DR. HAYANI watched the evening news with great interest. He read the papers and talked in great detail to his new wife about his famous patient. They sat in bed and watched it all again on the late news.
The phone rang as they were turning off the lights and preparing for sleep. It was Patrick, full of apologies, but in pain, and scared, and just needing someone to talk to. Since he was technically a prisoner, his calls were restricted to his lawyer and his doctor, and only twice a day each. Did the doctor have a minute?
Of course. Another apology for calling so late, but sleep was impossible now, and he was deeply upset by all the news and especially the suggestion that he killed that young kid. Did the doctor see it on TV?
Yes, of course. Patrick was in his room with the lights off, huddled in his bed. Thank God those deputies were in the hallway because he was scared, he had to admit. He was hearing things, voices and noises that made no sense. The voices were not coming from the hall but from within the room. Could it be the drugs?
It could be a number of things, Patrick. The medicine, the fatigue, the trauma of what you've been through, the shock both physically and psychologically.
They talked for an hour.
Chapter 17
HE DIDN'T WASH his hair for the third straight day. He wanted the oily look. He didn't shave either. For his outfit, he switched from the light cotton hospital gown he'd slept in back to the aqua surgeon's scrubs, which were very wrinkled. Hayani promised to get him new ones. But for today, he needed the wrinkles. He put a white sock on his right foot but there was a nasty rope burn just above his left ankle, and he wanted people to see this. No sock there. Just a matching black rubber shower sandal.
He would be displayed today. The world was waiting.
Sandy arrived at ten with two pairs of cheap pharmacy sunglasses, per his client's instructions. And a black New Orleans Saints cap. "Thanks," Patrick said, as he stood before the mirror in the bathroom and admired the sunglasses and prepared the cap.
Dr. Hayani arrived minutes later, and Patrick introduced one to the other. Patrick was suddenly nervous and light-headed. He sat on the edge of his bed, ran his fingers through his hair, and tried to breathe slowly. "I never thought this day would happen, you know," he mumbled to the floor. "Never." His doctor and his lawyer looked at each other with nothing to say.
Hayani ordered a strong depressant, and Patrick gulped down both pills. "Maybe I'll sleep through it all," he said.
"I'll do all the talking," Sandy said. "Just try and relax."
"He's about to," Hayani said.
A knock on the door, and Sheriff Sweeney entered with enough deputies to quell a riot. Stiff pleasantries were exchanged. Patrick put on his Saints cap and his new shades, large dark ones, and held out his wrists to be handcuffed.
"What are those?" Sandy demanded, pointing to a set of ankle irons a deputy was holding.
"Ankle irons," said Sweeney.
"I don't think so," Sandy said harshly. "The man has burns on one ankle."
"He certainly does," Dr. Hayani said boldly, anxious to enter the fray. "See," he insisted, pointing to Patrick's left ankle.
Sweeney pondered this for a moment, and his hesitation cost him. Sandy charged ahead: "Come on, Sheriff, what are his chances of escape? He's injured, handcuffed, surrounded by all these people. What the hell's he gonna do? Break and run? You guys aren't that slow, are you?"
"I'll call the Judge, if necessary," Dr. Hayani said angrily.
"Well, he came here with ankle irons," the Sheriff said.
"That was the FBI, Raymond," Patrick said. "And they were leg chains, not ankle irons. And they hurt like hell anyway."
The ankle irons were put away, and Patrick was led into the hallway, where men in matching brown uniforms grew silent at the sight of him. They gathered around him and the mob moved slowly toward the elevator. Sandy stayed to his left, gently holding him by the elbow.
The elevator was too small for his entire entourage. The ones who didn't make it scurried down the staircase and met them in the lobby where they reorganized and shuffled past the front reception and through the glass doors, into the warm autumn air, where a regular parade of freshly waxed vehicles awaited them. They put him in a sparkling new black Suburban with Harrison County insignia plastered from bumper to bumper, and away they went, followed by a white Suburban carrying his armed protectors. It, in turn, was followed by three freshly cleaned patrol cars. In front, two more patrol cars, the newest additions to the fleet, led the invasion as it cleared military checkpoints and entered the civilian world.
Through the cheap thick sunglasses, Patrick saw everything outside. Streets he'd driven a million times. The houses looked familiar. They turned onto Highway 90 and there was the Gulf, its calm brown waters seemingly unchanged since he left. There was the beach, a narrow strip of sand between the highway and the water, too far from the hotels and condos on the other side of the highway.
The Coast had prospered during his exile, thanks wholly to the surprising arrival of casino gambling. There had been rumors of its coming when he left town, and now he was riding past large Vegas-style casinos with glitz and neon. The parking lots were filling, at nine-thirty in the morning.
"How many casinos?" he asked the Sheriff, seated to his right.
"Thirteen at last count. With more on the way."
"Hard to believe."
The depressant was quite effective. His breathing became heavy and his body relaxed. He felt like nodding off for a moment, then they turned onto Main Street and he was anxious again. Just a couple of blocks now. A few more minutes, and his past would come roaring back to greet him. By City Hall, to the left, quickly now, for a glimpse of the Vieux Marche, and in the middle of the old street lined with shops and stores, a fine large white building he once owned a piece of as a partner in Bogan, Rapley, Vitrano, Havarac, and Lanigan, Attorneys and Counselors-at-Law.
It was still standing, but the partnership was crumbling within.
Ahead was the Harrison County Courthouse, only a three-block walk from his old office. It was a plain, brick two-story building with a small green lawn in the front next to Howard Street. The lawn was covered with people milling about. The streets were lined with cars. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks, all headed for the courthouse it seemed. Cars ahead pulled over as Patrick and his caravan came through.
The horde in front of the courthouse moved in a frantic wave around both sides, but was stopped by police barricades at the rear where a section was cordoned off. Patrick had seen several notorious murderers rushed to and from court through the back door, and so he knew exactly what was happening. The parade stopped. Doors flew open and a dozen deputies spilled forth. They crowded around the black Suburban. Its door slid open slowly. Patrick eventually appeared, his aqua garb quite the contrast to the dark brown uniforms squeezing around him.
An impressive mob of reporters, photographers, and cameramen gathered breathlessly along the nearest barricade. Others behind them ran to catch up. Patrick was immediately aware of the spotlight, and he lowered his head and crouched among the deputies. They walked him quickly to the rear door, a barrage of idiotic questions flying over his head.
"Patrick, what's it like to be home!?"
"Where's the money, Patrick!?"
"Who burned up in the car, Patrick!?"
Through the door and up the back stairway, a brief journey Patrick had sometimes taken when he was in a hurry to catch a judge for a quick signature. The smell was suddenly familiar. The concrete steps had not been painted in four years. Through a door, through a short hallway with a crowd of courthouse clerks gathered at one end gawking at him. They put him in the jury room, which was next to the courtroom, and he took a seat in a padded chair by a coffeepot.