Free Ditch Rider by Judith Van Gieson Page B

wore green scrubs and looked as if he’d seen too many wounds already that night. Lines were weary rivulets running down his face. After he examined and x-rayed Cheyanne he came out and talked to me.
    â€œWhat’s your relation to the victim?” he asked. “Mother?”
    It was the first time I’d ever been accused of that. “Lawyer,” I said.
    â€œShe’ll be all right. No gunshot wounds, broken ribs, fractured skull, punctured lungs or other organs. I sewed up the gashes in her head, cleaned up the scrapes and bruises. She wasn’t raped, you’ll be glad to know.”
    â€œGood.” The question of whether she was still a virgin went unasked and unanswered.
    â€œUsually at this time of night it’s gunshots: revolvers, rifles, semiautomatics, automatics. You name it, we get it. It’s good training here for the next time the country goes to war. We don’t see knife wounds so much anymore.”
    â€œThat’s what it was?”
    â€œThat’s what it looks like to me. I called the police. They’re on their way.”
    The cop who came over and took photos wanted to release Cheyanne into the custody of her mother, not her lawyer, but Sonia had already left the bingo parlor and could not be reached at home because she’d disconnected the phone. A police car was dispatched to pick her up.
    The Kid, Cheyanne and I sat on a bench outside the ER and waited. Cheyanne, who was neatly bandaged and subdued, saw Sonia striding down the hallway before I did. “Uh-oh,” she mumbled, staring into her lap. “Is she gonna be pissed.”
    Sonia did seem to be surrounded by a red aura of anger. When the Kid saw her expression he stood up, turned his back and walked down the hallway. “What in the hell have you done now?” Sonia yelled at her daughter.
    â€œNothin’,” replied Cheyanne. “Somebody did somethin’ to me. See?”
    â€œYou didn’t get beat up inside the trailer, did you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWasn’t Leo watching you?”
    â€œHe was watching television. I went to bed.”
    â€œHow’d you get out?”
    â€œThrough my window.”
    â€œWhy’d you do it? Why’d you get yourself into this mess?”
    â€œI had to talk to somebody.”
    â€œAre you going to tell me who beat you?”
    â€œNo.”
    The Kid signaled me from the end of the hallway. He had driving on his mind, so I interrupted the mother/daughter dialogue, which was nastier than any lawyer dialogue I’d ever been involved in. “Cheyanne needs to talk to the police tomorrow,” I said. “Do you want to meet me at the police station or do you want me to take her?”
    â€œTake her,” Sonia said.
    â€œAre they going to believe me now?” Cheyanne asked.
    â€œIt’s possible,” I replied.
    Leaving the daughter to the mother’s not-so-tender care, the Kid and I drove home through the empty streets. It was the middle of the night, we were on the road, it was a good place to have a heart-to-heart and we came about as close as we ever did.
    â€œYou think it’s a good idea to leave the girl with a mother like that?” the Kid asked me.
    â€œMaybe she’s not the best mother, but she’s the only mother Cheyanne has. Besides, this could be the last night they ever spend together.”
    â€œShe’s going into detention?”
    â€œI hope so,” I said. “Her life’s not worth much on the street.”
    When we got home I picked the pieces of grass off the bathroom floor, put them in a Ziploc bag and stashed them in my desk drawer. Cheyanne had left bloody palm prints on the wall and the tile, but I was too tired to wash them off. The Kid and I went back to bed, although—for me anyway—not to sleep.

10
    W HEN I PICKED my client up in the morning to take her to the police station she was holding the baby doll Miranda in one arm