Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose…
You know, Mr. Najarian, the two of you are needing to be getting your acts together. First you call and leave a message that you called and that you are all right; then she calls and leaves a message that she called, and that she's all right. Then you both do the same thing all over again.
But neither of you leaves a number. Get it what I am saying?"
"Yeah," Eric said, picturing the Iranian desk clerk slithering along behind the Hotel Carlisle desk. "I get it."
"So, you would like to leave a number, yes?"
Eric looked across the corridor of the Station Four jail at the officer who was waiting to take him to court for his arraignment on charges of possession of a Class B controlled substance, and possession with intent to sell.
"No," he said. "Just tell her I called, and that I'm all right.
I'll call later."
He hung up and then allowed his hands, which had been cuffed in front of him, once again to be secured behind his back. He winced at the now familiar electric pain that shot up from his wrists, and wondered how Jennifer Farrell's suture lines were holding up. He also wondered for perhaps the hundredth time where Laura was, and why she hadn't stayed in her room that might.
According to the Carlisle desk clerk, the last call from her had come in about 6:00 A.m. Now, it was nearly eleven. Eric gave silent thanks that at least she had not chosen to sleep at his place, and hoped that wherever she was, she had spent the intervening hours more pleasantly than he had. still, the more he thought about things, the more certain he became that something had happened to frighten her, or at.least alert her to potential danger.
She had made a point of leaving the message at the Carlisle that she was all right, but still, she would not leave a phone number.
Possibly she recognized the desk clerk as one who would, at any given moment, be the devoted servant of the highest bidder. As it was, the man had sounded pretty damn eager to put together some information.
Perhaps, Eric speculated, somebody had gotten to him already.
Perhaps Laura had seen one of the men from the docks watching the Carlisle, or been accosted by someone and escaped. Now, she was probably registered in another hotel, wondering where he was. Eric cursed himself for not being available to her.
"You got a jacket?" Eric's guard asked as they approached the front doors of the station.
"No. But it looks pretty nice out. I don't think I'll need one."
"Suit yourself. I just asked because some of 'em like to have jackets to pull over their heads."
"Pull over their-?"
Eric never had the chance or the necessity to finish his question.
Two more officers joined them as they pushed through the doors into a mass of bodies, microphones, and clicking cameras-a group at least five times larger than the one at the hospital, and many times more jude.
Eric shielded his eyes from the flashbulb assault and tried to ignore the barrage of questions, the kindest of which were in thoughtless bad taste. Suddenly, over the din, a hoarse, highpitched voice called out rapidly to the crowd.
"Move aside. Move aside. We have no statement whatsoever to make at this time other than to affirm that this man is innocent of any wrongdoing and win be found so when all of the facts become clear.
Now, please give us room and let us pass."
Eric stared over at the source of the voice, a rumpled man in an ill-fitting suit, carrying a scuffed briefcase.
"Who are you?" one of the reporters called out.
"Who the hell do I look like, Gandhi?" the man said. "I'm Dr.
Yossarian's lawyer."
"Najarian," Eric whispered.
"Connolly," the man said. "Felix Connolly. You okay?"
"I'm okay. Why are you doing this?"
"I owe a certain private detective a favor," Connollly whis ered.
I "I understand," Eric said, remembering Laura's account of her meeting with Bernard Nelson, and knowing now where she was.
Considering her description of the detective and his office, the appearance of the lawyer who owed him a favor was not that surprising.
He could only hope the man knew what he was doing. "Laura's all right?" he asked.
The attorney nodded. "Let's keep names to a minimum just in case," he said. "She had some problems yesterday, but she's okay now.
Our mutual friend has her keeping a low profile. I'll tell you what I know when we're alone. You'll have to go over to the courthouse in the cruiser. I'll take my car and meet you there.
He nodded at the battered Volkswagen Beetle parked directly behind the police car.
"A Mercedes might inspire a bit more confidence," Eric said.
"Don't worry," Felix Connolly said. "Looks can be deceiving.
Believe it or not, from time to time I've gotten even bigger baddies than you off."
With a surprising mix of calm, bombast, candor, and legal acumen, Felix Connolly cut a swath for Eric through the brier patch of a district court criminal arraignment. Along the way he succeeded in persuading the assistant district attorney to drop the charge of possession with intent to distribute, and the judge to lower, by 50 percent, the $10,000 ball recommended by the prosecution. Finally, after the date was set for a hearing to determine probable cause, and the case was remanded to the Suffolk County Superior Court, Connolly rushed Eric out of the building, past the screeching gaggle of reporters, and into his VW.
"Nice going," Eric said as Connolly inched through the crowd and into the flow of traffic. "You're very good at what you do."
Connolly acknowledged the compliment with a nod.
"In case you don't know it," he said, "Bernard Nelson is too.
Your friend is lucky she found him."
"I still can't believe what she's been through."
"You haven't done too badly in that department yourself."
"I guess. Well, I think we're past the last of the damn reporters."
"Don't bank on it," the lawyer said, reaching behind Eric's seat for a newspaper and handing it to him. "I suspect some of them are following us right now. You're big stuff This is the early edition of the Herald.
Take a look at it, and then I'll show you the extra they came out with a few hours ago."
The early edition contained a four-inch, double column, bylined story on page 3, dealing essentially with the crusade of one brave doctor to locate the body and tissue specimens of a woman rumored to have been autopsied ahvelexcept for a brief bit of biographical material about Eric, the story consisted entirely of No comments and Absolutely untrues from hospital officials and the medical examiner's office. A quote from Joe Silver denied the rumors about the living autopsy, and added: "Dr.
Najarian has been'at this hospital for five years, and knows better than to speak to the press about any hospital business, especially when he has none of the facts."
As damaging as the early edition was to Eric's hope of a continued career at white Memorial, when compared to the extra it was a ringing endorsement.
ZOMBI DOC CHASES THE UNDEAD
The front-page article, complete with a picture of a dazed Eric being led from the pathology office by two policemen, would have been at least a nine on any ten-point scale of sensationalist journalism.
Wherever the truth had eluded the reporter, or in certain spots where the facts had not jibed with the rest of the article, fabricated pieces had simply been thrown in.
Interviews with Ivor Blunt, the Wayland police, and several staff members of the hospital painted the picture of a high-strung, overworked young man who had recently been turned down for a promotion to associate E.R. director and had turned to cocaine to keep himself going. His obsession with the poison tetrodotoxin, it was suggested by Blunt and others, was clearly the result of a cocaine-induced paranoia.