1Chapter Six
"You defied the suspension because you thought I might need to be rescued?" Wilson shook his head with disbelief.
Harding grunted and slowly tried to shift his weight in the hospital bed. He was exhausting himself with the effort, in part because he could barely wiggle the fingers of his right hand within the plaster cast, much less bear any weight on it. He had been trying for hours to find a comfortable position on the pillow, but that was a hopeless quest; the pain he was trying to ease came from within, not from without.
"You want some more medicine?"
"No." Harding gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the ache that spread across the back of his head from his ears down to his shoulders, and the pulse that pounded unrelenting pain from his right elbow down to his fingertips with each heartbeat.
"Yes, you do. The nurse said you could have another dose if you wanted it, and you need it."
"I do. . . NOT. . . need any more drugs." He braced his left hand against the bars of his raised bed side and tried to push himself up higher on the pillow. Wilson saw what he was trying to do and grasped his right shoulder and arm to assist. Harding tried to shake him off, but only managed to jar his tender hand against the thin white blanket in the process. "AAHHH!" he gasped, then hissed through clenched teeth, "Let go of me!"
"I was just trying to help."
"I didn't ask for your help!"
Wilson flushed and sat back down in the visitor's chair. "No. I guess you didn't."
Harding braced himself again, dug his heels into the mattress, and managed to shift himself up about two inches. The move left him exhausted and dizzy. He lay still in his new position, waiting for the bed to stop spinning, and realized with regret that all he had managed to do was bunch up his pillow under his neck and make the bedclothes lumpy under his shoulders.
A day and a half had passed since Harding had been left sprawled on the sidewalk outside the Haymarket Lounge. He'd been in surgery for most of Wednesday night, both for the depressed skull fracture just behind his right ear, and for the half-dozen broken bones in his hand, and he hadn't been moved from the recovery room into this private room until almost noon on Thursday. During those long hours Wilson had kept vigil with his mother, but by mid-afternoon Thursday she went home to cook for her husband.
Sgt. Welsh did not come to the hospital at all.
While Harding slept through most of Thursday, Wilson passed the time reading the accounts of the riots in the newspapers and listening to Hubert Humphrey's acceptance speech and the close of the convention on a transistor radio. From time to time he would grow too restless to sit quietly, and he would jog up and down the hospital stairs for a quarter hour, or give a hundred pushups on the floor beside his brother's bed. Nurse Arndt, the iron-willed nurse supervisor, had made every effort to evict him when visiting hours ended; she relented only when he solemnly promised to do nothing to disturb Harding's rest. The other nurses had grown fond of the handsome young man in the Chicago P.D. Academy t-shirt, and one of them snuck him a pillow and blanket to use when he napped in his chair during the long hours of Thursday night.
Friday morning had dawned with an abrupt change in the weather; cooler and drier, a teasing
taste of the autumn weather to come. Harding awoke confused and cranky, and all the painkillers in the world wouldn't improve his mood. Wilson filled him in on the aftermath of the riot, and with genuine curiosity he probed his brother's memory of the events of Wednesday night.
"So you were out there looking for me?"
"Shoulda known better." Harding lifted his uninjured left hand and picked at the bandages that swathed his head. Every touch, every feather-light pressure on his forehead sent lances of pain through his head, plain proof that the memories of Michigan Avenue were real. "Shoulda known you'd come out of this smelling like a rose--not arrested, not beaten, not a mark on you."
"Harding. . . I. . . ."
"Where were you, anyway?"
"Where was I?"
"Yeah."
"I. . . uh. . . I wasn't there."
"Whaddaya mean, you weren't there?"
"Hardy, Mom told you when you called. I was on my way to your place."
"You were. . . ?" He couldn't finish the thought. He let his hand fall back down to the bed, as he tried to remember his conversation on the phone with his mother.
"Mom had her Bridge Club over for the evening. I couldn't stand watching the convention with a room full of middle-aged Humphrey supporters, so. . . "
"So. . . ?"
"So, I figured you were at work, you wouldn't mind if I watched the TV at your place."
"Watched the. . . ." Harding couldn't believe it. "What happened to standing up for what you believe in? What happened to exercising your Constitutional right to petition the government for the. . . for the. . ."
". . . redress of grievances."
"Yeah, yeah. What the hell happened to that?"
Wilson exploded from the chair in frustration. "You told me not to go! You told me to stay away! You ordered. . . hell, you threatened me. . . "
Harding grimaced. "You listened to me? Unbelievable."
"I always listen to you, Harding."
"I'm out there getting my head bashed in, and you're sitting there in my apartment, eatin' and drinkin' and watchin' the whole thing like it was a fucking TV show."
A commotion in the hallway burst suddenly into Harding's room. Wilson didn't recognize the tall man with the shock of white hair, but the gold braid on the uniform cap told him to stand up straight and to keep his mouth shut. Capt. Harrison swept into the room regally, taking it for granted that he would be welcome and honored, and challenging anyone to say otherwise. Harding groaned quietly and closed his eyes. Close behind the captain came several rumpled men carrying cameras, and others with notebooks and tape-recorders. At the rear of the train were two men hauling a television camera and sound equipment, followed by Lt. Molloy, Sgt. Welsh, and a young nurse in full battle cry.
"I don't care if you're the King of Siam, sir. . . . Sir! You simply cannot barge into a patient's room with all these people! This is a direct violation of hospital policy, and I insist that you leave this instant!"
Molloy turned on her. "That's great, honey. You go get the hospital administrator, and tell him how you got in the way of a police Captain on official business. By the time you get back here, we'll be finished, and you'll look mighty foolish, won't you?"
"I'll call Security."
Molloy barked, a crude laugh. "You do that, sweetheart."
Capt. Harrison elbowed Wilson away from the bedside, then peered down at his injured officer with cold curiosity. Without thinking, he reached out awkwardly to pat Harding's hand in sympathy, provoking a gasp of pain. Wilson sized up the situation and went in search of Nurse Arndt, to let her know that Harding would be needing that pain medicine, after all.
Harrison glanced across the room to the television crew, to make sure that they had their equipment set up. The reporters got their tape recorders ready, the photographers checked their cameras, and Harrison poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the table beside the bed. The young reporter from the Sun-Times peered across the room and blanched at the sight of the black bruises and rough red abrasions that marred Harding's face.
Sgt. Welsh crouched down beside the bed on the opposite side from the captain, and spoke quietly in his son's ear. "They're going to give you a medal, son. The department needs some heroes right now, and you, son, have the kind of injuries that show up real good in a photograph--which is why your mug is going to be on every front page in the city tomorrow, and the good people of Chicago are going to get you with their cornflakes."
Harding gritted his teeth against the pain and turned his head to look into his father's face. The sergeant's blue eyes were cold with contempt, his lips pressed together in a tight line. Harding listened and said nothing.
"But I know the truth. Malloy and Harrison know the truth. Every cop in this city knows the truth. That tin-pot medal does not make you a hero, and it doesn't change the fact that you are guilty of insubordination, and that you are about six miles up shit's creek without a paddle."
Capt. Harrison cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, are you ready?" The journalists grunted their
answer, and Sgt. Welsh stood and moved out of camera range. The captain smoothed his hair, straightened his tie, and smiled broadly. "Then let's begin."
Roll tape.
"For the last four days the national media has made much of the tragic violence that has disrupted some of our streets during the National Democratic Convention. Much attention has been paid to incidents in which officers of the Chicago Police Department and the Illinois National Guard have found it necessary to use measured force, in order to prevent a violent disruption of the convention and to spare the rest of our great city from lawlessness and anarchy.
"However, the American people have not been told of the extreme provocation our officers have been subjected to, nor have they been made aware of the violence tactics and homemade weapons used by the agitators who call themselves 'Yippies'. We are here today to acknowledge and honor the service of a brave officer, who was gravely wounded two days ago by violent protesters on Michigan Avenue."
Three flashbulbs popped in rapid succession, and Harding was briefly blinded by the burst of blue-hot lights. He closed his eyes while the photographers took several more shots, and prayed that the speech would be short. The captain's voice droned on, every word the honest-to-God truth, the ceremony itself a bald-faced lie.
". . . skull fracture was caused by a long, cylindrical weapon, possibly a baseball bat or a lead pipe. He was wounded a second time after he fell to the ground, when somebody stomped on his right hand, crushing seven bones. This second injury. . . ."
Lt. Molloy interrupted. "Third injury."
"Third?" asked the captain, staring at Molloy with irritation and impatience.
"Yeah." Molloy suddenly remembered the reporters, and continued self-consciously. "Tuesday night, right? He got knocked over and bit by the stupid pig."
A reporter from the Tribune spoke up, unable to conceal his amusement. "You're telling me that this officer was attacked by Pigasus?" Several of the other journalists joined in the laughter.
"It's not funny!" Molloy silenced them, his face beet-red with rage. "You think this is some kind of joke? Harding--show 'em your belly where the pig bit you." He grabbed one corner of Harding's blanket and yanked it down and out of the way, revealing Harding's pale blue, tissue-thin hospital gown.
Harding grabbed the blanket with his left hand, suddenly envisioning a full-color photograph of his bruised stomach with pig-bite marks on the front page of every newspaper in the city. He carefully held his throbbing right hand out of the way while he and his lieutenant played an improbable game of tug-of-war, the television camera recording every stupid move.
Their dignity was spared as Wilson returned with Nurse Arndt. She tapped one of the photographers sharply on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me!" He lowered his camera and shifted to his left, and she shoved past him to reach her patient.
Molloy blocked her way, and gestured to the television crew, indicating that they should stop recording. "Look lady, can't this wait until we're finished?"
She glared up at him, and waved a hand at the assembled reporters. "Do you want to explain to these people why you're stopping me from providing medical care to this man?"
Harrison quickly replied, "Of course, we wouldn't dream of preventing you from providing our fellow officer with the very best of care, Miss. . . ?"
She took great pleasure in ignoring him. She leaned over the bed and addressed her patient, "Officer Welsh? Your brother told me that you wanted another dose of pain medicine. Is that what you want?"
"Yeah," he breathed.
"Very well," she answered with a iron smile, then turned around to face the media circus that surrounded the bed. "Out. Now."
"We're not quite finished, yet." Capt. Harrison couldn't quite fathom how to deal with this formidable woman.
"I'm going to give Officer Welsh something for the considerable pain he has been enduring while you produced your little show. In a minute or two he'll probably fall asleep, which is the very best thing for his health right now."
"Perhaps we could. . . ."
"Stay? Watch?" She marched over to confront the Captain, glaring at him over the steel rims of her spectacles. The stood toe to toe, just inches from the television camera. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to help Officer Welsh roll over onto his side, so I can inject the medicine into his gluteus maximus. Do you know what that is?"
"A gluteum. . . saxis?'
"Gluteus maximus. His posterior. I need to inject the medication into his posterior." One of the reporters sniggered, and she laid a withering glance at him before returning her attention to the Captain. "Do you really need to get all of that on film?"
Capt. Harrison returned her stare, and they held each other's gaze for several long seconds in a test of will. He then surrendered with a gracious nod, smiled, and dismissed the journalists. As they gathered up their equipment and headed out, Harrison turned to Molloy and quietly inquired about the young man in the Academy t-shirt.
"That's Wilson--he's Art's youngest." Molloy looked back and gestured for Wilson to follow them out into the hallway. "He's a fine young man, doing very well at the Academy."
The captain clapped Wilson on the shoulder. "Proud to be the--what, eighth?--no, ninth member of the Welsh family to be counted among Chicago's finest. . . . " The three of them disappeared into the hallway, their voices fading.
Nurse Arndt held Harding's right arm steady and out of harm's way while he slowly, carefully rolled over onto his left side. She quickly injected 10mg of Morphine into the muscle, then quickly smoothed out the sheets and pillows before helping him roll back down and get settled. Once she had him properly tucked in, she breezed from the room, pausing only momentarily to eye the tall, powerfully-built man in the sergeant's uniform who emerged silently from the corner of the room.
"Nineteen forty-four." Sgt. Welsh loomed like a spectre over his son's bed, and tossed a slender, black leather-covered box onto his chest. "June 6."
"Yeah Pop. I remember." Harding shifted his weight and gingerly reached with his uninjured hand to touch the familiar box. He had grown up treasuring the medal inside, his father's precious Purple Heart. Now he closed his eyes and prayed that sleep would come quickly enough to spare him from this confrontation.
"No, you do not remember. You think you know, but you don't remember. You think you know because I told you about it. You think you know because you are damned lucky enough to grow up in a free country because I was on the beach in Normandy on D-Day. I took a bullet in the shoulder and another in the leg, and I was one of the lucky ones 'cause some of the finest men I ever knew were mowed down like dogs on that beach.
"Now you lie there in that bed feeling sorry for yourself because somebody whacked you over the back of the head, and somebody stepped on your hand, and the brass gave you a fancy medal for it 'cause they need a hero to distract the press and to make the mayor happy. Well I'm telling you, mister, you only think you know what war is, and that hunk of tin doesn't make you a hero!"
Through the haze of medication, Harding struggled to compose a response. Was he pretending to be a hero? Did he want to be? He tried to remember a single moment from that waking nightmare that would be worth remembering, worth passing down to his own sons someday. The only memory that sprang to mind was the weight of little Maria in his arms, her tiny, trusting fingers counting the points of his star.
His father continued. "In two separate incidents you defied a direct order from a superior officer. You should be thrown off the force for what you did. As far as I'm concerned, you don't deserve to wear the star."
The Morphine was taking hold and Harding heard his father's words through a thick fog. Maria was in his arms again. "One, two, three, four, five." A concerned voice in the crowd. . . outstretched arms. . .a host of upraised hands.
Art Welsh snatched up the box containing his Purple Heart and left.
The whole world is watching. . . . The whole world. . . watching. . . . The . . . world. . . .