flash drive. Each inmate who’d visited her had an individual, well-documented computer file containing her observations – medical and otherwise. These statistics and observations were unbreachable.
Frankie liked details. She reveled in facts. She delighted in the irrefutable logic of proof. She liked even more that her records were secret. No one but herself knew about the mountains of data she’d gathered over the last ten months.
The day got busy really fast. Charlie Cox, the garrulous terminally-ill patient, had seized in the afternoon, and despite their efforts to revive him, he’d passed, not with a whimper, but a bang, she thought, recalling the famous poem. She sighed and called the time of death, pulling the sheet over his emaciated form.
She’d liked Charlie Cox. She realized as she perused the final notes documenting his symptoms and the COD, along with his long medical history in Pelican Bay, that the man he’d been when he first entered prison wasn’t the man who’d just died in front of her.
Prison changed them all. Some for the worse, but many for the better. Having no sound religious faith herself, she wondered why, but accepted the simple faith these men often clung to in spite of devastating circumstances.
Sitting at her desk, drained and exhausted from the battle to save Charlie’s life, she gnawed on the end of her pen, and swiveled her chair gently from side to side. She recalled what Charlie had been saying right before he seized.
“It’s a tricky path you’re on, Doc,” he said between coughs that were more like carving out something large and malignant from the lungs. “Very tricky.”
He closed his eyes and rested a moment, and she’d thought he was finished when he opened his eyes and reached for her hand, clutching it with surprising strength. “Be careful. This is a dangerous place for innocents like you.”
“What?” She thought his mind had wandered into the past.
His faded eyes widened and he glanced over her shoulder. She involuntarily followed his gaze, but no one was there.
“You don’t know what you know, Frankie.” He had never called her anything but “doc” or “girl,” and she was mildly surprised that he knew her first name. “You oughter get outta here.” He inhaled sharply, struggling for breath.
“Charlie, relax, you need to calm down. This much talking isn’t good for you.”
“Never mind me!” he exclaimed with more ferocity than she’d thought he had left in him. “It’s you that needs to worry.” He sighed and closed his eyes briefly.
“I know you won’t leave,” he murmured at last, the words labored and halting, “but watch your back. There’s those would not like you meddling in prison affairs.” He gestured feebly with one hand. “Look around you, girl. They’re all murderers, rapists, thieves, liars – the lot of them.” He glowered darkly. “And I don’t mean just the inmates.”
Then he’d closed his eyes right before his poor ragged heart had seized, his body convulsing, and neither CPR, the paddles, or epinephrine injection had been sufficient to revive him.
And what the hell was she supposed to do with those last words from a dying inmate who’d been on his own personal death row for decades? He couldn’t possibly have known about the message Cole Hansen had slipped her in the examination room, he couldn’t understand what had really happened in the prison yard the day of the murder Cole had confessed to, and he absolutely couldn’t have figured out her personal stake in the whole affair.
Chapter 17
Cole Hansen spent his first night of freedom in a flea-bitten hotel off Washington Street, in downtown Rosedale. The kind of place that rented rooms by the hour, the dump was all he could afford. For a while, he amused himself watching the hookers come in and out, doing their business, briefly and efficiently.
After the long bus ride from Crescent City, he still had about sixty dollars left
Frankie liked details. She reveled in facts. She delighted in the irrefutable logic of proof. She liked even more that her records were secret. No one but herself knew about the mountains of data she’d gathered over the last ten months.
The day got busy really fast. Charlie Cox, the garrulous terminally-ill patient, had seized in the afternoon, and despite their efforts to revive him, he’d passed, not with a whimper, but a bang, she thought, recalling the famous poem. She sighed and called the time of death, pulling the sheet over his emaciated form.
She’d liked Charlie Cox. She realized as she perused the final notes documenting his symptoms and the COD, along with his long medical history in Pelican Bay, that the man he’d been when he first entered prison wasn’t the man who’d just died in front of her.
Prison changed them all. Some for the worse, but many for the better. Having no sound religious faith herself, she wondered why, but accepted the simple faith these men often clung to in spite of devastating circumstances.
Sitting at her desk, drained and exhausted from the battle to save Charlie’s life, she gnawed on the end of her pen, and swiveled her chair gently from side to side. She recalled what Charlie had been saying right before he seized.
“It’s a tricky path you’re on, Doc,” he said between coughs that were more like carving out something large and malignant from the lungs. “Very tricky.”
He closed his eyes and rested a moment, and she’d thought he was finished when he opened his eyes and reached for her hand, clutching it with surprising strength. “Be careful. This is a dangerous place for innocents like you.”
“What?” She thought his mind had wandered into the past.
His faded eyes widened and he glanced over her shoulder. She involuntarily followed his gaze, but no one was there.
“You don’t know what you know, Frankie.” He had never called her anything but “doc” or “girl,” and she was mildly surprised that he knew her first name. “You oughter get outta here.” He inhaled sharply, struggling for breath.
“Charlie, relax, you need to calm down. This much talking isn’t good for you.”
“Never mind me!” he exclaimed with more ferocity than she’d thought he had left in him. “It’s you that needs to worry.” He sighed and closed his eyes briefly.
“I know you won’t leave,” he murmured at last, the words labored and halting, “but watch your back. There’s those would not like you meddling in prison affairs.” He gestured feebly with one hand. “Look around you, girl. They’re all murderers, rapists, thieves, liars – the lot of them.” He glowered darkly. “And I don’t mean just the inmates.”
Then he’d closed his eyes right before his poor ragged heart had seized, his body convulsing, and neither CPR, the paddles, or epinephrine injection had been sufficient to revive him.
And what the hell was she supposed to do with those last words from a dying inmate who’d been on his own personal death row for decades? He couldn’t possibly have known about the message Cole Hansen had slipped her in the examination room, he couldn’t understand what had really happened in the prison yard the day of the murder Cole had confessed to, and he absolutely couldn’t have figured out her personal stake in the whole affair.
Chapter 17
Cole Hansen spent his first night of freedom in a flea-bitten hotel off Washington Street, in downtown Rosedale. The kind of place that rented rooms by the hour, the dump was all he could afford. For a while, he amused himself watching the hookers come in and out, doing their business, briefly and efficiently.
After the long bus ride from Crescent City, he still had about sixty dollars left
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