred seventy miles north of San Francisco. It was home to some of California’s most dangerous inmates. Opened in 1989, half of the prison—an X-shaped cluster of buildings set apart by electrified fencing—was a Security Housing Unit, one of the first maximum security facilities in the country. Inmates confined to this area were held in isolation twenty-three hours a day and spent the remaining hour in a heavily guarded exercise area. Home to infamous gang members, rapists, and mass murderers, Pelican Bay State Prison housed the worst of the worst.

Fortunately for Sami, when she’d made reservations, she was able to coordinate a flight from San Francisco directly to Crescent City via a regional jet. When she arrived at Jack McNamara Field, a tiny airport by any definition, she could smell the ocean. The salty air seemed like the only characteristic this area shared with San Diego. She saw two small buildings, which she guessed represented the sum total of the airport.

A young man with a dark tan and thick accent whisked Sami and three other passengers to the main building in a golf cart. The building was slightly bigger than a two-car garage. The sky looked ominous, as if at any moment the clouds would open up and release sheets of rain. She saw one broken-down taxicab in front of the building and the driver was sitting in the front seat sound asleep.

Not wanting to stay overnight—she’d been careful when making reservations to be certain she could return to San Diego the same day—she carried no luggage, just an oversize handbag. She was uncertain whether or not to tip the polite young man, but saw one of the other passengers hand him some money, so she pawed through her bag, found her wallet, and handed the guy five bucks.

She gently knocked on the taxicab’s window and startled the sleeping driver. After a brief conversation, he agreed to drive her to the prison.

With proper ID, a lengthy explanation, notarized authorization documents from the lieutenant governor, and a series of endless phone calls made by the corrections officer stationed at the main gate, Sami managed to get through security. Getting into this gigantic fortress seemed a lot easier than getting out, Sami thought. In her second golf-cart ride of the day, the corrections officer shuttled Sami toward the warden’s office. She passed one concrete structure after another, one electric fence after another. The place looked completely abandoned, as if the corrections officer and she were the only two living beings in this complex of buildings. She knew, though, that behind these concrete walls, there lived quite another world.

Just when she thought the concrete structures would never end, she spotted a building that looked completely out of character and guessed that this was, among other things, the warden’s office.

The corrections officer had hardly spoken a word to Sami, and his silence continued as he led her into the building and onto the elevator. The warden’s office sat by itself at the end of the hall. The corrections officer knocked gently on the heavy-gauge steel door and waited for an invitation to come in. Once inside, he quickly retreated and left her standing just inside the doorway.

Standing up and making his way toward Sami, the warden, portly and bald, offered his hand. “Sebastian Marshall.” He vigorously pumped her arm. “So you’re the famous Sami Rizzo.”

“I think famous is a stretch, Warden,” Sami said.

“I’m sure a lot of people would beg to differ with you, particularly in San Diego.” He moved toward his desk. “Please have a seat.”

He wedged his wide hips into the leather chair. “May I ask you a rather personal question?”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to answer, but sure, go ahead.”

“I can totally understand why you would be compelled to witness Simon Kwosokowski’s execution, but why in the name of God would you want to visit him?”

“Because dead people can’t answer questions.”

“What questions?”

She wiped her clammy palms on the front of her slacks. “Let’s just say that Simon and I have some unfinished business.”

“I hope you clearly understand what you’re getting yourself into. Simon is a shrewd fellow and he can really get into your head and mess with your brain.”

She didn’t need the warden’s warning. She’d already played a little game of chess with him. “I appreciate your concern.”

“You do realize that you’ve been given a special privilege here, right? The only people authorized to visit a death row inmate are immediate family, priests, attorneys, and select law enforcement people.”

“I’m aware of that, Warden. And thank you for cooperating.”

“Don’t thank me. I lobbied against it when Lieutenant Governor Bertolino contacted me, but he’s not the kind of guy who takes no for an answer.”

Sami had met Bertolino at a conference in Sacramento a few years ago. For some reason, he took an immediate shine to her. To this day she wasn’t sure why. But she guessed either it was an Italian thing or he just liked woman with full hips and a generous ass. Whatever the case, she was happy she’d met him.

“One last question, Ms. Rizzo, and then you can shuffle off. Do you really think that getting into Simon’s head is going to benefit you in some way?”

“I guess I’m about to find out.”

Al, drained of energy, cranky, concerned, and utterly frustrated, succumbed to the overpowering urge and bought a pack of Marlboros at the local convenient store two blocks from the hospital. It had been a struggle, but under the circumstances, he could come up with a dozen reasons why he needed a cigarette. Al had always found it easy to justify his addictions. A short distance away from the hospital grounds, he paced back and forth, puffing on his fourth consecutive cigarette. He’d almost forgotten how soothing the raw smoke could be. He wondered how long before a bottle of Jack Daniels called his name.

He hadn’t heard from Sami and wondered how her mother was doing, and if Sami had, in fact, talked to Captain Davidson about being reinstated as a homicide investigator. Always supportive, Al hadn’t shared his true feelings with her, but the last thing in the world he wanted was to see her wearing a gold badge. He had never worked with a detective as competent and smart as Sami. Her sixth sense and keen ability to sniff out clues from the most obscure pieces of evidence always amazed Al. But that was then.

Since her life-threatening ordeal, and her foolhardy plan to apprehend Simon completely on her own, without backup and without a logical plan, Al had lost faith in Sami’s judgment. And his biggest fear was that someday, circumstances might compel her to make a similar mistake.

Then there was also the issue of her mother. Suppose she didn’t fully recover from the open heart surgery? What if she needed special care? Sure, Emily was a godsend, but by the end of the summer, she’d be employed and for the most part unavailable. And of course, Al couldn’t dismiss the possibility that Josephine could have another heart attack and die. How would that affect Sami’s judgment? Lots of questions, but few answers.

One burning question stuck in Al’s mind: Now that Sami and he were lovers, how could they possibly work together? Even if the captain assigned them to different precincts, it would be impossible to keep their distance. So how could they deal with the stress of detective work and maintain a productive personal relationship?

Al still wrestled with his feelings for Sami. Well, not really his feelings—he felt in his heart that he loved her—but relationships were not like Hollywood movies. Was there really a “happily ever after”? Relationships were about compromise and sacrifice, two things with which Al had little experience. He had never lived with a woman, nor had he been exposed to a child. He had no idea what it might be like. Maybe his love affair with her was a screenplay for a romantic tragedy.

Al’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts. “Alberto Diaz.”

“Mr. Diaz, this is Doctor Souza.”

Hearing the doctor’s voice, Al could feel his pulse racing. “What’s going on, Doctor?”

“Please come to your sister’s room as soon as possible.”

The corrections officer led Sami to a small room. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Somehow, this didn’t comfort her.

In this room, she saw a single chair placed in front of a panel of thick Plexiglas. Next to the Plexiglas, mounted on the wall, was a telephone. She sat on the chair, a knot growing at the base of her skull, her hands trembling.

What the fuck am I doing here?

At this particular moment, she wanted to be anywhere on the planet but here. Except for her ordeal awaiting crucifixion, she could never remember feeling so utterly terrified. But what was she worried about? He couldn’t touch her or physically harm her in any way. Of course, that wasn’t what she feared. The warden was right: Simon was a master at getting into your head. And once in there, he wreaked havoc with your mind.

She closed her eyes and flashed back to her ordeal. She could clearly see Simon’s Room of Redemption. The furniture. The bed. The concrete walls. She could smell the musty air and hear the dead silence. She could see Angelina sitting in front of the TV, not understanding what was going on. Sami remembered her long conversations with Simon, her attempts to outwit him. She had failed. He had gotten the best of her and at any moment—
God, my heart is pounding
—he’d walk through that door.

In a state of sheer panic, she stood up, now believing that she had made a huge mistake.

What was I thinking?

She could no longer deny the truth. Samantha Marie Rizzo was a coward. She was not the Super Cop the newspapers had labeled her to be. She was a weak, incompetent fool.

The door on the other side of the Plexiglas opened. Now feeling trapped, with no place to hide, Sami sat down and felt her pulse pounding in her temples.

This is it, girl. You’re screwed
.

Two corrections officers—one on each side—escorted Simon into the room. His ankles were shackled and his wrists handcuffed and secured to a thick link chain around his waist. He wore a standard issue orange jumpsuit. The long thick hair Sami remembered now looked like a crew cut.

Simon shuffled toward the chair and sat down. One of the corrections officers un-cuffed Simon’s right hand. He fixed his stare on Sami and smiled the warm smile of a blood relative who hadn’t seen her in years. For a few moments, neither moved. They sat quietly, eyes locked in place. Almost as if cued, they both picked up the telephones.

“Welcome to my humble home,” he said.

She didn’t say a word.

“I’m really surprised to see you here.”

“And why is that?”

“Maybe because I frighten you.”

“I think I’m fairly safe.”

“Are you? Are you really safe? Tell me I don’t haunt your dreams.” Simon tilted his head to the side and Sami sensed that he was about to pounce. “I dream about you a lot.”

She could actually feel her skin crawling.

“I think about what could have been,” he said.

She had no idea what to say.

The staring game continued.

“You’ve come a few days early. The festivities don’t begin until Friday at noon. No dress rehearsals and no rain checks.”

She didn’t want to exchange barbs with him. “Are you enjoying your brief stay here?”

“It’s like the Ritz. Twenty-three hours of solitary confinement, three gourmet meals a day, a warm shower, an hour of R and R, and the good ole boys have only tried to rape me twice.”

“Seriously?”

“Want to see the scars?”

“But you’re in solitary.”

“Not when I’m taking a shower.”

She felt no pity for him. “Prison life was never meant to be like a holiday, but—”

“Please, spare me the philosophical sermon. I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself.”

“Obviously not.”

“The three guys gumming their food might disagree.” He cranked his neck from side to side as if trying to get out a kink. “So, Sami, tell me why you resigned from the police department.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But you were supposed to be a female Dirty Harry. Why did you quit?”

She leaned forward, her face a few inches away from the Plexiglas. “You know you’re going to burn in hell, right?”

He ignored her comment. “You quit because of me, didn’t you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. They were personal reasons.”

“C’mon, Sami, let’s be honest here. I haunt your dreams, don’t I? You think about me every day and every night.”

“You are nothing more than a faint memory.”

“Oh, really? I have a theory that might interest you. I don’t think you’re a smart cop at all. In fact, I think you’re pretty damn stupid. Having dinner with a man you hardly knew. In his
home
? Honestly, Sami. Just how desperate were you? What were you thinking?”