religious leaders of all persuasions; sometimes veiled hints of more trouble to come. There were satellite pickups by the major networks throughout the world: our overseas friends and allies had a marvelous time questioning the fate of those citizens of the United States who had had the courage to voice and publicly champion unpopular political causes. The word “conspiracy” raced through the air.
I called the hospital and checked with Lucy Capella. Status quo: Sanderalee Dawson was in a deep, meticulously monitored coma. Neither better nor worse; life signs were steady. She was in the Intensive Care Unit with a police officer on duty at her bedside twenty-four hours a day. Listening for the slightest word. We’d even settle for a sound at this point.
There were private-duty nurses in attendance in relays, around the clock, in addition to all the regular hospital staff.
There was a uniformed police officer assigned around the clock in the small medical office immediately adjoining the ICU. There was a uniformed police officer assigned to patrol the hallway of the fifth floor, where the ICU was located. His job was to stop, question and identify any person or persons who were in the area without a legitimate reason. He was responsible for stairwells and elevators, corridors and rooms in the vicinity.
Hospital personnel maintained a scrupulous checklist of who went in or out of the ICU. Only those medical personnel previously checked and cleared by hospital authorities and the police were permitted in. There were no other patients in the ICU at this time, although it was understood that should an emergency occur and all other facilities be filled, after a careful screening, the room could be shared. Under rigid guidelines.
Both Jim Barrow and I—as well as the Police Commissioner and the Mayor of the City of New York—were totally committed to the premise that no one, absolutely no one who was not authorized was going to have an opportunity to “get at” Sanderalee Dawson. One of my people arrested a well-known hotshot columnist who had paid fifty dollars for a mop and bucket and had bulled his way into the room backward, humming sweetly and mopping broadly. He was just a little clumsy and got his feet tangled up in his dirty pail of water and he went down in a heavy heap, right on top of his camera, which flashed, just once, in his own startled face. But he had gotten enough of a glimpse to wing a column on “The Inside of the ICU: Sanderalee Dawson, Kept Alive by Tubes.”
His information was inaccurate. Sanderalee’s own vital signs were strong; she was holding her own with nothing more than dextrose, vitamins and some anticoagulants. Deep deep down inside the coma, she was beginning to stir.
I had nearly a dozen of my people assigned exclusively to the investigation, working with Police Department detectives. I glanced over the growing stack of reports: nothing new, nothing I didn’t already know.
I left a message with the office secretary where I could be reached. The telephone number was Sanderalee Dawson’s. I figured it was time for me to revisit the apartment at Holcroft Hall under quieter, more orderly circumstances.
CHAPTER 10
I ’VE NEVER HAD ANY really great quarrel with the New York City subway system. It is a relatively convenient, relatively inexpensive method of transportation. I’ve never been mugged, pushed to the tracks nor witnessed anything more violent than a lot of shoving and pushing.
However, I did feel the slow building sense of anger and frustration as I surveyed the filthy violence implied by the formless spray-paint graffiti. It had been called “people’s art” a few years ago, by a well-known writer who should have known better. To me it is space filled with the uncontrolled anger and contempt of a generation of destroyers.
The burst of whirling wind at Columbus Circle felt good. A little dusty, a little grimy, a little bit of biting cold air, a little sting to the
I called the hospital and checked with Lucy Capella. Status quo: Sanderalee Dawson was in a deep, meticulously monitored coma. Neither better nor worse; life signs were steady. She was in the Intensive Care Unit with a police officer on duty at her bedside twenty-four hours a day. Listening for the slightest word. We’d even settle for a sound at this point.
There were private-duty nurses in attendance in relays, around the clock, in addition to all the regular hospital staff.
There was a uniformed police officer assigned around the clock in the small medical office immediately adjoining the ICU. There was a uniformed police officer assigned to patrol the hallway of the fifth floor, where the ICU was located. His job was to stop, question and identify any person or persons who were in the area without a legitimate reason. He was responsible for stairwells and elevators, corridors and rooms in the vicinity.
Hospital personnel maintained a scrupulous checklist of who went in or out of the ICU. Only those medical personnel previously checked and cleared by hospital authorities and the police were permitted in. There were no other patients in the ICU at this time, although it was understood that should an emergency occur and all other facilities be filled, after a careful screening, the room could be shared. Under rigid guidelines.
Both Jim Barrow and I—as well as the Police Commissioner and the Mayor of the City of New York—were totally committed to the premise that no one, absolutely no one who was not authorized was going to have an opportunity to “get at” Sanderalee Dawson. One of my people arrested a well-known hotshot columnist who had paid fifty dollars for a mop and bucket and had bulled his way into the room backward, humming sweetly and mopping broadly. He was just a little clumsy and got his feet tangled up in his dirty pail of water and he went down in a heavy heap, right on top of his camera, which flashed, just once, in his own startled face. But he had gotten enough of a glimpse to wing a column on “The Inside of the ICU: Sanderalee Dawson, Kept Alive by Tubes.”
His information was inaccurate. Sanderalee’s own vital signs were strong; she was holding her own with nothing more than dextrose, vitamins and some anticoagulants. Deep deep down inside the coma, she was beginning to stir.
I had nearly a dozen of my people assigned exclusively to the investigation, working with Police Department detectives. I glanced over the growing stack of reports: nothing new, nothing I didn’t already know.
I left a message with the office secretary where I could be reached. The telephone number was Sanderalee Dawson’s. I figured it was time for me to revisit the apartment at Holcroft Hall under quieter, more orderly circumstances.
CHAPTER 10
I ’VE NEVER HAD ANY really great quarrel with the New York City subway system. It is a relatively convenient, relatively inexpensive method of transportation. I’ve never been mugged, pushed to the tracks nor witnessed anything more violent than a lot of shoving and pushing.
However, I did feel the slow building sense of anger and frustration as I surveyed the filthy violence implied by the formless spray-paint graffiti. It had been called “people’s art” a few years ago, by a well-known writer who should have known better. To me it is space filled with the uncontrolled anger and contempt of a generation of destroyers.
The burst of whirling wind at Columbus Circle felt good. A little dusty, a little grimy, a little bit of biting cold air, a little sting to the
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