My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 16

16

A WEEK EARLIER, I HAD SECURITY, a good reputation, and a thriving business. Everything except a woman to share my life. Then one stopped by. A woman. Just for an hour. But that's all it took to destroy everything that had taken me a lifetime to build. One hour. One lousy hour. When will I get it through my head that women and I don't mix?

I'd had no sleep, still wore the clothes I'd been arrested in, and was growing more panicked by the minute. What was taking so long? Why haven't I heard from Joe? Finally, shortly before noon, he showed up and there was someone with him.

"Scott McGillikin, Rich Baimbridge," Joe said introducing us as a guard let them in. "Scott's a criminal attorney."

Scott extended his hand and, clearing his throat, waited for the guard to leave before speaking. "The Grand Jury just returned an indictment, Mr. Baimbridge. On what are they basing that?" he asked, his eyes cold, uncaring.

"I was in her house the night everything happened and they found a spot of her blood on my shirt."

"How'd that get there?" he asked.

"I have no idea."

"You have the victim's blood on your shirt and you don't know how it got there?"

"I wish I did. It would answer a hell of a lot of questions."

Taking a seat on the end of the cot, Scott sighed, propped his briefcase on his knees, and produced a tape recorder. "Suppose you start at the beginning and tell me everything." I lowered myself next to him and for the next thirty minutes gave him the complete story. Scott's eyes were dull and piercing—like Dad's—and he didn't seem to grasp the situation at all, asking questions that seemed completely off-base. He acted as if he presumed I was guilty.

When we finished, I asked, "So, what do we do now?"

He returned his tape recorder to the briefcase and withdrew a set of papers. "First, we get you out of here. Do you have two hundred thousand dollars?"

"Cash?"

"Or equity in something."

"I have some equity in my building downtown, but not much."

"I'll have to use it as collateral to post bail. Sign these papers."

I had no idea what I was signing, but signed and dated each one. He snapped the briefcase shut and rose. "You should be out in a couple of hours." After the guard closed and locked the door, the pounding in my chest returned and panic again swelled inside me. I dropped my head against the bars and closed my eyes.

By 3 p.m. I'd been released, given my belongings, and told they were keeping my car until they'd finished with it. I was tired, dirty, bewildered, and confused. I emerged from the building into another horde of frantic reporters that had obviously been tipped off by someone at the police station. Like children around the ice cream truck, they pushed and shoved seeking a headline and a sound byte for the evening news. Scott told me to keep my mouth shut and guided me through them to his Porsche Boxster.

Arriving at my house, he had to ease through yet another caravan of news trucks and reporters, some from as far away as Charlotte. Neighbors watched anxiously from their porches as if something important was about to happen.

"The best thing you can do is say nothing," Scott said.

"Can't I at least tell them I didn't do it?"

"You can say that if you want, but no more. You'll just end up giving the prosecution rope that he'll use to hang you."