The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(48)

“No, I was just—”

“I know what an eye doctor is; I don’t need you to tell me.”

I bit my tongue.

“Have you been drinking tonight, Doctor?”

“I had a couple of beers watching the game.”

“I had a couple of beers watching the game, Officer Bateman,” he corrected, then cupped his hand to his ear like a drill sergeant.

“I had a couple of beers watching the game, Officer Bateman.”

He shone the light directly in my eyes, causing me to squint and look away. “That’s funny. I could have sworn your eyes used to be red. Is that what happens when you’re full of shit? Do your eyes turn brown?”

I’d had enough. “What do you want, David?”

“What do I want?” He seemed to consider this. Then he said, “I want you to turn around and put your hands on the roof of the car—that’s what I want.”

“What for?”

He grabbed me by the collar, spun me around, and immediately kicked my legs apart. His steel-toed boot hit my anklebone, and the pain caused my leg to buckle, dropping me to my knees.

“Get up,” he shouted, grabbing me and lifting me to my feet. “I didn’t say give me a blow job; I said put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your legs.”

Though my ankle felt as though it was on fire, I managed to get to my feet. Bateman grabbed my right wrist and wrenched it behind my back, snapping on a cuff and pinching the skin. My left arm followed. The billy club pressed my head against the roof.

“Now I want you to listen and I want you to listen real good. You ready?”

“Yes.” He shoved my head against the roof of the car. “Yes, Officer Bateman,” I managed.

“Let me give you a little piece of advice. You fix my daughter’s eyes, and you leave it at that. I find you talking to my ex-wife or anyone else about what you think may or may not have happened and I’m going to come looking for you, and next time I’m not going to let you off with a warning. Do we understand one another?” He shoved my head against the roof again. “It’s impolite not to respond.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I didn’t hear you,” he said in the voice of that drill sergeant.

“Yes, Officer Bateman.”

“Good.” After another moment, he began releasing the cuffs. “I’m in a good mood tonight and I know you only have a few blocks to go to get home, so I’m going to let you go without a field sobriety test.” I heard him step back, thinking the worst over. Then the billy club whapped me hard across the back of my hamstrings, a pain that dropped me again to my knees. Had I not grabbed the door handle of the car, I would have collapsed onto the pavement. I stayed there, fighting back the pain and the humiliation, recalling how as a little boy I had lain on the ground at the Ray Park playground until I could no longer hear Bateman and his two goons. I pulled myself to my feet, the backs of my legs stinging. David Bateman sat behind the wheel of his patrol car. He smiled as he drove off.





2

By the time I got home, the pain in my ankle and the backs of both thighs was so excruciating I could barely limp upstairs. I made it to the bathroom and shimmied out of my pants. Using Eva’s hand mirror, I examined the damage. The baton had left inflamed red lines—each six inches long and an inch wide—across the backs of my thighs. They looked like two massive tapeworms burrowing beneath the skin. The capillaries around the welts had burst, causing a spattering of bright-red blotches, but from what I could tell in the mirror, it was unlikely I would develop a hematoma, though the backs of both legs would eventually become ugly bruises.

I gingerly made my way downstairs to the kitchen and cracked ice cubes into two towels. Closing the refrigerator, I noticed the magnetized notepad on which Eva and I left each other messages. I took it with me as I made my way to the sofa, gently placing the towels with ice beneath each leg and slowly sitting. The fabric of the towels rubbed the welts, aggravating the pain, but I forced myself to stay seated, resting my head back against the cushion.

I felt like that seven-year-old boy again, the one forced to lie about my beating, calling it a bike accident. I had realized, even at that young age, that no one could protect me, no matter how much they said they could. And then another thought came to me, and it frightened me so much I sat up. I’d been right. David Bateman had hit his daughter in the head. He had seriously injured her, maybe blinded her in one eye. And that wasn’t all. Bateman knew I was an ophthalmologist. He knew where I practiced and lived, and he knew that his ex-wife had come to see me. He was stalking her, and in so doing, he was stalking me. That was the reason for Trina Crouch’s ardent denial. She had reached the same conclusion I had reached as that young, beaten boy. She and her daughter were on their own. She could not call the law; her ex-husband was the law. To whom was Trina Crouch going to run? To whom was she going to protest? It was why she had laughed at my suggestion that I could somehow help her. Help her? Help her how? What was I going to do, call the police?

I picked up the phone and dialed the number for the hotel in Boston, not even considering the three-hour time difference. I asked for Eva Pryor’s room, and in the moments before it rang I fought to pull myself together and not sound like a child.

The phone rang twice before I heard the receiver lift.