“I’m sorry to drag you away from lunch, but I could really use your help down here. I have a couple of accident victims I’m tied up with, and a woman just came in who looks pretty beaten up, but says she just fell. Any chance you could see her?”
“Sure. I’ll be right there.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
She hung up the phone and returned to the table, but didn’t take her seat again.
“Just leave this here for me in case this doesn’t take too long, okay?” she asked Paul, pointing to her tray.
“I’m almost done, Joelle,” he said. “Want me to take the E.R. case for you?”
“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s a possible battered woman, so it’s probably better if I do it. But thanks for offering.” She gave him a quick wave of her hand. “Have a good afternoon.”
From the hallway of the E.R., she could see into the waiting room, and Paul had been right. It looked like a weekend night in there. Mothers bounced irritable babies on their knees, a couple of kids held ice packs to their legs, and several men slouched in their chairs, looking in the direction of the reception desk, waiting for their names to be called.
A nurse spotted Joelle and walked toward her, handing her a chart.
“She’s in four,” she said. “Bart stitched her up and set her broken arm and tried to get her to admit what happened, but she insists she fell down the stairs.” The nurse shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she did. But we didn’t want to let her go until one of you guys had a chance to assess her. She wants to get out of here, though. I’m not sure how much longer we can keep her.”
Joelle nodded, glancing quickly through the thin chart. Twenty-four-year-old Caucasian woman. Katarina Parsons. She didn’t bother trying to read Bart’s nearly illegible notes. She’d get the story soon enough.
She pushed open the door of the treatment room to find the young woman sitting on the edge of the examining table, arms folded across her chest, a look of boredom on her bruised face. The blase expression masked fear, Joelle was almost certain. She’d seen the act before.
She held out her hand to the woman. “Hi, Katarina,” she said. “I’m Joelle D’Angelo, one of the social workers in the hospital.”
The woman shook her hand limply. “Why are they making me see you?” she asked.
“Well—” Joelle leaned against the counter “—when someone comes in looking as though there’s a possibility that she might have been beaten up, we want to make sure she’ll be safe when she leaves the E.R.,” she said.
“I told that doctor I wasn’t beat up,” Katarina said. “I fell down some cement stairs.” She pronounced cement “see-ment.”
Joelle smiled at her. “I like your accent,” she said. “Where are you from?”
“Virginia.”
“Oh.” Joelle took a seat on the wheeled stool. “Near Washington?”
“No. Southwest Virginia. Right near North Carolina.”
“I bet it’s pretty there,” Joelle said. “What brought you out here?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Oh. Did he live here, or…?”
“No, he lived in Virginia,” Katarina said. “But his brother was in Monterey, and he wanted to come out here, too. He thought he could find a job, but he hasn’t yet.” She shifted her slender weight on the examining table.
“Do you want to sit in that chair?” Joelle pointed toward the one chair in the room. “I know how uncomfortable it is sitting on those examining tables. I’ve been doing a lot of that myself lately.” She patted her belly with a smile.
“I don’t want to sit
Joelle nodded toward the chair. “Just take a seat there,” she said. “It won’t be so hard on your back.”
Muttering under her breath, Katarina slipped off the examining table and sat down in the chair, arms folded protectively across her chest once more.
She was so easy, Joelle thought. So malleable and so scared. Joelle was confident she’d be able to get the truth out of her in no time.
“Where did you get hurt?” she asked.
“I told you, on the cement stairs at his brother’s apartment.”
“No, I mean, where on your body. I see you have some stitches on your cheek, and your other cheek is pretty swollen. Your arm was broken, right?”
“I been through all of this with that doctor,” Katarina said.
Joelle leaned toward her. “Katarina, it may be that you did fall down the stairs,” she said. “But if that’s
The tears welling up in Katarina’s eyes told her she was on the right track.
“You’re not the only woman this has happened to,” Joelle said. “You have a lot of company, unfortunately, but the good thing about that is that we have resources in place to—”
Katarina’s head suddenly jerked to attention, her eyes on the door to the treatment room. Joelle heard the voices outside the room, one calm and female, the other loud, angry and male.
“That’s Jess,” Katarina said in a whisper.
