Page 72 of Witness 8

I took a seat beside the bed and put my head in my hands. Listened to Clarence breathing. Listened to the machine that breathed for Harry, and the steady metronomic ticks of his heartbeat monitor.

The paramedics had kept him alive. His blood loss had caused hypovolemic shock, and before the paramedic got blood plasma into Harry’s body his organs had begun to falter. Between the blood loss, the shock and the bullet that ripped through his lower ribs and nicked his liver, Harry had a lot of problems. Emergency surgery saved his life.

But everything had taken a toll. Harry had not woken from the operation. EEG showed normal brain function, or as normal as it could be, given he was unconscious and unresponsive.

Harry had not opened his eyes since they’d closed on the sidewalk outside the Cardozo Hotel. Not in weeks.

The surgeon told me Harry could hear me. He could hear Clarence too. Maybe even feel him. Every day I came by with Clarence. Kate and Lake came most days too. Bloch had not come by since he was admitted. I didn’t push her to go. Neither did Kate. Bloch didn’t do emotions. She kept that all inside. Seeing Harry in a hospital bed was more than she could deal with.

I sat up, looked at Harry. Touched his hand.

‘I went to see Harper’s grave this morning,’ I said.

Harper had been my investigator. Our friend. And maybe could’ve been someone I might have spent the rest of my life with. I loved her. And I believed she might have loved me too. Until the night she was taken from both of us. It broke my heart. Harry’s too. He had just found Clarence not long before Harper was killed. She saw Harry making friends with a stray on the street. And the stray followed him home. And he’d kept him, named him Clarence, after Darrow – the famous civil rights lawyer.

Harper had looked at me when she said Harry liked picking up strays.

I had been a stray too, a conman working the streets, when Harry found me.

‘I miss her,’ I said out loud. ‘I miss you too, Harry. I need you to come back to me.’

I sat for a while and didn’t know what I should say. So I just started talking.

‘Denise is looking after Clarence most nights. He likes her place. Tony Two Fucks is over at her apartment a lot, and that guy is like a big teddy bear whenever he sees a dog. They’re feeding him too many snacks.’

Clarence’s head shot up, he looked at me as if in mild indignation, then settled his snout on Harry’s ankle.

‘The Jackson trial starts in the morning. I’m amazed John has lasted this long. The family has been through hell. Alison is on meds now. Her mother’s murder has all but destroyed her. In part, she blames herself, I think. She’s barely hanging on. Bloch and Lake have been busy liaising with the police about Alison’s mother’s murder. Of course, the police don’t want to let us talk to Althea. Lake thinks it’s too much of a coincidence. He thinks there’s a connection with Margaret Blakemore’s murder, but wecan’t find it yet. Althea steals jewelry from the Jacksons – has a piece of bad luck and gets caught. Then Esther, Alison’s mother, calls ICE on Althea’s family. Althea takes her revenge on Esther. Cops found a bloodied apron in the trash at Esther’s home. Once they made the connection that Esther called ICE on Althea, that provided Althea a motive – the cops pick her up, run her DNA and find a match for the DNA left behind on the bloody apron . . .’

The machines hum and beep and wheeze.

And Harry is still and quiet.

‘I don’t know. There’s no connection between Althea and Margaret Blakemore. That doesn’t stop Alison from tearing herself apart with guilt. What if she hadn’t fired Althea? What if she’d called the cops on her as soon as she found out she was a thief? Poor woman. Kate wants to explore the possibility Althea planted the gun in the Jacksons’ home. Doesn’t make sense to me. She didn’t work for Margaret Blakemore. And there was nothing missing from the Blakemore home. I don’t buy it. Kate says the jury doesn’t have to buy it either – but if they consider it a possibility then maybe we have reasonable doubt. It’s a stretch. Right now, we don’t have anything solid on Todd Ellis and Brett Bale other than rumors and that phone message – but no way to prove the message went to Bale or Ellis.’

I squeezed his hand, let it go. Wiped my face and ran my fingers through my hair.

‘I wish you were awake. I need you, Harry.’

His chest rose and fell in time with the rhythm of the machine. His eyes were closed. Sometimes, if I looked at him long enough, I would kid myself into thinking he was waking up. I would see a flutter of eye movement. A ripple in the small muscles of his liver-spotted forehead. A twitch of his fingers.

But it was all in my head.

The tubes in his throat kept his mouth open. A trickle of saliva had dried over the corner of his mouth, and crusted the stubble on his chin, which was now almost a beard. I’d asked if I could shave him. The hospital said no. Said one of their staff would do it, but they were busy with other patients. I grabbed some paper towels from the shelf beside the bed, dabbed at his mouth and chin.

Whispered to him that I loved him.

I didn’t have to say it. Harry knew it.

I replayed that day, over and over in my mind. The sun had blinded me. And it had all happened so fast – the sudden shadow as Harry stepped in front of me – my eyes hadn’t had time to adjust before Harry thumped into my chest, knocking me to the ground.

He was protecting me. Just like he’d done weeks ago when we’d left the office together and faced those bikers parked across the street. Only this time Harry had caught a bullet meant for me. And I hated him and loved him for it. I didn’t want the people in my life to suffer because of me – because of what I do. But they always did.

That’s why I pushed away my wife. That’s why I rarely saw my kid, however much I wanted to be there for her.

Because if something happened to them because of me I just wouldn’t want to go on living.

I felt that pain again, in my chest. A tightness and a burning sensation that felt like I was being strangled from the inside. My breath grew ragged and I sat down, hung my head. Forced my lungs to open, my rib cage to expand, sucking the air into my body as best I could. Holding it. Letting it out slow.