I woke up in a hospital bed hooked up to a bunch of mysterious monitors. A few minutes after I regained consciousness a nurse recognized it and called in a doctor and another nurse. As best I can recall from the short conversation I had with them before I lapsed into never-never land I had three broken bones, a collapsed lung, and countless bruises.
Apparently it was Monday afternoon when I regained complete clarity and didn’t flake out again. As I was having a chat with a second doctor about my condition and the treatment Sharon came storming into the room on the verge of tears.
“Oh Carson, you’re awake Honey, I…” was all that she got out before I started yelling “Get that fucking cheating bitch out of here!”
That started a real kerfuffle, which caused several of the monitors that I was hooked up to — obviously one was a blood pressure monitor — to go nuts, for several orderlies and nurses to blast into my room, and for all sorts of yelling and crying to ensue. The pandemonium finally subsided after what looked like an orderly and a security guard got Sharon out of the room, a nurse did her best to calm me down, and the doctor who I had been talking to gave me a shot of a sedative and then soothingly talked to me until I zoned out.
The next morning I was in much better shape and I was assured by the first nurse to talk to me that Sharon would not be coming back. It looked like she was anxious to give me details, but quite honestly I didn’t really care to get them so I just started asking her questions about my condition.
About 10 a. m. two police detectives, Turner and Wilson, came to see me. I told them about my encounter with who I assumed was Johnny Antonella and in view of what my attackers said that he was responsible for the attack on me. Unfortunately I couldn’t identify, or even give a good description of apart from their approximate sizes, of the three thugs who attacked me, although I could say that Johnny wasn’t one of them. I also told them that I assumed from all of the circumstances that Johnny was the one who had been fucking Sharon and that I had DNA on bedsheets that could confirm that.
The detectives promised that they would do what they could, including interviewing Johnny and Sharon, but advised me that Johnny usually skated on raps and unless I could positively tie him to the attack he would skate on this too. I expected nothing different.
I got many visits in the hospital from co-workers and supervisors, including my “big boss,” one of the company VPs who I had worked with directly on a couple of projects. I was released after four days total in the hospital. Fortunately my collapsed lung wasn’t catastrophic so it would heal itself if I got oxygen therapy and didn’t do any intense exercise for a month. The three broken bones reduced my mobility so I wasn’t going to be playing basketball or running in the near future anyway. The bruises were starting to heal and I only needed over-the-counter pills to deal with the pain. I was able to return to work a day after my release which got me brownie points with my supervisors since we were in a very busy period at the office, and my big boss approved my stay rent-free in the company owned apartments until I completely healed.
It was the Tuesday after I returned to work when I got a visit from the same two detectives that had seen me at the hospital. After some chit-chat I asked “So what’s the story with my attackers; have you been able to identify them; has Antonella talked at all?”
They got quizzical looks on their faces then the older of the two, Turner, asked “Where were you Sunday?”
I thought that a strange question. “I was holed up in my apartment all day; as you can see from my crutch and wrist cast I’m not very mobile.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?” the younger guy, Wilson, asked.
“Well my secretary and her husband visited me and brought me dinner about 5:00 p. m., and I talked to my parents and soon to be ex in-laws on the phone sometime between noon and 5:00 p. m., but that’s about it. Why?”
Of course cops only like to ask questions, not answer them, so Turner continued with “Do you know anyone with an antique gun that uses cartridges and lead conical bullets?”
I have to give myself a “Carson” for my performance; a “Carson” is what I call my version of an award like an Oscar for doing something really amazing. I didn’t flinch, gasp, contort my face, or give any visible sign of recognition when in a normal voice I replied “What the hell kind of question is that? If you’re asking if I own an antique gun, the answer is absolutely not!” That wasn’t really a lie since only Sharon’s name is on the certificate of authenticity of the Colt Dragoon even though it ostensibly was a wedding present to both of us.
Then, as Wilson started to ask another question I said “Wait; stop; something is going on here. I’m not playing twenty questions with you. You either tell me what the fuck is going on or we’re through talking. I want to know if Antonella talked and/or if you found the thugs that put me in the hospital.”
After some more give-and-take with Turner and Wilson where I refused to budge one inch Turner finally glanced at Wilson, sighed, and then said “Antonella is dead. So are three of his associates. All of them were shot with what our ballistics people say is an antique gun that fired conical lead bullets which we dug out of them.”
“Did the other three guys have bruises?” I asked.
“Yes,” Wilson replied, “one had a badly bruised shin and the other two had bruises on their faces and torso.”
“It’s them!” I excitedly exclaimed. “I told you that I inflicted some damage on all three of them, especially the bruised shin — I got a really good karate-style kick in; hot damn!”
I actually literally jumped for joy, which caused me to hurt my leg and get short of breath and Turner and Wilson looked like they were about to carry me back to the hospital before I regained my composure. “I won’t be jumping for joy again in the near future,” I sighed
“Look, do you know anything about their demise?” Wilson asked.
“I certainly do not,” I smiled, “but I can’t say that I’m sad. In fact, just between us girls,” I continued; I hate that phrase, but I was putting on an act at that point in time; “I was thinking of ways to waste those assholes myself. Fortunately it appears that they have lots of enemies.”
Turner asked if they could search my apartment and office and do a gunshot residue test on my hands and any clothes they thought might have some. I put my iPhone on video record. I had them ask me again and made them promise not to trash my things on penalty of paying damages, and then videoed me affirming that under those conditions they could. I then asked them to give me a ride to a therapy session while they searched since I really wasn’t supposed to drive yet.
The next day they reported to at my work place that they didn’t find anything of interest in my apartment or office. Then they asked me a loaded question. “Do you think that your wife might have any information?”