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  We went out the kitchen door, Mrs. Rutherford insisting I’d love Judge Judy if I just gave her a chance.

  Once we were on the driveway I gave Mrs. Rutherford my card. “Please give me a call if anyone comes to the house, would you do that for me?”

  “You’re a nice-looking young man,” Mrs Rutherford said. “Have you ever thought about going on the General Hospital?”

  Sister Mary tried to stifle a laugh.

  “I may just give that a try,” I said. As I did I noticed a very large man moving toward us from the sidewalk. He wore a Raiders jersey with a silver chain around his neck. The chain looked like it weighed eighteen pounds. The man weighed considerably more.

  “You okay, April?” the man said.

  “I’m okay, Marvin,” she said.

  “Any trouble?”

  “No trouble, Marvin. These folks are company.”

  “You sure?” He gave me a middle linebacker stare.

  “Now you just back yourself up,” Mrs. Rutherford said. “This is a real honest-to-God lawyer and a real honest-to-God nun.”

  “Whatta they want?”

  “That’s just none of your affair, Marvin.”

  “Everything happens here I want to know what it is,” Marvin said.

  “Nice to meet you, Marvin,” Sister Mary said.

  “You for real?” he said.

  “We think so,” I said. Sister Mary gave me an elbow, just as if I was backing her into the paint.

  Marvin shook his head and turned around and started to lumber away. I think the ground shook a little.

  “Well now,” Mrs. Rutherford said to me, “I’m glad I could help. Come back and visit if you want to.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  “I make a mean lemonade, with the oil from the rind,” she said. “It is Wilt Chamberlain’s own personal recipe, did you know he liked lemonade?”

  “I did not know that,” I said. I shook her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Rutherford.”

  Sister Mary leaned across me, extending her hand to the woman.

  But her hand never met the other woman’s. I heard some sort of crack, and Sister Mary hit the ground.

  126

  I HEARD ANOTHER crack. And knew it was gunfire. A piece of driveway chipped near my foot.

  I grabbed Mrs. Rutherford and pushed her down. She fell hard on the pavement, crying out.

  Thinking the shots came from across the street, I put my body in front of the two women. Then I looked at Sister Mary. She wasn’t moving.

  I got my phone and punched 911. I gave dispatch the address and said, “We need immediate police and ambulance. Shots fired.”

  I put the phone away. Sister Mary groaned. So did Mrs. Rutherford.

  “Stay still, both of you,” I said. Whoever fired the shots was still out there. If we tried to get up or move, he could pop us like shooting-gallery ducks. On the other hand, I was a nice unmoving target right now.

  Sister Mary groaned again.

  “How bad is it?” I said.

  “Have I been shot?” Sister Mary said.

  “Yes. Don’t move.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t talk. An ambulance is coming.”

  “Call Father Bob,” she said.

  And then she passed out.

  127

  NO MORE SHOTS were fired, but I kept the women down. Sister Mary had taken a bullet just below the left shoulder. I pressed my coat on the wound to staunch the bleeding. I had no idea what else to do, so I kept whispering to her that it would be all right. I tried to make it into a prayer.

  Then I heard Marvin’s voice, barking like a king. “What is goin’ on?”

  “Get out of here, Marvin,” I said. “There’s a shooter.”

  “Shooter? Better not mess with me.” Marvin, standing a few feet from us, turned and scanned the street.

  “You listen now, Marvin!” Mrs. Rutherford said.

  “I’ll clean him out,” Marvin said. “Where is he?”

  “Get down, Marvin!” I said.

  “I ain’t gettin’ down,” he said.

  And he didn’t. He just stood there, like he was standing guard. Maybe that’s exactly what he was doing. He stayed that way until the ambulance arrived, sirens blaring.

  Two paramedics took over. I asked one of them, a tall kid, where they were taking her. He said the new trauma center on South Grand. I liked the sound of new.

  Sister Mary was still out when they put her in the back of the ambulance.

  I called Father Bob and told him to meet me at the trauma center just as a black-and-white pulled up to the scene. Two patrol officers, both Hispanic, walked up the driveway fielding comments from the clutch of onlookers who had gathered.

  Mrs. Rutherford got to them just before me. “A nun’s been shot!” she said.

  The older of the officers looked at the ambulance. “A nun?”

  “Shot,” I said. “I have no idea who. But from the way she fell, I’m thinking across the street at a slight angle.” I pointed to a red house with green trim. “Maybe over that way.”

  The officer—his name plate read Carnello—said, “Wait here,” and started across the street.

  Marvin looked at the other officer and said, “It wasn’t me.”

  “Okay,” the officer said.

  “He’s been helpful,” I said.

  Two more black-and-whites joined the scene, and by now there were a whole bunch of people crowding the streets.

  Officer Carnello shouted from across the street. Two of the new officers on scene went toward him, as did a bunch of the people who were watching. The crowd was shifting, the show was moving.

  I looked at Mrs. Rutherford and said, “How you doing?”

  “My knees hurt,” she said.

  “You need me to take you to a doctor?”

  She shook her head. “My, no. I’ve had a lot worse in my time.”

  I nodded and then jogged over to the house across the way. One of the new officers on the scene was telling people to stay back. I asked him what was up. He told me to stay back, too. I ignored him, ran past and in through the open front door.

  Three officers, including Carnello, were standing around a black male, bloodied and unconscious on the floor.

  128

  “DO YOU KNOW this man?” Carnello said.

  “No,” I said. “Does he have a weapon?”

  “This is a crime scene. I’m going to have to ask you step outside. I’ll want a statement.”

  “You can have it later,” I said. “I’m going to the trauma center.” I gave him my card.

  “If you could please wait—”

  “No can do,” I said.

  I left, got in my car and drove to the center. I told reception who I was and that got me some information. They had Sister Mary in right now, and I was invited to wait.

  I went to a waiting room stuffed with hot, anxious, impatient people. Green leatherette chairs, and a TV monitor with the drone of some talk show. I didn’t hear it. Mostly I paced and looked at the walls.

  Father Bob found me there around three-thirty. “Any word?” he said.

  “No,” I said. “She’s still inside.” I took him outside to the hallway so we could talk in private.

  “Any idea what happened?” Father Bob asked.

  “Not much,” I said. “We were looking for a witness, we went to the guy’s house. But after Sister Mary went through the kitchen window—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Later. We were at this house, the guy wasn’t there and the next thing I know somebody shoots at us and Sister Mary goes down. I’m sure the shot was meant for me.”

  “This is rather unbelievable.”

  I looked at my hands. They were balled up into fists.

  Father Bob put his hand on my shoulder. “How are you doing?” he said.

  “Oh, never better.”

  “Ty, talk to me.”
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  “I shouldn’t have used her,” I said.

  “We both know she wanted to do this,” he said.

  I shook my head. “You can’t mix what you do and what I do. You can’t be looking after the things of God and then run around with a crazy lawyer getting shot. I’m not good for her.”

  “We believe all of this is in God’s hands, you know.”

  “Listen, Padre, we’ve had lots of talks about this. But you know what I think? I think your God’s hands are like a little kid’s at the beach. Holding sand, and it keeps seeping through. And then when it’s all over, he just dusts his hands off and forgets about it.”

  “If I believed that, I wouldn’t be a priest.”

  “I’m not trying to get in a fight with you. I don’t know what I’m doing up there on your hill.”

  “I think you should go right back up there and get some rest. I’ll stay here and let you know what’s happening.”

  “No way,” I said. “There’s no way I’m leaving.”

  129

  WE TALKED TO a detective before we talked to a doctor. His name was Stein, from Southwest Division. He was about forty and was built like a mannequin at Men’s Warehouse. His clothes fit perfectly.

  “Can you tell me what happened, please, sir?” he said as Father Bob and I sat with him in the hospital cafeteria. We all had cardboard-tasting coffees in front of us. Not many sips were taken.

  I said, “We were standing outside the house, talking to the next-door neighbor, and the next thing I know Sister Mary has a bullet in her. It came from across the street—the rest you probably know.”

  “What were you doing there in the first place?”

  “Looking for a witness. Somebody who was supposed to testify for me. He wasn’t home.”

  “So do you think this had anything to do with that witness? I mean, like somebody didn’t want him to testify?”

  “He would’ve taken a pop at the witness, not me. Had to be a rifle.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Which would probably rule out gang activity. That’s not exactly the weapon of choice.”

  “Why would somebody want to shoot you, Mr. Buchanan?”

  “Other than the fact that I’m a lawyer?”

  “Other than that.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “A few days ago somebody slashed my tires, and scratched Back off in my car. Sister Mary’s also been getting threatening e-mails.”

  “You know who sent them?”

  “Somebody from Devonshire’s working on that now. And that’s all I’ve got. What about the guy they found in the house across the street?”

  “He was hurt pretty bad.”

  “Dead?”

  Stein shook his head.

  “Did they bring him here?” I said.

  “No doubt.” He said it like he knew it was true.

  “Let’s go talk to him,” I said.

  “I don’t know that I want to do that.”

  “Detective, I’m going to find out who did this. I will talk to this guy myself if I have to. Why don’t we work together?”

  “You just let me handle the investigation, Mr. Buchanan. I’ll keep you informed. Here’s my card. The number will forward to my cell if you need to reach me.”

  He handed it to me, got up, and walked away.

  130

  WE FINALLY GOT to talk to a doc. His name was Yang, and he was walking rapidly down the hall. We had to talk as we walked, and these ER guys walk fast.

  “She got a clean wound through the left side,” he said. “Missed the heart, but not by much.”

  “So she’s going to be okay?” I said.

  “I can’t tell you that. There’s a whole spectrum, from nerve damage to no damage.”

  “When will you know?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.”

  “How long will she—”

  “Can’t tell.” He turned to us. “Check back tomorrow.” And then he was off again.

  I looked at Father Bob. “A fount of information,” I said.

  “You try doing this job,” he said. “It’s Union Station with blood and guts and no schedule.”

  131

  SISTER MARY WAS in room 103, bed C. Father Bob and I passed two other beds. The first had an old woman, unconscious. The second had a thin younger woman who was staring blankly at a TV monitor.

  At the last bed, back to us, was a jumbo-sized nurse. She was so large she obscured most of Sister Mary. She turned around, looked at us, and said. “And just who are you?”

  “I’m her lawyer,” I said. “And this is her priest.”

  She gave us a scan, nodded, and walked out. And there was Sister Mary.

  She was all hooked up. She looked more vulnerable than I had ever seen her. She seemed about seventeen, as if she’d been in a car accident driving home from a high school dance. Her face was bruised from the fall.

  But she managed a weak smile when she saw us.

  “Hi,” she said, almost too soft to hear.

  Father Bob moved to the bed and took her right hand. I came up and stood next to him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to me. “Is this going to hurt our case?”

  “Don’t talk,” Father Bob said.

  “I want to,” she said. “I’ve got nothing else to—” Her words ended in a wince. I felt it myself. I wished I could have shifted all her pain to me.

  “Any idea who shot me?” Sister Mary said.

  “We don’t know,” I said. “But it was probably meant for me. Sorry I was standing in the wrong place.”

  “I play ball with you,” she said. “You’re always in the wrong place.”

  She smiled again, the way she does when she hits the final shot in Around the World. But it faded quickly and she turned her head away.

  For a long moment we were silent. I had no idea what to do. Then I saw a small pull from Sister Mary’s hand, and Father Bob bent over. She whispered something to him.

  He came back up and said, “Would you mind if I had a few minutes with Sister Mary alone?”

  I wondered what that was all about. Last rites or something? It couldn’t be that bad. I wouldn’t let it be that bad. I wouldn’t let…

  There I was again, sticking myself in the middle of Catholic business. “I’ll be back,” I said.

  132

  I WENT TO the nurses’ station on the emergency wing, and showed my Bar card. I said, “I’m working with Detective Stein.”

  Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t. This time it did. “The detective is in 210,” she said.

  When I got there I saw a cop was sitting on the chair outside the room. Only one reason for that. Protect a witness. I hung back before he saw me. I backed up into the hallway and thought about my options. I could forget the whole thing. But that wasn’t likely.

  Instead, I looked around, then went into a bathroom across the corridor. There was one fellow at the sink, washing his hands. I stepped over to the urinal and pretended to do my thing.

  As soon as he left I grabbed a handful of paper towels, made a wad, and stuck them in a toilet. Then flushed. It stopped up nicely, so I flushed again and got the first trickles of water on the floor.

  I hit it one more time and walked back to where the cop was sitting. I waited for a nurse to come by, and said, “Something’s wrong in the bathroom. Somebody may be hurt.”

  The cop heard me and got up and followed the nurse.

  I went into room 210. I found the kid in the first bed. He was not looking good. His face was like yesterday’s meatloaf.

  “How you doing?” I said.

  He groaned.

  “My name’s Buchanan. I was the one who got shot at today. You have any idea who did this to you?”

  He shook his head. I studied his face, the way I would a witness. But his injuries made it a much harder read. Still, I was looking for a tell. I wanted to know if he was in on the shooting in any way.

  “Did you get a look at him?” I said.
r />   He closed his eyes, but didn’t indicate no.

  “If you can try to help me out,” I said, “maybe we can get this guy.”

  He looked at me through the slits that were his eyes. Like he was trying to decide if he could say anything.

  “Who you?” he said.

  “A lawyer. I was talking to the lady across the street from the house you were in. You live there?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “We were trying to find a guy, and somebody took a shot at us. Didn’t hit me, he hit an innocent bystander, a nun, and the shot came from your house. What about it?”

  “Got hit,” he said. He seemed truthful, from the gut. “Happened fast.”

  “Anything you can give—”

  “Hey!” The cop was in the room. “Nobody talks to him. Get out.”

  “I may be his lawyer,” I said.

  The cop looked confused. I looked at the kid, and shrugged.

  The cop said, “This your lawyer?”

  The kid paused, then shook his head slowly.

  “You have to leave,” the cop said.

  “You think about it,” I said to the kid, and left my card on his stand.

  133

  I CHECKED IN on Sister Mary again. She was sleeping. Father Bob was praying by her bed. I put my hand on his shoulder. He looked up and motioned for me to sit.

  I pulled up the one other chair in the room.

  “She had a message for you,” Father Bob said. “She wants you to go get some sleep so you can go to court tomorrow. She said she wants the blow-by-blow afterward. She said it’s Showtime and you’re the Lakers in 1985.”

  I smiled. “Boston Garden. Game six. I wish. She’s lying in bed with a bullet wound and I have no idea what’s going on.”

  “My grandmother always said, Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.”

  I paused. “That some sort of down-home wisdom?”

  “It means don’t worry about what doesn’t exist. Just look at the task in front of you.”

  I tried to look. What I saw was a long black tunnel. Inside were people with guns and money. I thought of that Warren Zevon song. Lawyers, guns and money. Dad, get me out of this.