Broken Promises (11 page)

Rosie sat down and poured herself a cup of tea.

“Muffin?” Stanley offered, reaching inside the covered bowl for a blueberry muffin.

“Thank you,” Rosie replied, biting into the crumbly pastry. “You know, these aren’t bad. Mary did a fine job with these.”

Stanley took a bite out of his second muffin and grumbled. “They’s fine, but they ain’t nothing compared to what you can whip up in the kitchen,” he said.

She smiled sweetly. “Why thank you Stanley.”

Looking away from her, Stanley perused the ceiling for a few moments before he cleared his throat and turned back her way. “Rosie.”

“Yes, Stanley.”

“I s’pose I need to apologize for how I acted last night.”

“How’s that?” she asked.

“Pretty much acted like an ass,” he admitted.

She took another bite of muffin and nodded. “Why yes, I believe you did.”

“Well you don’t have to agree with me,” he grumbled.

She hid her grin and nodded. “Of course, how rude of me,” she said. “No, Stanley, you were just fine last night.”

“But I acted like an ass,” he said. “There ain’t no two ways around it.”

She sighed. “What would you like me to say?”

He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I don’t know,” he growled. “I want to be the one you run to, Rosie.”

Placing his hands on the edge of the table, he leaned over towards her. “I want to be the one to protect you. Guess I was just plain jealous that you came here.”

“But, Stanley, I was only looking for a place to spend the night,” she said. “I would have come to you to solve my problem with the ghost in the morning.”

“Really?” he asked. “You weren’t coming here so they could fight your battles?”

Shaking her head, she reached over and placed her hand over his. “Stanley, you’re my hero,” she replied. “There’s no one I would run to for help before you.”

He leaned over further and kissed her forehead. “You humble me, Rosie.”

“I do no such thing, Stanley,” she said, reaching up and kissing him back. “I just want to be sure we understand each other.”

He smiled at her. “Well, I ain’t saying I understand woman, and I ain’t saying I don’t,” he said. “But I know it’s gonna be fun figuring each other out.”

“Yes, it is, Stanley. Yes it is.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments until Rosie delicately cleared her throat. “Um, Stanley,” she began.

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading. “Yes?”

“Did I hear you correctly last night when you mentioned that you were being haunted by your first wife, Verda?”

He nodded. “As best as I could see it was her,” he said. “But it weren’t her, if you know what I mean.”

Rosie stirred her tea, began to lift it to her mouth, but then placed it down on the table. “Do you still love her?” she finally asked. “Is that the reason she’s haunting you? Are you regretting your decision to ask me to marry you?”

Stanley dropped the paper and sat back in his chair, shocked. “Where in tarnation did that idea come from?” he asked. “I ain’t haunting her, she’s haunting me. I didn’t ask her to come walking through my bedroom, rustling through my drawers. She just took it upon herself.”

Putting her hands on the edge of the table, Rosie leaned towards him. “You didn’t answer my question, Stanley Aloysius Wagner,” she demanded. “Do you still love Verda?”

He reached over and took her hand, and although she tried to resist, he held it firmly. “Look at me, Rosie,” he said softly, and waited until she met his eyes. “Of course I still love Verda. She was my first wife. We grew up together, we worked together, we had kids together and we lived a whole lot of years together. Just ‘cause someone dies doesn’t mean the love dies too.”

“But what about me?” Rosie asked quietly.

“Love ain’t a pie, Rosie,” he explained. “You don’t only got so much to go around. Loving someone don’t take the love from someone else. I love Verda, but it’s an old love, soft and sweet, filled with memories of years gone by. I love you, but it’s a burning love. It’s new and fresh and kinda exciting. It’s a different love than the one I had with Verda because you’re a different woman. Does that make sense to you?”

“Why Stanley I think that’s the most talking you’ve done since I’ve met you,” Rosie replied with a smile. “It does make sense to me. Thank you for being honest with me.”

He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss. “I may not be too romantical, and I may not say all the right things,” he said. “But I do promise that I will be honest with you.”

“And that’s the best promise of all,” she replied. “Besides, who says you’re not romantic? I think you are the most romantic man I’ve ever met. I don’t blame Verda for coming back.”

He shook his head. “That’s the strangest thing,” he said. “I can’t understand why after all these years she’d even want to come back.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

He thought for a moment. “She told me to don’t forget.”

“Don’t forget what?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “I s’pose I forgot.”

“Well, maybe I can help you remember,” Rosie suggested. “Let’s go back to your place and see if we can find what she was looking for.”

Stanley hesitated. “You sure you want to do that?” he asked.

Rosie stood up, picked up her tea cup and placed it in the sink. “Of course I do,” she said. “Besides, it’s past time I met Verda.”

Rolling his eyes, Stanley stood too. “No good’s gonna come from this,” he muttered to himself. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“Bernard...Woja...Watcha...Woji...,” the court reporter stumbled over the name.

“Wojchichowski, ma’am,” Bernie offered, as he lumbered up the steps to the witness stand. “Bernard Wojchichowski. But most folks call me Bernie, it’s easier.”

A fleeting smile quickly slipped from her face and she faced Bernie. “Bernie, then,” she began. “Please put your right hand on the Bible. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Bernie nodded solemnly. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“Please be seated.”

Bernie sat on the chair and looked out over the courtroom. It was packed with reporters and people from the community eager to learn more about the salacious crimes perpetrated by the formerly well-respected dentist.

The attorney for the prosecution, Lydia Meyers, a thin middle-aged woman, came forward. “Can you tell the jury what your occupation is?” she asked.

“I’m the Cook County Coroner,” Bernie replied.

“And what is your main duty in this job?”

“My main job is to determine the cause of death, when it happened and how it happened,” he replied.

“Did you, in your duties as coroner, review the remains of Jeannine Alden?” Lydia asked.

Bernie nodded. “Yeah, I reviewed what was left of them after Copper hid them in a grave under someone else’s name,” he replied.

“Objection,” Greg Thanner, the defense attorney, a morbidly obese middle-aged man, cried. “Answer exceeds scope of question and constitutes a volunteered statement by the witness.”

“Hey, I got no problem volunteering information,” Bernie said with a shrug. “So the jury can get any information you forget to ask me about.”

Mary leaned over towards Bradley. “Go Bernie,” she whispered.

“Sustained,” the judge called out, rapping her gavel sharply. “The witness will not volunteer any extraneous information.”

Bernie turned to the judge. “Does that mean I can’t give out extra information?”

The judge nodded. “Indeed it does,” she replied.

“Mr. Wojchichowski, what was the cause of death of Jeannine Alden?” Lydia asked.

“I was unable to determine cause of death from the remains,” Bernie testified, folding his arms over his chest and sitting back in the chair.

“But the death certificate I have in my hand states she died of a heart attack,” she stated.

Bernie nodded.

The attorney looked confused.

“If you could not determine the cause of death through her remains, why did you put heart attack on the death certificate?”

Bernie leaned forward in his chair and met the attorney’s eyes. “Because she died of a heart attack,” Bernie replied simply.

“And you know this because…,” the attorney promoted.

Bernie turned in his chair and looked up at the judge. “Is it okay with you that I give her more information?”

The judge rolled her eyes and nodded while several members of the jury chuckled. Bernie turned and winked at them.

The judge rapped her gavel again. “The witness will answer the question.”

“I know this because once it was determined that this was the body of Jeannine Alden and not Beverly Copper, as was listed on the gravestone as well as the death certificate,” he began, “I called the hospital to confirm the cause of death. Jeannine Alden died of a drug-induced heart attack because the hospital was looking at the medical records of Beverly Copper and did not know of Jeannine Alden’s allergy to the drug they gave her after delivery.”

“So due to information that was falsified on her entrance to the hospital, Jeannine Alden died,” the attorney concluded.

Bernie nodded his head. “That’s the way I see it,” he said. “If Copper hadn’t lied about Jeannine being his wife, she’d still be with us today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wojchichowski. No further questions your honor,” she said, walking back to her chair.

“Would the defense like to cross-examine the witness?” the judge asked.

Mopping his brow with a soiled handkerchief, Greg stood up slowly and lumbered forward. “We would, your honor,” he said.

Templing his fingertips on his large protruding belly, he approached Bernie. “Did Dr. Copper administer the drug that killed Jeannine Alden?” the defense attorney asked.

“No, but…,” Bernie began.

“Was there any proof that Dr. Copper knew Ms. Alden was allergic to that specific drug?” he asked.

“Well, no,” he said. “But…”

“That’s all I have your honor,” the attorney interrupted, and then he turned to Bernie. “You may step down.”

“But…,” Bernie tried again.

“You may step down,” the judge ordered.

Bernie glared at the attorney, but stepped down as he was asked and made his way back to his seat several rows behind Mary and Bradley.

Mary turned around and sent him an encouraging smile, but Bernie did not seem satisfied with his testimony.

“The prosecution would like to call Doctor Rachael Drummond to the stand,” the court reporter called.

A tall, nicely dressed African American woman walked forward. Mary recognized her as the doctor who had helped with Jeannine’s delivery. The woman stepped forward, took the oath and then sat down in front of the attorney.

“Can you repeat your name?” Lydia asked.

“Dr. Rachael Drummond,” she replied.

“And where do you work?”

“Cook County Hospital,” she replied.

“How many years have you worked at Cook County?” he asked.

“For nearly fifteen years,” she replied.

“What department do you work in?”

“I work in Labor and Delivery,” she replied. “I’ve worked in that area for over ten years.”

The attorney picked up a photo of Jeannine and showed it to the doctor. “Do you recognize this woman?” she asked.

The doctor studied the photo and nodded. “Yes, I see a lot of patients,” she admitted. “But this woman’s face will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

“Her name was Jeannine Alden,” Lydia supplied.

The doctor shook her head. “I thought her name was Beverly.”

“So you recall she died on the table about eight years ago after giving birth to a baby girl because you administered Syntometrine to her and she had an allergic reaction,” she stated baldly.

Dr. Drummond nodded mutely and took a moment to compose herself. “Yes, of course I remember her,” she said, her voice emotional. “She came in late one evening, in the late fall. She was under the influence of something and was barely coherent. We helped her through labor and when she started bleeding we gave her a shot of Syntometrine. She reacted badly immediately.”

“Was there a hospital investigation regarding the death?” she asked.

The doctor nodded. “Yes, of course, there was,” she said. “Her patient form, which was filled out by her husband, did not include her allergy. We were acting in the patient’s best interest when we administered the drug. And, due to her inebriated state, she was unable to clearly communicate with us that she was allergic to the drug. The hospital was found faultless in the investigation.”

Lydia crossed back to her table and then turned to face the doctor. “Did you do an autopsy of the woman to determine what caused her inebriation?” Lydia asked.

She nodded, “Yes, when a patient dies at the hospital ,we require an autopsy.”

“And what drugs were indicated?” Lydia asked, moving forward.

“It was just as Dr. Copper thought,” Rachael said. “She had taken Valium.”

“Dr. Copper suggested that she had taken the drug?”

“Yes,” Rachael said. “When he rushed her in through the ER he said that she had gotten into his Valium.”

“Did you see any evidence that this was a reoccurring problem?” Lydia asked.

The doctor shook her head. “Valium is one of the drugs that is hard to trace,” she said. “It leaves the system quickly and leaves no trace evidence. It was only because she still had it in her system that we were able to classify it.”

Lydia moved to the side of the witness stand. “Do you see her husband in this courtroom?” the attorney asked.

The doctor looked around the room and zeroed in on Gary Copper. “There he is,” she said and pointed to him.

“So, this man, Gary Copper, told you that this woman, Jeannine Alden, was his wife?” she asked.

The doctor nodded.

“Do you remember specifically him referring to her as his wife?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, we were rushing her in and he kept yelling that his wife was in labor and we needed to help her.”

“And on the hospital form, he put her name down as Beverly Copper?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, and that was the name I put on the death certificate,” she added.