Storymania - No Team To Root For by B J Bloch

No Team To Root For (34)
B J Bloch

*



XLIX

   The shade was up on the only window in Gordon Slade's office and Slade was seated behind his desk watching the rain as it poured down steadily on his prison. The temperature had dropped into the mid fifties so it was not a typical first day of summer. However, the thermometer in the office read a comfortable seventy-two degrees.
   Richard Kramer sat in the same chair Barrett Jessop had occupied four days ago.
   The two men were silent for several minutes. Finally Kramer said wearily, "I just came from Trinity Hospital. You know Barrett Jes-sop was admitted there yesterday." He waited for a reaction. When he got none, he went on. "It's really pathetic. He just lays there flat on his back with a jillion tubes coming out of him. He doesn't know who he is or where he is. He doesn't move. He doesn't talk." Again he waited for a reaction. And again he proceeded without one. "As a man of medicine I've seen lots of people that were in a coma. But this one bothers me. I can't help it, I feel sorry for the poor bas-tard!"
   Richard, why are you telling me all this?" Slade yelled at the rain. "Just what the hell do you expect me to do?"
   Kramer was more enraged than shocked. "Showing a little com-passion for a fellow human being would be a start."
   Slade turned to Kramer and spoke with resentment. "Look. I don't give a shit about Barrett Jessop one way or another. I will not get personally involved with anyone at this prison!"
   "Gordon, you're an altruistic son-of-a-bitch! You know that?"
   "What you or anyone else in this universe thinks of me is immate-rial."
   "I've got a damn prison to run. If I played nursemaid to the men behind these bars, they'd forget why they're here and I'd never get anything accomplished. These men are beneath contempt. And that's exactly how they'll be treated!"
   "There are those who would dispute that callous statement." said Kramer.
   "And those are the same misinformed misguided idiots who be-lieve in rehabilitation. I say fuck the lot of 'em!"
   "You're all heart, Gordon."
   There was more silence. Slade turned back to the rain.
   "So tell me, Gordon." Kramer took off his glasses and held them up to the light from the window. Then he quickly put them back on. "Which one of your hatchet men turned out Jessop's lights?"
   "If you're referring to the men in uniform, they're called guards not hatchet men."
   "Okay, I'll rephrase the question. Which one of your guards is re-sponsible for Jessop's present condition?"
   "What makes you think it was a guard?" Slade adjusted his tie and smoothed out the lapels on his jacket. "Maybe it was another prisoner."
   "Oh --- that's certainly possible, but I don't think --- "
   "Maybe he fell down a flight of stairs."
   "Highly unlikely."
   "Or --- maybe he was playing gin rummy. I hear it's a rough game."
   "Cut the crap, Slade! I saw him right after it happened, okay? Someone really did a number on him." The physician's tone became condescending. "Now we both know those injuries of his were in-flicted by one of your men. I'm just curious as to which one it was."
   Slade waited a while. Then he answered evenly. "August Fletcher."
   "By God!" Kramer hit his knee with the flat of his hand. "I should have known it was him!"
   Then he pointed his finger at Slade and raised his voice. "And I'd bet my house and car that he was the son-of-a-bitch behind Jessop's brutal attack three weeks ago."
   Slade shrugged disconcertingly. His expression remained impas-sive. "Maybe."
   "Maybe hell!" Kramer sat forward in his seat and lowered his voice. "Gordon, you know as well as I do that this isn't the first time Fletcher has hurt someone. Now damn it! You're gonna have to take some kind of action against him."
   The warden hesitated before he responded. "I am. I'm going to dismiss him."
   Richard raised his eyebrows. "Really!"
   "I don't want to but I feel it's best for all concerned."
   "Well," Kramer smiled. "maybe there's hope for the future after all."
   Slade turned slowly towards Kramer and snickered. "I knew you'd be happy to hear it."
   "Happy? I'm ecstatic! That degenerate should have been fired long ago."
   "I know what he is. But he does his job." Slade leaned in, his hand still against his cheek. "And say what you will. I've had virtu-ally no discipline problems since he started working here."
   "Do you consider beating prisoners a part of their discipline?"
   Slade sat back in his chair. "We don't beat prisoners here, Rich-ard."
   "What? Since when?"
   Slade cleared his throat quickly. "Sometimes a guard has to exert a little force to keep a convict in line. Inmates must not be allowed to take control. That would result in utter chaos." Then he turned rapidly to Kramer. "But they are never beaten!"
   "Is that a fact?" Kramer brought his chair closer to the desk. "What about Barrett Jessop? Was he planning to take control? Or was he just being --- kept in line?"
   "Don't get cute, Richard! That was an exception and you know it!"
   After a short pause, Kramer said calmly. "So I assume there won't be any formal charges or a formal investigation."
   "Your assumption is correct. I'm not going to make any more out of this than necessary. Like I said, I've got a prison to run. And the last thing I need is dissent."
   "So, no investigation, no charges, and no justice." Kramer shook his head in disgust. "Gordon, somehow the punishment --- or lack of it --- just doesn't seem to fit the crime."
   "Look, Richard." Slade narrowed his eyes until they were slits. "August Fletcher is sixty-one years old. He's uneducated. He has no basic skills. There is no way in hell he'll ever find a job like this. That's assuming he can find a job, period!" Slade put his thumb out. "He has an excellent salary." He added a forefinger. "He has a pro-jected pension." He added a third finger. "He has good insurance." He added a fourth finger. "He has security." Snide folded his hands on the desk exposing his birthmark. "Now he'll have shit! He could easily end up sleeping on the street!"
   He looked Kramer directly in the eye. "I'm sorry, Richard. But I think the punishment does fit the crime."
   "Well, Gordon, I disagree." He put his hand up before Slade could object. "But you're the warden. You handle it your way."
   "Damn right I'll handle it my way!"
   "But I'll tell you something, Gordon." said the angry physician. "If it were up to me, I'd take everyone of them damn guards you got and string 'em all up by their balls!"
   "Well, Richard," Slade had both hands flat on the desk. The birthmark was still on display. "it isn't up to you, is it?"
   Slade turned back to the window and once again watched the rain which was letting up and becoming a weak drizzle.
   "And what if Jessop doesn't make it?" added Kramer. "Which happens to be a strong possibility. Then what?"
   "I'll cross that bridge if and when I come to it."
   "Because if that occurs, then August Fletcher --- "
   "Listen, Richard!" Slade turned abruptly to the physician. "I'm getting sick and tired of defending my position here!" His hand automatically went to his cheek as he spoke. "And I'm through dis-cussing August Fletcher. He's out and that's it!" Slade pulled down the shade and turned on the light. "I hate rain." He mumbled it low almost to himself.
   After several more minutes of silence, Kramer stood up and donned his lightweight wool jacket. Then he took an old worn out cap from the jacket pocket and out it on.
   "You know, Gordon, I've been prison doctor here for quite some time. I do my job, I mind my own business and I keep my mouth shut --- even though I see a lot of shit get swept under the carpet. Your men take bribes. Your men beat prisoners --- " Slade started to protest but Kramer continued to speak. " --- and don't tell me it isn't so. Because I know it is! And things ain't getting any better. If anything, they're getting worse." Again Slade started to protest and again Kramer
kept talking. "I got to tell you, Gordon --- " He opened the door. " I'm beginning to hate this fucking place!"

   Jack Crenshaw, chief of neurosurgery at Trinity Hospital, stood to greet an anguished Lysle Richardson as he entered his private of-fice. After a warm handshake, Crenshaw sat down behind his clut-tered desk while Lysle sat down heavily in front of it. As Lysle sat, he unzipped his windbreaker and looked around the spacious room. One wall was covered with diplomas and certificates. The opposite wall was filled with medical books --- mostly on neurosurgery. Two white lab coats hung neatly on a metal clothes rack standing in one corner. The large window behind the desk had the drapes closed, which blocked out the overcast sky. A round fluorescent ceiling fix-ture provided ample light. The bright blue walls and the thick dark blue carpeting tried desperately to add cheerfulness to the sur-roundings. But they had no effect on Lysle.
   "Have you seen him yet?" As Crenshaw spoke, he took out a brown folder from the top drawer of his desk.
   After a moment's hesitation, Lysle nodded dejectedly. "I just left his room." He looked at his hands. "And I'm still shaking!" Now he looked at the physician and spoke hurriedly. "I definitely wasn't prepared for --- " Lysle pointed in the direction of Barrett's room. " --- that! What the hell is going on here for Christ's sake?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm usually pretty good in traumatic situations. But --- Jesus! I --- I feel like I'm in a trance." He sat back and closed his eyes
for several seconds. Then he took a deep breath. "Okay, Dr. Crenshaw. Tell me what happened --- please!"
   "Have you spoken to anyone about your friend's condition?"
   Lysle shook his head. "No. Either no one knows or they're not saying anything."
   "Oh --- " The chief of Crenshaw opened the file. " --- perhaps that's just as well." He cleared his throat. "Mr. Jessop was --- "
   "Dr. Jessop!" snapped Lysle.
   "Oh --- yes --- of course." Crenshaw seemed to be caught off guard. "Uh --- Dr. Jessop --- " He cleared his throat again. " --- was brought in here --- " He turned a page. " --- yesterday at 3:46 pm." Then Crenshaw looked at Lysle and continued grimly. "He is comatose and has been on a life support system since his arrival."
   Lysle only stared, shaking his head in disbelief.
   "He has a --- " Crenshaw turned another page. " --- fractured skull, a shattered cheekbone, three cracked ribs, and an assortment of other extensive injuries."
   Lysle's mouth dropped open and the color drained from his face. "My God!"
   Crenshaw pushed the folder to one side. "Apparently he had some sort of altercation with a guard or another prisoner --- or someone at the prison. I'm not totally clear on that point yet."
   "So --- what you're saying is --- " Lysle had trouble getting the words out. " --- that he was --- beaten?"
   "Well, it is a prison. And I would guess these things must occur frequently."
   "I know. But even so --- I mean --- this is Godawful!"
   "Yes. I agree. But --- " The neurosurgeon shrugged.
   Lysle looked closely at the man in front of him. He guessed his age to be early sixties. Crenshaw was tall, thin, bald and olive skinned. He had a narrow gray mustache beneath a small pointed nose and close-set hazel eyes. His lips were fine and his jaw was firm. His collar was open and he wore no tie.
   "Dr. Crenshaw." Lysle sighed deeply. Then he leaned in and folded his hands on his lap. The shaking had stopped and color had returned, even to his fingertips. "What are his chances?"
   Crenshaw furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. "Well --- "
   "Fifty-fifty? Twenty per cent? What?" Lysle could feel his body stiffen and his neck heat up.
   "To be perfectly honest --- " He paused a moment. " I cannot be too optimistic." Then he hastily added, "But you never know. Things could change and --- "
   "But they're not likely to, are they?" Lysle wanted to pick some-thing up and smash it against the wall.
   The neurosurgeon took a long time to answer. "Probably not." And again he quickly added. "But we can never be --- "
   "So --- " Lysle interrupted. " --- what do we do?"
   "Well --- " Crenshaw picked up a pen and studied it briefly. " --- fortunately --- " Then he looked at Lysle. " --- or unfortunately, his vital signs are good. This makes any call a tough one."
Crenshaw slowly ran his hand across the top of his head. "Person-ally, I would wait a couple of weeks before I --- "
   "Pull the plug?"
   "Well --- I wouldn't put it quite that way. I think in two or three weeks we can re-evaluate things --- "
   "And then pull the plug!" Before Crenshaw could respond Lysle put his hand up and softened his tone. "Sorry. I suppose I'm a little bitter."
   "And you have every right to be." Crenshaw was patient and calm. "I know he was --- is your friend, and --- " His voice trailed off and he ran his hand across the top of his head again. "Tell me, Dr. Richardson." He put the pen and folder in the top drawer of his desk. "Does Dr. Jessop have any family --- other friends --- anyone else besides you?"
   Lysle thought a long moment. "Barrett's parents are deceased. He has no brothers or sisters that I know of. There are no children." He thought some more. "I have no idea where his in-laws are." Janet's name was on his tongue but he swallowed it. "There's Marie. I forget her last name." Crenshaw looked puzzled. Lysle elabo-rated. "Marie was Barrett's assistant."
   "Oh, I see."
   "But she's moved to Seattle --- somewhere." Crenshaw nodded. Lysle continued to think out loud. "There's the Mintons and the Sharkeys and --- " Lysle remembered how boring Barrett thought the Mintons were and how much Barrett detested Ralph. "But I doubt if anyone else would be of much help. So --- it looks like I'm it!"
   "You're it, eh?" Crenshaw paused a long time. Then he folded his hands on the desk on top of a small stack of manila envelopes. "Dr. Richardson." He spoke reassuringly. "The neurosurgery depart-ment here at Trinity is excellent. It's well staffed and better equipped than any facility of its kind --- anywhere."
   "I'm sure it is, Dr. Crenshaw."
   "And you know we'll do all that's humanly possible."
   Lysle nodded and spoke in a whisper. "Yes. I know." Then he looked at his watch and quickly stood. "I better get going. My wife will think I got lost."
   Crenshaw stood to face him and they shook hands again.
   "I'll come by again tomorrow." Lysle's voice was strained. "Hopefully, since the initial shock is over, these visits won't be quite as devastating."
   Crenshaw put his hand on the dentist's shoulder and walked him to the door. "By the way. Does Dr. Jessop have a living will?"
   Lysle turned slowly toward the surgeon and pondered the ques-tion. "I don't know. I know he has a standard trust. But I don't know about a living will."
   "I see."
   "But I'll check with Joe Calvin and --- "
   "Excuse me?" Crenshaw's puzzled look returned.
   "Joe Calvin. He's a local attorney."
   "I see," he repeated. The surgeon waited a moment before he continued. When he did, he spoke slowly and chose his words carefully.
    "I hope you take what I have to say in the manner that it's given." Now it was Lysle's turn to look puzzled. Crenshaw went on. "Since at this time Dr. Jessop is unable to function on his own, any decisions about him will have to be made for him. So --- if he does-n't have a living will I would strongly urge you to obtain power of attorney --- just in case."
   Lysle considered Jack's comment a moment. "Hmm --- if I had power of attorney, that would make me his guardian, wouldn't it?"
   "Well --- I'm not a lawyer, but in a manner of speaking I imagine it would. It would also make you guardian of his estate."
   "Frankly, Dr. Crenshaw," Lysle zipped up his jacket. "Barrett Jessop has very little if any assets left. There would be nothing to be guardian of."
   "In that case, the State would end up paying for his stay here." He forced a smile. "We call that deficit financing."
   "Is that a problem?" Lysle did not return the smile.
   "Oh no. It's done all the time. We prefer private pay, of course, but with government intervention as it is today, that isn't always possible."
   "I understand." Lysle had no desire to discuss finances any longer. "Well, I'll take your advice and see my attorney as soon as possible. And I'll be back sometime tomorrow. Goodbye, Dr. Crenshaw."
   "Goodbye, Dr. Richardson."

*

   Shortly after Lysle Richardson's last visit with Jack Crenshaw, Barrett Jessop's heart developed a severe arrhythmia and his breath-ing, even with the aid of a respirator, became erratic. Finally, after three nerve-racking weeks of waiting, Lysle, with his wife Ronni at his side, signed all the papers that were needed to have Barrett's life support system removed. Crenshaw's observations proved to be accurate.
   After a brief but intense discussion, Lysle succumbed to Ronni's sentimentality and reluctantly agreed to have Barrett buried next to Janet. The graveside service would take place tomorrow.
   As soon as all the paperwork was completed, Lysle and Ronni left Trinity Hospital as swiftly as they could. When they got to the car they stopped, suddenly aware of a strange gloom that had de-scended all around them. They sky was black and the streets were deserted. And now it was starting to rain.
   "Let's get the hell out of here!" Lysle said as he opened the car doors.
   They both got in quickly and sped away.
   As they were racing home, Ronni turned to her husband. Her eyes were filled with tears. "Lysle, I just realized what tomorrow is."
   "Yeah! It's the damn funeral." Lysle turned on the heater.
   "It's more. And this is really bizarre!" She took out a tissue and dried her eyes. "Tomorrow Barrett and Janet would have been mar-ried ten years."
   "Ronni." Lysle reached over and squeezed his wife's hand. "You're right. That is bizarre."
   They were both silent for several minutes. Ronni turned to her husband again. "I know this may sound somewhat melodramatic, but --- oh, you'll just think I'm being silly."
   "No I won't." Lysle's eyes remained focused on the road. "What?"
   "Well --- do you think it might be possible that --- " She gave her face on last dab then put the tissue away. " --- Barrett and Janet will be celebrating their anniversary --- together --- somewhere?"
   Lysle laughed for the first time in weeks. "Honey. If it makes you feel better to think that, it's all right. But as for me, I doubt it. I sin-cerely doubt it!"

FINIS

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