2

“She left the baby in front of the neighbor’s door,” Stout said.

“No kidding?” said the middle-aged nurse who had heard the story before in a dozen different forms and was only trying to make conversation.

“She’s lucky she isn’t dead,” the policeman said.

The nurse agreed, even though she did not really care. Dr. Tucker was coming down the hall. The policeman was going on. Something about a note the girl had left before taking all those pills. She smiled at Dr. Tucker when he passed by.

Dr. Tucker nodded at the nurse. He was at the tail end of a hard day. One last patient and then home.

“The neighbor says the husband left her when she got pregnant. Then she was depressed after the baby came. They thought she’d gotten over it this summer.”

“Maybe it was the change of seasons. I read someplace…”

Dr. Tucker missed the nurse’s theory. I’ll have to ask her someday, he thought. Change of seasons. As good as any theory about why humans try to destroy themselves. What was this one anyway? Caucasian, female, 22. He shook his head. What could be so bad that young? Well, it didn’t matter now. She would be all right. Maybe they shouldn’t try so hard to save some of them. It was their choice. Maybe this one would have been better off.

The door opened and Dr. Tucker looked over his shoulder. A tall, sad-looking man in a heavy overcoat had entered the room.

“Can I help you?” Dr. Tucker said, annoyed at the intrusion.

“I’m Detective Shindler, Portsmouth Police. I wanted to know how she is.”

Dr. Tucker was about to reply when the girl moaned and opened her eyes. They were still glassy and she was having trouble holding her eyelids open. Shindler moved closer so that he could see her.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked in a voice he hoped sounded cheerful.

She was trying to work her lips. Dampening them with her tongue. It took effort to talk and she closed her eyes for a moment to gain strength. When she finally spoke, it came out slurred and barely audible and it sounded like “Is dead?” but Shindler couldn’t be sure.

The doctor leaned forward and tried, “Your baby is fine,” but she just stared at him with a confused look. Then she began to weep.

“He had no face,” she cried. Her tears streamed onto her pillow. Shindler felt a cold finger touch the base of his spine. Dr. Tucker was exhausted, but he summoned his reserves and tried to comfort her.

“They wouldn’t let him go. They just hit him.”

“No one struck your son, Mrs. Pegalosi. Your baby is fine. He is perfectly okay.”

She was confused again. She stopped crying and shook her head from side to side.

“No baby. Dead. They hit…didn’t he? Died. Oh, God.”

She was off again. Dr. Tucker sighed. Shindler moved to the edge of the bed.

“Esther, was it Richie?” he whispered.

The doctor swung around. He had forgotten about the detective.

“You’ll have to leave.”

“Was it Richie?”

“Hey,” Tucker said sharply, “you’re out.”

“So much blood,” Esther sobbed.

“Doctor, I…” Shindler began.

“I said out. This girl is in serious condition.”

Shindler looked down at the girl. Her head lolled to one side and she was asleep. The doctor pushed him through the door.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but…”

“I’m sorry,” Shindler interrupted.

“You should know better than to carry on like that.”

“Doctor, I said I was sorry and I meant it. Now, I have to talk to you. That girl may have important information concerning a homicide. Could we talk for a few minutes?”

Mark Shaeffer opened the door to misdemeanor arraignment court and found a seat in the back of a crowded courtroom presided over by a young judge who was in the process of reading an elderly black man his rights.

“Do you understand that you have a right to have a lawyer appointed if you cannot afford to hire one, Mr. Dykes?”

“What I need a lawyer fo’ if I didn’t do nothin’? I been tellin’ you, I’m innocent.”

“Mr. Dykes, this isn’t a trial court. The only purpose in having you in court today is to tell you what you are accused of, to ask you if you have a lawyer and to find out if you want to plead guilty or not guilty. You are charged with assault and that is a serious crime. You should have a lawyer to represent you in court.”

“But see, that’s what I been tellin’ you. I ain’t done no assault. It was my bottle of wine and when I wouldn’t give that no good skunk some he grabbed me. So I natchally hit him. But it was my wine.”

“Mr. Dykes, I don’t want to hear the facts of your case now. I am going to appoint a lawyer to represent you.”

The judge turned to a policeman who was standing in front of a door that led out of the courtroom and into the courthouse jail.

“Officer Waites, is this man in custody?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Dykes was standing in front of one of two tables that were set before the raised bench where the judge sat. A young man sat behind the second table, which was covered with files. The judge turned to him.

“Mr. Caproni, what is the position of the District Attorney’s office on letting this man out of jail on his promise to return?”

Caproni searched his files and pulled one out.

“Your honor, the recog. officer interviewed Mr. Dykes last night and he recommended that he not be released on his own recognizance, because he could not provide him with a residence address.”

“Mr. Dykes, where are you living?”

“Now I’m at the Mission, but I wants to get to the DuMont Hotel. Only I ain’t got the money now.”

“Your Honor, in light of the seriousness of the charge and Mr. Dykes’s transient status I would request that Mr. Dykes not be granted recog. According to the police report, William Thomas, the victim, required twelve stitches.”

The judge’s brow furrowed and he thought for a moment. Then he sighed.

“I suppose you are right, Mr. Caproni. Mr. Dykes, I will appoint a lawyer for you and continue your case until tomorrow morning.”

“You mean I got to stay in jail?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But I ain’t done nothin’ and that skunk Willie Thomas knows it.”

“We will take this up with your lawyer in the morning.

“Bailiff?”

An elderly man sitting at a table to the judge’s right called a new case as Mr. Dykes was escorted back to jail.

“State versus Rasmussen.”

Mark stood up and approached the table where Mr. Dykes had stood. The door to the jail opened and a grubby-looking man in his middle twenties, dressed in a tee shirt and jeans, was being led out. He had a stubble of light blond hair and he gave off the unwashed, urine smell that all new arrestees who have spent the night in the drunk tank exude.

“Your Honor, I am Mark Shaeffer. I was just appointed to represent Mr. Rasmussen this morning. I wonder if I could talk to him for a few minutes before entering a plea.”

“Certainly. There is an interview room in the jail. We’ll call another case while you talk.”

“State versus Marsha LaDue,” the bailiff said. The jailer led Rasmussen back to jail and Mark followed. A well-dressed young woman and an equally well-dressed older man with a briefcase were approaching the table.

The jailer put them in a small room with a table and two bridge chairs and locked the metal door behind him. Mark opened his attaché case and took out the case file.

“Mr. Rasmussen, my name is Mark Shaeffer and I have been appointed to represent you.”

Rasmussen’s hand was damp when they shook. He grinned sheepishly and ran his hand through his hair.

“I guess they got me good. I thought for sure that I could make it home. That damn cop got me a block from my house.”

“Before you discuss the facts of the case with me, I should tell you the legal definition of “Driving Under the Influence of Intoxicating Liquor.” You may think that you have violated the law, but…”