judge will hear the doctor’s case in the morning.”
“That’s unacceptable,” Keefe declared with a flare of his hand.
Maci groaned, especially when she saw the chief’s features tighten.
“Acceptable or not, that’s the way it is.” Satterwhite’s tone had gone from cool to cold.
His face suffused with unnatural color, Keefe opened his mouth as if to argue, but ultimately ground his jaws together. Maci felt him look at her.
Ignoring Keefe, she faced the chief. “May I please see my husband?”
Satterwhite took his time unfurling his gangly frame to full height. Bastard, Maci thought. He was in his element, lording his control over them. Maci fought the urge to lash out at him, to ask him if he knew who he was toying with.
After all, everyone knew the Ramsey name carried weight in this town. While that hadn’t always been the case, it was now. Her husband was no longer thought of as the downtrodden boy who had defied the odds and made good, but rather as a renowned surgeon. He’d built a stellar reputation in the medical community throughout the entire state of Louisiana. And here in his hometown of Dayton he’d used his wealth and power to the greater good.
Seymour wouldn’t tolerate this method of treatment. But that was before he’d been accused of causing his patient’s death, Maci reminded herself. A negligent homicide charge could relegate him to the bottom of the scum barrel in a heartbeat.
“That can be arranged,” Satterwhite said at last, coming from behind his desk. “Follow me.”
When they walked into the room where Seymour was held, Detective Johnson acknowledged their presence, then left. The chief followed shortly, leaving Maci and Keefe alone with Seymour.
For a moment, a thick, heavy silence prevailed.
“Are you all right?” Maci asked in an unsteady voice.
“I will be, when I get the hell out of here.” Seymour’s eyes darted to Keefe. “I’m assuming you can do that.”
Keefe blew out a long breath. “I can’t until morning.”
Seymour swore.
“Keefe’s doing all he can, Seymour,” Maci pointed out in a calm, soothing tone, hoping to defuse the volatile situation.
“Then it’s not good enough,” Seymour shot back.
Another awkward silence fell over the room. Maci bit down on her lower lip and looked at Seymour. He appeared tired and drawn, yet restless and hyper. Control was what fed him, what made him the man he was, and now that he wasn’t in control, Maci knew he’d be jittery.
Or was he simply acting like a common street junkie who was in the throes of coming off a drug high?
Maci’s stomach hated the path her mind had taken, but she couldn’t avoid the hard cold facts, not when they were being rubbed in her face.
Her husband was a drug addict, and according to the law he was accused of homicide.
“Satterwhite is not someone we…you want to tangle with right now,” Keefe said. “You have to know that.”
“I refuse to stay in this stinking hole overnight.”
Maci crossed to her husband and touched him on the arm. “Don’t do this to yourself. Spending one night—”
He shook off her hand. “I’m not some common criminal, and I resent the hell out of being treated like one.”
“They are accusing you of homicide, Seymour,” Keefe said in a low, even tone. “What do you have to say about that?”
“Dodson’s death was not my fault.”
Maci eyes widened.
Seymour’s smile was humorless. “See, my own wife doesn’t believe me.”
“That’s not true,” Maci snapped, feeling her face flush. “If you tell me you’re not responsible—” Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat.
Seymour stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he focused on Keefe. “What are the exact charges against me?”
“I haven’t had time to read the report,” the attorney responded. “I only know what Maci told me.”
Seymour hit the palm of his hand on the tabletop. “Go talk to that prick Satterwhite then read the report. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him. That redneck’s got it in for me, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”
“I sensed the same thing, Keefe,” Maci said, easing down into a straight-backed chair at the table.
“I’ll be right back.” Keefe’s tone was clipped.
Once he had left the room, Maci stared at her husband, noticing the strain weighing heavily on him. “I’m so sorry about this.” Her thoughts jumped to Jonah and she ached to hold him tightly right now.
“Tell me you believe me.”
“I want to, Seymour,” she said, feeling her eyes mist with tears, “but remember I’ve seen you high and it’s not a pretty sight.”
“Okay, so I was using when I operated on Grant, but I had full control of my faculties, for god’s sake. I would never do anything that asinine. You have to know that.”
“I do, but—”
Keefe interrupted her when he reentered the room.
“The charges stand as Maci described them,” Keefe said, tossing the folder down on the table, then sitting down. His gaze settled on Seymour. “Suppose you sit down and tell me your side.”
Seymour didn’t sit. He just began talking. “There’s really no side. The man bled to death through no fault of mine.”
“So you’re taking no blame at all?” Keefe’s tone was incredulous.
Seymour’s hard gaze didn’t waver. “None whatsoever.”
“Are you denying you were on drugs at the time?”
“No. Like I was telling Maci, I admit I had taken some pills, but I knew exactly what I was doing with that knife.”
“Passing out and slurring your words in front of the family doesn’t support that, Seymour,” Keefe said with low-key honesty, “especially since they know exactly the level of drugs ingested.”
“I agree with Keefe,” Maci said, her gaze also un-flinching on her husband, watching closely for some glimmer of remorse or something that would indicate he was the least bit sorry.
Nothing.
She flinched. When had Seymour become so calloused to the loss of human life? Had she been
