When We Were Married Ch. 06A

She was silent for a moment.

"Thank you, doctor. You're probably right that we'll always be a part of each other's lives. Right now I'm losing sleep worrying about him and that cop, Shawn Smith. I don't think Bill appreciates just how dangerous he is, just how much danger he is in."

Teller reached out and took her hand in his.

"I'm aware of the situation, Debbie. I think you underestimate your ex. Bill Maitland might be a driven man who takes risks, but I don't think from my experience with him that he's a foolish or reckless man."

"I hope you're right, doctor, but nobody is bulletproof - sometimes I don't think Bill realizes that.

#############################

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2005 3 p.m.

I have two accounts on my office computer. One is my business account, for anything official. The other is a personal account. I'm on the business account a hundred times a day. I'm on the personal account maybe once or twice a week. My mom still isn't real 'hep' with computers, as she would put it. My kids call me on the phone, and there are very few other reasons for anyone to email me.

Because I almost never go on it, I've set up a pinging alarm for any email messages that do come through. If I'm out of the office, it will be pinging when I turn the computer on, and if I'm on, it will give me the same heads up.

The phone had rung five minutes earlier and Cheryl had told me I had Phil Howser, the President of the Fraternal Order of Police (FOP) union on the line. I had talked with him a number of times over the years and he'd always seemed reasonable and not too hard nosed for a cop and a union rep at the same time.

"What can I do for you, Phil?"

"You really need to ask, Mr. Maitland?"

"You too? It used to be Bill."

He laughed.

"You never can tell. Someone might be listening in. You know they've got your picture up on some of the targets at the shooting range?"

"Seriously?"

"No, but it wouldn't surprise me. You have some guys over here seriously pissed off at you."

I'm not surprised. I'm told that Smith is popular over there. Somebody prosecuting him is not going to get any love letters."

He laughed again.

"I don't know. I think a lot of guys over here would love to screw you."

"A cop that can use puns. Be careful or they'll drum you out. You probably read without moving your lips."

"The only reason I'm not offended about that Bill is that I've been drinking with you at some of the joint State Attorney/Sheriff's office functions and I know you're just yanking my chain. That's why I haven't come down on you with my guys, because I can't see you being the bastard that people are saying you are."

"I'm a sweetheart, Phil, but I'm not going to back off taking the shooting to the grand jury."

"When do you plan on doing it?"

"I'd hoped to get it to them this week, but some other things are going on and the foreman and vice-foreman of the jury both had personal crises pop up at the same time. Technically we don't have to give them time, but they wouldn't be able to concentrate with that stuff on their minds. They've had those positions since the grand jury was convened and they know what they're doing, besides being good leaders. I decided to wait.

"So it will probably be next week, maybe later in the week."

"That gives us a little time. Look, Bill, my guys want me to do SOMETHING. They pay their dues and sometimes they get the feeling they don't get all that much for their money. It would do me good to show them that at least you were willing to meet with us, let us put our two cents in, and maybe, we might change your mind."

"Never going to happen."

"You know that and I know that, but they don't know that.

"I don't have a problem meeting with you, Phil. When and where?"

"How about Friday, at the FOP Hall on Atlantic Boulevard. We don't ever do anything official on Fridays because no one will show up, so it's a good time for the FOP officers and a few key people to meet. Come by and we'll have some coffee and maybe wings and you can talk candidly with us about what's going on. Sound good?"

"Yeah. Let me ask you something before you go. I'm hearing rumbles that Smith is coming apart at the seams. He braced me in the sandwich shop across from the courthouse the other day and I seriously wondered if he was going to try something in front of a dozen witnesses, including four or five armed cops.

"My ex-wife was just in here telling me I need to start carrying a gun because she's hearing the same rumbles over in the PD office. Do I need to start carrying a gun, and if he's having a breakdown, how come the Sheriff is letting him walk around carrying a Glock?"

There was a silence and then Phil said, "He is getting a little raggedy, I'll admit and he's drinking too much. He's got a lot of friends and they're watching him, babysitting him really. Knight won't pull him because he and everybody else thinks if he's removed from duty, it will just make it certain that the grand jury will decide he's crazy and indict him."

Another silence and then: "He's a good man, Bill. Or, he was. The shooting rattled him...a lot. He's killed men before, but I think the way it went down...it even got to him. I didn't say that, if anybody asks, but even his friends know he went too far. Then, afterwards, his fiancee walked away. He, uh...I think he thought she was the one. I don't think he's been right since she left him. Maybe you can understand that."

The computer pinged. I ignored it. I thought about what Howser had said. Yeah, I could understand a man going to pieces after losing a woman.

"Then, the strain of having this grand jury thing over his head so long, and that civil lawsuit that could wipe him out financially, it's all played on his mind. That's why his friends are trying to help him hold it together until this passes, one way or the other."

"Should I start carrying a gun?"

"It probably wouldn't hurt."

I'd almost forgotten the email but after I hung up it popped back into my mind. I called up my personal account and typed in my password.

It was an email from adjardin@aol.com. I just looked at it for a long time. Eventually I hit the button and opened it.

"Dear Bill:

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Paris in the Fall is even more beautiful than I remembered it. Jacksonville and St Augustine and your beaches are very different, but I know you love them as I do Paris. I hope you are as happy today as Philippe and I are. We have found that being apart has made us cherish our marriage more than we once did.

I have told Philippe how you showed me your home town and the great kindness you displayed to me while I was there. I will never forget the two weeks we spent in your city. By the by, Philippe also thinks the Fleur de Lis pendant you gave me is exquisite and I want you to know that I wear it proudly. He said it is the kind of gesture he expected from you, because that is the kind of man you are.

As I know you will understand, I cannot express the joy that seeing André again has given me. He is my life, and as I have done every year since he was born, I am having to struggle with the thought of ever going back to the Bonne Chance. Perhaps this year, my decision will be different.

Finally, I hope that you have found peace in your personal life. I do not know what decisions you will ultimately make about your marriage but, regardless of what happens with Debbie, I want you to know that after knowing you for such a short time, I have no doubt you will find a good woman to share your life with.

I hope you will pardon me for making such a personal judgment, but you are not the kind of man who can lead a life of aimless affairs. You need a woman in the center of your life, and you deserve one. Once you get past the pain you are currently in, I know you will find one.

Regardless, Bill Maitland, I want you to know that I will think of you often. When I wear your Fleur de Lis, I will remember you on the Bonne Chance, and in Jacksonville and St.Augustine. Philippe, too, sends his well wishes and wants me to remind you that friendship, like love, transcends distance and time, and that he is your friend.

With deepest regard, your friends, Aline and Philippe."

I didn't' realize until the letters blurred that I was crying.

#############################

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 2005 3 p.m.

The alarm buzzer went off as I stepped through the security booth at the front of the courthouse. The two bailiffs moved toward me drawing their pistols until they both recognized me at the same instant.

I raised my hands into the air very quickly as all activity came to a sudden stop around me.

The nearest bailiff, an older guy with a few springs of whitish hair still sticking up on an otherwise bald head, put his pistol down but didn't holster it as he stepped toward me.

"Mr. Maitland?"

I pulled my coat back to reveal the Glock in a shoulder holster.

"I have a special permit in my jacket pocket if you'll let me get it out, or you can fish it out yourself."

He looked at the other bailiff, then said apologetically, "I'm sorry, Mr. Maitland, but could I see the permit. Take it out slowly, okay?"

"Sure, I'm sorry. I meant to take the Glock out and show you the permit before I went through the machine, but my mind was somewhere else.'

I showed him the permit signed by the Chief Judge of the Circuit and Austin Edwards. He looked at it for a moment, then said, "I really am sorry, but do you mind if I call up to the Chief Judge's office. It's just that this is kind of unusual, even for a prosecutor.

"Sure, go ahead," I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye women and men who worked in the courthouse and knew me by sight edging away from me. Just another story to add to my courthouse legend. There were already stories circulating throughout the courthouse about several members of the largely Hispanic night cleaning crews refusing to enter my office, the lair of the "Angel de la muerte," or Angel of Death.

It would have been funny, except they were as serious as hell.

Maybe they had a point. Half the defense attorneys in the building would plead out clients rather than take me on in court and even some of our own people would take the stairs down rather than ride with me in an elevator.

I had asked Cheryl about it a few days before and she had told me, "You probably haven't noticed Bill but, except for the two weeks when that French woman was here, most of the time, if you're not involved in a case, you usually walk around with a frown, or you glower at people. Or...you just...shit, Bill, you walk around looking like your best friend just died. It's kind of a downer."

I hadn't realized it. I hadn't realized it because even before my marriage went south, I hadn't been the most light hearted of guys. The job kept me from being a happy go lucky soul. But I didn't know that somber had shaded into gloomy and I knew that today I was probably grimmer than usual.

My mind kept drifting back to Aline's email. You didn't have to be a genius to read between the lines. She had managed to patch up her marriage and she had her son back. How could I be unhappy at that? I wanted her to be happy, but that meant I'd never see her again. That made me unhappy.

The bailiff interrupted my musings, handing me the permit and apologizing for nearly drawing on me. I assured him there were no hard feelings and took the Glock back after I'd gone through the screening machine again.

I had gotten the Glock from an investigator, oddly enough the one who'd spotted me with Aline at the restaurant, and was given some minimal instruction in how to use it since I hadn't had any firearms training in nearly five years. So now I was carrying and it felt awkward as hell, but I remembered Debbie's words. I didn't want either BJ or Kelly to come to my funeral until they were a lot older.

I had barely walked into my office when Cheryl buzzed me and I picked up the phone. Mitch McConnell, one of our investigators, was on it, talking so fast that at first I couldn't make out what he was saying.

Finally I understood and I nearly dropped the phone.

"Oh shit. What hospital?"

I barely remembered to alert security as I went out but I had a driver waiting before I hit the street and he drove me in one of the SA car pool to Baptist Medical Center and went to park while I headed to the cardiac section. McConnell was waiting for me as I walked into the waiting area.

"How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad," he replied. "Pat Peterson, the cop assigned to watch him, heard him gasping and found him lying on the floor in the bathroom at about 2 p.m. He was having a really hard time breathing and complaining of a pain in his right shoulder and arm. I just talked to the doctor examining him and he said it's pretty obvious he's had a major heart attack."

The treating physician, a youngish cardiologist who looked like he had just started shaving, came out a half hour later and confirmed what McConnell had told me.

Wilbur Bell, our star witness against William Sutton, had had a major heart attack. They'd had to go in and clean out four blocked arteries.

"What's the prognosis?"

"At his age and with his health problems, not real good. I'd give him 50/50 at best of making it through the night - much worse odds of making it a week or two."

"Shit, shit, shit. Look doctor, the State Attorney's Office, that is the state of Florida, will be paying for his care. Do whatever he needs to improve those odds. If you manage to bring him back, my office is going to be very grateful and our gratitude can be very profitable or useful in a lot of ways. Understand?"

"Yeah, but you understand he's an old, very sick man and I'm not a miracle worker. I'll do the best I can, but it's going to be a long shot."

"Sometimes you have to go with what you've got and hope for luck."

Before I left I told McDonnell to arrange with the Sheriff's Office for an around-the-clock security guard to watch over Bell.

"You really think Sutton would try to get to him in a hospital?"

"I don't know, but any man who'd do what he did wouldn't mind throwing the dice if he thought it would save him from the Death Chamber. He or his mother could hire someone. Nature might do his dirty work, but I don't know if he's religious enough to rely on God taking the old man out without some help."

On my way back up to the office, I wondered if I was glowering again. Probably. That son of a bitch Sutton was halfway home to getting rid of his most dangerous witness. Without the old man I wasn't sure I could nail him, and this was entirely out of my hands. There was nothing I could do to alter events. It was up to the doctor, the old man and God. It was, to put it mildly, irritating as hell.

The only good thing about it was that the anger had driven out the sadness of knowing I'd lost the second woman I'd loved in my lifetime. So far I was batting zero for two.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2005 3 p.m.

I sat in my chair behind my desk and thought bad thoughts. Wilbur Bell had made it through the immediate crisis, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. He could still die and the moment he did Barry Mahon would start pushing for a speedy trial to keep us from digging up any other proof we could use against Sutton. Not that I had any idea what possible other evidence we could dig up at this late date.

The phone beeped. Cheryl told me, "You have a visitor."

"Is it who I think it is."

"Yes."

"Would you remind her that we're divorced."

I could hear her from outside my office.

"Would you remind Mr. Maitland, whose ego is swelling beyond all belief since he's lost a little weight, that every woman, particularly every official with the Public Defender's Office, doesn't come up to his office out of uncontrollable lust for his body."

I just grunted. Why the hell did she have to become more like the girl I'd first fallen in LIKE with AFTER we were divorced. If she would just remain a bitch the rules would be clearer.

"Johnny August would just file a complaint with the Big Man if I refuse to see her, so send her in."

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She was dressed in green and white, crisp and trim. She was obviously still hitting the gym religiously. The dress was cut high enough to show off her legs without appearing too slutty. I knew she was still seeing the writer, Clint Abbott, and I wondered who else she was seeing. Looking like this, there had to be someone.

"So what is so urgent from the PD's office?"

"Nothing. I lied."

I just stared at her.

"Oh, get a grip on yourself, Bill. I didn't come here to seduce you. I just wanted to see you packing."

She smiled and I couldn't help remembering the first time we'd met, all those years ago. She had the same smile.

"I heard through the grapevine that you took my advice and got yourself armed, a shoulder holster and all. I just never thought of you as a pistol-packing prosecutor and I wanted to see what you looked like."

Very slowly and deliberately I opened the jacket I wore and let her see the Glock in its shoulder holster. I'd received a little instruction in the easiest way to reach in with my right hand and slip it out quickly.

"Don't get fancy," my instructor had said. "Get it out, hold it in a two-handed grip, point it in the direction of your target and start squeezing the trigger. The Glock is a fairly rapid fire handgun. You might get all 10 rounds off in a few seconds. Throw as much lead as you can in the direction of the target.

"Don't get fancy, don't worry if you miss with some. Don't pull it unless you're in fear of your life and then do your best to kill the bastard."

"Wow," she said, grinning that same sexy grin I remembered as well as the smile. "It's true what they say. A guy with a big rod is really sexy."

Even as she said it she realized what she'd said and the grin froze. My thoughts probably showed on my face as well.

"I am so damned sorry, Bill...so sorry. We can't even joke around anymore, can we? You know I didn't mean...."

"I know, Debbie. Someday we're going to have to get over tip toeing around...our history. Someday, But anyway, thank you."

"Thank you?"

"I'm carrying this Glock because of your warning, which was echoed by other people. I hope I don't need it, but if I do, I'll have it because of you.

"I hope you don't need it either, Bill. But...I'm glad you have it."

She couldn't think of anything else to say. She turned around and I remembered once again that she was as nice to look at going as she was coming. I must be getting better, because I suddenly wondered what Heather MacDonald or Meagan Whitcomb or even Myra might be doing this weekend.

Debbie might have broken my heart and Aline might have crushed up what few little pieces were still intact, but at least my manhood had been restored. If Debbie could make me horny again, there was still hope for me.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, 2005 - 3:45 P.M.

As she had walked into her office three doors down from Johnny August she noticed Dennis Leary bending over Annette Nettles' desk, whispering something into her ear. The red-headed PD giggled at something and Debbie could have sworn she reached out to stroke Leary's crotch.

It was only a second and she could have been mistaken, but she was certain of what she had seen, which wouldn't be a problem except that Annette was married to a DEA agent and she had heard some hair raising stories about his exploits in the never-never land between law and disorder that was the DEA. He was a dangerous man by all accounts.

And Leary happened to be the best attorney on the staff, second only possibly to Johnny August. She decided she'd have to keep her eyes open and possibly have an informal chat with both Leary and Nettles. While it wasn't on her list of official duties, keeping your best litigator from being shot by a jealous husband was somewhere in there.