Robin Cook 1982 - Harmful Intent

by Harmful Intent(lit)

  maintain his composure, he couldn't keep his hands from trembling. He felt short of breath.

  I Randolph did his best to calm him. He was indignant about the verdict and optimistic about the appeal. Just then, Carol was escorted into the narrow room. Randolph patted her on the back and said, "You talk to him. I'll go call the bail bondsman."

  Carol nodded and looked down at Jeffrey. "I'm sorry," she said after

  Randolph had left the room.

  Jeffrey nodded. She had been good to stand by him. His eyes welled with tears. He bit his lip to keep from crying.

  "It's so unfair," Carol said, sitting down next to him.

  "I can't go to prison," was all Jeffrey could say. He shook his head. "I still can't believe this is happening."

  "Randolph will appeal," Carol said. "It's not over yet."

  "Appeal," Jeffrey said with disgust. "It will be just more of the same.

  I've lost two cases..."

  "It's not the same," Carol said. "Only experienced judges will be looking at the evidence, not an emotional jury."

  Randolph came back from the phone to say that Michael Mosconi, the bail bondsman, was on his way over. Randolph and Carol began an animated conversation about the process of appeal. Jeffrey put his elbows on the table and despite the handcuffs, rested his head in his hands. He was thinking about his medical license, wondering what would happen to it as a consequence of the verdict. Unfortunately, he had a pretty good idea.

  Michael Mosconi arrived in short order with his briefcase. His office was only a few steps from the courthouse, in the curved building facing

  Government Center. He was not a big man, but his head was large and almost bald. What hair he had grew in a dark crescent that stretched around the back of his head from ear to ear. Some of the strands of dark hair were combed directly over the bald dome in a vain effort to provide a minimum of cover. He had intensely dark eyes that appeared to be all pupil. He was oddly dressed in a dark blue polyester suit with a black shirt and a white tie.

  Mosconi set his briefcase on the table, snapped open the latches, and removed a file folder labeled with Jeffrey's name.

  "Okay," he said, taking a seat at the table and opening the file. "How much is the increase in bail?" He had already put up the initial $50,000 bail, having collected $5,000 for his services.

  "It's $450,000," Randolph said.

  Mosconi whistled through his teeth, pausing in setting out the

  papers. "Who do they think they got here, Public Enemy Number One?" Neither

  Randolph nor Jeffrey felt they owed him the courtesy of an answer.

  Mosconi's attention returned to his paperwork, unconcerned by his client's lack of response. He'd already done an O&E, an ownership and encumbrance check, on Jeffrey and Carol's Marblehead house when bail had initially been set, securing the first bond with a lien of $50,000 on the home. The house had a documented value of $800,000 with an existing mortgage ofjust over

  $300,000. "Well, isn't that convenient," he said. "I'll be able to post bond with an additional $450,000 lien against your little castle in

  Marblehead. How's that?"

  Jeffrey nodded. Carol shrugged.

  As Mosconi began filling out the papers, he said: "Then, of course, there is the little matter of my fee, which in this case will be $45,000. I'll want that in cash."

  "I don't have that kind of cash," Jeffrey said.

  Mosconi held up from completing the form.

  "But I'm sure you can raise it," Randolph put in.

  "I suppose," Jeffrey said. Depression was setting in.

  "Either yes or no," Mosconi said. "I don't do this stuff for recreation."

  "I'll raise it," Jeffrey said.

  "Normally I require the fee up front," Mosconi added. "But since you are a doctor..." He laughed. "Let's just say I'm accustomed to dealing with a slightly different clientele. But for you, I'll take a check. But only if you can raise the money and have it in your account by, let's say, this time tomorrow. Is that possible?"

  "I don't know," Jeffrey said.

  "If you don't know, then you'll have to stay in custody until you got the money," Mosconi said.

  "I'll raise it," Jeffrey said. The thought of even a few nights in jail was intolerable.

  "Do you have a check with you?" Mos6oni asked.

  Jeffrey nodded.

  Mosconi went back to filling out the form. "I hope you understand, Doctor," he said, "that I'm doing you a big favor by taking a check. My company would take a dim view, so let's just keep it between us. Now you'll have that money in your account in twenty-four hours?"

  "I'll take care of it this afternoon," Jeffrey said.

  "Wonderful," Mosconi said. He pushed the papers toward

  Jeffrey. "Now if you two will sign this note, I'll run down to the clerk's office and settle the score."

  Jeffrey signed without reading what he was signing. Carol read it carefully, then signed. Carol got Jeffrey's checkbook out of his jacket pocket and held it while Jeffrey made out a check for $45,000. Mosconi took the check and put it in his briefcase. Then he got up and sauntered to the door. "I'll be back," he said with a sly smile.

  "Charming fellow," Jeffrey said. "Does he have to dress that way?"

  "He is doing you a favor," Randolph said. "But it's true, you're hardly one of the lowlifes he's accustomed to dealing with. Before he gets back, I think we should talk about the presentencing investigation and what it entails."

  "When do we file the appeal?" Jeffrey asked.

  "Immediately," Randolph said.

  "And I'm on bail until the appeal is heard?"

  "Most likely," Randolph said evasively.

  "Thank God for small favors," Jeffrey said.

  Randolph then explained the presentencing investigation and what Jeffrey might expect from the penalty proceedings. He didn't want to see Jeffrey any more demoralized than he already was, so he was careful to emphasize the more promising aspects of the appeal. But Jeffrey's spirits remained low.-

  "I have to admit I don't have a lot of faith left in this legal system,"

  Jeffrey said.

  "You've got to think positively," Carol said.

  Jeffrey looked at his wife and began to appreciate how angry he was. Carol telling him he should think positively under the circumstances was eminently annoying. Suddenly Jeffrey realized he was angry at the system, angry at fate, angry at Carol, even angry at his attorney. At least anger was probably healthier than being depressed.

  "All is in order," Mosconi said as he slipped in the door. He was waving an official-looking document. "If you would?" he said, motioning for the court officer to unhandcuff Jeffrey.

  Jeffrey rubbed his wrists with relief when they were free from the shackles. What he wanted most was to get out of the courthouse. He stood up.

  "I'm sure I don't have to remind you about the $45,000," Mosconi said.

  "Just remember, I'm putting my ass on the line for you."

  "I appreciate it," Jeffrey said, trying to sound thankful.

  They left the holding room together although Michael Mosconi hurried off in the opposite direction when they got to the hall.

  Jeffrey had never been so consciously appreciative of the fresh, ocean-scented air as when he stepped from the courthouse onto the brick-paved plaza. It was a bright, midspring afternoon with puffy little white clouds scudding across a faraway blue sky. The sun was warm but the air crisp. It was amazing how the threat of prison had sharpened Jeffrey's perceptions.

  Randolph took his leave on the wide plaza in front of the garishly modem

  Boston City Hall. "I'm sorry it turned out like this. I tried my best."

  "I know," Jeffrey said. "I also know I was a lousy client and made it extra hard for you."

  "We'll get right on the appeal. I'll be talking with you in the morning.

  Good-bye, Carol."

  Carol waved, then she and Jeffrey watched Randolph stride off toward State

  Street, where
he and his partners occupied an entire floor of one of the newer Boston office towers. "I don't know whether to love him or hate him,"

  Jeffrey said. "I don't even know if he did a good job or not, especially since I got convicted."

  "I personally don't think he was forceful enough," Carol said. She started toward the parking garage.

  "Aren't you going back to work?" Jeffrey called after her. Carol worked for an investment banking firm located in the financial area. That was in the opposite direction.

  "I took the day off," she said over her shoulder. She stopped when she saw that Jeffrey wasn't walking after her. "I didn't know how long rendering the verdict would take. Come on, you can give me a ride to my car."

  Jeffrey caught up to her and they walked together, skirting City Hall. "How are you going to raise $45,000 in twenty-four hours?" Carol'asked, tossing her head in her characteristic way. She had fine, straight, dirty-blond hair that she wore in a fashion that caused it to constantly blow in her face.

  Jeffrey felt his irritation surface again. Finances had been one of the trouble points in their marriage. Carol liked to spend money, Jeffrey liked to save it. When they'd married, Jeffrey's salary was larger by far, so it was Jeffrey's salary Carol made it her business to spend. When Carol's salary began to climb, it all went into her investment portfolio while

  Jeffrey's salary was still used to pay all the expenses. Carol's rationale had been

  that if she didn't work, then they would be using Jeffrey's salary for all the expenses anyway.

  Jeffrey didn't answer Carol's question immediately. He realized that in this instance his anger was misdirected. He wasn't angry with her. All their old financial disputes were water under the bridge, and wondering where $45,000 in cash was to come from was a legitimate concern. What angered him was the legal system and the lawyers who ran it. How could lawyers like the district attorney or the plaintiff attorney live with themselves when they lied so much? From the depositions Jeffrey knew they did not believe their own prosecution ploys. Each of Jeffrey's trials had been an amoral process in which the opposing attorneys had allowed ends to justify dishonest means.

  Jeffrey got in behind the wheel of his car. He took a deep breath to control his anger, then turned to Carol. "I plan to increase the mortgage on the Marblehead house. In fact, we should stop at the bank on the way home."

  "With the lien we just signed, I don't think the bank will up the mortgage," Carol said. She was something of an authority on the subject; this was her area of expertise.

  "That's why I want to go right now," Jeffrey said. He started the car and drove out of the garage. "No one will be the wiser. It will take a day or two before that lien finds its way into their computers."

  "Do you think you ought to do that?"

  "Do you have any other ideas of how I can raise $45,000 by tomorrow afternoon?" Jeffrey asked.

  "I guess not. "

  Jeffrey knew she had that kind of money in her investment portfolio, but he'd be damned if he'd ask her for it.

  "See you at the bank," Carol said as she got out in front of the garage where her car was parked.

  As Jeffrey drove north over the Tobin Bridge, exhaustion settled over him.

  It seemed that he had to make a conscious effort to breathe. He began to wonder why he was bothering with all this rigmarole. It wasn't worth it.

  Especially now that he was sure to lose his medical license. Other than medicine, in fact other than anesthesia, he didn't know much about anything. Except for a menial job like bagging at a grocery store, he couldn't think of anything else he was qualified to do. He was a convicted, worthless forty-two-year-old, an unemployable middle-aged nothing.

  When Jeffrey arrived at the bank, he parked but didn't get

  out of the car. He slumped forward and let his forehead rest on the steering wheel. Maybe he should just forget everything, go home, and sleep.

  When the passenger-side door opened, Jeffrey didn't even bother to look up.

  "Are you all right?" Carol asked.

  "I'm a little depressed," Jeffrey said.

  "Well, that's understandable," Carol said. "But before you get too immobile, let's get this bank stuff out of the way."

  "You're so understanding," Jeffrey said irritably.

  "One of us has to be practical," Carol said. "And I don't want to see you going to jail. If you don't get that money in your checking account, that's where you'll end up."

  "I have a terrible premonition that that's where I'm going to end up no matter what I do." With supreme effort, he got out of the car. He faced

  Carol over the roof of the car. "The one thing I find interesting," he added, "is that I'm going to prison and you're going to L.A., but I don't know who's worse off."

  "Very funny," Carol said, relieved that he was at least making a joke, even if she failed to find it amusing.

  Dudley Farnsworth was the manager of the Marblehead branch of Jeffrey's bank. Years before, he'd happened to be the junior bank officer in the

  Boston branch of the bank that had handled Jeffrey's first real estate purchase. Jeffrey had been a resident in anesthesia at the time. Fourteen years previously, Jeffrey had bought a Cambridge three-decker and Dudley had arranged the financing.

  Dudley saw them as soon as he could, taking them back to his private office and seating them in leather chairs facing his desk.

  "What can I do for you?" Dudley said pleasantly. He was Jeffrey's age but looked older with his silver-white hair.

  "We'd like to increase the mortgage on our house," Jeffrey said.

  "I'm sure that won't be a problem," Dudley said. He went to a file drawer and pulled out a folder. "What kind of money are you looking for?"

  "Forty-five thousand dollars," Jeffrey said.

  Dudley sat down and opened the folder. "No problem," he said, looking at the figures. "You could take even more if you wish."

  "Forty-five thousand will be enough," Jeffrey said. "But I need it by tomorrow."

  "Ouchl" Dudley said. "That's going to be tough."

  "Perhaps you could arrange a home equity loan," Carol suggested. "Then when the mortgage comes through, you can use that to pay off the loan."

  Dudley nodded with eyebrows arched. "That's an idea. But I tell you what, let's go ahead and fill out the forms for the mortgage. I'll see what I can do. If the mortgage doesn't come through, then I'll take Carol's suggestion. Can you come in tomorrow morning?"

  "If I can get out of bed," Jeffrey said with a sigh.

  Dudley shot a glance at Jeffrey. He intuited that something was wrong, but he was too much of a gentleman to inquire.

  After the bank business was concluded, Jeffrey and Carol walked out to their cars.

  "Why don't I stop at the store and get something good for dinner?" Carol suggested. "What would you like tonight? How about your favorite: grilled veal chops."

  "I'm not hungry," Jeffrey said.

  "Maybe you're not hungry now, but you will be later." I doubt it," Jeffrey said.

  "I know you and you'll be hungry. I'm going to stop at the grocery for food for tonight. So what'll it be?"

  "Get whatever you want," Jeffrey said. He climbed into his car. "With the way I feel, I can't imagine I'm going to want to eat.$'

  When Jeffrey reached home, he pulled into the garage, then went directly to his room. He and Carol had been occupying separate rooms for the past year.

  It had been Carol's idea, but Jeffrey. surprised himself by warming to the idea right away. That had been one of the first clear signs that their marriage was not all it should be.

  Jeffrey closed the door behind him and locked it. His eyes wandered to his books and periodicals carefully shelved according to height. He wasn't going to need them for a while. He 'walked over to the bookcase and pulled out Bromage's Epidural Analgesia and threw it against the wall. It poked a small hole in the plaster, then crashed to the floor. The gesture didn't make him feel any better. In fact it made him feel guilty, and the effor
t exhausted him even more. He picked up the book, smoothed out a few of the bent pages, then slipped it back into its designated spot. By habit, he lined the spine up with the other volumes.

  Sitting down heavily in the wing chair by the window, Jeffrey vacantly stared out at the dogwood, whose wilting spring blos-

  soms were past their prime. He was gripped by overwhelming sadness. He knew he had to shake this self-pity if he was to accomplish anything. He heard