“And then just like that it’s shipped?”
“The final, shipped product includes four months’ worth of powder, a manual on Ayurveda and Ayurvedic dietary principles, and a supply of vitamins.”
“Vitamins?”
Matt visibly perked up at the word.
“Yes.”
“Herbal vitamins? Like Dr. Baldwin’s?”
Again Peter grinned smugly.
“Hardly.” His delivery was pure vinegar. “Dr. Baldwin’s supplements are, well, Dr. Baldwin’s. Ours are pure vitamins—standard, FDA-approved multivitamins, manufactured for us by Huron Pharmaceuticals.”
Matt’s eagerness deflated.
“Pills?” he asked.
“Actually, they’re gelatin capsules. One is dissolved in each daily weight loss shake.”
Jeremy Mallon feigned a yawn.
“Mr. Daniels, please,” he said. “Your fishing expedition has run aground, and you know it. Mr. Ettinger has been much more patient with you than need be. Certainly more tolerant than I would have been in his position.”
“Mr. Ettinger, are you and Dr. Singh partners?” Matt asked, ignoring Mallon’s protest.
“We are.”
“How would I go about locating this man, this Ayurvedic Herbal partner of yours?”
“Enough!” Mallon barked.
“That’s okay,” Ettinger said. “The truth is, Pramod spends most of his time in India now. And mostly he’s traveling. I reach him through an American Express office in New Delhi. If you want that address, I’ll be happy to have my secretary send it to you.”
“Now, enough,” Mallon said. “Find another line of questioning, or it’s over and out.”
“Actually, I’m done. But I have something to say to both you and Mr. Ettinger. Strictly off the record.”
“Evelyn, we’re finished. Thank you.” Mallon chatted in whispers with his associate until the stenographer had cleared out. “Okay, go ahead,” he said then.
“Even though we haven’t mentioned them, and I intend to see that they are not part of this case, we all know with certainty that two other women beside Lisa Grayson have had this DIC.”
“So?”
“I said before that we had proof that Lisa Grayson was treated by Dr. Singh some years ago with what I assume was the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System. Well, we also have proof that the other two DIC cases lost large amounts of weight with him as well.”
“What!” Ettinger exclaimed.
Anticipating Matt’s revelation, Sarah had her attention fixed on the man across the table from her. His surprise seemed genuine. However, she reminded herself, she had misread Peter Ettinger before.
“Easy, Peter,” Mallon said. “This man’s been playing losing cards all morning. I see this as just a bluff to rattle us.”
“It’s no bluff,” Sarah said.
“I want to see your so-called proof,” Mallon said.
“And we want to see a blood sample from Lisa Grayson,” Sarah countered angrily.
“That’s it, we’re done,” Mallon declared.
He threw his papers into his briefcase and as much as pulled Peter Ettinger to his feet and toward the door.
“This is no game,” Matt said. “This is people’s lives. Don’t you care?”
“Fuck you,” replied Mallon.
“Peter,” Sarah tried, “this is very important. Remember, Annalee took your powder, too.”
“But she didn’t take those bogus herbs of yours. You just stay away from her and she’ll do just fine.”
His vitriol nearly brought her hurtling over the table and into his face.
“Peter?” she said sweetly instead.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER 30
October 17
AUTUMN ON LONG ISLAND WAS PROFOUNDLY BEAUTIFUL. Dressed in an aqua running suit, Lisa Grayson loped through a tunnel of shimmering foliage, up the mile-long hill of Kennesaw Road, and onto the flat, gravelly stretch that led back to Stony Hill. She was perspiring, but not excessively so—especially considering that when she reached home, she would have completed her first half-marathon ever. Fantastic! she thought. Thirteen miles by a woman who not too long ago considered a brisk walk to the corner convenience store to be her physical limit.
“Too darn much.… Too darn much.…”
She sang the words nursery-rhyme style, in sync with her strides. The Boston Marathon was in mid-April, and she might well be ready. Her physical therapist knew the organizers of the race. If Lisa could do the twenty-six plus miles in anything under four and a half hours, he would see to it that the documented marathon time necessary to receive an official entry and number was waived.
“See how she runs.… See how she runs.…”
Some sweat dripped from her forehead into her eyes. Slowing just a little, Lisa reached her right hand into her jacket pocket.
Fist, she thought intently. Fist.
The Otto Boch myo-electric hand was truly incredible, but it had no sensory input. She had to rely on other messages to tell her the prosthesis was doing what she wanted it to. First she sensed the now-familiar tension around her elbow. The electrodes had been implanted there, in what remained of her forearm flexor muscles. Next she felt the firmness of the closed fist, pressing against her side from within the jacket pocket.
“Come on, fake hand,” she said, panting in cadence. “Do your stuff.”
She pulled her arm free of the pocket and sensed without looking that the lifelike fingers were clutching her balled-up handkerchief.
“Way to go, hand,” she said, mopping her brow without breaking stride. “Way to go.”
Over the two months since receiving the limb, she had made remarkable progress. In time, she had been promised by the physical therapist and the prostheticist, she would be able to pick up a cigarette ash without having it crumble. She would also be able to latch onto an object and dare anyone—anyone—to pull it away from her. The Bionic Woman! There were limits, to be sure. She had chosen the less obtrusive “cosmetic” skin over the more functional and more easily maintained metal pincers. In general though, the hand far exceeded her projections of what being an amputee would be like. And focusing on learning to use it had done worlds for her depression.
She still missed her baby terribly and thought many times each day about how life would have been with him. But she also knew that somehow, all she had been through had become a passage for her. In facing her tragedy, in working to overcome the pain and grief, she was growing up in areas that had not changed since the day she ran away from home.
And then, of course, there was her father. The transformation in Willis Grayson over the months since her return to Stony Hill was, if anything, even more striking than her own. He was mellower than she could ever remember—far less controlling and more willing to listen. And he went out of his way to spend time with her. She had never really believed the man was capable of change, but change he had.
She passed over the one-lane bridge at the base of the long dirt and gravel drive leading up to the house. The video-monitored security gate was closed, but the narrow pass-through alongside it was not. Four-tenths of a mile to go. The muscles in her legs were beginning to tighten up, but she could make it. She knew she could.
“Miss Grayson,” a man’s voice called out from behind her.
Lisa stopped and turned, still running in place. A young man in a gray uniform and hat stepped from behind a tree. He carried a Federal Express envelope beneath his arm.
“Meet me at the house,” she said with a pant, keeping her distance and wondering where his truck was. “I want to finish this run.”
“I can’t,” he said urgently. “I’m being paid to give this to you personally. This is the third day I’ve tried to meet up with you. Your father’s security patrol will hurt me if they catch me again, and they’ll be back here again any minute. We’ve got to hurry.”
Bewildered, Lisa glanced at h
er watch, debated, and then stopped running.
“Okay, what is it?” she asked, still keeping a good twenty yards between her and the man.
“I don’t know. I’m being paid to find a way to deliver this to you. That’s all. Please, I hear a car now.”
“Set it down right there,” she ordered. “And then get away.”
The young man hesitated and then placed the envelope on the grass by the road.
“Don’t let them take this from you,” he said. Then he whirled and sprinted off.
Through the still morning air Lisa could, in fact, hear a car approaching from the direction of the house. She snatched up the envelope and dashed back down the road until she found a copse dense enough to conceal her. Hidden there, gasping for air, she watched two of her father’s security people cruise slowly past. By the time the motor noise had faded, she had recovered enough to tear open the Federal Express envelope. The enclosed, unembossed, white envelope had her name written on the outside in a meticulous, woman’s hand. The note within was typed.
DEAR LISA,
The man who delivered this is not with Federal Express. I hired him in hopes that he might find a way to get this letter to you. My name is Rosa Suarez. Perhaps you remember me. I am the epidemiologist assigned by the Centers for Disease Control to study the three cases of DIC at the Medical Center of Boston. I need your help, but have been unable to reach you by phone or mail. After leaving several phone messages for you, I called to find that your home phone number has been changed, and that the new number is unavailable—at least to me. Two certified letters from me were reported as delivered and signed for by you. It is possible you received them, but I have my doubts. I do not believe your lawyer or your father want you to hear what I have to say—and what I must ask of you.…
• • •
“Mr. Daniels?”
“Yes.”
“Phelps here, Roger Phelps. I’m glad I caught you in.”
I’m not, Matt thought. The claims adjuster for the MMPO may have been responsible for assigning him to Sarah’s case, but there was something about the little man—something in his speech, perhaps, or in his eyes—that made Matt uncomfortable.
“Yes, Mr. Phelps. What can I do for you?”
Matt’s desk was piled high with research volumes, law tomes, and Xeroxed hospital records. In the next two weeks, he would be taking depositions from two of Mallon’s expert witnesses, as well as from Lisa Grayson herself. On the plaintiff’s side, Mallon would be getting a crack at Sarah and at Kwong Tian-Wen. There had been no feedback from the man following the intense ending to Peter Ettinger’s deposition. Not one word. Matt had half hoped that his opponent might at least suggest putting things on hold until the allegations about Ettinger’s weight loss product could be evaluated. But nothing. It appeared that regardless of what facts and revelations cropped up, Mallon was not intimidated.
“Mr. Daniels,” Phelps said, “first of all, I want to thank you for keeping me abreast of the developments in the Baldwin case. It’s made it a good deal easier for us to evaluate things and come up with a decision of how to proceed.”
“Decision?”
“Yes, Mr. Daniels. After carefully weighing all the aspects and prospects of this case, we’ve decided to settle.”
“What?”
“You’ve done an excellent job, and I can assure you that in the future you’ll be called upon many—”
“Mr. Phelps, excuse me, but I don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what, Mr. Daniels? We looked at the costs of continuing, the potential magnitude of a jury award, and the possibility of losing. Then we made the decision to try to settle, came up with a figure, presented it to Mallon, and on behalf of his client, he accepted. Of course, the settlement will include no admission of any guilt on Dr. Baldwin’s part.”
Matt stared in disbelief at the phone.
“Mr. Phelps,” he said as evenly as he could manage, “Sarah Baldwin is not guilty of any malpractice. There have been developments—significant developments. We are going to win the case.”
“Ah, the Chinese tong story. I’m sorry, Mr. Daniels, but we considered that, too. As things stand, all a jury has to listen to is that poor old man and—”
“How much did you settle for?”
“Mr. Daniels, there’s no need to get testy about this.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“And Willis Grayson accepted that?”
“Apparently.”
“Mr. Phelps, Willis Grayson keeps that kind of money in his cookie jar. He wanted Dr. Baldwin behind bars. Her hide, that’s what he’s after. Why in the hell would he agree to settle if he thought they had a case?”
“Mr. Daniels, please. I did not call to start an argument. The decision has been made.”
“And the other two women? What happens when their families get wind of this?”
“We’ll deal with that when it happens. Now, if you have no further questions—”
“Dr. Baldwin can refuse to drop the case.”
“She would then be personally responsible for all legal fees and any jury award. Why on earth would she want to do that?”
“Because she’s innocent, that’s why, dammit.”
“Mr. Daniels, I know about your relationship with Dr. Baldwin. If you talk her into continuing with this case and collect any legal fees at all, I would consider that a serious breach of ethics.”
“What do you know about legal ethics?”
“I’m an attorney and a member of the bar, sir. That’s what. Now, I hope I have made our position clear. As far as the Mutual Medical Protective Organization is concerned, this case is closed.”
• • •
Over her twenty-three years as a government epidemiologist, Rosa had met cabinet secretaries, governors, and two vice presidents. She had faced up to a boss who wanted to crucify her and stared down the barrel of the congressional subcommittee investigating her BART allegations. But never had she felt quite as intimidated, measured her words quite as carefully, as tonight with Willis Grayson.
The WNG Corporation helicopter had picked her up on the roof of the surgical building of the Medical Center of Boston and had then made one gratuitous sweep over the glittering downtown area before heading southwest toward Long Island. The aircraft was more opulent and far quieter than Rosa had imagined it would be. The pilot and a second man were separated from the rear cabin by a glass slider that was essentially soundproof. The only other passenger in the plush compartment beside Rosa was Grayson. His chilly manner and persistent glower made it quite clear that flying her from Boston to New York and back merely to draw his daughter’s blood was not his idea. He had nodded a greeting to her as his man assisted her into the cabin, and then had motioned for her to fasten her seat belt. But they were over Providence before he actually spoke to her.
“I don’t understand why you insisted on drawing Lisa’s blood yourself when we have any number of people who could have done it,” he said after some small talk.
“In situations that are critical to my work, I have learned that nothing can be completely trusted unless I have done it myself.”
Grayson’s smile was ironic. “That understanding puts you well ahead of ninety percent of my executives. You don’t seem very comfortable. Are you afraid of flying?”
“No.”
“Of me?”
She shrugged. “You’re very wealthy, and very powerful, and not at all a reassuring person.”
“I’m not accustomed to being told what to do, Mrs. Suarez. Now, because of your letter and that stunt with that bogus Federal Express man, my daughter is issuing me orders like a five-star general. I have no choice but to do what she asks, or I risk losing her again.”
“Mr. Grayson, your actions left me no choice. You signed for mail addressed to Lisa. You had your phone number changed to keep me from reaching her.”
“Well, now I have given you the new number, a
s well as my promise to cooperate with you in any way you ask.”
“I’m sure Lisa appreciates the significance of those actions.”
“I hope so. Do you have children, Mrs. Suarez?”
“Three daughters.”
“If someone hurt one of those girls, you would punish them if you could, yes?”
“I would do what I could through legal channels to see they were appropriately punished, if that’s what you mean.”
“Sometimes my methods are more direct,” Grayson said. “Today my attorney called and recommended that I accept an offer from the insurance company to settle our case against Dr. Baldwin without a finding. In view of the revelations regarding Lisa and this diet product, my lawyer feels we might not be able to convince a jury of Dr. Baldwin’s guilt. I, however, remain convinced she is responsible for the maiming of my daughter and the death of my grandson.”
“You are certainly entitled to that opinion, sir.”
“My daughter is not as certain as I am.”
“Based on what we know to this point, I don’t believe she should be—or you either, for that matter.”
“Mrs. Suarez, exactly what do you know?”
It was Rosa’s turn to smile. She gazed down at the lights gliding past two thousand feet below.
“Mr. Grayson,” she said, “I have learned from bitter experience that it is unwise to discuss the findings of an ongoing investigation with anyone unless it is absolutely unavoidable.”
“Ah yes, your debacle in San Francisco.”
Rosa spun to face him. “You, sir, are exactly the sort of person from whom I have learned to protect myself. I don’t like being checked up on, Mr. Grayson. The mere fact of your doing so could already have jeopardized my work.”
“I assure you, my people excel at keeping their inquiries discreet. They’ve had a good deal of practice.”
“I’m sure they have. Well, if they are that good, you must understand me well enough to know that there is no point in pursuing this discussion.”
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