“I’m afraid so.”
The political controversy that surrounds this racially charged project would be enough to sink me under normal circumstances, but right now it seems only a peripheral annoyance. That said, I’ll have to spend at least an hour tonight prepping for tomorrow’s meeting. I’m gathering up the relevant files when the door to my office opens. I jerk my head up, half expecting to see the angry face of Lincoln Turner, but instead I find the kind eyes of Jewel Washington watching me.
“Jewel! What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to sneak up on you. I was waiting for Rose to leave.”
“What’s going on?”
She crosses to my desk and hands me a manila envelope. “I’m going to be asking the supervisors for a budget increase for my department at the next meeting. I need an assistant. I wanted you to be aware in case there’s anything you can do to help me.”
“Well … I’d like to help, but you know I have no vote on that board.”
“I know that.” Jewel looks over her shoulder as though someone might walk in at any moment. “But your opinion carries a lot of weight.”
“I’ll do what I can.” I shake the envelope. “Is this the budget?”
She smiles. “The budget’s in there. And if anyone asks later, that’s all you found. But you study the last few pages real close, all right? In fact, I think you ought to look at them now.”
Jewel is my favorite city employee, but right now I’m not sure I can focus on any routine matters. “Jewel—”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Read it, baby.”
Setting down my files, I open the folder and flip through what looks like the usual appeal for assistance from a bureaucratic department. As I reach the end, though, the typeface changes, becoming much smaller, and I see handwritten notes and diagrams—some of the human body. Flipping back one page, I read a boldface title: PRELIMINARY POSTMORTEM RESULTS: VIOLA REVELS TURNER. Michael Winters, M.D., F.C.A.P. I nearly swallow my Adam’s apple.
“More interesting than you thought?” Jewel asks with a sly look.
“I’ll definitely give your request my fullest attention.”
She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I’ll give you the short version now. Miss Viola died from an overdose of adrenaline.”
“Was it an amount that might be reasonably given in a code-blue situation?”
Jewel shakes her head. “Massive overdose. If it was administered by a health-care professional, it almost had to be intentional, unless they picked up the wrong-dilution syringe by mistake. If it was a layman … who knows? I can imagine a lot of different scenarios, but none of them look particularly good for Dr. Cage.”
“Does Shad have a copy of this yet?”
“As of about ten minutes ago.”
So you were Shad’s appointment. I sag onto my desk. Despite the help that so many people seem prepared to offer, and their faith in my father’s good character, I have a sense that, like the Titanic, we’re on a stately but unalterable course toward disaster. Somewhere in the darkness ahead lies a submerged berg that will tear a hole beneath the waterline of all our hopes.
“Hey,” Jewel says gently, coming forward. “You don’t look good.”
“It’s been a truly crappy day.”
She gives me hard-earned smile of empathy. “I’ve seen a few myself.”
“Any advice for getting through them?”
The coroner snorts with something like contempt. “You wantin’ some of that magic Negro advice? The mystical secret for getting through times of trial and tribulation?”
“I’ll take anything you’ve got.”
“The best advice I ever heard came from a white man. A fat Englishman with his back against the wall and the wolf at his door.”
I raise my eyebrows, too tired to ask.
“Never, never quit.” Jewel smiles. “Winston Churchill smoked a cigar, just like your daddy.”
“You really believe in Dad, don’t you?”
Her pupils seem to dilate in their dark irises. “I know men, baby. I’ve seen enough bad ones to recognize the good. And your daddy’s in a class by himself. If you have any questions about the autopsy, call my son’s cell, not mine.”
I hand her my cell phone and ask her to enter the number for me. As she does, I say, “I’ve always felt like you do about Dad. But the way he’s acting about Viola has shaken my faith. I hate telling you that, but it’s true.”
Jewel hands the phone back to me, and then her eyes seem to go out of focus. She’s looking inward. “I don’t know what happened to Miss Viola that night. All that autopsy can tell you is what happened inside her body. But Tom Cage wouldn’t hurt a soul unless it was to relieve pain. And sometimes … Lord, that’s all you can do. Every nurse knows that.” She takes me by the hand, her grasp warm and maternal. “Whatever decision your daddy made that night, I’ll stake my job it was the right one.”
This heartfelt vow pierces me to the quick. Caitlin’s easy reassurance barely scratched the surface of my anxiety, but Jewel’s faith has sunk into me like a harpoon. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
The coroner’s eyes harden. “My faith doesn’t buy you anything, Penn. You’ve got to steel yourself for what’s coming. You’re too much like your father. That’s your weakness. You always look for the good in folks. But in Billy Byrd and old Shadrach, you’d be lookin’ in vain.”
Her warning tone sobers me. “Jewel … let me show you something. Come around to my side of the desk.”
As she does, I hit a button on my keyboard, banishing the screen saver and summoning the obscene photograph of Shad Johnson and the bloody pit bull back to the screen. Jewel’s hand flies to her chest when she realizes who and what she’s seeing. Then she shakes her head like a devout Christian being forced to look at the devil’s work.
“What are you going to do with this picture?”