Dying Declaration

CHAPTER 7

They had not heard anything for almost two hours, and it worried Thomas. He was tired of the sterile ICU waiting room, the yellow plastic furniture, and the two-month-old magazines. He had seen at least two other families come and go since midnight, yet here he sat, knowing nothing and fearing the worst.

The operation had started at 11:00 but had not gone well. Dr. Armistead came by at 12:30, very businesslike, to inform them that the appendix had been removed but that Joshua was not yet out of the woods. He referred to multiple system failures or something like that. Thomas had not been allowed to see Josh. Armistead mentioned consulting with some kind of liver or kidney specialists. How those organs got involved, Thomas did not know. But it didn’t sound good.

Was God punishing him for taking Josh to the hospital? Had Thomas failed in his ultimate test of faith? If Josh didn’t pull through, would there be anyone to blame except a father who abandoned his deeply held beliefs when the pressure was on? How could God honor such flimsy faith? For the last hour Thomas had been beating himself up as he wrestled with these questions in prayer. He still had no answers and no sense of assurance that Josh would be okay. More than anything else, he just wanted to be with Josh and resented the doctors for keeping him away from his own son.

At least Tiger had finally run out of gas. He was sound asleep on the couch, mouth wide open and clinging to his blankie. Stinky had curled up on Thomas’s lap and also slept soundly. She was getting heavier by the minute, but Thomas was not about to put her down. He found security in the warmth of her touch.

Theresa was not sleeping. She was up and down, roaming the hallways and pacing the waiting room. She would alternate between unjustified optimism and unwarranted pessimism. Right now, she was just sitting and staring. It had been at least five minutes since she had speculated about why they had not heard anything for so long. It had been fifteen minutes since she had stopped an ICU nurse in the hallway, pressing for information that was not forthcoming.

What else could they do but wait?

Though Thomas and Theresa had been glancing at the doorway for most of the night, Armistead somehow entered unnoticed. When Thomas caught Armistead in his peripheral vision, the doctor was already standing a few steps inside the room, in his white lab coat, looking grim. Thomas knew. Even before Armistead spoke, Thomas knew.

Theresa jumped out of her seat, moving toward the doctor.

“How’s he doing?” she asked.

Thomas tensed but did not move. He didn’t want to shake Stinky from his lap.

“It’s not good,” said Armistead evenly, professionally. “We did everything we could, but he didn’t make it, he just–”

“No!” screamed Theresa. “No! Not my Joshie...” She collapsed on the floor, head in her hands, her words drowned out by her own sobs.

Thomas stood and placed Stinky softly in the chair. Stinky woke, looked confused, and blinked the sleep out of her eyes. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“It’ll be okay,” Thomas mumbled as he tried to absorb the unthinkable. A numbness washed over him. He sat down on the floor next to Theresa and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her head on his shoulder.

Tiger, who had been startled awake by his mother’s scream, rubbed his eyes and hopped down from the couch. He walked quickly toward his mom and dad and shot a mean glance at Dr. Armistead. He took his special blankie, his comforter, and spread it across his mom’s shoulders. Then he reached out and hugged his mommy’s neck. Thomas embraced them both in a three-person hug. In a flash, Stinky joined them and made it four.

“Is Joshie okay?” Stinky whispered into her daddy’s ear.

Thomas couldn’t find the words or the heart to tell her.
CHAPTER 8

State law required that he report suspected child abuse. He had no choice in the matter. And so, after working a double shift, Sean Armistead reached for his cell phone while driving home, called directory assistance, and got the number for the Virginia Beach Department of Child Protective Services. He stayed on the line as the directory-assistance computer dialed the number.

It did not surprise him to hear the answering machine kick in. He did not really expect anyone to be at the office at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. He left a message, then speed-dialed another number. He counted three rings before it was answered.

“Hello,” said a gruff female voice at the other end. The voice belonged to Deputy Commonwealth’s Attorney Rebecca Crawford.

“I thought you’d be at the office by now. You’re slipping.”

“Sean?”

“Your friendly neighborhood doc with your weekend wake-up call.”

“Fat chance. I’ve already finished my workout. It’s almost lunchtime for me, Doc.”

“You’ve got to get a life.”

“I’ve got one–remember? I put the guys behind bars that you stitch up and throw back out on the streets.”

As he listened to her on the phone, she crystallized in his mind. Thirtyeight and fighting the years with every ounce of her strength. Short, blonde hair with a layered cut, the roots beginning to turn brown. Tanned skin abused by too many long summers in the beach sun. The first signs of wrinkles had been ironed out with a facelift at age thirty-five. She had never admitted it to Sean, but he had his sources. She was not a natural athlete but worked hard to whip her body into shape, with fairly impressive results. She was only five-five, with big bones and a slow metabolism. She had to stay disciplined to keep off the weight.

Her face would be described by most as handsome but not stunning. The angles a little too sharp, the eyes a little too narrow, the cheeks a little too hollow. Regardless, it worked for him. She always applied her makeup with precision, hiding every flaw and accentuating the positives. And her mouth was truly beautiful–full lips, always covered with dark lipstick, and straight white teeth. You found yourself staring at her mouth when she talked, the way you did with Julia Roberts. Armistead had been mesmerized by her mouth on more than one occasion, a trait he was sure he shared with many jurors.

“So what’s up? You don’t call at seven in the morning to chat.”

Armistead smiled to himself. All business. He loved it.

“I think I’ve got an interesting case for you. High stakes. Big publicity. Sympathetic victim.”

“I’m listening.”

“A two-year-old child died last night in the emergency room because his parents refused to get medical help for a ruptured appendix for three days. We did everything we could to bring him around, but it was too late. Plus, though I can’t prove it yet, I think the parents might have abused this child and their other two kids as well–a five-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl.”

Armistead paused, allowing the magnitude of his favor to kick in. “I thought you might be interested,” he said.

“Interested,” replied Rebecca. “You could say I’m interested.” She sounded energized. “Meet me at the office in an hour. I’ll need an affidavit.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

There was silence for a brief moment. “What’s the kid’s name?” Rebecca asked.

“Joshua Hammond.”

“What did he look like?”

This strange question caught Armistead a little off-guard. Honestly, he couldn’t much remember. “Typical two-year-old. Blond hair, I think, pudgy... Why is that important?”

“It’s not, really. I just like to put a face with my files. On a murder case, I usually tape a picture of the victim to the inside cover of my trial notebook. Helps me remember what the case is about.”

This side of Rebecca surprised him. It also shamed him a little. He couldn’t remember what this kid’s face looked like if his own life depended on it. The thought that a ruthless prosecutor had more compassion than he did was disturbing.

“Maybe you should tape your own picture there,” Armistead suggested. “This case is about getting you a promotion.”

She huffed. “You’re such a jerk sometimes.”

That’s better. That’s the Rebecca he knew. Combative, biting...irresistible.

“I’ll make it up to you later,” he promised.
Rebecca took a quick shower and threw on a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a loose-fitting tank top. Birkenstocks with no socks. She applied liberal amounts of blush, eye shadow, lipstick, and mascara in near record time. She layered on the deodorant and perfume. She was on her way in thirty minutes.

She formulated a strategy during the twenty-minute drive from her condo. She would talk to Child Protective Services on Monday. She could have a grand jury indictment by Tuesday. She would have an arrest warrant issued for the parents on Tuesday evening and request an arraignment and bond hearing for Wednesday morning. She would charge them with criminally negligent homicide, requesting a huge bond. She would seek a foster home for the children while the parents were behind bars. Even if the parents made bond, she would ask that it be conditioned on foster care for the kids pending trial on the theory that the best interest of the children required caregivers who would seek appropriate medical help.

She would pull the kids into her office and get some powerful videotaped statements before shipping t...