Palindrome (2 page)

"Remarkably, none."

"What treatment do you plan?"

"I have her scheduled for reconstructive surgery the day after tomorrow. I want the swelling to recede a bit first."

"What is her state of mind?"

"She is lucid and calm. She has been since she was admitted. I want her to see a psychiatrist, but she insists on waiting until after the surgery. I rather doubt she's going to have much to say to him. She's very contained."

"Do you know why she asked for me?"

"No," the doctor replied, and something in his tone implied that he didn't understand it, either.

"Has she been photographed?"

"No."

"I'd like it done immediately. It will be embarrassing for her, but legally speaking, it's the single most important thing you can do for her right now. It should have been done before the ice was applied. You might make a note, Doctor, to photograph any patient with trauma inflicted by another person. The pictures will always be important later."

The doctor stood. "I'll see to it. You're right, I should have done it earlier." He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Ironically, she's a photographer, a rather good one."

Schaefer stood, too. "I'd appreciate it if you'd also give me a written description of her injuries and the treatment required and don't leave out the psychiatrist."

"I'll go and dictate that right now and messenger it to you."

"Who, besides you and me, knows she's here?"

"Only a man named Raymond Ferguson. He published a book of sports photographs of her. She asked me to call him, but he hasn't seen her yet."

Schaefer was surprised. "No family?"

"Her parents are both dead. I'm not aware of any other relatives."

"Is she married, Doctor?" Estes sighed. "Yes. To a man named Baker Ramsey."

Schaefer's eyebrows went up. "The running back for the Bobcats?"

"That's the one."

"Do you know him?"

"Yes."

"What do you think of him?"

"I once thought he was a fairly decent fellow. Recently, I've thought he was a jerk. Now, I think he's a monster."

The room was lit only by sunlight reflected onto the ceiling by drawn venetian blinds. It was more nicely furnished than most hospital rooms, but it was bare of anything connected with the occupant. There were no flowers, no clothes in the open closet, no books at bedside. There was only the long shape of a woman under the sheets. Most of her face was covered by dressings, and Schaefer was grateful for that. He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. Her eyes peeped out through slits.

"Ms. Barwick, I'm Albert Schaefer."

She spoke like a ventriloquist, her lips barely moving, but her voice was surprisingly strong. "Thanks for coming. Call me Liz."

"I'm Al. I was wondering why you asked for me."

"My own lawyer is Walter Hopkins. If I had asked Walt to handle this, he'd have written a strong letter, then he'd have written another strong letter, and in a couple of years we'd have a resolution. I want this matter resolved now."

"I understand. Please tell me what happened to you last night."

"My husband came home and tried to beat me to death."

"I see. Did you—please understand I have to ask some very blunt questions—did you provoke him in any way?"

"Yes. I told him I wanted a divorce."

"That was all?"

"Yes. He didn't seem to like the idea."

"Of a divorce?"

"No, just of my telling him I wanted one. You understand, he wasn't like this when I married him."

Schaefer got comfortable in his chair. "Let me get some background, just to help me get a complete picture. Are you originally from Atlanta?"

"No, from a small town south of here called Delano."

"How small?"

"A little under five thousand."

"What did your father do there?"

"He worked for the railroad, until they moved most of the operations to another town, then he retired."

"How did you end up in Atlanta?"

"I got a scholarship to the University of Georgia. I was a fine arts major there—photography."

"Ramsey played for Georgia; is that where you met him?"

"Yes, but I didn't know him well there. It wasn't until I moved to Atlanta after graduation and got a job as a photographer on the Constitution that I got to know Baker. I was on sports, and I began to see a lot of him. He was charming and funny and smart—not really what I'd expected a pro ball player to be. After about a year of seeing him, we got married."

"Am I tiring you?"

"No. You have to understand that Baker was different then, a different person. But he wasn't doing well on the team, and they were talking about trading him. That's when things started to change."

"Tell me about it."

"We'd been married about a year and a half when he started on an intensive weight program designed to put more muscle on him. He was tall, six-three, but light for pro ball—only about a hundred and eighty-five. The change in him was dramaticphysically and emotionally. He gained fifty pounds in an alarmingly short time. I read something in the paper about steroids, and I asked him about it."

"What was his reaction?"

"He hit me."

"Was this the first time?"

"Yes. Baker always had a cruel streak, I think, but he used it on the field and didn't bring it home often. But he was obviously on steroids by this time, and it changed him. He became incredibly aggressive on the football field—very hard to stop. The team stopped talking about trading him and gave him a new contract. But he changed off the field, too."

"He became more abusive?"

"More and more. I don't know why I took it for so long—some perverted sense of loyalty, I guess. I began living this peculiar, introverted life. I didn't see many friends, and all my energy seemed to go into just not making Baker angry. For the past two years I've been walking on tiptoe around him, and it was wearing me down. I had left the newspaper at Baker's insistence, and I was working on a book of photographs. I would hide out in the darkroom as much as possible. Foolishly, I kept hoping that he'd go off the drugs and be his old self again. Then, in addition to the steroids, Baker started using cocaine, and he became downright explosive. And that brings us up to this week."

"The other night, did he rape you, as well?"

"Yes, but I don't think it's necessary to go into that right now."

"I think it's better if you let me decide what's necessary right now."

"First, let me tell you what I want, and then you can ask me anything you think is pertinent, and I'll answer fully."

"All right, tell me what you want."

"I want an immediate divorce; I want a legally enforceable undertaking from my husband that he will never see or speak to me again; I want my personal belongings from the house; and I want a quarter of a million dollars in cash."

"Is that all? A quarter of a million dollars?"

"Oh, he's got a lot more than that, but I figure that's the maximum I can get from him without a fight, and I don't want a fight. I just want it over."

"What about your medical expenses? They're going to be considerable."

"I'm covered under his team medical insurance. Anything that doesn't pay, I'll handle out of my quarter of a million."

"I think your demands are modest. I don't see any problem in having them met right away."

"That's why I wanted you. I think the mere fact of your being my lawyer will intimidate Bake, make him move fast. You can add your fee onto the settlement."

"All right, I'll see what I can do. My fee is normally a third of the settlement, but I think we can achieve a net you'll be happy with. I've asked Harry Estes to have your injuries photographed right away, before you improve any more. I'm going to need those photographs."

"All right," she said evenly.

"I need a photograph of you before ... the incident, too."

"Call my publisher, Ray Ferguson, at Buckhead Press." She gave him the number. "He has a self-portrait I did for my new book."

"All right. I think I have all I need." He stood up. "Is there anything else I can do for you? Do you need anything?"

"Yes. When I get out of here, in a week or so, I'm going to need a furnished apartment for a few weeks. I'm going to need some clothes—jeans, size eight; a T-shirt; sneakers, size nine, just something to wear out of the hospital." She fumbled in a bedside drawer and held out some keys. "My car is in the parking lot downstairs; it's a silver Mercedes, the little convertible. I'd like you to sell it; it's less than a year old, get what you can. My safety-deposit-box key is on the key ring, too, number 1001 at the Trust Company Bank. Clean it out; the title to the car is in there; so is Bake's most recent financial statement. You should be able to use that to good advantage."

"Okay, I'll do all that." He scribbled his home number on his business card and left it on the bedside table. "Call me, day or night, if you need anything, anything at all. My secretary's name is Hilda; she's a wonder; use her as your own; I'll brief her."

"Thanks."

"You want me to call any friends?"

"No. No friends."

Schaefer walked to the door and paused. "You understand, of course, that this is not a conventional way to proceed, but your position is strong, and you have me on your side. I'm immodest enough to tell you that I don't think any other lawyer could pull this off without a lot of delays, but I think I can. If you don't care how I do it."

Something like a laugh came from Elizabeth Barwick, and she twitched from the pain in her ribs. "Believe me," she said, "I don't care how you do it."

Al Schaefer left the hospital parking lot and turned into Collier Road, listening to the hum of the twelve-cylinder BMW engine. He loved the sound, it helped him think. He thought now. At the Northside Drive traffic light, he tapped a number into the car phone and waited. The light changed and he drove on.

"Stillson, Immerling, Hoyt, and Thomas," a woman's voice said. Schaefer remembered the story, perhaps apocryphal, that the names Immerling and Hoyt had been transposed on the firm's original letterhead. That had been more than fifty years ago, and the legend still lived.

"Henry Hoyt, Junior, please," Schaefer said.

"Mr. Hoyt's office," a very serious secretary's voice said.

"This is Albert Schaefer. Let me speak to Henry."

"He may have already left for the day. May I ask what this is about?"

"Just tell him it's urgent."

"Who is it calling, again?"

"You heard me the first time. Put him on."

There was a pause while, Schaefer figured, Hoyt worried about the risk of snubbing him. Finally, "This is Henry Hoyt."

Schaefer deliberately skipped any pleasantries. "Henry, you still represent the Atlanta Bobcats, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Hoyt drawled.

"How long have you known me, Henry?"

Irritably, "I don't know, Al, fifteen years?"

"Do you know me to be a serious person, Henry?"

Near exasperation, "Yes, Al, you're a serious person." Hoyt had good reason to know, Schaefer reflected; he had carved the man, his forty-eight partners, and his two hundred associates into a pretzel shape seven years before, in a huge personal-injury verdict against the firm's biggest client. The case had tripled his billings.

"Well, I'm serious now, Henry. Last night, one of your most expensive ball players tried to murder his wife, whom I now represent."

Weakly, "What?"

"I won't keep you in suspense, Henry. It was Bake Ramsey."

Involuntarily, "Jesus Christ."

"He very nearly succeeded in the attempt. I've just seen the woman; she will never be the same again, physically or mentally."

"Who knows about this, Al?" Hoyt was recovering.

 "I know about it, Henry; everybody wants to know. I'm not sure how long I can keep a lid on it."

"It's a little early in the game for threats, isn't it, Al? You and I have to talk."

"You and I and Bake Ramsey, tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock in my office. Not a minute later. I don't want any team management there. I'll expect you to be authorized to act."

"I don't know about that."

"Oh, you've got plenty of time to explain it to them, Henry. If they balk, tell them that this attack probably took place because the team has been shooting old Bake up with steroids since well before last season."

"That's very dangerous talk, Al."

"It certainly is, Henry. Just two more things, then I'll say good night: I want you to tell Baker Ramsey who I am, just in case he doesn't know; then I want you to tell him that if he goes anywhere near his wife, I'll make sure he doesn't see the light of day for the next twenty years."

"Al..."

"Yes, Henry, I know; that's a threat. You just make sure Ramsey understands I can make good on it. I'll see you tomorrow at two. Schaefer hung up and gripped the steering wheel. Sweat from his palms seeped into the soft leather. Once in maybe three or four years, he got to talk like that to a senior partner in an establishment law firm. It was better than sex. Al Schaefer winged his way home.

CHAPTER 2

Raymond Ferguson sat next to the bed and looked at the sleeping Elizabeth Barwick. He was glad she was asleep; it gave him a moment to accustom himself to the transformation of the loveliest woman he knew into a swollen, discolored lump of flesh. He willed himself to stop feeling sorry for her—she would know it in a minute if he did, and she would hate him for it. He took a deep breath and touched her hand. "Lizzie? It's Ray."

She opened her eyes as much as she could. "Hey, Ray," she said. She sounded as if she were smiling. He fixed his eyes on hers as she pressed the button that raised the bed.

"I hear you're going to live."

"You bet. Have you got something for me?"

Ferguson smiled and produced a package wrapped in expensive paper. "First copy," he said.

She took the package and ripped it open, ignoring the beautiful paper.

"The Beauty of Sport," she read, "Photographs of Athletes by Elizabeth Barwick." She turned the pages rapidly, bringing the book close to her face. "The printing is gorgeous," she said excitedly. "You were right to take a chance on those people."