Her eyes wide with terror, Kathryn took Tom’s free hand and recited the facts of his day. Fine in the morning. Surfing as usual. At work without symptoms mid-morning. Bad sushi for lunch followed by nausea, vomiting, and fatigue all afternoon.
A technician appeared with a cart and drew blood under the nurse’s watchful gaze.
Just as the blood sample was off to the lab, the door opened and a middle-aged man in a white coat with salt-and-pepper hair and a badge that said “D. Stewart, M.D.” entered. Reciting the litany of Tom’s day once agin reignited Kathryn’s fear. Her free hand was trembling as she finished.
He gave her a reassuring smile. “Try not to worry, Mrs. Andrews. We’ll know more after we see what the blood work says. But as bad as food poisoning looks at this stage, patients come back pretty fast.”
Dr. Stewart vanished into the corridor, and Kathryn was left alone listening to the beep, beep of the heart monitor; the whish of the automatic blood pressure cuff as it rose and fell, and the loudly ticking clock above the door.
Three a.m. became three-thirty and then four o’clock. Kathryn’s ordeal by waiting continued.
Finally, at ten minutes after four, Dr. Stewart reappeared. “We have your husband’s blood work, Mrs. Andrews.”
Kathryn felt her stomach tighten. “And?”
“And we’re seeing elevated aminotransferases. Those are enzymes that indicate inflammation in the liver. Could your husband have been exposed to hepatitis?”
Kathryn thought sickeningly of Shannon. Had he slept with her? How many partners had Shannon had? Too many to count probably. “No, of course not.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Stewart was sizing her up to see if she was being truthful.
“Well, then, what medications is he taking?”
“Myrabin. For high blood pressure. Dr. Myers prescribed it.”
He nodded. “I’m going to give Dr. Myers a call.”
* * *
They broke for lunch. Hugh joined Patty, Mark and Kathryn in the small conference room where they picked at rubbery pasta salad and overly-mayoed sandwiches from a deli Mark’s secretary favored. Kathryn drank black coffee and ate little. She reminded Hugh of a star athlete at half-time. He could see she was preparing mentally for the next round. And he knew, no matter what hearsay Mark Kelly had bought off Paul Curtis, Kathryn was doing a superb job of hiding her secret, whatever it was.
They reconvened at one p.m.
“Tell me, Mrs. Andrews, what happened after your husband was hospitalized the first time?
* * *
Tuesday, May 22, 2012, Scripps Memorial Hospital, La Jolla
Kathryn dozed fitfully on the reclining chair in Tom’s small exam room until seven-thirty the next morning. She woke with a start to find a tall, fortyish nurse in light pink scrubs wearing a name badge that said “Anna M.” documenting Tom’s vital signs.
“Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Andrews,” Anna M. said. “Your husband is better today. His hydration is up, and his blood pressure is down.”
Tom gave Kathryn a reassuring smile. “Bad sushi.”
But at nine, Bruce Myers came to give them the final word. He listened to Tom’s heart and lungs, prodded and poked, and finally said, “No more Myrabin.”
“So it wasn’t bad sushi?” Kathryn asked.
“No. Tom’s had a reaction to Myrabin. But the good news is these things resolve quickly after the drug is discontinued.”
“Then he’s going to be okay?” Kathryn held Tom’s hand tightly as she asked.
“Just fine.” And Dr. Myers smiled
* * *
Memorial Day, May 28, 2012, 1845 Ocean Place Pacific Beach
They did not go to Rosarito for Memorial Day as they often did. Tom surfed that morning, but not with Shannon. He went with Paul, who was on reprieve from out-of-town-deposition hell. They met at the beach in Coronado. Kathryn and Carolyn watched from the terrace at the Hotel Del where they drank coffee and Jodie played with her Cheerios. Afterward, they all walked down Orange Avenue and had brunch at Clayton’s Coffee Shop. Kathryn would forever remember the throbbing, banshee wail of the gulls that morning as they circled the hard, blue sky.
She and Tom had planned to plant vegetables and herbs in their backyard garden that afternoon, but Tom fell asleep in the car on the way home from Coronado. He didn’t want to admit how tired he was, but Kathryn could see fatigue in every line of his face. In spite of his protests, she persuaded him to lie down. He was asleep again within minutes. And she was worried.
She decided to do the gardening herself to stifle her unease. But as she dug in the rich black soil of the plot she and Tom had created years ago, panic gnawed at her heart. She kept remembering how Dr. Myers had promised them Tom would be just fine when they left the hospital a week ago. She clung to that frail phrase all afternoon.
At five she stripped off her gardening gloves, caked with dirt, and crept into the house, hoping not to wake Tom. But he called out as soon as he heard her walking through the kitchen, “Why did you let me sleep so long?”
She hurried into their bedroom, where the blinds were still closed against the strong late afternoon sun, and his long body was stretched comfortably across the bed in the half light. He opened his arms for her to come to him, and she lay down beside him, cuddling into his chest and telling herself the nap had fixed everything.
He looked down at her as he held her and smiled. “I hope you didn’t do all that planting by yourself.”
She smiled. “It wasn’t hard. You needed to rest. Are you feeling better?”
“Much.”
His arms tightened around her, and he held her close for a long time. It was, Kathryn thought later, as if he knew they were saying goodbye.
* * *
Whereas they always walked the few blocks to the Yellow Café for dinner, Kathryn suggested driving that night. Tom ate little, and went to bed again by nine-thirty. She sat up, preparing for a motion she had to argue the next day, trying as hard as she could to keep worry at bay.
But at one a.m, Kathryn woke to find Tom’s side of the bed empty. She found him sitting on the sofa in the living room, clutching his belly, his face contorted with pain.
She sat down beside him and put her arms around him. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I woke up with the most awful pain here.” He pointed to the right side of his abdomen. “I feel nauseous. And my stomach’s the size of a balloon.”
She put her hand on his forehead and realized he was burning up with fever and his skin was yellow. “We’d better go to the ER.”
* * *
Tuesday, December 2, 2014, Conference Room, Goldstein, Miller
“It’s four o’clock,” Mark said. “How much more do you have?”
“Not much,” Bob McLaren said. “Just a few additional questions.”
Mark looked at Kathryn, who noticed Hugh’s eyes looked wet. Mark and Patty had already heard the story of Tom’s last days, but he had not.
“Do you want to try to finish today,” Mark asked her, “or come back in the morning?”
“Let’s finish.” Kathryn said quickly.
Bob McLaren didn’t miss a beat. “What happened after your husband was admitted to the hospital the second time?”
* * *
May 28, 2012, Scripps Memorial Hospital, La Jolla, California
She knew it was far worse than it had been a week ago because they made her sit in the waiting room and would not let her be with Tom. At four in the morning, a tall, thin, balding man in light blue scrubs came to find her. His name badge said K. Martin, M.D.
“Mrs. Andrews, I’m Karl Martin. I’m head of the transplant team here at Scripps.”
Her blood ran cold. “Transplant?”
“Your husband’s liver is badly damaged. He needs a transplant.”
There are moments you always remember. For Kathryn it was seeing the big clock on the wall behind Dr. Martin’s head with its hands fixed at four o’clock. No matter what c
ame after this, life as she had known it had ended in this millisecond.
“But why? Tom’s an athlete. He does everything right.”
Dr. Martin shook his head. “I can’t tell you tonight what caused this. I only know he’s critical. He needs surgery.”
Her hands were suddenly clammy. “Will he be okay?”
“Transplants are very successful.”
“Can I see him before he goes to surgery?”
Dr. Martin sighed. “That’s the problem. He can’t go to surgery right now.”
“But I thought you said–”
“I said he needed surgery. I didn’t say he was strong enough for it. We’ve got to get him to a place where he can tolerate the surgery, Mrs. Andrews. If we operate tonight, he’ll die.”
Die. The word rang in her head. She put her hands together and squeezed hard as if that was enough force to push death away.
“But you can’t let him die.”
“We’re doing everything we can, Mrs. Andrews.”
* * *
For three weeks, he hung on. At first Kathryn refused to leave the hospital, but eventually the nurses persuaded her to eat and rest. Millie gave her a leave of absence, so she could focus only on Tom.
He was breathing on his own, but he didn’t wake up. She talked to him as she sat by his bed in the ICU, telling him news from work, reminding him always of how much she loved and needed him.
Paul was allowed in for fifteen minutes at a time. And Steve. One morning, a week after her nightmare began, she arrived at eight to find Shannon sitting in the chair by Tom’s bed, holding his hand. She gave Kathryn a guilty look and slunk out. Kathryn summoned the nurse.
“Why did you let that woman in?”
“She didn’t ask our permission, and when we found her, we assumed she was family.”
“She’s not. Don’t let her in again.”
* * *
Monday, June 18, 2012, ICU Scripps Memorial Hospital, La Jolla, California
She tried to tell herself he was growing stronger, but she knew the truth. His legs were useless bloated lumps; his stomach was still painfully swollen. Only the IV fluids were keeping him alive.
Dr. Martin had come to check on Tom around noon that Monday. She waited in the hallway for news. Dr. Martin looked very grave when he came out. He walked up to Kathryn.
“He’s growing weaker.”
“So no surgery?”
“Not now.”
“Isn’t there anything else you can do?”
But Dr. Martin patted her gently on the shoulder and shook his head.
She scurried past the ICU nurses, afraid they might send her home, and settled once more in the chair by Tom’s bed. She lost track of time as she held his hand and listened to the thump and whir of the machines. Her prayers were now negotiations with God, telling Him that He couldn’t take Tom because He had refused to give her the longed-for child.
The afternoon wore on, and she was so tired that she accidentally dozed off. When she woke, she found Tom smiling at her. Her heart turned over with joy.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he said.
She leaned over to give him a kiss. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to think about how much I love you.”
“You know I love you, too.”
“I do.” His smile trembled slightly, and he said, “I’m just so tired. I’m going to close my eyes again for a few minutes.”
Kathryn squeezed his hand. Surely this had to mean he was regaining strength, and the transplant would be possible. But then, just as his eyes closed, the heart monitor’s jagged line went flat, the alarm sounded, and the Code Blue team swarmed around his bed. They pushed her into the hall where a priest took her arm and led her to the nursing supervisors’ office to await the news of her husband’s death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday, December 2, 2014, The Grant Grill Lounge, San Diego
Hugh had suggested they walk over to the elegant, dark-paneled bar at the Grant Hotel after Bob McLaren and his minions decamped from the Goldstein, Miller conference room. Mark, Patty, Kathryn, and Hugh walked up Broadway in the deep winter-dark that shrouded the city at seven p.m.
They sat at one of the sleek-chrome tables and ate soft pretzels with whole grain mustard and sea salt, Parmesan fries, and braised beef sliders. Hugh, Mark, and Patty laughed about various points in the deposition where Bob McLaren had been flustered by Kathryn’s calm.
“You didn’t give him an inch,” Mark smiled at her. His admiration made her tummy flutter, but she kept her face impassive. She’d perfected that art over the last two days.
“Thanks.”
The three of then continued to post-mortem Kathryn’s performance, until Patty slid off her tall, chrome stool and announced she had to go.
“My nanny has fits if she has to work past eight-thirty. See you all in the morning.”
The old stab of jealousy for any woman who had a child hit Kathryn hard. But she smiled at Patty as if nothing mattered as she turned to leave.
Mark stirred on his stool. “I don’t have the same excuse, but I’d better get going, too. I have a hearing tomorrow in Los Angeles. I’ll be on the early train.”
Kathryn felt let down as he walked away. Hugh seemed to read her expression.
“You don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to.”
She smiled. “There’s no one waiting for me at home.”
“Me, either. Buffy went to New York to visit Erin.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Want to come back to my house and see if the housekeeper left any real food in the fridge?”
She started to say no, but she thought of how quiet her cottage would be when she got home, and how the memories of Tom and his last days would smother her in the stale atmosphere of a house that had been closed all day. She knew only too well that the price of keeping emotions in check was to be overwhelmed by them later.
“Sure, I’d like that.”
* * *
Tuesday, December 2, 2014, Crown Manor, Coronado, California
The big house seemed dead inside, Kathryn thought, as Hugh opened the massive subzero refrigerator in the dimly lit kitchen. It felt as if the spirit of the place had gone to New York with Buffy.
“Not much here, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay. I actually had enough to eat at the Grant.”
He grinned. “Me, too. I just thought we might find something green and healthy to absorb all that grease. But no luck. How about a martini, instead?”
“Red wine if you have some.”
She followed him back to the bar in the sunroom, where he found wine for her and scotch for himself.
“Would you be too cold if I lit the heaters on the patio, and we sat outside?”
“No.”
A few minutes later, they had settled near the massive propane heater on the down-pillowed patio chairs. Hugh threw back his head and took a long breath of night air. “Ah,” he sighed. “I never get tired of the sound of the ocean.”
Kathryn sipped her wine and listened to the gentle hum of the surf. She thought of Tom, and a tear slid down her cheek.
Hugh leaned over and put his big hand over hers. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, it’s okay. I got through yesterday and today. I can afford to feel something now. Sometimes the ocean wakes me at night; and when it does, I always wonder if Tom is out there surfing in the dark. I wonder if dead people are able to surf at night.”
Hugh took back his hand to emphasize his only intention had been a gesture of sympathy. “We’re going to make Wycliffe pay, and pay big. We’ve got a strong case because we’ve got Dr. Vannier. And you’ll be an excellent witness.”
“Thanks. But we don’t have anyone to testify that there were two deaths in the clinical trials. And we don’t have anyone to say how many died besides Tom after the drug went on the market.”
“We’ll find someone. Don’t worry.” Hugh sipped his scotch and watc
hed her face in the flickering light from the heater. Maybe she was ready to tell him what she was hiding. He said, “Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
“About what?” I’m not going to tell you that I’m a consummate liar about my marriage, she thought.
“Your face says you’re worried about something.”
She sighed. “My boss assigned me a new case at the end of October that I didn’t want to take.”
“Do they give you any choice?”
“It depends. But my docket is full and then some, and I didn’t have any room for this one.”
“Then why did you get it?”
“Because Millie said she would have given it to Tom if he were alive. Tom was the only person in the office who believed a client could be innocent. So if Millie thought the client was the real deal, she’d give the case to Tom. She said now she only had me, although she’s aware I know they are all guilty.”
“And did your husband get the innocent ones off?”
“No, of course not. At least, not very often. That’s the heartbreaking part of this job, as I told Erin. But Millie was right. Tom would have loved this client and this case. So I had to say yes.”
“And is he innocent?”
Kathryn told Hugh about Tyrone. “So, yes, he is innocent,” she finished. “But I can’t prove it.”
“But all you need is the woman he spent the night with.”
“Right, and she vanished the minute she heard my investigator was looking for her. She’s a prostitute with a rap sheet as long as your arm. She’s afraid of being arrested if she’s found and subpoenaed to testify. And if we could find her, she’d probably lie anyway and say she never saw Tyrone in her life.”
“So she’s all you’ve got?”
“More like, she’s all we don’t have.”
“What about that nightclub? Don’t those places have surveillance cameras?”
“Most do, but I’ve got nothing but my own hunch to back that up.”
The Death of Distant Stars, A Legal Thriller Page 20