breaking point; we just need to find it. I'm not going to blow smoke up your ass Iggy, I need to know if you're in this for the long haul. This could take months or even years, but I can tell you that at the end of the day you'll be a very rich man,' Jeremy promised.
'Can you guarantee for me that no one will get hurt?' he asked, but the answer didn't matter, Iggy knew he was in regardless; the dream of wealth untold for a gambling addict was more than he could reject. Jeremy had counted on it.
'Yes, based on the information we have today, I can say yes, but we may have to tweak how we deal with her responses on an ongoing basis. The other thing I'll need from you is your watchful eyes right here in Valdosta. I can't follow everything going on here, I'll need to appear that I'm continuing to keep my nose to the grindstone in DC,' the younger Marshall confirmed.
Over the next two hours the two conspirators worked out the logistics of how they would communicate, via the Internet, with a simple coded system. Phone calls would be almost never and generally only payphone-to- payphone. The connection between the two would need to remain totally obscure. Jeremy suspected, barring a quick acceptance of a limited offer, that another conspirator would need to be brought in at a later date to facilitate the nastier handiwork, but he did not address that or a number of other important details with the land and title director. Of course, the entire discussion and plans of the morning would be forgotten if his father survived. Jeremy tried to convince himself that his father's successful recovery was what he truly wanted.
The two, now on the same page, shook hands with a promise to stay in touch. Iggy left the home first, giving himself enough time to stop at a Waffle House for breakfast. Jeremy waited about 30 minutes before starting the four-hour drive to Atlanta. He confirmed the recording taken over the previous few hours, every word, every discussion; every communication would be documented and saved. One thing he'd learned dealing with slippery politicians was the need for ammunition, the more the better, especially if someone begins to develop selective amnesia.
Back on the road, Jeremy tried not to think about the discussion he’d just had with Ignatius, but rather poured his energy into what he would say to his father, if he was given the chance. A voice inside his head scolded him for thinking of his father as already gone, suspecting it was a foregone conclusion that he would not survive the heart attack. He vowed to himself that he could be the bigger man and say he was sorry for the misunderstandings, but as for Beverly, he was still unsure. The closer he got to Atlanta the more his heart ached for the fatherly companionship he’d once had. The prospect of never seeing his father’s smiling face again finally brought true grief, and for the first time in the past 36 hours, he cried.
The hospital was a massive structure with wings extended in every possible direction. At the front desk he asked for assistance in getting to the Cardiac ICU. A rotund, short black woman pulled a map from a thick pad and explained how he would navigate the hospital to get to the unit, highlighting the path with a pink highlighter. With map in hand, Jeremy moved through corridors filled with patients, visitors and medical staff, some obviously in a hurry, and others with ashen faces being consoled by loved ones. He reached the 4th floor of the cardiac unit, still unsure of what he would say but confident the words would come. Outside of the unit a set of doors blocked entrance without the approval of the nurses manning the unit station. A buzzer on the wall had a small note indicating that access would be granted once you explained your reason for being there. Jeremy depressed the buzzer and waited.
“Cardiac Unit, can we help you?” a female's voice echoed from behind the doors.
“I’m here to see my dad, Mr. Marshall. I’m Jeremy Marshall, just got here from DC,” he declared.
“Hold on a minute. Is there anybody here with the Marshall man?” he could hear her saying to someone close by. There was a shuffle of papers and then the phone went silent. A few seconds later he heard the latch on the door electronically open and the voice re-emerged over the intercom, “Come on in. Meet Beverly Marshall at the front desk please.”
He expected that it would be customary to hug the bereaved woman, even if he had little if any affection for her. Beverly was pacing near the desk where two nurses sat, one talking into a phone, the other flipping through a patient’s chart, but both ignoring everything else. The sound of respirators and other pieces of medical wonder beeped, pulsed and hissed all around them. The desk sat in the center of what looked to be ten rooms, separated only by curtains. Equipment filled each room, allowing just enough space for a hospital bed and a table on wheels, extending over the foot of each bed. Other nurses were moving in and out of the rooms, stethoscopes draped around their necks, each with a clipboard in their hand.
Beverly could be seen chewing her nails as she wore a groove in the carpet, “Jeremy, Jeremy, I’m so glad you’re here! I’ve been trying to call your cell but I just kept getting your voice mail. I was afraid something had happened to you as well!”
He had turned off his phone prior to talking with Iggy, so no calls could be traced, and he must have forgotten to turn it back on. They met in a somewhat awkward embrace before the two nurses at the desk neither acknowledged the union. “I got here as quickly as I could. Drove all night. What’s happened? Is he okay?” the distraught son asked.
“A couple of hours ago it looked like he was starting to regain consciousness but then lapsed back into a drug induced coma and we’ve not been able to communicate with him since. The doctors keep telling me that’s normal, but I’m terrified,” the deeply sad woman said, through tears streaming down her face.
“Has he said anything since he was taken to the ER in Valdosta?” Jeremy asked.
“You know your dad. All the way to the hospital he was telling them he was fine, probably just heartburn or something, but when they got him hooked up to the machines there, he had a second attack that was much worse than the first. That’s when they pumped him full of drugs and shipped him here. The staff at both hospitals have been phenomenal, really helpful, I think they are doing their best.”
“They damn well better be,” Jeremy warned, looking at the nurses seated across the desk, making sure they had heard what he said.
“Believe me they are. This is the best cardiac unit in the city and the specialist has been checking him regularly.”
“Is it okay if I see him?” Jeremy said, his voice hesitant and tensing.
“Absolutely! He’s sleeping, or at least it looks to me like he’s sleeping, but with the coma I don’t know for sure. I’ve been reading to him, seems to bring his heart rate down some if he can hear my voice,” Bev explained. She turned and walked around behind the station to room #9 where his father lay, tubes running into his nose and throat, with others hooked to bottles, hanging on either side of the bed, feeding unknown clear liquids into his veins.
The scene before him was not at all what he had expected. He had somehow thought he would show up, his dad would be sitting up in the bed complaining about hospital food and trying to convince the staff to bring him a milk shake. This was all too real, too overwhelming, too fast. He could feel sweat forming on his inner arms and the back of his knees; suddenly his peripheral vision wavered and turned dark.
Somewhere in a far off place he could hear people moving about and then a soothing voice saying, “Get his head between his knees, don’t let him fall on the floor again. Okay, that’s fine, looks like he’s starting to come back to us. Mr. Marshall. Mr. Marshall, can you hear me? You starting to feel a little better?” He felt some strength return to his limbs and he was able to hold his own head, with his elbows bracing the weight.
“Did I pass out?” he asked.
“Dead away,” a cute little nurse answered. “You’ll be okay, this happens more than you’d think. Just keep your head between your knees for a few minutes; somebody will bring you some juice. If you need us just holler, k?”
“Good hell Jeremy, scared me to death!” Beverly added her two cents.
“Sorry, didn’t know I would react this way. Probably lack of sleep and I’ve not eaten anything for hours.” A glass of orange juice was pressed into his hands, which he quickly downed. “I think I’ll be okay, feeling a lot better now.” He lifted his head to see his father’s figure laid out before him, monitors flashing numbers, and a heart beat pattern next to his bed. Jeremy slid his chair over next to the bed and laid his hand on his father’s extended right arm. It was warm, but there was no reaction from his touch. He lightly caressed the arm, trying to think of what he might say, but emotion tied his tongue and he could not speak. He sat like that for an hour, thinking, contemplating, and praying for a miracle.
“Jeremy,” he heard a whisper. “Jeremy, the specialist is here and wants to check him, you’ll need to leave the room for a minute,” Beverly said.
