White Sister (30 page)

Then Sally Quinn appeared at the back of the ambulance and showed the sergeant her badge.

"I'm his partner," she said, looking past him at me.

"You can't talk to the suspect," Riley said. "Step back. The sixth floor is all over this, so we're gonna do it exactly right."

At that moment, his shoulder radio squawked his name and he pushed the transmit button and said, "Whatta you got, Kyle?"

"Deputy Chief Ramsey is sending two fifth-floor guys over to County-USC to interview Scully. Ramsey wants him transported pronto," Kyle's voice buzzed through the speaker. Then he added, "Deputy Chief says don't let anybody near him. Strict isolation."

"Shane, I'm coming with you," Sally said, moving forward.

"The hell you are. Step away, Detective," Sgt. Riley barked, blocking her with a beefy arm. He already knew he'd caught a potential career-ending red ball and that any slight deviation from orders would get him body-slammed with a reprimand and, depending on sixth-floor politics, even a possible mandatory retirement.

Sally stepped back as the sergeant triggered his mike. "Get your ass back here, Kyle. We both gotta ride with this guy during transport."

What the hell had happened inside that theater? I wondered. The whole thing was white noise in my head. I couldn't even come up with a half-assed story to save myself.

In less than a minute, the second cop, Kyle, pushed past Sally Quinn, climbed into the ambulance, and pulled the door shut, taking my worried partner from view. He was tall and slight of build with a narrow chin. The two chevrons on the sleeve of Kyle's uniform identified him as a Police Officer Two.

"Let's roll," Riley said.

The EMT knocked on the panel between the truck and the cab and in a second we were in motion, heading toward the county jail with my future in serious doubt.

Chapter
46.

THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR jail ward at USC Medical is a county facility policed entirely by the Los Angeles Sheriffs Department. My experience over the years has been that the deputies there seemed to delight in making their brother LAPD officers wait with their prisoners for as long as humanly possible before checking them in and providing treatment. I figured I was in for a long, frustrating night.

Attempting a clandestine arrival, my police guards instructed the ambulance driver to swing around to the rear of the hospital where we could pull up to a long, poured-concrete loading dock with a wide setback that allowed forklifts to move medical supplies back and forth to the freight elevators. I was being whisked in the back way to avoid media contact.

During the short trip over here, I'd learned that Sgt. Emmet Riley worked out of the Central Traffic Bureau. He had already begun to treat me with unpleasant disdain. I had already pegged him as a department loser. If you're a fifty-year-old sergeant and stil
l w
orking traffic, something is pretty wrong. He looked like a drinker just clocking time until he got in his thirty.

When we pulled up to the loading dock and the back doors opened, two deputy sheriffs and a watch commander were already standing there with a wheelchair. It looked like there would be no waiting around tonight. A cop in custody is a big deal and I could already tell that the anxiety level surrounding my bust was amping up. Everybody was determined that this was not going to cost them career momentum or days off.

I'd been around this kind of thing before. Once over in Rampart, I was in the stationhouse when a patrol cop charged with rape, was brought in for booking. As soon as he was escorted inside the station, the energy in that shop started arcing off the walls, threatening to zap anybody who got it wrong. Now it was happening to me.

The EMT got ready to pull out the stretcher. I looked back and saw that my little mini tape recorder had fallen on the floor and was clearly visible up against the wall. I sat up, swung my legs down over the gurney, and managed to kick the unit out of sight under an equipment rack in the back of the truck.

"Get the wheelchair," the sheriff's watch commander ordered one of his deputies, while the other one recuffed me, this time with my hands behind my back. The watch commander pointed to the wheelchair and I stood carefully, fighting a dizzy spell as I got into it.

"I'm Sergeant Armando Padilla," he informed me. His dark, Hispanic features were stern and showed no concern for my plight. "You're being transferred into Sheriff's Department custody. The LAPD arresting officers will stay with you, but while you're in my custody, we do things my way." He looked at me, then over at Riley and Kyle. "Everybody Jake on that?"

"Listen," I said. "I didn't
"

"Shut up," he ordered. "I don't want to hear anything from you. I don't care what your sad story is. I just wanta know you're on board with this and aren't gonna cause problems. Are we Jake?"

"We're Jake." I couldn't remember the last time I had heard that expression.

"Your division commander and two guys from Homicide Special named Sepulveda and Figueroa are on their way over. They'll do the initial field interview. Until then, I'm going to get you checked in and looked at by the docs on thirteen. You will be isolated for the moment. No calls or visitors. Do exactly as I tell you and we'll get along."

He was so tense, I could see no advantage in putting up an argument. This guy just wanted me in and out of his custody without incident as fast as possible. As far as all of these cops were concerned, I was little more than a career problem with feet.

"Okay," I said.

Padilla looked over at Sergeant Riley. "Gimme the transfer documents. You can sign him over and I'll take custody down here."

I waited for a minute while they both signed papers on a clipboard. Padilla took the MT log from the paramedic and looked at his two deputies.

"Okay, let's move him."

One of them took wheelchair handles and pushed me across the loading dock into an empty freight elevator. The wooden door rolled down and we began to ascend to the first-floor lobby.

On the way, Padilla addressed his two deputies. "When we get up to the lobby, I want you guys to clear the first floor from the admitting desk to the elevator. Nobody gets into that hallway while we're transferring him to the jail elevator. Call upstairs to thirteen and get everyone who doesn't need to be in admitting out of there."

"Right," one of the deputies said.

"Any press here yet?" Sergeant Riley asked.

"Right now, just a photo stringer who hangs out hoping Nick Nolte or some other Hollywood notable gets led in here in handcuffs. But that's about to change, 'cause two RAs just called base. They're bringing in a couple a rappers who got shot at the El Rey. One's critical. This place is gonna turn into media central. Our job is to make sure Scully stays off the news."

"We'll throw a blanket over it," Riley said. But there was a distinct lack of confidence in his voice.

"What rappers got shot?" I asked, wondering again, What had I done inside that theater? Nobody answered my question.

While the deputies stood guard, I was quickly wheeled through an empty hospital lobby and transferred to the jail ward elevator. We rode up in silence. When the doors opened on thirteen, I saw that the admitting room had been cleared and was almost empty. I was a disgraced and handcuffed media star being moved through a cloud of negative expectations.

I'd been to this floor to get arrestees treated countless times before, but now it was very different. This time there would be no hanging around, or waiting to get processed. Two white coats were waiting as I rolled off the elevator. The doctor in charge had a strong chin, blue eyes, and gray-black hair the color of lead.

"I'm Doctor Larimore," he said, with no trace of courtesy. He turned to Padilla's deputy and said, "Put him in Ob Two, Larry. The last one in the back."

As quickly as that, I was wheeled through a metal door to the accompanying sound of a buzzing lock. Then I was whisked down a white corridor toward the rear of the facility where the lone isolation treatment cell was located. I could smell fresh paint mixed with the odor of antiseptic. We rolled past a series of closed doors where the feral eyes of injured prisoners peered out from behind wire glass windows, watching my progress. There were half a dozen deputies in attendance, called in, I assumed, for my benefit.

I was wheeled inside the small treatment room and parked. Sergeants Riley and Padilla came in, followed by Doctor Larimore and his white-coated colleague. The room had one window, facing west, toward the ocean. The view was protected by heavy chain link affixed to the outside wall of the building.

"How's your head?" Doctor Larimore asked, perfunctorily.

I contemplated a suitable response, but all I could come up with was, "It's had better nights."

"Okay, Detective, I need to do a quick neurological exam. If I determine that we need an MRI or Sonic Imaging, we'll do tha
t n
ext. Hopefully, it's just a standard concussion with no important or lasting aftereffects."

"Hopefully," I said, wondering when the rest of my memory would return.

He took out a penlight and shined it into my eyes.

"The EMT's radio call said his pupils were dilated. You have the paramedic's FTR?"

"Right here," Padilla said, and handed the Field Treatment Report to the doctor.

He glanced it over, then said, "Okay. This is promising. The dilation is way down now, almost normal." Then he looked at me. "How's your vision?"

"I was having some double vision a while back, but it's stopped now."

"Good."

He held up three fingers and thankfully, I saw three and told him so.

"Can you remember where you live?"

"Venice."

"The complete address, if you can."

"Three thousand Grand Canal Court."

"Any gaps? Stuff you can't remember, specifically around the time of the trauma? Often with this kind of thing, there'll be some temporary memory loss surrounding the incident."

"I remember everything," I lied.

I already knew this case of amnesia was going to be a big problem. For the time being, I had to at least act as if I had a memory of what had happened. If the cops knew I had no recollection, and one of those rappers actually died, then the District Attorney could put any case he wanted on me
including murder. Nobody would alibi me and with no memory, I had no way to dispute anything.

"I think he's stabilized, but we'll keep him in isolation until tomorrow, just to be safe," Doctor Larimore said.

"I guess me and Kyle can split," Sergeant Riley said, wanting to be rid of me.

"You better stay until his division commander and those two homicide dicks get here," Padilla said, then looked at the doctor. "Is it gonna be okay for them to interview him?"

"Yeah, sure," Doctor Larimore said. Then he turned to me. "If you have any nausea or light-headedness, I want you to ring that buzzer next to the bed. We'll check in with you every forty minutes or so."

I thanked him, and he and the other doc, who had been silent the entire time, turned and left the room. Riley and Padilla remained behind for a minute.

"Okay, Scully," Padilla said. "I'm sure you've been up here and done this a bunch yourself, but for the record, here's the drill. As I already told you, you're in Sheriff's Department custody. I don't expect you'll be here long, but while you are, I want your continued cooperation. Your people can talk to you, but any decision that affects custody is mine. Are we Jake on that?"

"Jake," I nodded.

Then, without saying another word, Sergeants Riley and Padilla stepped out of the room. The door buzzed and I was locked up and alone.

The next half-hour was filled with tests. Nobody bothered to tell me the results. All I could think about was Alexa. I had to find a way to get out of here before they operated on her at ten a
. M
. I knew I couldn't do anything but sit in the waiting room at UCLA and pray. I knew my presence wouldn't change anything, but I had an overpowering need to be there just the same. It was as if missing Alexa's operation would spill over everything and guarantee a bad result. Unfortunately, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it would be next to impossible to make bail and get my arraignment set in time.

Once I was returned to the isolation cell a wave of depression
-
produced fatigue overcame me so suddenly that I could not keep my eyes open. I just couldn't take one more blow or disappointment. All I wanted to do was run and hide. In a surge of either self
-
pity or self-preservation, I started to shut down. I lay back on the bed, closed my eyes, and mercifully fell asleep.

My dream took me back to Antigua. Alexa was in my arms and my heart ached with love and longing. We knew we had the whole world to play in. Our future stretched out before us like a ribbon of adventure and opportunity. We laughed as we walked into the glittering surf, splashing the water as we went, marveling at how lucky we were. Our bodies were washed by the surf and kissed by the sun. There was nothing but good times and blue skies ahead.

Chapter
47.