It's Nothing Personal (5 page)

Five minutes later, the phone call
ended.
 
With blatant irritation, the
officer asked Hillary, “Can I help you?”

Unappreciative of the officer’s attitude,
Hillary smacked her gum a couple of times and then answered, “Yeah, I’m here to
meet Detective Morris.”

“Your name?”

“Hillary Martin.”
 

Hillary impatiently tapped her fingers on
the officer’s desktop.
 
The woman
scowled at Hillary’s hand, refusing to do anything until the drumming
ceased.
 
Thirty seconds later,
Hillary stopped.

The policewoman pointed to a row of chairs
across the lobby.
 
“Go take a seat.”

Hillary wanted nothing more than to give the
officer a piece of her mind, but she held her tongue and walked away.
 
It turned out that Hillary did not have
time to sit in one of the filthy chairs before she noticed two large men in
dress shirts with identification badges around their necks headed straight for
her.
 
Once they were within feet of
her, Hillary read their names.
 
The
taller, older man with graying hair, a small gut, and a prominent bald spot on
top of his head was Detective Bob Morris.
 
His cohort, Detective Joe Pacheco, was younger, leaner, and much more
attractive.
 

Never having met either of these detectives
face-to-face, Hillary was taken aback by the fact that they certainly seemed to
recognize her.

Detective Morris introduced himself and his
partner.
 
Hillary stood in front of
the men with her thumbs tucked in her back pockets and simply nodded.
 
She was much too nervous to speak or
shake hands.

Not wasting any time, Detective Morris
pointed toward the back of the lobby and said, “Follow me.”

Hillary felt her mouth go dry as she trailed
behind Detective Morris, while Detective Pacheco took up the rear.
 
She could not shake the impression that
this line up was strategic, in case she tried to bolt.
 
The threesome maneuvered through a maze
of tight hallways and corridors until they came to a room at the end of a
hall.
 
A sign on the door read,
“Interview Room 4.”
 
Detective
Morris opened the door and gestured for Hillary to enter.

The room itself was intimidating by its mere
simplicity.
 
The space was small, no
more than 10 feet by 12 feet.
 
In
the center sat a standard foldout table with two plastic chairs on one side and
a single chair on the other.
 
A
video camera was mounted in a corner of the room near the ceiling.
 
Hillary followed the trajectory of the lens
and realized it was pointed directly at the chair she assumed she would
occupy.
 
A red light below the lens
flashed on and off.
 
She was already
being videotaped.

Detective Morris followed Hillary inside the
room.
 
Pointing to the solitary
chair, he said, “Please, take a seat.”

Hillary sat down and noticed there was a
one-way glass on the wall behind where the detectives took their chairs.
 
Staring at her own reflection, knowing
that strangers were likely behind the glass watching her, made Hillary feel self-conscious
and vulnerable.
 
There were three
bottles of water on the table.
 
Detective Morris offered one to Hillary, took one himself, and gave the
last one to Detective Pacheco.
 
With
shaking hands, she accepted the bottle and twisted off the cap.
 
Noisily, she swallowed one large gulp,
wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Ms. Martin,” said Detective Morris, “just
to lay the framework for our interview, I need to make sure you understand that
your statements today are completely voluntary.
 
You can end this interview any time you
want.
 
You also need to understand
that anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.
 
Is this all clear?”

Hillary slouched in her chair and tucked her
unwashed hair behind her ears.
 
Without
looking up, she answered, “Yes.”

Detective Morris continued, “Do you also
understand that you have the right to have an attorney present during
questioning?
 
If you can’t afford
one, the court can appoint one for you.”

“Yes.”
 
Hillary continued to speak in the
direction of the floor.

Detective Morris handed a document and a pen
to Hillary.
 
“If you still wish to
proceed with this interview without an attorney, I need to have you sign at the
bottom of this form.”

The gravity of the situation smothered
Hillary as she held the pen.
 
Glancing at Detective Morris, much like a daughter asking her father for
advice, she questioned, “Do
you
think
I should have an attorney?”

Detective Morris responded with cool
professionalism, “I can’t advise you one way or the other.
 
It’s up to you.
 
But if you want one, now is the time to
make that request.”

Hillary placed the paper on the table,
signed her name, and snickered, “I guess you guys pretty much know what’s been
going on already.”

With the formalities completed, Detective
Morris said, “Probably a good place to start is for you to tell us why
you
think you’re here.”

Hillary’s response was flat and detached,
“I’m here because, you know, I need to turn myself in.
 
There are charges against me from St.
Augustine Hospital involving drugs.”

Detective Morris kept his focus on Hillary
as he shifted topics.
 
“Can you tell
me how long you’ve been a scrub tech and where you’ve worked?”

Hillary lifted her head slightly, but still
avoided any eye contact.
 
“I got my
first job in 2007, in Nevada.
 
A
year later, I moved with my boyfriend to Los Angeles.
 
I was pregnant, and he had gotten a
really good job there.
 
We were
trying to make the best life we could for the baby.
 
Before my daughter was born, I worked in
L.A. as a scrub tech for a while.
 
And, of course, I worked at St. Augustine.”

Detective Morris asked, “Were you fired or
disciplined at either of the first two facilities where you worked?
 
In Nevada or California?”

Hillary’s voice was raspy.
 
“I left the job in Nevada on good terms.
 
I only quit because we were moving.
 
In L.A., I was fired because of
attendance issues.
 
I had a lot of
problems with the pregnancy and missed a lot of work.
 
I always had doctors’ notes to excuse my
sick days, but they didn’t care.
 
It
was just as well anyway, because the baby was about to come.”

“So after you lost your job in L.A., and
before you moved out here to work at St. Augustine Hospital, what did you do
for money?
 
You did have a baby to
support, right?”

Hillary answered sadly, “Well, yes and no on
the baby part.
 
I did have a baby, a
little girl named Amber.
 
Me and her
dad split up pretty much right after she was born.
 
I couldn’t work
and
take care of Amber, so her dad took her up near San Francisco,
and they lived with his mom.
 
She
helped take care of the baby while my ex worked.
 
I moved in with some friends in L.A.,
but I didn’t have a car, and I couldn’t find any hospital jobs nearby.
 
I did some waitressing for a while.
 
Then, last fall, I called my folks.
 
I think they could tell I needed help –
I guess they could hear it in my voice.
 
Anyway, they invited me to come back home.
 
Once I moved out here, I got hired at
St. Augustine almost immediately.
 
I
guess it was a lucky break.”

Detective Morris tapped his pen on the
wooden table.
 
He leaned closer to
Hillary and asked, “Since I’m not in the world of medicine, and I’d like to
understand things as best I can, can you explain what a scrub tech does and the
qualifications for the job?”

Hillary’s eyes brightened.
 
For the first time since the interview
began, she sat up straight and turned to face the detective directly.
 
With her head held high, Hillary
confidently explained her job.

“Well, in order to become a scrub tech, you
have to go to a certified program for about eighteen months.
 
The scrub tech’s job is to assist the
surgeon on cases.
 
Before the
surgery started, I would go into the OR and open the instruments onto the
surgical table.
 
Then I would have
to scrub in.”

Sensing Hillary enjoyed playing the role of
the expert, Detective Morris strived to maintain the momentum.
 
He interjected, “What does that mean . .
. ‘scrub in?’”
 

Hillary became more animated and comfortable
with every word.
 
“Oh, that means I
scrub my hands and arms with a special soap and sponge.
 
Then I put on a sterile gown and
gloves.
 
The point is that no
surface of my skin or clothing is exposed, or else I would contaminate the
sterile surgical equipment.
 
Sorry,
I forget that not everyone knows what goes on in the OR.”

“No need to be sorry.
 
I find this fascinating.
 
Please continue.”

In response to Detective Morris’s
compliment, Hillary smiled.
 
Speaking with authority, she continued, “Once I was sterile, I would set
the instruments up for the case.
 
Then, me and the circulating nurse would count everything on the
table.
 
When the surgeon came in, I
would help him or her get into a sterile gown and gloves.
 
Then I’d help place sterile drapes over
the patient.
 
During the case, I
would pass instruments to the surgeon and assist them on whatever they needed
help with.
 
When the case was done,
me and the circulating nurse would recount all the instruments, you know, to
make sure nothing got left inside the patient.
 
Once the case was done, I would gather
up all the instruments and send them down to be sterilized.”

“As a scrub tech, did you ever have to
access medications for the surgical procedure?”

“The only meds that I had anything to do
with were the ones used by the surgeon.
 
Stuff like local anesthetics or steroids.
 
The circulating nurse would open those
meds and dump them into bowls on my surgical table.
 
Then I would draw up the medication into
a syringe and hand it to the surgeon.”

“Are any of those medications that the
circulating nurse would put on your table narcotics?”

“No,” replied Hillary.
 
“Only the anesthesiologist has the
narcotics.”

Detective Morris saw Hillary had already
consumed her entire bottle of water and was starting to fidget with the
bottle.
 

He asked her kindly, “Would you like more
water?”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

With that, Detective Pacheco took his cue as
the junior detective and left the room to fetch more water.
 
Detective Morris took advantage of the
break in the conversation and asked, “Hillary, I need to make sure, before we
go any further, that you still wish to voluntarily continue with this
conversation and that you do not want an attorney.”

Hillary defiantly interlaced her fingers and
straightened her arms in front of her.
 
The sound of knuckles cracking permeated the air.
 
Hillary forcefully rolled her neck in
alternating circles, as if preparing for a street fight.
 
Once she was done, she said, “I’m
fine.
 
Let’s keep going.”

CHAPTER 6

Detective Pacheco strolled back into the
interview room with a cold bottle of water, which he politely handed to
Hillary.
 

Detective Morris resumed his
questioning.
 
“So, Hillary, when did
you get hired at St. Augustine?”

“Back in November of
last year.
 
I can’t remember the
exact date.”

“And before you worked at St. Augustine, did
you have any problems with drugs or substance abuse?”

“Yeah,” Hillary replied.
 
Images of high school occupied Hillary’s
consciousness – snorting coke in her friends’ basements, skipping school
to get high, stealing alcohol and money from her parents.
 
These memories gave way to more recent
events.
 
She thought back to her
time in L.A. and the filthy apartment she shared with four other people.
 
Flies swarmed around dirty dishes piled
in the sink.
 
Garbage littered the
floor.
 
Hillary could almost feel
the scratchy fibers of the stained carpet against her bare legs as she sat on
the floor, shooting up in the sweltering heat of summer.
 
Subconsciously, she grabbed her left arm
as she recalled holding a hypodermic needle to her skin and pushing the sharp
metal tip into her flesh.
 
She
longed for the rush she derived from injecting heroin into her vein.