The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(97)

I stayed late to finish paperwork and left my office as the sun was beginning to set and dusk descended over Burlingame. Mickie had left three hours earlier for her yoga class—paperwork had never been her thing. As I walked down the sidewalk to the parking lot at the back of the building, a patrol car drove alongside of me. David Bateman sat in the passenger seat with the window down. I stopped, as did the patrol car. For a second I thought Bateman would get out and confront me. He looked as angry as the kid who had become a raging bull the day he had pummeled me at the park, nostrils flaring, eyes blazing. He made a gun with his thumb and index finger and mimed pulling the trigger.

I drove home conscious of the speed limit. Three blocks from my house, the police car reappeared behind me. I made a right turn. The car followed. I made another left, careful to stay on heavily trafficked roads and to drive the speed limit. The car stayed with me. Not wanting to drive home, I drove down Cabrillo and saw many cars parked in the OLM parking lot and others still arriving. Bingo night. I pulled in.

The patrol car drove past and continued down the street. I had to take a few deep breaths before I pulled from the lot and drove home.

When I arrived, I poured myself a drink and took a sip. The phone rang. “Hello?”

No one answered.

“Hello,” I said again.

“You’re going to lose,” Bateman said. “And so is she.”

“Who is this?” I said, though I knew exactly who it was.

“You know who it is. Be careful out driving late. You wouldn’t want to get pulled over again.”

“I’m recording this conversation,” I said. “Go ahead, David. Just keep talking.”

Bateman hung up.

The phone immediately rang again. I contemplated not answering; then I had a thought and picked it up. “Time to grow up, David. You touch me again, and I’ll have you arrested. Then I’ll sue you and take everything you own.”

“Sam?” Mickie.

“Sorry.”

“What was . . . Shit, he called you, didn’t he?”

I told her about the drive-by.

“I’m coming over.”

“You don’t need—”

But Mickie had already hung up. She arrived at my house ten minutes later, still dressed in her yoga outfit. She’d brought Bandit with her.

“I’m leaving him here with you.”

“You’re making too big a deal out of this. If Bateman had wanted to do something, he could have tried. He’s just a bully.” In truth, I was beginning to realize how unstable David Bateman was, and I was grateful to have Bandit.

“He already did do something, or don’t you remember?”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a handgun. I knew Mickie had owned a gun since her midtwenties, when she’d been attacked on the UC Davis campus while attending medical school. She’d managed to get away, but the attack had unnerved her, and she told me that she never wanted to feel that helpless again. She took self-defense classes and shooting lessons and obtained a concealed-weapon permit.

“Mickie, I’m not going to use a gun,” I said, conscious of those articles about people who owned a gun to protect themselves having the same gun turned on them.

She placed it on the counter, along with a box of bullets. “Most people who own a gun never have to use it. It’s the threat of the gun that deters the need. Just keep it with you in the house. It will make me feel better.”

“Fine. I’ll keep it here, but I’m not going to use it.”

“I hope you don’t,” she said.





11

Over the next five days, the practice kept me busy during the day, and I brought paperwork home with me so I wasn’t at the office late. Mickie made a point of coming over for dinner a couple of nights, and she’d called Ernie and asked that he check in with me daily by phone.

“You’re not doing wonders for my manhood,” I said one night over dinner.

“I don’t care,” she said.

“Besides,” I said. “I got the big boy here to watch over me.” Bandit had become my most faithful companion, never leaving my side and sleeping in his dog basket in my bedroom.

“He’s never going to leave you now,” Mickie said. “You spoil him.”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to move in,” I said.

She didn’t respond.

On the sixth day, Montoya called with the news she’d predicted. Bateman’s lawyer had obtained a continuance of the TRO hearing. In return, David had to agree to stay away from his daughter and his ex-wife until the matter was heard the following week. But that didn’t happen, either. The court again delayed the hearing when the judge got reassigned to handle a murder trial. All of this was incredibly frustrating and nerve-racking for Trina, and for me. Trina would get mentally geared up to fly back for the hearing, only to be told that it had been put off, and she had to wait and worry for another week. I didn’t have to make those kinds of arrangements, but I had to keep my schedule open. Bateman’s lawyer had subpoenaed both me and Dr. LeBaron to the hearing. Apparently, he intended to cross-examine us. There was little doubt in my mind that Bateman and his attorney were delaying the proceedings on purpose, just to screw with his ex-wife, and maybe with me.