Chapter 7
Jack stepped out of the exam room into the hall only to have three guards push past him into the room. Before the door closed, he turned and glanced back into the room and saw Kate's ankles being shackled.
The door slammed shut and Jack moved to leave. His way was blocked by a lanky man with wire frame glasses and a stocky guard, Jack thought his name might have been Ned, but he couldn't be sure. The man with the glasses was holding a thick manila folder.
"I'm going to need to examine her again tomorrow." Jack said, looking at the guard.
Ned, if that was his name, looked at the man next to him, unsure how to respond to Jack.
Jack continued. "With out X-Rays, I just –"
"She sure has had quite a few health problems since you became her doctor." The man looked at Jack coldly.
"Do I know you?" Jack asked raising his eyebrows.
"We've never been formally introduced, I'm Alan Jameson," He said. "The prison's physician."
"I see." Jack nodded. "And is there some sort of problem?"
"Not at all." Jameson said, "Although I don't usually respond well when people question my treatment of my patients." He looked at Jack, who looked back at him expressionless, waiting for him to continue.
"I'm just extending a professional courtesy here. Katherine Austin's medical file." He thrust it a Jack's chest impatiently. When Jack continued his silence, Dr. Jameson sighed and turned his back to them, heading down the hallway. "Enjoy!" he called back sarcastically.
Jack looked at the over stuffed file in his hands, then at the guard. "I really will need to examine her again tomorrow. Am I going to need to speak to the Warden about this? And I suppose I can call my lawyer if necessary."
Ned just nodded, "I'll take care of it, Mr. Shepard."
As Jack nodded back at Ned, he heard the latch click open behind him. He moved out of the way as Kate was led into the hallway.
There was a guard at each of her elbows, and one walked behind them, his hand on his holster. Her wrists were handcuffed in front of her and there was a long chain linking them to the cuffs around the ankles. The steps she took were small and restricted, she looked down at her feet as she walked. She hadn't yet seen that Jack was still there.
He stared at her, the restrained fury evident in her tensed jaw and furrowed brow.
"Sir?" said the guard at Kate's right elbow, "Do we need to escort you out?"
Kate looked up startled and met his eyes. Her eyes looked down to the file in his hands, then back up again, puzzled.
"Sir?" the guard said again, growing more and more impatient as he was forced to wait.
"I was just leaving." He turned to go. He glanced beck at Kate when he was half way to the exit, she was staring after him, her eyes locked on the file.
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Jack looked at the file, he had thrown it carelessly on the bed, not knowing what else to do with it. He shouldn't look at it, he knew she would hate that. He really shouldn't look at it. And he wasn't going to.
He picked it up and put it on the small table in the corner. The table was littered with old styrofoam cups of coffee and last nights take out. He cleared the trash around the file, dumping the remains of coffee in the sink and putting the garbage in a bag by the door for the maids.
He sat in one of the two chairs at the table. The upholstery matched the curtains and the bedspread. He stared at the file and pulled a pack of Camels out of his back pocket.
He had quit smoking five years ago. He had done it for Sarah, she hated the smell of it on him, especially hated kissing him right after he smoked. After she was gone, he hadn't picked it up again. Hell, he was a doctor, he knew better.
After Kate had slipped him that note a few days ago, he had bought a pack. He had gone into the 711 for a cup of coffee and had heard himself asking the cashier for the Camels, it had been almost instinctual.
As he looked at the file, he pounded the box against his palm, repacking the box. He pulled one out and lit it with the book of matches he had carried since the rescue. He took a slow drag and reached for the file, turning it to face him.
Who was he kidding?
He started at the back, the earliest documentation. It was all pretty standard stuff. Normal growth charts, Kate had been a little small for her age, and she had had a few earaches, but other than that, there was nothing too out of the ordinary. It was a little weird that her entire medical history could fit in one file, there must be stuff missing.
There was a form dated May 12, 1987. He did the math, Kate would have been eight years old. A Dr. Miller had seen her in an Iowa emergency room for a broken arm. The doctor had suspected abuse and filed a report with Child Services. There were a few copies of photographs paper clipped to the report. He would have known the kid anywhere, it was Kate in miniature. Her freckles were more pronounced and her curls were wilder, but she had the same flashing eyes and the petulant stare into the camera was one he had seen before. He had seen it that morning in fact.
He continued to read the report, Child Services had written it off as a household accident. He studied the pictures again. Her legs were scratched and cut, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. He was sure at eight his limbs had looked similar just from playing outside. Her arms though, he saw telltale old bruises on her upper arms. The bruises warranted further investigation at the very least. Why had they just let it go?
As he flipped further into the file, there was more of the same, except it got progressively worse. He tried to look at the file objectively, like she was just another patient. That, of course, proved to be impossible. At the same time, it was incredibly difficult for Jack to wrap his head around the fact that the things in the file were all things that had actually happened to Kate. His Kate. Not some nameless, faceless victim in the news or on television.
After one particularly bad report involving a broken nose and dislodged teeth, he had closed the file and pushed it as far away from him as his arms would reach. He rubbed the wrinkles in his forehead with the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette.
Who had done this to her, and why had nothing been done about it? He thought about what the lawyer had said, that she man she had killed had been a prominent citizen in the community. Was he the one responsible for this? And had law enforcement turned a blind eye? He had so many questions and he knew that the one person who could answer them would most likely be unwilling to. She had offered once and he had refused, he had asked once and had been refused.
He didn't pick up the file again. At the very least, if she asked he would be able to tell her that he hadn't read the whole thing.
He had to get out of that motel room and away from the file. He pulled on some shoes, pocketed the cigarettes and walked out the door. He drove aimlessly for about 20 minutes until he spotted a Bank of America and decided that he might as well do something useful while he was out.
The girl at the counter recognized him as the doctor from the crash and blushed terribly while she stumbled over her words. "How can we help you, Dr. Shepard?" she finally managed.
"Well Ashley," he answered, looking at her name tag, "I'd like to close my accounts."