Laramore shook his head, scoffing. “Funny. My brother-in-law had the same idea. He actually got through to one of the producers on the phone. A nice young woman who seemed willing to help. Pete ended up hanging up on her.”
“Why?”
“Quid pro quo. BNN wanted the first photograph of Celeste in a coma.”
Jack could barely fathom it, even for BNN.
Laramore said, “Truth is, even if Faith Corso stepped up to help, how long would that last? A week? We need a long-term solution. And we need a lawyer who isn’t going to grab forty percent of it.”
Jack read between the lines. Maybe the Laramores didn’t believe the BNN reports about Jack having hired their daughter as a decoy, but implicit in the request that Jack work for free was the notion that Jack bore some responsibility for Celeste’s injuries. Jack couldn’t help but feel accused. Even Andie had made him at least consider the possibility that someone close to the defense team had put Celeste in danger.
How do you know someone else didn’t do it? Her parents, her brother, some old boyfriend?
A nurse entered. “Mr. Laramore, your wife asked me to check on you.”
He rose, alarmed. “Is something wrong with Celeste?”
“No, there’s been no change there. Mrs. Laramore just seems to be having a moment. I think she needs you.”
He glanced at Jack, who could only wonder how many of those “moments” were in the pipeline. “I should be going,” said Jack.
“No, come with me. Please. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“It sounds like your wife is upset. Maybe now isn’t a good time.”
“I meant my daughter. I want you to meet Celeste.”
Jack hesitated, a bit embarrassed that the very idea of “meeting” someone in a coma had caught him so off guard. The man was so sincere, however, that Jack quickly got over it. “I’d be honored to meet her,” said Jack.
Jack followed him out of the lounge and back into the ICU. As they walked in silence to room six, Jack could almost hear the growing weight of concern in a father’s footfalls. The door was open, but they stopped before entering.
“Wait here for a sec,” he told Jack.
Jack did so. Laramore entered alone, and although Jack couldn’t make out the words, he could hear him speaking to his wife. A moment later he emerged and said, “Just so you know, Celeste’s mother and I firmly believe that Celeste can hear us. So if you say anything, be positive.”
Jack nodded and went inside.
Celeste’s bed was slightly elevated, allowing her to rest comfortably in less than the full upright position. The soft lighting was soothing, though her eyes were closed. Fluids fed into her veins from three different tubes that connected to a cluster of clear sacks hanging from the IV pole. The blood pressure cuff on her left bicep connected to a cardiac monitor, which beeped to the rhythm of her heart. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth. She was not yet on a ventilator, but Jack quickly recalled Mr. Laramore’s mention that a pulmonologist had come by to make that assessment.
Celeste’s mother was seated in a chair at the bedside. Her skin tone was off, a clear indication of too much stress and too little sleep, and her eyes were puffy, undoubtedly from crying. She leaned closer to her daughter and spoke in a gentle voice. “Celeste, there’s a man here to see you. His name is Jack.”
Then she signaled him closer and added, “Jack is going to help us. He’s going to help us get the care you need to get all better, baby.”
It felt like a dagger to Jack, one that sliced through his professional skin and laid bare his reluctance to get involved.
He came forward, his gaze fixed on Celeste. The blanket was chest high, and a few inches of the striped hospital gown showed above it. At first Jack didn’t notice the bruising, but only because the marks were so high up on her neck, right beneath the jawbone, and the shadows obscured them. Jack tried not to stare, but it pained him to see such telltale signs of the senseless attack.
Celeste’s mother reached over and removed the oxygen mask, and Jack felt his own breath slip away.
Her nose, the mouth, the beautiful young features framed by the chestnut hair-Jack didn’t say a word in front of her parents, but he was certain that it was written all over his face: The resemblance to Sydney was uncanny.
Jack glanced at Celeste’s mother, and he sensed that it was time to leave. Ben Laramore was of like mind, and he guided Jack out into the hallway.
“Please give serious thought to what we talked about,” he told Jack.
The nurse was right outside the room, and Jack was feeling the weighted stare from two pairs of eyes. There was no question that the nurse had recognized him as Sydney Bennett’s lawyer. Jack had seen that look of contempt before.
“I will,” said Jack. “I’ll definitely think about it.”
Chapter Nine
Jack thought about it-nearly all night long.
Of course he felt sorry for the Laramores, felt their pain for Celeste. A personal profit in the form of legal fees, even on contingency, would have made Jack public enemy number one in Faith Corso’s war against blood money. The pro bono route would silence the critics, but taking on another case for no pay was no small commitment. Legal fees aside, the out-of-pocket cost of bringing a case like this to trial-experts, court reporters, investigators, and more-could easily push fifty grand. Probably more.
At six o’clock the bedroom began to brighten, hinting at a new day. Jack had a severe case of the Monday-morning blues. He was staring at the ceiling, having drifted in and out of sleep since retiring around one A.M. Andie was sound asleep, her head and torso on Jack’s side of the bed, her legs and feet on hers. Andie’s idea of sharing a mattress was a bit like their golden retriever’s notion of sharing the couch. At least Andie didn’t drool when she kissed him.
“Quiet, Max,” he whispered.
Max was the most talkative dog Jack had ever known. Mornings especially. It was a throaty rumble that preceded the insertion of a big wet nose into Jack’s ear and seemed to say, I just love Andie’s shoes-they’re delicious!
Jack snatched a slipper from Max’s mouth and rolled out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Andie. Max happily followed him to the bathroom, the kitchen, the backyard for a pee-the dog, not Jack-and then back to the bedroom and into the walk-in closet. Weeks had passed since Jack and Max had started the week with a Monday-morning run to the beach and back. As Jack pulled on his cycling pants and shoes, Max was obviously fooled into thinking that today was the day when life returned to situation normaclass="underline" Dogs rule. Jack hated to disappoint him, but he was cycling into work-a one-way trip, no dogs allowed.
“Sorry, pal,” he said. “Andie will have to take you.”
Max didn’t understand a word of it, but he looked sad, and part of Jack imagined that it was because Andie could actually outrun Max.
Jack filled his water bottle, sneaked into the garage without Max, and hopped onto his eighteen-speed with the titanium frame. The touring bike had been a fortieth birthday present from a group of friends who swore they were just trying to save his knees from running. Jack wondered if they were trying to get him killed. Key Biscayne had bike trails-some of the most scenic in the world. But cycling just about anywhere else in Miami was the great battle of man versus automobile, where most drivers were of the mind-set that anyone with the audacity to enter the roadway on two wheels deserved swift and severe punishment. After several brushes with instant death, Jack attached an extra water-bottle carrier to the frame to hold an air horn. It was useless against true homicidal maniacs, but it would at least save him from the growing number of idiots who thought they could text and drive at the same time. Jack gave it a test blast before leaving the driveway. The ringing in his ears confirmed that it was still in working order.