Torn Between Two Lovers (15 page)

It was almost nine o'clock by the time I finished painting my garage and came in the house. I was tired but feeling good. My plan to rekindle my relationship with Loraine was in full swing. If I knew her, she was probably beside herself with grief right now, and it was only a matter of time before she'd be calling me to come be by her side.

I could think of a million reasons why she should have chosen me over Leon when she was given the chance, but instead of standing up for our love, she crumpled like tissue paper when Leon threatened to divorce her. I almost felt bad for Loraine now that I'd taken matters into my own hands. Things were going to be rough on her for a while, at least until I stepped in as her white knight.

I sat down on the sofa, sipping a drink and casually thumbing through some papers in a folder on my coffee table. Every time I flipped through them, a smile crept up on my face. This whole thing had almost been too easy.

My doorbell rang, which surprised me. Was Loraine so upset that she'd come racing to my house already? I knew my plan was good, but I hadn't expected it to work this fast. I looked down at my paint-stained clothes, wishing I had time to change before she saw me, but a loud, insistent knock made me close the folder and get up from the sofa.

I cracked open the door and was more than a little disappointed to see that it wasn't Loraine standing outside. “Can I help you?” I asked the two men before me, who wore dark trench coats and very serious expressions.

“Michael Richards?”

“Yeah. Who's asking?”

They flashed badges. “My name's Detective Tyndale. This is my partner, Detective Ryan. Can we step inside?”

Holy shit. Had Loraine called the cops on me? Why would she do that? And how the hell would she even know it was me?

“Sure, sure,” I said, fighting to maintain my composure. “What can I do for you? Is everything all right?” I stepped back and watched them enter my living room.

Tyndale spun around and faced me, while Ryan began wandering around the room. I wanted to ask Ryan what the hell he was looking for, but Detective Tyndale started in on me with questions, forcing my attention toward him.

“You know Loraine Farrow?” he asked.

I felt my stomach tighten in fear. So Loraine had spoken to the cops. This was not at all how I had planned for things to go down. “Yes, I know her,” I said reluctantly.

“You know her husband, Leon?”

“Yeah, of course I know him. What's this all about? Is Loraine all right?” My heart started pounding and my palms were sweating. This was a possibility I never thought of: What if Loraine became so distraught about Leon that she hurt herself? “Is she all right?” I yelled.

“Yes, Mrs. Farrow is fine.” Detective Tyndale's voice was abrupt and borderline nasty. “But you need to understand something. I'm asking the questions right now, okay?”

I nodded.

“Now, when was the last time you saw Leon Farrow?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“I told you I'll ask the questions.”

Things were getting more uncomfortable by the second. Maybe I hadn't thought out my plan so well after all. “Well, I know my rights, and I'm not going to answer any questions until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

Tyndale glanced over at his partner, who was looking through my bookcase. A smirk passed between them. Ryan said, “Well, if he doesn't know what's going on”—there was that smirk again—“then go ahead and tell him.”

Tyndale looked at me again. “We're investigating a shooting. Leon Farrow has been shot and—”

“What?” In all my fantasies about how my plan would come to fruition, I certainly never dreamed this moment, standing here having a conversation like this with the cops. My head was buzzing with confusion and panic. I felt trapped, and I knew they weren't going to share any more details with me to help me figure things out.

“I said Leon Farrow has been shot. Is something wrong, Mr. Richards? Something you want to tell us?” He was eyeing me suspiciously as he said it.

I instantly went on the defensive. “Like what?”

The detective gave me a hard stare and raised his eyebrows like he was just waiting for me to fuck up and say the wrong thing so they could arrest me.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “No way. You've got this all wrong. I didn't shoot anyone. I didn't kill Leon.”

Ryan approached me and stood close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. “But you've been known to threaten Leon, haven't you?” he asked.

His partner quickly added, “And you've been known to carry a gun, right?”

I looked from one to the other, wondering just how much they knew about me and the way I'd been pursuing Loraine. What had she told them about me?

“You do own a gun, don't you, Mr. Richards?” Tyndale barked at me.

There was no sense in lying about it. These guys were coming on too strong to not already know about the gun I'd purchased. “Yeah, I own a gun,” I replied quietly.

“What kind of gun?” Ryan asked.

“A twenty-two-caliber automatic.”

“Hmm, that's interesting. Leon Farrow was shot with a twenty-two.”

I felt my knees wobbling and had to reach out and rest my hand on the couch to keep from falling. This just kept getting worse.

“Something wrong, Mr. Richards?”

“No, no, this is all just a little surprising.”

Again he smirked.

“So where's your gun now, Mr. Richards?” Ryan asked.

“I threw it in the James River.”

“Threw it in the James River?” Tyndale repeated mockingly. “You don't expect us to believe that, do you?”

“Look, I know how this sounds, but it's the truth.”

Ryan chuckled, then started pacing around the room again. “You really must think we're stupid.”

Tyndale kept pressing me. “Where were you this afternoon?”

“I was here by myself. I spent most of the afternoon painting my garage.”

“Can anybody verify that?”

“No. I was here alone.”

He shook his head. “Mr. Richards, I really have to tell you this doesn't look good. Maybe we should finish our questioning downtown.”

“For what? I didn't shoot Leon. I didn't have to. His wife was gonna leave him today anyway.”

“Oh, really?” He looked at me like he thought I was delusional. “That's not what she told us.”

“Leon Farrow,” Detective Ryan said from across the room.

I looked in his direction and saw that he was holding the folder I'd left on my coffee table. As he opened it and read silently for a few seconds, I tried to imagine how things would play out if I tried to run.

“‘Dr. Roberta Marshall, psychiatrist,'” he read out loud, then looked up at me. “What are you doing with this file? This looks to me like you're in possession of some confidential medical files. Care to explain?”

I started sputtering. “I…I…” Shit, now I was really in trouble. “Um, maybe I need to talk to a lawyer before I answer that.”

“Yeah, maybe you do.” Detective Tyndale pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. You're under arrest for the attempted murder of Leon Farrow.”

Leon made it through surgery and had been moved to the intensive care unit. We were in the corridor outside his room, waiting for the doctors to finish checking him before they would allow us in. As we watched through the glass, I couldn't get over the number of tubes and wires trailing to his body from the IV bags and machines surrounding his bed. He'd survived the surgery, but he definitely didn't look good. All they'd told me so far was that he wasn't out of the woods yet. I was hoping the doctor would give me something a little more concrete when he finished his examination. Up until now, I'd tried to be optimistic, but after seeing Leon, I was starting to prepare myself for the worst.

I leaned against Jerome for support as I watched the doctors work on Leon, and imagined my life without him. Thank God I'd had my friends by my side throughout the night. Egypt had finally gone home around midnight to be with her husband and baby, but she was still constantly texting words of encouragement and checking in for updates. Jerome hadn't left me alone, and I was so grateful, because without him there, I would have spent the night beating myself up. It was my own selfish choice, the choice to be with Michael, that led to this whole tragic nightmare.

The doctors and nurses left Leon's bedside and started coming out of the room. My back stiffened and I started wringing my hands as I waited nervously for their prognosis.

The head doctor held out his hand, and as I shook it, he introduced himself and his team.

“I'm a friend of the family.” Jerome stepped in when he saw I was having trouble speaking. “How is he, Doctor?”

The doctor looked at me as if asking permission to share Leon's medical information. I nodded. “Well,” he started, “I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you. Your husband's condition is very critical. As you know, we removed three bullets from his chest. Two of those bullets were lodged in his lungs; the other barely missed his heart and a main artery. We lost him and brought him back a couple of times on the operating table. Right now we've got him on a respirator, but it's still going to be an uphill battle. He lost a lot of blood.”

I felt the remaining strength leave my body. Jerome wrapped his arm around me in an effort to prop me up. He asked the question I had in my mind but was unable to voice. “Is he going to make it?”

“Well, that depends. If he gets through the next twenty-four hours, then his chances will be better, but it's going to be a very long recovery. We can most likely keep him alive with a respirator.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Jerome cried out. I let out a sigh, but I couldn't share Jerome's elation. I knew how Leon would have felt about the doctor's news.

“He wouldn't want to be kept alive on a respirator.”

The doctors looked at me when I made my announcement.

“He signed an advance directive a few years ago when he came in here for some minor surgery. We both have them on file. Neither one of us wanted to be kept alive by artificial means. He said if it ever came to that, he'd want them to pull the plug.” Tears were streaming down my face as I said this. When we signed those papers, it had felt like a formality, just something they'd asked us to do in admitting before a minor surgery with minimal risks. I'd almost forgotten the directive existed, yet now I was faced with the reality that Leon's signature on that paper might mean death.

“You sure you want to do that, Loraine?” Jerome asked with an urgency to his voice.

“Well, unfortunately it might not be a question of what she wants, sir. If a patient has signed an advance directive, we are bound by law to honor his wishes.”

“But what if he changed his mind since then? She said he signed the papers a few years ago,” Jerome argued.

It was clear that things were about to get tense. The doctor defused the situation by saying, “Well, this isn't a discussion we need to have just yet anyway. It's too soon after the surgery. We need to give him some time to heal, and then we'll do a brain scan before we make any decisions or turn anything off.”

“Why a brain scan?” Jerome asked. “You said he got shot in his lungs.”

“He did, but we need to get an idea of his brain function; then we'll be better able to predict his chances of surviving without the respirator.”

“So you mean he might not die when you take the breathing tube out?” Jerome asked hopefully.

“No, he might not, but he's lost a lot of blood, so even if he does survive, it's likely he won't ever be the same person.”

“What do you mean?” Jerome snapped. “You trying to say he's gonna be a vegetable?”

“It's quite possible,” the doctor answered, and I couldn't take any more.

“Can we talk about this later?” My voice cracked. Tears welled up in my eyes once again, and I was finding it hard to breathe. “I can't deal with this right now.”

“Sure. Take some time to think about everything we've talked about. We'll go check his records for that advance directive. We'll come back and check on him in the next hour or two.”

The second they were gone, I turned to Jerome and burst into tears. “This is all my fault! I might as well have pulled the trigger myself. If I had just left Michael alone…I'm not staying here if he dies. I'm gonna go be with him.”

Jerome grabbed me and held me tightly in his arms. I could feel his tears soaking my shoulder. “Shhh. You're not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Everything's going to be okay.”

We stayed like that for quite some time, with Jerome's arms wrapped around me protectively. He alternated between crying with me and comforting me.

“Mrs. Farrow?” Detective Tyndale approached us. I sat up and wiped the tears from my face.

“How's your husband?” he asked respectfully.

“He's holding on, but the doctors say he still might not make it.”

“I'm really sorry to hear that. I just came by to share some news about the case.”

As much as I didn't want it to be true, what he told me next was what I'd already been expecting to hear.

“We found some evidence at Michael Richards's house that links him to the crime. We arrested him last night.”

If my stomach hadn't been empty, I would have regurgitated on the spot. There was no more denying it. I had cheated on my husband with a man who had ultimately tried to kill him. How could I have misjudged Michael so completely?

I wiped the tears from my eyes. “I'm prepared to give you whatever information you need to make sure that man is locked up for the rest of his life. He's taken everything from me.”

In a cruel irony, Jerome's cell phone started playing the song “Secret Lovers,” not exactly the song I needed to hear as I learned that my lover had indeed shot my husband. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and quickly silenced it, looking quite flustered.

“Excuse me while I answer this,” he said, and rushed away from us.

“Mrs. Farrow,” Detective Tyndale said, “you don't have to worry about anything. We have a mountain of evidence against Michael Richards. There's no way that guy is ever going to spend another day as a free man. Matter of fact, my partner and the assistant commonwealth attorney are making that very clear to him as we speak.”

It was little consolation. No amount of jail time would turn back the hands of time and make my husband whole again. I covered my face with my hands and wept. “This is all my fault. If I had kept my damn legs closed, none of this would have happened.”