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Maci groaned, especially when she saw the chief’s features tighten.
“Acceptable or not, that’s the way it is.” Satterwhite’s tone had gone from cool to cold.
His face suffused with unnatural color, Keefe opened his mouth as if to argue, but ultimately ground his jaws together. Maci felt him look at her.
Ignoring Keefe, she faced the chief. “May I please see my husband?”
Satterwhite took his time unfurling his gangly frame to full height. Bastard, Maci thought. He was in his element, lording his control over them. Maci fought the urge to lash out at him, to ask him if he knew who he was toying with.
After all, everyone knew the Ramsey name carried weight in this town. While that hadn’t always been the case, it was now. Her husband was no longer thought of as the downtrodden boy who had defied the odds and made good, but rather as a renowned surgeon. He’d built a stellar reputation in the medical community throughout the entire state of Louisiana. And here in his hometown of Dayton he’d used his wealth and power to the greater good.
Seymour wouldn’t tolerate this method of treatment. But that was before he’d been accused of causing his patient’s death, Maci reminded herself. A negligent homicide charge could relegate him to the bottom of the scum barrel in a heartbeat.
“That can be arranged,” Satterwhite said at last, coming from behind his desk. “Follow me.”
When they walked into the room where Seymour was held, Detective Johnson acknowledged their presence, then left. The chief followed shortly, leaving Maci and Keefe alone with Seymour.
For a moment, a thick, heavy silence prevailed.
“Are you all right?” Maci asked in an unsteady voice.
“I will be, when I get the hell out of here.” Seymour’s eyes darted to Keefe. “I’m assuming you can do that.”
Keefe blew out a long breath. “I can’t until morning.”
Seymour swore.
“Keefe’s doing all he can, Seymour,” Maci pointed out in a calm, soothing tone, hoping to defuse the volatile situation.
“Then it’s not good enough,” Seymour shot back.
Another awkward silence fell over the room. Maci bit down on her lower lip and looked at Seymour. He appeared tired and drawn, yet restless and hyper. Control was what fed him, what made him the man he was, and now that he wasn’t in control, Maci knew he’d be jittery.
Or was he simply acting like a common street junkie who was in the throes of coming off a drug high?
Maci’s stomach hated the path her mind had taken, but she couldn’t avoid the hard cold facts, not when they were being rubbed in her face.
Her husband was a drug addict, and according to the law he was accused of homicide.
“Satterwhite is not someone we…you want to tangle with right now,” Keefe said. “You have to know that.”
“I refuse to stay in this stinking hole overnight.”
Maci crossed to her husband and touched him on the arm. “Don’t do this to yourself. Spending one night—”
He shook off her hand. “I’m not some common criminal, and I resent the hell out of being treated like one.”
“They are accusing you of homicide, Seymour,” Keefe said in a low, even tone. “What do you have to say about that?”
“Dodson’s death was not my fault.”
Maci eyes widened.
Seymour’s smile was humorless. “See, my own wife doesn’t believe me.”
“That’s not true,” Maci snapped, feeling her face flush. “If you tell me you’re not responsible—” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat.
Seymour stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he focused on Keefe. “What are the exact charges against me?”
“I haven’t had time to read the report,” the attorney responded. “I only know what Maci told me.”
Seymour hit the palm of his hand on the tabletop. “Go talk to that prick Satterwhite then read the report. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. That redneck’s got it in for me, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”
“I sensed the same thing, Keefe,” Maci said, easing down into a straight-backed chair at the table.
“I’ll be right back.” Keefe’s tone was clipped.
Once he had left the room, Maci stared at her husband, noticing the strain weighing heavily on him. “I’m so sorry about this.” Her thoughts jumped to Jonah and she ached to hold him tightly right now.
“Tell me you believe me.”
“I want to, Seymour,” she said, feeling her eyes mist with tears, “but remember I’ve seen you high and it’s not a pretty sight.”
“Okay, so I was using when I operated on Grant, but I had full control of my faculties, for god’s sake. I would never do anything that asinine. You have to know that.”
“I do, but—”
Keefe interrupted her when he reentered the room.
“The charges stand as Maci described them,” Keefe said, tossing the folder down on the table, then sitting down. His gaze settled on Seymour. “Suppose you sit down and tell me your side.”
Seymour didn’t sit. He just began talking. “There’s really no side. The man bled to death through no fault of mine.”
“So you’re taking no blame at all?” Keefe’s tone was incredulous.
Seymour’s hard gaze didn’t waver. “None whatsoever.”
“Are you denying you were on drugs at the time?”
“No. Like I was telling Maci, I admit I had taken some pills, but I knew exactly what I was doing with that knife.”
“Passing out and slurring your words in front of the family doesn’t support that, Seymour,” Keefe said with low-key honesty, “especially since they know exactly the level of drugs ingested.”
“I agree with Keefe,” Maci said, her gaze also un-flinching on her husband, watching closely for some glimmer of remorse or something that would indicate he was the least bit sorry.
Nothing.
She flinched. When had Seymour become so calloused to the loss of human life? Had she been so caught up in her own life and that of Jonah that she’d failed to notice yet another dark side of her husband?
Maci couldn’t believe this was the same man she had married, who seemed to adore both her and Jonah, who lavished them with time and attention. Something was terribly wrong somewhere.
“How long have you had this nasty little habit?” Keefe asked.
“Since I had the accident that tore up my back.”
Maci sucked in her breath. That accident, which had been a car wreck, had happened several years before she married him. Surely, he’d hadn’t been addicted for that long.
“You mean you were hooked before you married me?” Maci barely choked the nasty words out of her mouth.
“Hooked is hardly the right word, my dear,” Seymour said with disdain. “Was I using drugs to help my back? Yes, and I still am. But I’m in control of the situation, not the other way around.”
Maci didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t say anything. She felt like she’d been hit in the stomach with a brick. Apparently so did Keefe as his face seemed to have taken on a greenish tint.
“Make no mistake, Keefe,” Seymour said with conviction, “I’m not going down for this.”
“If that’s the case, then I’m certainly not your man. I suggest you find the best criminal attorney possible and hire him.”
“I agree.”
Keefe’s gaze didn’t waver. “Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me who to call,” Keefe responded, “and it’s a done deal.”
“My oldest son.”
Maci stared at Seymour in shocked silence.
“Holt?” Keefe asked, clearly taken aback.
“That’s right,” Seymour said. “You told me I needed the best, and he’s the best.”
“But, Seymour, that doesn’t make any sense,” Maci pointed out, her mind reeling. “You haven’t seen your son in years.”
And she had never seen him. Not before she married Seymour or after. In fact, it was hard to remember that Jonah wasn’t Seymour’s only child. She had no idea what Holt Ramsey looked like. No pictures of him appeared anywhere in the house.
She knew very little about what had caused the estrangement between father and elder son, but she suspected a lot. Seymour had refused to discuss the issue with her, which she could understand. Suicide was a tragic and touchy subject.
What she did know was that Holt was a single attorney who rarely practiced his profession, choosing rather to spend his time on his sailboat. She had gleaned this information from the housekeeper who had been in the family when Seymour was married to his first wife. Annie had also told her that Holt blamed his father for his mother’s suicide. Since the housekeeper doted on the elder son, she still bemoaned the breach between her favorite men.
“Maci’s got a point,” Keefe said in a strained voice. “With all the bad blood between you and Holt, what makes you think he’ll help you out now?”
“He’ll come, all right.” A strange glint appeared in Seymour’s eyes. “If nothing else, he’ll use it as an opportunity to exact his pound of flesh.”
Four
He had no one to blame but himself. In the future, he would check his caller ID before he answered. Damn Marianne for giving out his number. He’d have to remember to speak to her about that.
Swallowing a frustrated sigh, Holt Ramsey stared at the sky and counted to ten while Keefe droned on, trying to make his case. The second after he had said hello, Keefe had rushed into the reason for the call and he hadn’t stopped yet. He hadn’t so much as taken a breath.
“Keefe, give it a rest,” Holt interrupted, his patience having long evaporated.
“Trust me, I’m aware of the situation between you and your father,” Keefe continued as though Holt hadn’t spoken.
“Hey, hold it,” Holt said, no longer willing to let Keefe steamroll over him. “Time out. Look you’re wasting your time. You’ve done your job. You’ve related Seymour’s tale of woe to me. All you have to do is tell him I’m not interested. Voilà! You’re off the hook.”
“Holt, please, hear me out,” Keefe pleaded. “Since you have a reputation for being one of the best criminal lawyers around, you’re the logical choice. More than that, your father needs you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I know—”
“You don’t know jack, Keefe.”
Holt heard Keefe’s gasp, but he didn’t care. “I’ve heard all I need to hear, and I don’t know how to say it any plainer. I don’t care what Seymour needs or doesn’t need.”
“How can you say that?”
“Easy.”
“He’s your father, for god’s sake,” Keefe stressed. “Have you no shame?”
Holt gritted his teeth and swore silently. “It’s only because I respect you that I’m even still on the line. But I’d advise you not to push your luck.”
“Under the circumstances,” Keefe hammered on, “I don’t see how you can take such a hard-nosed attitude.”
Holt heard the pleading note in Keefe’s voice, but he ignored it.
“There’s nothing else I can say to make you change your mind?” Keefe’s harsh sigh filtered through the line.
“Is that a question, Keefe?”
“Yes.”
“Not a thing. Tell my father he made his own bed and that I’m going to take delight in watching him wallow in it.”
Keefe slammed down the receiver.
Holt in turn flipped the lid shut on his cell. Frustration and anger churned inside him and he knew it was time to make use of his gym. His favorite stress reliever was his punching bag. Hitting it repeatedly would definitely do the trick.
A smirk altered Holt’s tight features. It would certainly be better than heading for the jail, jerking up his old man and punching the crap out of him.
He despised his father so much that he knew he could do it.
But he wouldn’t. Holt walked to the bow of his boat and felt the warm breeze on his hot skin. Any time he thought about Seymour, his entire body reacted violently. He knew that for his own good he should let that hate go, that carrying it around would eventually eat him up.
It was starting to now. He grasped the railing and swore. If he never saw his father again, he’d be happy. He’d been certain Seymour felt the same way. So what had made him change and ask his son for a favor?
