“When can I see her?”
“I would say in about an hour.”
I thank her and sit back down. The police arrive, and I tell a detective what I know. The only thing I leave out is the most significant fact, the license plate number. Right now I'm not trusting anyone, and I'm going to play my cards close to the vest.
Moments after the police leave, Laurie arrives, though I have no idea how she has heard about what happened. She sees me, comes over and hugs me.
“Andy, God, I'm sorry. How is she?”
I tell her what the doctor has told me, and Laurie asks if I have any idea who was behind this.
“No,” I say, “but I know who they were after. Me.”
Suddenly, the pent-up anger and frustration overwhelms me, and I punch a hole in the wall. Well, a dent in the wall.
“Goddammit! Nicole told me to drop it, and somebody fired a bullet into her body when I wouldn't.”
Laurie puts her hand on my shoulder, but there is no consoling me. This is the closest I have ever come to being out of control, and I have to fight to keep what little composure I have left.
“Andy …”
“Laurie, just before this happened, I told Nicole that things were not going to work out for us. That my heart wasn't in it anymore.”
“Oh, God …”
“And now, because of me … she's lying in there with somebody else's blood being pumped into her to keep her alive.”
Laurie stays with me until the doctors say that I can see Nicole. Before she leaves, I remember to tell her the license plate number of the car that I saw on the scene, and she promises to check it out.
When I walk into Nicole's room, I am jolted by the sight of her. She lies, pale and weak, connected to machines by tubes. Her eyes are open, but she seems groggy.
I try to be upbeat. “Nicole, how are you feeling?”
She looks in my direction, and I watch as her eyes try to focus. She finally realizes that it is me, and she starts to cry softly.
“Andy … oh, Andy.”
I move toward her and hold her, trying my best not to interfere with any of the tubes.
“Calm down … take it easy, now. You need your rest. The doctor said you're going to be fine, as long as you take it easy.”
“It hurts so much, Andy.”
“I know. I know it does.”
“Where's my father?”
“He'll be here soon. He was in Washington, but he's on the shuttle. He's very worried about you.”
She nods softly, obviously very tired.
“Nicole, I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry. You don't belong in this … you don't deserve this.” But she is already asleep, and she can't hear me. We haven't been able to hear each other for a very, very long time.
Philip arrives about an hour later and completely takes over. He arranges for Nicole to be transferred to a more prestigious hospital near his home, and is already having his personal physician consult with the doctors who have taken care of Nicole.
Philip has very little to say to me, and I can't say that I blame him. He's warned me that something terrible could happen if I didn't back off, and he's been proven right.
OUR DEFENSEBEGINS ON MONDAY MORNING, AND our first witness is Lou Campanelli, the leader of a local drug and alcohol rehabilitation program. Kevin has interviewed him over the weekend, and has reported to me that we have some gains to make by putting him on. Kevin also has come up with a way that we can use Lou to help our theory that Willie was framed.
A lot of people talk a good game about helping people, but Lou Campanelli has devoted his life to it. He is sixty-four years old, and has been helping people deal with their addictions for the past forty-two of them. There aren't enough Lou Campanellis in the world.
After I take him through his background and have him describe the type of program he runs, I ask him if Willie was a member of that program.
Lou nods. “He was an outstanding member. Totally committed to remaining sober.”
“So were you surprised to discover that he was found drunk the night of the murder?”
“I was quite surprised. It's always a possibility, of course, every day can be a struggle. But yes, in Willie's case I was surprised and disappointed.”
“What about drugs?” I ask. “To the best of your knowledge, did Willie ever use drugs?”
Lou shakes his head firmly and emphatically. “No way. Willie lost a sister to drugs. He wasn't just against them for himself; he wouldn't tolerate anybody else using them either. It just isn't possible.”
I nod. “What would you say if I told you that there has been testimony about drug needle marks in Willie Miller's arms?”
“I'd say somebody's lying.”
I go over to the defense table, and Kevin hands me a folder.
“Your Honor, I would like to introduce this as defense exhibit number four. It is the results of the blood test taken at the time, which shows no drugs in Mr. Miller's blood whatsoever.”
I walk back toward Lou, whose face shows something between a grin and a sneer. “I told you.”
I can't help but smile. “Yes, you did, Mr. Campanelli. Now tell me … as an expert on alcoholism … how does one go about getting drunk?”
“What do you mean? By drinking alcohol.”
“Does the alcohol get into the drinker's bloodstream?”
“Yes.”
“Is drinking the only way to do it?”
“Far as I know,” he says.
“Suppose,” I ask, “suppose I were to inject a large amount of alcohol into your arm with a syringe. Would that do the trick? Could you become drunk that way?”