A Damned Good Liar...

Bed-rest… She was sent home after the oxygen mask was taken off the open wound on her hip. Nick had a restraining order put on Mickey. Her protests were ignored at first. Nick had insisted that he nurse her and she was so doped up on oxycotin she let him. He wasn’t there much though and she had to struggle out of bed to get to the kitchen for chicken soup or to the toilet. She was weak and could barely make it back up the stairs. It would have helped had Nick been there but she didn’t miss him. She slept and let all his manipulations and lies rest with her. She wasn’t going to give up but, right then, she needed to rest.

CHAPTER Five:

Sean McKee: Mickey

From that first day back in September when he rolled out of bed, fell to his knees and asked for guidance, he was aware that his life was under new management. Having no idea of what that would entail, he began the task of, not only doing the next right thing, but tapping into the intuition of what that might be. He often said, “I knew, without being told, that I would have to make amends to the people I had harmed, short-changed, lied to and otherwise stepped on, throughout those dark days of my drinking and drugging.” The first that came to mind was the abandonment and neglect of his daughter and the rest followed. He wanted to do it all right away but understood that it would be vanity to start this Herculean task without some sort of guarantee that he would not be inclined to repeat the same mistakes.

He went to AA meetings and listened to what others did to resolve these problems, knowing it wouldn’t be enough to just say I’m sorry, that he had to get serious about digging deeply into the causes and the fears that were the sources of these inclinations. He dreamed of having someone he could relate his innermost thoughts about these secrets and somehow knew that he would be able to handle them better if he did. Still obsessed with Adriane and unable to imagine his life without her, whenever she called he came running. For instance, he was at home on lunch break from the cab when she called. It was as though his heart was hit with a sledge hammer when he could hear the heroin in her voice over the phone: He was crushed.

Crushed is the best word for it. His heart could have been vomited out; it stuck so in his throat. This was the first real test of his new-found sobriety. The manner in which she had banned him from her bed, and then got tangled-up with any low-life she could, puzzled him. What was worse was that she kept him around as if he was her personal eunuch and that drove him nuts. He was furious to see her face and wanted to murder whoever banged her up. Then, when she showed him her abscess, his anger was smashed along with any hopes for her. She nearly died and that was the closest he had ever gone back to drinking.

Sitting on his couch…. thinking… his credit was still good at Willy’s Liquors, only a block away from his place, he  struggled with the whys and the hows and the what-the-fuck’s of it all. What was he supposed to do? Homer jumped up on his lap and calmed him down for a few minutes. A pack of smokes his friend Jim had left on his last visit was in the drawer of the desk for whenever he came back. Mickey had quit smoking before he’d gotten sober and was glad to not have to struggle with smoking as well as drinking. However, he sat there and decided to have a smoke and think about it before he went to Willy’s.

All the old hands at this say you are supposed to call your sponsor or help a newcomer when tempted to drink but Mickey chose to smoke a cigarette. Perhaps it was a way to slap back at GAWD. Not so sure of his motives he prayed, “Please help me,” as he lit one up. Immediately, before the smoke filled his lungs, he knew that he had awakened the monster of tobacco and had merely traded addictions. Still, it was a better option for him than drinking.

As he smoked the cigarette there was a knock on the door. Having nothing to hide, regardless, he felt more than a little bit concerned when he saw a uniformed cop standing on the porch; “Can I help you?”

“Sean McKee?” he had a note pad out.

“Yes.”

“”You dropped off Adriane Baker at the emergency room today?”

“Uh, yes,” Mickey answered unsure. This guy looked like the rookie from way back… the Beatrice… what’s-her-name… uh-huh, it was him with a new rookie in tow.

“Do you mind telling me why you left the ER before the police arrived?” he was surly. His name-tag read, Richards, Dan Richards. Was he promoted to detective? Then why was he in uniform? Detectives are usually in plain clothes.

“Yes, I had to get back to work. She called while I was on break and I had to get back before…”

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” He sneered towards the new guy, “This one’s trouble.”

Number two rookie put his hand on the hilt of his gun… just in case.

He had thought that Adriane would have told the police what had happened and he would be cleared of suspicion… unless something worse had come about…, “Is Adriane okay?”

Of all the times Mickey had to go to jail… just when he started smoking again. Damnit, they don’t allow smoking at all in the Santa Barbara Police holding cells and certainly not in County. He would have confessed to anything for a smoke. His feelings were running all over the place… Wondered what Adriane had told the police and then smelling Nick’s B.S. on it. What the hell, he knew he was innocent and knew that he had luck with him… but, what if… what if? What then?

Mickey was kept in an interview cell where the powers that be had him cooling off. It seemed like a long wait... at least an hour… there are no clocks. Because of that his heart skipped when detective Ryan opened the door to peek in.

Ryan’s face lit up too. He then entered the door, “Mr. McKee, what the hell? I haven’t seen you in a while,” plopping down a thick file on the Spartan table between them he was almost jovial.

“Under these circumstances, I can’t say that I’m all that pleased to see you again, detective Ryan,” But Mickey was glad to see him. It’s hard to explain it but a familiar face gave him hope.

“Let me get some coffee for us and I’ll be right back.” Leaving the file on the table, Ryan went towards the door.

 “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Mickey tried to sound nonchalant.

Ryan kept going without comment and was gone for something like a half hour. Time means nothing in there. “Right back,” can mean any day now. While he was waiting Mickey flipped open a corner of the file… enough to see that the report on the top had Richards’ name on it.

Ryan finally came back into the room with two Styrofoam cups of coffee… black, “See here, Mr. McKee, we seem to have a problem…”

“What do you mean, we, no cream or sugar?” Mickey took a sip of the bitter brew, “…Or, do you mean, me, I have a problem.”

“Why don’t you just tell me your version of what happened and…”

“All due respect, sir, police station coffee sucks.” Mickey’s lips burned from the coffee, “and aren’t you going to read me my rights?”

“I can tell you now that the courts will go easier on you if you cooperate,” he said as he thumbed through the reports.

Would it do any good to talk? Mickey suspected, by the detective’s tone, that anything he’d say one way or another was going to be used against him, It didn’t matter a whit whether or not his rights were read. If he refused to say anything they’d be able to avow he was uncooperative and if he did talk… what then?

“I took a break and went home for lunch.” He explained. “I didn’t have much time.”

“Did you stop by Adriane’s house then?” Ryan folded his arms and leaned back in his chair…

Mickey wondered how far Ryan could lean without flat out falling, “I had no plans to see her. I just had time to get home, wolf down a ham sandwich, and get back in the hack …”

“Then, are you saying you didn’t go to Mrs. Baker’s house?”

“No, I went there alright… I got a phone call. She was hurting.”

“How did you know she was hurting?”

“Listen, maybe you want to get this interview over and read me my rights?”

“Mr. McKee, we have enough to hold you in jail for more than a few days,” Ryan thumbed through the files, “You’ve already been tagged with a restraining order. We have enough of your past on record to throw the book at you. Do you want to cooperate or not? Tell me now, because I’d just as soon get home to dinner.” He slammed the file shut.

“She called me at home and she was hurting. I could tell she was hurting because she could hardly talk.” Mickey’s eyes were fixed on the pack of smokes in Ryan’s shirt pocket…Chesterfields, non-filtered.

Ryan pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his jacket … lit one and passed it to Mickey.

“Thanks, man, that was the best smoke I’ve ever had,” pulling on the smoke and letting the harshness of the vapors smack his lungs, he coughed, “I mean it.”

Ryan watched him take the drag and leaned back again in his chair. “So, you’re telling me you didn’t beat the crap out of her too, are you?”

To tell the truth Mickey wasn’t sure what to think… was he getting set up?

“Do what, smash her face up or inject her butt with tar?” he was tired… “Tell me, Ryan, is she going to be okay?”

“You tell me, McKee, you know what you did…” Ryan opened the file again, “the last time we had a talk… the Bea Brinker case… it turned out that the judge thought you hadn’t done anything wrong… lack of judgment were his words, I recall.”

“You were there in court?” Not remembering that far back or seeing Ryan in court… Mickey was concerned.

“Yes, when one of my cases gets to court the DA doesn’t care to lose cases and I thought we had enough on you for something… maybe not spousal abuse… maybe something like creating a disturbance… anything.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Don’t get smart with me, asshole. This time we have a clear-cut case of bodily injury. Mr. Baker saw you on the way up the hill on your motorcycle as he was leaving and, guess what? When he left home he says Adriane was okay…”

“I was in my cab.”

“Whatever.”

“So, does this mean you will read me my rights and tuck me in for the night?” he resigned knowing by then that there was no chance of going home today.

“Just tell me what happened and stop wasting my time.”

“I went up there… her face was bashed in and her eye was swollen shut…. Then she showed me the abscess on her hip and I took her to the ER in my cab… not my motorcycle. I had to get back to work… Time is money in a cab after all… so I took off thinking she could explain what happened.”

“According to this report she did tell officer Richards what happened.”

“Was he the rookie that was with you on the Bea Brinker case?” He couldn’t help but to grin, thinking of the tomato soup the rookie had mistaken for blood.

“And it ain’t lookin’ good for you.” Ryan pulled out the Miranda card and read it.

“Could I ask one more question before you go, Ryan?”

“Go ahead, Mick, make it a good one.”

Ryan kind of pissed him off. He consider the word, Mick, akin to using the “N” word. Ryan’s an Irish name … but, he got the point, Ryan wasn’t a friend… figuring it was all over anyway… “What kind of pull does Nick’s daddy have over you guys… eh?”

Ryan just stood up and had another officer cuff him to take him back to a holding cell. But before they parted paths he said, “Keep asking those kinds of questions and you will be in deeper shit than you are now.”

Ryan stood by the water cooler oblivious that he was smoking in the non-smoking police station… Richards approached him waving the smoke aside and coughing… “What do you think?”

“He didn’t do it.”

“What do you mean, he didn’t do it? He was seen by Nick coming up the hill on his motorcycle…”

“Then how did McKee drop her off at the hospital in his taxi?” Ryan glared at Richards now, “The receptionist at the ER attested to that much and I already know that Mrs. Baker’s husband is a damned good liar.”