“Get him on an oxygen mask stat, and bring me an intubation tray right away. We may need to reinsert the tube.”
Arnie continued to cough and gasp, but his color remained good. He pulled at the restraint on his left arm and across his chest. “Let me go, God damn it. Let me go.”
Jack reached across the bed and released the restraints.
Arnie coughed vigorously, sat upright, and expectorated a glob of blood-tinged mucous. “What are you guys trying to do, kill me?”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Matt Wallace understood the depth of Debbie’s depression—how could he not? He believed that with time and good news, she’d come around.
For a few days after the radiotherapy, Debbie suffered headaches and mild dizziness. The infusions of Herceptin were, in Debbie’s words, a walk in the park compared to her experience with chemotherapy.
Matt watched Debbie pretend to be normal, but she didn’t fool the kids or him.
Heather, their oldest, noticed. “What wrong with Mommy? She never smiles anymore.”
In Arnie’s absence, Jordan Goodman had again taken over Debbie’s care. “This depression has gone on long enough,” he said. “I want you to see someone.”
“A shrink?” she asked.
“We have good psychiatrists in town. They can help you through this.”
“Can they make me forget that I have breast cancer?”
Jordan hesitated at the challenge. “Sometimes you’re lucky, sometimes you’re not. There’s not a damn thing either of us can do about that, but mostly people make their own luck.”
She reddened. “Sure, like getting cancer. Like getting quinine instead of Taxol. Like getting a brain tumor.”
“I’m not telling you to be happy or to forget what’s happened. I’m only outlining what’s best for your future, Debbie.”
“Future? I just want to live long enough to testify against Henry Fischer and Brian Shands. I want to see those bastards rot in jail.”
“We’re all doing what we can to assure that, but you have better reasons to live, Debbie.”
“You don’t understand…I can’t take it anymore. I’m burned out. Hope has become just another useless four-letter-word.”
“Please, Debbie,” Matt cried, “you must try. If not for you or me, do it for the kids. They need their mother. They need you.”
“Have I refused anything?” she asked, still in a monotone. “I did that disgusting chemotherapy, the Gamma Knife, and I’m doing Herceptin, and I guess I’ll get shrunk, too. What more can I do?”
“I’m sending you to see Ross Cohen,” Goodman said. “He’s the best. I’m sure he’ll begin with counseling. Commit to it, Debbie. If that doesn’t work, he’ll prescribe antidepressants.”
“Okay,” she said. “Anything else?”
How terrible my timing is, thought Jordan. “It’s time for a follow-up CT scan of your brain.”
“I can’t wait.”
I’m glad I’m not a writer, Debbie thought, as her body slid into the CT machine, because more than any original phrase, the cliché, ‘moment of truth’ fits how I feel.
Jordan Goodman peered over the complex machine and its computer screens through the thick glass window looking at Debbie.
After the machine went into repose, he stuck his head around the corner. “I’ll join you in a second.”
“Let’s run through it,” Jordan said to the CT radiology tech.
After Jordan watched the slices of Debbie’s brain pass across the screen, he said, “Can you print them out and put them next to her first scan.”
“Sure, Doc.”
Jordan looked at each frame on the fluorescent view box, comparing each to Debbie’s previous films.
“I’ll get a radiologist for you, Dr. Goodman.”
“It’s okay,” Jordan said, “I can wait for an official reading.”
Debbie remained on the sliding litter outside the scanner and looked expectantly at Dr. Goodman as he entered the room.
He smiled broadly and grasped her hands. “It’s gone.”
Debbie wept.
Chapter Sixty-Three
I felt sore all over, as if I’d just finished fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson. Everything ached.
I raised myself in bed to survey the damage. I was bruised from head to toe. Deep purple-blue discoloration covered my extremities, chest, and abdomen. I had incisions in both groins sutured with ugly black thread, as they’d paid no attention to esthetic considerations. IV puncture marks decorated both arms. My face was sticky with the remnants of the tape that held the ET tube in place.
“You guys really beat the crap out of me.”
Jack grinned. “And we’d do it again…got to get our kicks somehow.”
“What happened?”
“You want all the gory details?”
“Give me the Cliff Notes version.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I remember sitting in the fifth floor transcription room, and then nothing except dreams…nightmares really.”
“My best guess, buddy, is that you finally succumbed to olfactory overload. Like a schizophrenic, overwhelmed with the flood of chaotic sensory data, your mind couldn’t absorb or react to it all, so it retreated into a catatonic state.”
“Catatonic?”
“Don’t you remember any of it? The hospitalization, the tube feedings, the meds, and all our attempts to shake you out of it?”
“Nothing. Just bad dreams, dark places, and bad smells.”
“How’s your smeller now?”
I sniffed deeply. “I can’t smell a thing. I hope that’s not permanent, although I’m not looking forward to resuming my olfactory nightmares.”
“It’s probably a combination of factors that may have injured the olfactory epithelium. It takes about sixty days to regenerate new tissue. We’ll know then.”
I looked down at my body again. “Catatonia doesn’t explain why I’m black and blue.”
“While you were on the psych ward, you developed a leg clot which broke off as a pulmonary embolus.”
“How bad was it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“It was bad. You had a large clot blocking the pulmonary artery and putting a strain on your heart. It looked like we were going to lose you. Sharon was getting ready to try to pull the clot out when you went into shock. I gave you Activase, and it worked.”
“So that’s why I’m multicolored. Where’s Lois?”
“She went to the ladies room. She was here all the time, Arnie. It was hell for her. She’s an extraordinary woman. I don’t know how you got so lucky.”
“Me neither. Where do things stand now?”
Before Jack could answer, Lois returned. She’d brushed her hair and reapplied her makeup.
I grasped her hand. “You look sensational, babe.”
“You’re not exactly beautiful, Arnie, but you never looked so good to me. You scared the hell out of all of us.”
“It’s my way of getting attention.”
Lois smiled. “I can think of easier ways of getting my attention, sweetie. I can’t wait to get you home.”
“Jack was about to lay out his plans for me.”
“The worst is obviously over. You’ll need a few days to a week of nutritional and physical rehab. We’ll repeat the chest x-ray and scan your legs for clots.”
“What about anticoagulants?”
“I’m not sure, but it would be the smart thing to do for a few months.”
After Jack left, Lois sat on the bed at my side. She held my hands, leaned forward, and kissed me on the lips.
“How are the kids?”
“They’re terrific, and can’t wait to see their Daddy.”
“I look so bad, Lo. I want to see the girls, but my appearance will only upset them.”
“The unknown is worse for the kids. They need to see you. Give each a smile and a big hug, and tell them you�
��ll be home soon. That’s all it will take.”
“What’s happening with the practice?”
“It’s fine, Arnie, don’t worry.”
“What’s happening in the world?”
“The usual, but you’ll be pleased to hear that Henry Fischer and Brian Shands are facing major charges. They probably won’t risk a court trial.”
“If it goes to trial, I want to be well enough to testify. Those sons-of-bitches ought to rot in hell.”
“That sounds like the old Arnie. Welcome back.”
Jim McDonald’s was on the phone with his wife when his nurse barged into his office and shoved the note under his nose. The phone’s for you, Jim. It’s the Stanford heart/lung transplant program!
“Honey. I gotta go.” He pushed the blinking button. “Dr. McDonald, can I help you?”
“Jim, it’s Barry Harter from Stanford. Are you sitting down?”
Jim’s pulse increased. “Sitting, standing or lying on the floor, let’s have it.”
“You know I told you that it would be years before we got the heart and the lungs for Connie Rinaldi, well…”
“I’m going to kill you, Barry.”
“Our next patient was in flight from Dallas for these organs, when he had a stroke. We need to get these organs transplanted into someone else in the next six hours or they won’t be of use to anyone. Connie’s the only one who’s close enough. Is she okay for the transplant?”
“Okay, she’s more than okay. I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it, buddy, and get her down here ASAP.”
Jim called Connie’s number. The phone rang six times before the answering machine picked up. Shit, he thought, as he left a hurried message.
“Keep trying all the numbers for the Rinaldis,” he shouted to his nurse. “I’m driving over to Connie’s.”
He drove through the North Berkeley streets ignoring the many Do Not Enter street signs and pulled in front of the Rinaldi home, a 1950s ivy-covered brick structure. He ran to the front door, pushed the button repeatedly, and banged loudly on the door.
Goddamn it!
Jim ran up the alley between the homes to the wooden backyard gate and let himself in.
He sighed in relief when he saw Connie sitting in the sun, her oxygen tank at her side, and her new puppy on her lap.
“Dr. McDonald! What’s wrong?”
“For once, Connie, not a damned thing.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
The area around the Superior Court of California, County of Alameda courthouse on Washington Street in downtown Oakland was a media circus. Onlookers and demonstrators of every stripe crowded the sidewalks. Media trucks lined the nearby streets, microwave transmitters elevated to the ready position. Kevin Walters, turned to his deputy, Patricia Davis as they drove around the corner and into the restricted parking lot. “Look at that crowd.”
“We’re not going to make anyone happy today, boss,” she said. “Let’s hope we get through this quickly.”
“How do I look?” asked Kevin as they entered the elevator. He straightened his tie and checked his image on the mirrored walls.
“That new suit looks like it was made for you.”
“Gotta look good for the cameras.”
When the elevator door opened on the fifth floor corridor, they walked onto a sea of humanity. As they approached the entrance to Judge Horace Miller’s courtroom, the police formed a protective lane allowing them to pass.
The courtroom was packed.
Henry Fischer and Brian Shands sat with their attorneys at the defense table. Henry’s Brooks Brother’s suit sagged on his skinny frame. He appeared pale and withdrawn.
Brian was in fine spirits in his perfectly tailored Armani suit. He smiled and joked with Karl Hirsch, his attorney, who looked at his client with disbelief.
The worn oak flooring creaked with each step as Kevin and Patricia walked to the prosecution table. The walls were bare, and with the absence of any acoustic absorbing material, the room echoed with the crowd’s noise.
“All rise,” said the bailiff, as the judge entered. “The Superior Court of California for the County of Alameda is now in session, the Honorable Judge Horace Miller presiding. Be seated.”
Horace Miller was seventy and nearing retirement. He had the world-weary look of someone who’s seen too much of life’s darker side. His reputation among those who appeared before him was smart, tough, and fair.
“I understand that the people have reached an agreement with these defendants.”
“Yes, your honor,” said Kevin Walters, handing the bailiff a sheet of paper for the judge.
Judge Miller read the document shaking his head and staring at the defendants and at Kevin Walters.
“I see,” Judge Miller said, “that the defendants have agreed to the following: each will serve thirty years with the California Department of Corrections and pay a fine of $25,000 for tampering, misbranding, adulteration, and dilution of prescription medication, and overbilling of same. In addition, Henry Fischer will pay $8.3 million and Brian Shands will pay $2.4 million in restitution damages. Is that correct?”
“Yes, your honor said each defense attorney.”
Judge Miller stared at Kevin Walters. “And this is agreeable to the people?”
Kevin gazed at the floor. “Yes, your honor.”
The judge shifted in his seat, leaned forward glaring at the defense table. “I find this plea agreement an affront to the community.”
The courtroom exploded in applause.
“I’ll have order in this court,” shouted the judged as he gavelled the court into silence. “I’ll see counsel in chambers,” he said as he rose and walked through the door behind the bench.
Brian grabbed Karl Hirsch’s arm. “What the hell’s going on? We had a deal.”
Karl pulled his arm away. “Don’t touch me, you son-of-a-bitch.”
Both defense attorneys, Kevin Walters and Patricia Davis followed.
The judge removed his robe, and as his bottom hit the chair behind his large antique oak desk, Karl Hirsch shouted, “We had a deal, your honor.”
Judge Miller stared at the DA. “This plea bargain stinks. How can you be a part of this Kevin?”
“With all due respect, your honor,” Harrison Pollard said, “the defendants in this case entered into this agreement in good faith. The court should think twice before interfering.”
“Your honor,” Kevin Walters said, “due to the emotion engendered in the public’s mind by the acts of these defendants, the people were under extreme pressure to overcharge…”
Miller smirked. “Nobody would accuse you of over overcharging in this case.”
He turned to the defense attorneys. “Are you gentlemen saying that the court will have overstepped its bounds if it rejects this plea arrangement?”
“Of course not, your honor,” Harrison Pollard said, “but we have a system that works. Agreements like this are part of streamlining the process.”
The judge placed a thick book on his desk. “Let me read you from the People v Grove, a case from the Michigan Supreme Court. I find their words to be directly on point: A trial judge is authorized to reject the entire plea agreement when it includes either a sentence agreement or a sentence recommendation. To determine otherwise would transfer the trial judge’s sentencing discretion to the prosecutor in cases in which the plea reduction results in a substantial reduction in the potential range of sentences. A rule compelling a judge to accept a defendant’s plea would reduce the judge’s role to one of rubber-stamping the plea, regardless of the level of imposition on the judge’s sentencing discretion. The authority to impose sentences is vested exclusively in the trial courts.”
Judge Miller turned again to the District Attorney. “My court will not rubber stamp any such agreements. You chose, for your own reasons, not to charge these defendants with manslaughter, although by my reading of the facts of the case, these charges could be substantiated.”
&nb
sp; Karl Hirsch stared back at the judge. “Respectfully, your honor, those comments are totally inappropriate. We all have our roles in these matters, sir and you shouldn’t usurp the DA’s role in charging these defendants.”
“The court, as does the District Attorney,” the judge said, “has its responsibility to the people as well.”
The room became suddenly silent as all eyes moved to Kevin Walters.
“Your honor, the actions of these defendants are highly offensive to the people, but we cannot bring charges that we can’t sustain. At this point, since those who died had fatal cancers, the people are unable to link the actions of the defendants to anyone’s premature death beyond a reasonable doubt. The moment we can do that, we’ll proceed with additional indictments for murder.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Judge Miller said rising from his seat and donning his robe. “Let’s return to court.”
“All rise,” cried the bailiff, as the judge resumed his position.
“Before I reveal my decision on this plea arrangement, I warn the spectators that I will not tolerate any disruptions. Is that clear?”
He paused for effect and then continued. “The court has flexibility in whether or not it accepts the sentence agreement, however, the court is not the district attorney, nor can it substitute its authority for that of the district attorney. The court would have heard charges of murder or manslaughter in these cases if the DA had so charged them, but since Mr. Walters, in his judgment, chose not to pursue these charges, there’s nothing that the court can do. If at any point in the future, the DA feels that the people can sustain the charges of murder, he’s free to file these when appropriate.”
That son-of-a-bitch is crucifying me, Kevin Walters thought.
“Will the defendants rise,” the judge said.
“I’ve been on the bench for thirty-two years. Before that I was a District Attorney and an attorney for the defense. In all that time, I cannot recall being so disgusted or angry over the actions of any criminal defendants. I’ve sentenced murderers, rapists, child molesters, and while all those criminals deserved what they got, you two have reached a new low in human depravity.
The Sixth Sense (Brier Hospital Series Book 3) Page 27