Chapter 11: The Last Thing He Said
The formal charges were filed on a Thursday in early spring.
Carter Hale was charged with three counts of leaving the scene of an accident resulting in injury, one count of leaving the scene of an accident resulting in de@th, and one count of obstruction — the parking garage incident the letter writer had described, which turned out to involve a witness in a separate crjminal case Hale had presided over years earlier.
Grace called me as I was walking to the car after work.
"It's done," she said.
"He was processed this morning.
His attorney entered a not-guilty plea.
The arraignment is scheduled for the twenty-third."
I stopped walking.
Around me, the parking lot was ordinary.
Other people heading to their cars.
A cart rattling across the asphalt.
The sky pale and wide and indifferent.
"Paul Greer," I said.
"Named in the charges.
Specifically."
"And Donna Marsh."
"Yes."
"And me."
"Yes."
I stood there for a moment.
"Thank you, Grace."
"Don't thank me yet.
This is the beginning of the legal process, not the end."
"I know.
But thank you anyway."
She let that stand.
I drove home.
Richard was already there — he'd taken the afternoon off.
He was standing in the kitchen when I came through the door, and he looked at my face and knew before I said anything.
"It's filed," he said.
"Yes."
He sat down at the kitchen table.
I sat across from him.
We stayed like that for a little while, not saying much, the apartment quiet around us.
"I need to tell you something," he said eventually.
I waited.
"When I first walked into your hospital room — when I realized who you were — my first thought was to transfer off the floor.
To request a different assignment and never come near you again." He looked at the table.
"My second thought was that I owed you something I didn't know how to give."
"And the third?"
He looked up.
"That you were going to be all right.
I could see it.
Even unconscious, even with your leg in a cast and stitches in your forehead — there was something in the way you held yourself." He paused.
"I know that sounds strange."
"It doesn't," I said.
"I stayed because I felt responsible.
And then I stayed because I wanted to.
And I should have told you the difference much sooner."
I looked at him across the table.
"You're telling me now," I said.
He nodded.
We sat together as the light in the kitchen shifted from afternoon to evening.
At some point I got up and made dinner.
Richard set the table.
We ate.
We talked about ordinary things — his shift schedule, a book I'd been reading, whether we should get a plant for the windowsill.
It was the most normal evening we'd had since our wedding night.
Two days later, Hale's attorney released a public statement calling the charges politically motivated and promising a vigorous defense.
A local news outlet ran a piece.
Hale's name was in the headline.
I read the first paragraph.
Set my phone face-down on the desk.
May you like
I didn't read the rest.
I didn't need to.
