Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 (12 page)

Yelling at the top of his lungs about how she couldn’t make him get stitches.

“Ma’am, he’s right. If the douche bag doesn’t want your help, go ahead and let him go to county with his injuries.”

I instructed Murphy to start his discharge processing, no need to waste the taxpayer’s money helping this piece of shit. Of course, all of this was said in front of Frances, who began to scream about his civil rights and how the nurses all sucked around this hospital. Something in me snapped and I reached around the nurse, moving her a safe distance away from him. Jerking the tubes and wires from his arms, ignoring his bitch-like screams.

“You hate the nurses here so much? Let’s get you the fuck out of here.”

I grabbed his shoulder, hauling him to his feet and passed him over to the uniformed cop, who moved him out of the room. Frances obviously wasn’t that hurt if he was causing all this shit.

Claire stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, though not looking at him as he was pushed past her. “I hate this one the most. Look at her, thinkin’ she’s better than me.” His hands were behind his back and he was glaring in Claire’s direction.

I moved forward, shoving him against a far wall. “Watch your fucking mouth, before I cut out your tongue.” Shoving him out the door and into the hall, Murphy taking him to a waiting squad car.

Clair motioned for me to cross the hall, returning to the room Lainie was still in. Gathered several supplies, moving with grace and ease around the room we were formally in, and placed them on the counter beside me when she was done. It was when she motioned for me to give her my hands that the odd feeling in my chest returned. When she physically touched me, something bizarre happened. My chest changed from the burning, bubbling sensation to complete calm. My entire body felt so relaxed, as if everything was going to be okay, unlike the mess, which was on his way to the station.

“I wanted to thank you,” she spoke; her voice pleasant, and I found I liked the sound of it.

“What for?”

“Helping Kitty.” She shrugged. “She was the nurse you moved away from the prisoner.”

I noticed she didn’t show him respect by referring to him by his name. She called him exactly what he really was.

“Yeah, well. The world would be a better place with a few less guys like that walking the planet.”

She nodded her head, but said nothing further. She cleaned my wounds with compassion and reverence, her eyes remaining on her task. I wondered if she did this with every patient, taking time to show a little humanity.

“There, all done.” She removed her gloves and stepped away.

“Thank you,” I told her, staring at my hands, now free from blood and dirt. “I guess I’ll see you around?”

She nodded her head, a thin smile on her face as she left the room.

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’

~Eleanor Roosevelt

M
y last semester in college, I was asked to take part in a study group which dealt with various forms of domestic violence. One of the directors pulled me to the side after class one afternoon, telling me she could see a desire in me to make a difference. She handed me a certification application. With this additional class and an online exam I would need to complete, I’d be able to perform exams on possible rape victims. This was exactly what I needed. I couldn’t help Cheyenne, but maybe, just maybe, I could help someone else who crossed my path.

When I applied to work at University, it was the one certification I had above the other applicants. Having that piece of paper in my file didn’t help with the anguish I felt every time a victim came into the ER, or the memories of finding my sister that would resurface each and every time. It didn’t help while I collected evidence, which could get tossed out of a trial by some slick attorney who colored his words just right to save his scumbag client of charges. What that certification did do for me was get me into a position where I could provide understanding, comfort, and care for the victims. Those victims, and helping them immediately after suffering their trauma, seemed to make a huge difference.

“Lainie, my name is Claire Stuart and I’m going to help you by checking you out and making sure you don’t have any injuries we need to fix.”

Rule number one: You never approached someone who had just been violated in such a sadistic manner, with anything except caution and assurance. You couldn’t make the act of violence they suffered go away, but you could hold their hand as they progressed through it.

Lainie was shaking like a leaf and I wished like hell I had some of Daddy’s moonshine to take the edge off for her.

“He didn’t touch me there. The cop pulled him away before he could.” She never looked at me as she spoke, instead twisting her fingers around the pale green hospital gown, which pooled around her tiny body.

“Would you be okay if I checked you anyway? I promise it will be quick, and I will take great care of you.”

Nodding her head, she scooted herself back on the table, the paper crinkling with her movement. No bruises or scrapes were present on her lower extremities. All of her injuries seemed to be contained to her face and upper arms. Bruises, which would fade slowly over the next few days and weeks, were temporary reminders, but the mental scars would never go away.

“It was a last minute decision to walk across campus.” The sounds of her inner battle with herself had started to rise to the surface, a stage in the grieving process she would have to endure. “I’ve been looking for a new apartment and I wanted to check and see if there were any on the next street.”

I scraped the contents from under her broken and chipped nails. By the style of the clothing she came in wearing and the matching toe and fingernail polish, Lainie was a girl who took care of her appearance.

“I just moved into a new place myself, not far from here.”

Under different circumstances, she would have been someone I would have gravitated to, perhaps befriended.

“I got lucky, meeting the manager when I first moved to Charleston. It’s the first real home I’ve ever had.”

She pushed her fingertips through her silky blonde strands; her hair nearly reached the middle of her back, falling in natural waves with perfect ends.

“I know the feeling. My daddy was incarcerated three days after I was born and Momma had a slew of men who wanted to use her and take what little money the State of Kentucky gave her for me.”

My eyes shot to hers and my gloved hand rested on the center of my chest. Shock and awe consumed my emotions. “What part of Kentucky?” My excited voice joined the change in emotion.

“Richardson.” Her expression now quizzical, guarded.

A slow smile framed my face. I knew the town she was from very well. I had passed through it as I traveled to the University I attended.

“Clarkson,” I admitted with joyous exclamation.

For the first time since her arrival, and if I was being honest, completely unexpectedly, her face transformed into a smile.

“So, where is it that you live?”

“Bentley townhouses, on Battery Street.”

Her eyes grew big in recognition of the area. Battery Street was one of the more well-known streets in downtown Charleston, acting as one of the arteries of the city. It was loaded with restaurants, shops, and tourist attractions.

Bentley townhouses were built on the site where, during the civil war, an ammunition depot stood. After the war, the owners built a boarding house and stables. The granddaughter of the original owners tore down the stables and enlarged the home. Although, she never seemed satisfied with the progress, no matter how much she added to the original house. She sold the property a few years prior to her death. Its current owners performed a complete makeover, hiring a designer who specialized in the time period of the house. They added subtle modern touches in the kitchens and baths, yet kept with the charm of the old South. Most of the locals knew of the Bentley property, it being one of the nicer townhouses in the area.

“Your daddy must really love you for you to live at the Bentley.” She scoffed.

She wasn’t the first to make this assumption. When I completed my personal information with the human resources, the lady who was helping made a similar comment. “Actually, my daddy, more than likely, was your daddy’s cellmate in prison.” Humor in the situation and in my attitude about his circumstances, were to blame for the smile I wore. “My uncle knew the manager over there. He introduced me before he passed away.”

Her eyes met the floor, hands returning to the stands of hair flowing down her shoulders. “I’m sorry…”

“Hey, you have no reason to be sorry. People assume because I live there, I’m sitting on an inheritance or something. It doesn’t bother me.” I shrugged while placing my hand on her arm. “So tell me, where are you staying now?” I dipped my head down to capture her attention.

“Um, over on Peters Road. My lease expires next week and I haven’t found anything in my price range.” Both hands were in her hair this time, the stress of what happened earlier and of being almost homeless marring her features.

“Listen, tomorrow I’ll talk to my landlady, Ms. Georgia, and see if she knows any places available. But for the next couple of days, how about you come and hang out with me in my hundred year old apartment.”

“Why would you offer to let me stay with you? Aren’t you worried about having a complete stranger in your home?”

I shook my head in disagreement. “Well, first off, you’re not a stranger; you’re my new friend Lainie Perry. As far as why I would offer, well, you and I seem to have a lot in common. Both of us come from bad situations, each trying to put some distance between us and Kentucky. Besides, I ain’t got a single thing of value in my whole house.”

The screaming of obscenities coming from the hall behind us immediately followed a loud crash. Her body flinched, retreating slightly. “I hate that man,” she spoke as if she were a small girl, recognizing the voice.

“I don’t think you have to worry about him. Detective Morgan seemed to have put quite the hurting on him.” I tried to reassure her as I gathered up the used items, tossing the trash into the lined can.

“Tell you what… I have a set of clothes in my locker that just might fit you. I have to give what you were wearing to the authorities. You’re welcome to use the shower.” I pointed to the closed door to her right. “Clean the night off yourself and I’ll be back shortly.” Dr. Gillman would still need to do a quick exam and sign off on her chart.

I should have avoided the room where
he
was being treated and continued down the hall away from the chaos. I had no real business or reason for my loitering. I had instructed Detective Morgan to stick around, but I didn’t think he would listen to me.

I watched him jerk the patient from the bed, ignoring his injuries and foul mouth and had to hold myself silent. I wanted to reach out and kick the living shit out of this man who inflicted such pain on a complete stranger, tell him to shut the fuck up, he was getting what he deserved.

Instead, I avoided eye contact; ignored the words he saved for me. My job was to heal the sick, not to stand in judgment of the crimes they committed, no matter how bad I wanted to. Speaking of healing the sick, I had a set of knuckles to attend to.

Something about Detective Morgan unnerved, yet comforted, me. Maybe it was his attitude when it came to his work. Or the way he gave this no nonsense approach to providing safety to those who couldn’t provide it themselves. Whatever it was, I liked the feeling I had in my chest when he seemed to be around.

Dr. Gillman finished his exam on Lainie, showing the tenderness he was famous for in the ER. He had her laughing at his stupid jokes, and even got a fist bump as he left the room.

Detective Morgan and Murphy still needed to question Lainie. She requested I stay in the room as they spoke with her.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary in the procedure, until the end. Morgan stood from his chair, pulled out a card from his wallet, and told her to call him anytime, day or night. “Ms. Perry, you don’t need to lose any sleep over this piece of dirt. I will testify as to what happened. He’s going to be spending several years in prison.” I noticed his belt buckle as he turned to place his wallet back in his hind pocket. An antique Texas Rangers shield. My younger brother had one he picked up at the flea market; it wasn’t in as good a shape as Morgan’s. A couple of points were missing from the center star of his.