It's Nothing Personal (4 page)

Immediately, Jenna worried about her
daughter.
 
Mia was in fifth
grade.
 
If the hospital deemed
things bad enough to cancel cases and forfeit revenue, then certainly the
schools would be closing soon, too.

Reaching into her breast pocket, Jenna
pulled out her phone and quickly texted her husband.

“Hey, Tom.
 
Can you get Mia from school?
 
I’m leaving now, but you’re closer.
 
See you guys soon.
 
Love, Jenna.
 
P.S. A nice bottle of red and a warm
fire sounds great, if you’re ‘up’ for it.”

Not thirty seconds later, Tom texted back.

“Definitely UP for that.
 
Already picked Mia up.
 
School closed an hour ago.
 
Drive safe – roads are awful.
 
Love you!!”
 

Jenna smiled as she headed toward the
elevator, thinking to herself the day was not turning out too badly after all.

CHAPTER 4

June 5, 2010

Hillary and her parents had been sitting at
the kitchen table for hours, discussing the mess she had created.
 
Harold Martin struggled to comprehend
the amount of devastation that his daughter had caused.
 
His stomach balled up when he thought
about the degree of trouble Hillary faced.
 
Infuriated and exhausted, Harold clutched Hillary’s arm and began to
yell at her.
 
The ringing of the
phone, however, immediately silenced him.
 
Hillary shook her arm free from her father’s grasp and stomped over to
the telephone.
 
Her mother and
father watched her trembling hands pick up the receiver.

There was no reason for Hillary to check
caller ID.
 
She had been dodging
phone calls and meetings with Detective Morris for over a week.
 
Her moment of truth had come.

“Hello,” Hillary
answered, barely more than a whisper, as she turned away from her parents.

“Is this Hillary Martin?” asked the deep,
authoritative and, by now, recognizable voice on the other end.

Her parents sat motionless as they strained
to catch every word of Hillary’s end of the conversation.

Hillary could barely
force the words from her mouth.

“Yeah, this is Hillary.”

“Hillary, this is Detective Morris.
 
I need to set up a time to meet with you
down at the station.
 
We need to
question you regarding allegations of drug tampering and diversion that
occurred while you were employed at St. Augustine Hospital.
 
It seems like we’ve had our fair share
of difficulty connecting.
 
If you
are available today, I’d like to meet with you at three o’clock.
 
Would that work for you?”

Tears of self-pity and fear slowly slid down
Hillary’s cheeks.
 
“Yes sir, I will
see you there.”

Detective Morris had played nice cop with
Hillary Martin for over a week now.
 
During that time, she had repeatedly lied to him, eluded his phone
calls, and failed to show up for scheduled meetings.
 
Today he was not taking any
chances.
 

Pointedly, Detective Morris asked, “Do you
have a ride down to the station?
 
If
not, we will send a car to pick you up.”

Hillary understood this was his way of
telling her that this was her last chance to come in voluntarily.
 
Not appreciating being backed into a
corner, Hillary made no attempt to disguise her irritation.
 
“My parents will give me a ride.
 
We’ll be there at three.”

“Do you have an attorney, or do we need to
arrange to have someone represent you?”

“You already know everything.
 
What’s some dumb-ass lawyer going to do
for me now?” Hillary hissed.

Before Detective Morris had the chance to
say anything else, she hung up.

Hillary’s parents remained seated at their
modest, maple kitchen table.
 
The
cups of coffee in front of them had long since grown cold.
 
Harold grabbed his wife’s hand and held
it tightly.
 
Janice sullenly looked
around at her cheerful kitchen.
 
Filled with memories, the room had always been her favorite place in
their home.
 
Janice loved the
chipper, yellow wallpaper speckled with pretty, white daisies.
 
The pine floors were marked up by years
of love, laughter, and horseplay.
 
Hillary’s mother glanced over to the stove, where she had dotingly
cooked her family’s favorite meals.
 
To Janice, her kitchen symbolized her family’s lives.
 
At
least their former lives,
she thought sorrowfully.
 

The morning sun filtered through the windows
of the breakfast nook.
 
Instead of
radiating warmth and comfort into the cozy space, the sunlight cast a
condemning spotlight on Hillary, as she took her seat at the table.

Hillary’s mother stared at her daughter as
if she were looking at a stranger.
 
Janice strived to remind herself that Hillary was once an innocent
child.
 
However, each memory was
promptly overshadowed by the chilly presence of the woman sitting across from
her.
 

Glancing at one of her most cherished
photographs hanging on the wall, Janice sighed.
 
Hillary was about three years old with ivory
skin, long black hair, and big brown eyes full of mischief and joy.
 
Janice smiled to herself as she
reflected on what a truly beautiful and amazing little girl Hillary had
been.
 
The picture had been taken on
a beach vacation in Key West as Hillary played in the sand, lost in her own
imaginary world.
 
Her parents
snapped the photograph without Hillary’s knowledge.
 
No posing, no cheesy smiles, no looking
awkwardly into the camera.
 
It
captured the natural sparkle, tenderness, and grace of their only child.

Hillary squeezed her mother’s hand and said
softly, “I remember that beach.”

“You do?”
 
Janice’s voice cracked.
 
“You were so little.
 
Those were good times.”

Janice looked back at Hillary.
 
Hillary’s formerly flawless skin was now
marred by piercings and tattoos.
 
Her once twinkling eyes now bore the dark patches and sunken look of
many years of hard living and drug use.
 
Hillary’s previously black hair was bleached out, uncombed, and
greasy.
 
Janice studied her
daughter, dressed in a tattered, black T-shirt and overly tight jeans.
 
To her, it was obvious that somewhere
along the way, the delightful little girl filled with promise and hope had
transformed into a monster.
 
Although this acknowledgement broke Janice Martin’s heart, she knew it
was true.
 
The little girl she loved
so dearly would never have committed the acts carried out by this woman sitting
at her table.

Hillary stroked the back of her mother’s
hand with her thumb.
 
“Mom, you did
a good job.
 
Don’t ever forget
that.
 
All this had nothing to do
with you, or Dad.
 
You both did
everything right.
 
I’m just a fuckup.”

It broke her parent’s hearts to admit it,
but Hillary was right.

Instead of responding, Harold and Janice
each put their feelings of shame and anger aside and grasped Hillary’s
hands.
 
They sat there at the table,
forming a triangle filled with love and despair.
 
No one spoke a word.
 
Over the past week, Hillary had
confessed everything to her parents.
 
There was no sense in rehashing the shock and disgrace that her actions
brought upon her family.

Eventually, the cuckoo clock interrupted the
Martins’ time together.
 
The little
bird only cried out one “Cuckoo” and then retreated into his wooden box.
 
Janice Martin, shaken from her trance,
looked at Hillary and said, “Well, I guess we better all get ready.
 
We’ll need to leave here in an hour.”

The Martins’ unlocked hands and stood from
the table.
 
Hillary rushed over to
her parents and buried herself in their embrace.
 
While her mother and father held her,
Hillary sobbed uncontrollably.
 
Finally, she pulled away and stared at them with eyes that were wet,
red, and puffy.
 
A clear stream ran
from Hillary’s nose toward her lips, but she made no attempt to wipe it
away.
 

Through her sniffles, Hillary pleaded, “Mom,
Dad, I’m so sorry.
 
Please, no
matter what I’ve done, please never abandon me.”

Harold’s words were unsteady.
 
His characteristic strength and
confidence had long since dissolved.
 

“Hillary, your mother and I will always be
there for you.
 
We promise you
that.”
 

Both of her parents nodded, with tears in
their eyes.

Hillary smiled gratefully and then walked
away to get ready for the meeting she dreaded.

An hour later, Hillary and her parents left
for the police station downtown.
 
During the drive, the Martins were silent.
 
Hillary watched the familiar images of
the city pass by from her window in the backseat.
 
When they passed the football stadium, she
remembered the fall games she went to with her dad.
 
Driving by the McDonald’s reminded her
of Happy Meals on the run, while her mother chauffeured her from one activity
to the next.
 
Hillary had the window
open and embraced the warm June air.
 
She had an overpowering urge to cherish every moment of the car
ride.
 

Hillary and her parents arrived at the
police station, and her mother started to steer their car into the parking
lot.
 

“No, Mom,” said Hillary firmly.
 
“I’m going in alone.
 
Just drop me off in front.”

At first, Janice was hurt that Hillary did
not want them to come with her, but she also had to respect her daughter’s
wishes.
 
She reluctantly pulled in
front of the police station and glanced back at her daughter.
 
Hillary’s hair was still dirty and
stringy, she had not bothered changing clothes, but she had put on some
makeup.
  
Unfortunately, the
dark eyeliner only accentuated the bags under Hillary’s eyes.
 

Hillary sprang up between the front seats
and gave each of her parents a kiss on the cheek.
 
Without saying another word, she opened
the car door and walked up the cement steps to the entrance of the police
station.
 
Reaching the glass doors,
Hillary contemplated looking back toward her parents.
 
Instead, she chose to focus straight
ahead and entered the station.

Janice watched her daughter disappear into
the gloomy building.
 
Once Hillary
was out of sight, Janice’s body went limp, and a torrential flood poured from
her eyes.
 
Harold reached over from
the passenger seat and turned off the car’s ignition.
 
He held his wife tightly as they both
wept.
 
Neither of them said the
words, but at that moment, they both knew their daughter was gone forever.

CHAPTER 5

Hillary shuddered as the glass door of the
police station slammed behind her.
 
She could not escape thoughts of iron bars clanking shut and locking her
in, which was how she feared her day would end.
 
The warm, summer air instantly vanished,
replaced by a cold blast from the building’s air conditioner.
 
Hillary forced herself to move forward,
each step requiring a quantum amount of strength.
 

Inside the lobby, Hillary spotted an
information desk staffed by a middle-aged, overweight female cop, busy on a
phone call.
 
The officer caught
sight of Hillary approaching and defensively held her finger up in Hillary’s
face in a shushing gesture.
 
Hillary
closed her mouth and waited.
 
While
the policewoman continued her conversation, Hillary turned around and studied
her surroundings.

This was not Hillary’s first time inside a
police station.
 
She had been
arrested several times for petty crimes – shoplifting, underage drinking,
and possession of marijuana.
 
This
station resembled all the others.
 
The cracked tile floor was permanently stained by years of dirt and
grime.
 
Fluorescent lights provided
a depressing, artificial glow.
 
Uniformed officers meandered this way and that.
 
Some carried cups of coffee, while
others guided handcuffed men and women to their destinations.
 
Random, undecipherable squawks from
police radios provided a unique form of white noise.
 
People from every sector of society,
ranging from drug dealers to middle-aged soccer moms, filled the station.