Blood Money

by Laura M Rizio

  Marina Doletov was not in the mood. She put her hands over her face, shaking her head and sobbing. “I can’t…I can’t…hurt him anymore.”

  Nick pretended to buy into her act. He offered her water, tissues, and then finally stepped away and walked toward the bench. “Your Honor, may we have a short recess?” What a fucking actress, he thought. She deserves an Academy Award for this. Her cut must be big enough to retire on for life. She could probably buy the whole Ukraine and have enough left to buy a string of nail salons. He looked quickly at the jury, checking their expressions, their body language. The vibes coming from them told him they were buying it, all of it. Except for Alonzo Hodge who wore the same skeptical smirk, sending the same silent message: You’re all full of crap. Now get on with it, jerk-offs.

  Asher jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench?”

  Barnes nodded in reluctant approval, wondering what these two manipulative bastards were going to try to put over on him. Whatever it was, he would resist it, he thought. Because it wouldn’t be good for him, for his trial schedule, for his Supreme Court bid. He sat back in his chair, causing the attorneys to strain their heads upwards. He liked that. He never bent down to listen to a lawyer. It was bad for his image.

  “Your Honor,” John Asher went on in barely audible tones, “I’d like a recess to speak with my client. May we adjourn this trial until tomorrow morning? I want the time to go over the damaging evidence again with him. And now that he’s heard it with his own ears, and sees the problems he has, or we have—” correcting himself, looking at Ceratto in acknowledgment of the power of the plaintiff’s case—”he may be willing to settle this case. I’m asking you for time.” He put his hands together hoping to signal his desperation to the man in control—to no avail.

  “If he hasn’t seen the light yet, Mr. Asher, I doubt that he ever will. Fifteen minutes for both of you and that’s it. I want to move this case along.”

  Nick nodded. “Your Honor, I’d like to put my expert on now. In the interest of saving time and money. He’s costing me two grand an hour. Can I get him on and off? His testimony won’t take long. He’s here and ready. In the meantime Miss Doletov can take a short break. I’ll call her back right after the expert.”

  Barnes liked economy, especially when it was of his time. He didn’t give a flying fart about Ceratto’s money. They were all whores: the attorneys, their clients, their expert witnesses. And they could all go to hell in a hand basket, he thought. Their only service was to keep him in his job, and pretty soon he wouldn’t have to listen to drivel anymore. Pretty soon he’d be at the top, making law instead of keeping bullies from tearing each other apart and taking over his courtroom.

  Asher said, “I’m going to object, Your Honor. To put the plaintiff’s expert on out of sequence just bolsters the witness. Ms. Doletov’s evidence just becomes more credible when she resumes. It will be devastating…”

  “Too bad, John,” Barnes said, smiling and looking toward the back of the courtroom at Doctor Jacob Humphrey. Humphrey was from Johns Hopkins, a renowned vascular surgeon, professor, and researcher. He sat ready in his tweed jacket and brown tie-up shoes. With his lightly tousled hair and horn-rimmed glasses, he couldn’t have looked more the expert. “This may help you talk some sense into your client.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Nick wanted to get Marina off the stand as soon as possible.

  “Miss Doletov, you may step down briefly. You may leave the courtroom briefly. Please take the time to compose yourself, and Mr. Ceratto will call you back to the stand after the next witness.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she stepped down from the witness stand and moved quietly past Silvio and Levin into the back of the shabby, inhospitable room. Only the sound of the squeaking door broke the silence as she disappeared from view.

  Nick called Doctor Humphrey, and like a seasoned pro, the doctor recited his background and qualifications: member of the board of Johns Hopkins University, professor emeritus of Johns Hopkins medical school, and board certified in surgery, plastic and reconstructive surgery, and vascular surgery.

  The jury sat with open mouths as the expert went on and on, detailing the many articles and texts he had written and the research projects and symposiums he had conducted—all except Alonzo Hodge. He could care less. He knew the game—pay ‘em enough and they’d say whatever the fuck you want.

  Silvio and Levin sat back, nudging each other when a point was made. They marveled at the good job Ceratto was doing. Too bad the money would never be his. They were going to sue his ass for ripping the client from them. And sue the Rileys for going with Ceratto. That is, before they had him whacked and buried so far underground they wouldn’t find his remains for a thousand years. They could taste the verdict and smell the money. This was going to be a big one.

  Nick read all this. It was obvious. The more points he made, the more he twisted the knife into Manin, the happier they looked. What could he do? What the fuck could he do?

  “The autopsy report showed that the closing of the wound was inadequate,” Doctor Humphrey droned on. “The suturing was far too close to the approximated edges of the severed artery. The quality of the suturing was poor, and as a result the artery opened from the effect of the pressure of the blood reentering the artery as soon as the forceps were removed on the proximal side of the wound. Further, the response time for the code was entirely too long, especially since the patient was bleeding and obviously in trouble. There should have been an immediate response by a qualified surgeon.”

  “Doctor, how long did it take the defendant to respond?” Nick asked, holding the code sheet from the hospital records in his hand.

  “It took twenty minutes.” Doctor Humphrey glanced down at his copy of the code sheet, shaking his head.

  “How long should a response take in a case like this?”

  The Joint Committee on Accreditation of Hospitals Standards calls for five minutes or less. The recovery room nurse—I believe that it was Nurse Doletov—called an immediate code for immediate assistance.”

  “And how long did it take for Doctor Manin to arrive?”

  “Twenty minutes…it was far too late at that point. The heart was pumping, but the blood was being pumped out of the body. The patient exsanguinated.”

  Nick looked squarely at Doctor Manin. “Doctor Humphrey, in your professional opinion, was that a breach of the standard of care that should have been rendered to Sean Riley? In other words, did Doctor Manin fail to give Sean Riley the kind of care he deserved and available to him?”

  “Yes, it was.” Doctor Humphrey paused. “An incredible breach of the standard of care.”

  Nick walked toward Mrs. Riley, who was silently crying at counsel table. Her shoulders shook as Nick put his arm around her and gave her a tissue. Then he walked back to his witness. “Doctor Humphrey, is there any other way that this could have happened? Is there any other way that Sean Riley could have bled to death?”

  Humphrey looked at Nick, his eyebrows raised in surprise at the question. He paused to think, cocking his head to the side. “I suppose so…”

  “How?” Nick asked strongly, aware that he had just committed professional suicide.

  “Well…the sutures would have to be purposely pulled…” He shook his head. “…and then the nurse or person in charge of the recovery unit would have had to purposely ignore the emergency. But I don’t see how…based on the chart…”

  “Thank you, Doctor. That’s all.”

  CHAPTER XLIV

  There was no way out. No back door and no windows that would open. Besides, they were on the fifth floor—too high to jump even if they could. Carmen kicked the bathroom door open and pulled Lily inside. She locked it. She knew she had only a few seconds more to think of something. She frantically looked around for anything that might save their lives. She could find nothing.

  Carmen pushed a stall door open. The stall was wide and had grab bars for the handicapped. It
was perfect for the two of them. “Come on, Lily, up here,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Up onto the toilet seat. Hurry up,” she commanded.

  The little girl obeyed although she was shaking from head to toe. She was speechless. Nothing would come out of her mouth even if she tried. Carmen urged her sister toward the back of the toilet, and Lily slipped.

  “Careful, don’t fall.” Carmen held her hand, helping her sister regain her balance as Lily’s feet straddled the seat.

  Carmen quickly locked the stall door and stepped up onto the seat. She held one of the grab bars as she carefully turned and faced the door. Now both were up on the toilet, their feet not visible in the opening at the bottom of the door.

  But what now? Carmen asked herself. What to do? Think, think, think fast.

  Then she saw it. She knew what to do. She jumped off the seat, unlocked the stall door, and grabbed Lily’s hand.

  “Come on, Lily, get down for one minute.”

  “No, I’m scared.”

  Now, Lily. Now.” She pulled her sister off the seat and lifted the heavy lid off the toilet tank. “Get back up now. Just get up and face the wall,” she commanded.

  Lily quickly obeyed, steadying herself with a hand against the stall wall. She whimpered pathetically.

  “Shh.” Carmen balanced the heavy porcelain lid under her arm as she pulled herself onto the seat using her free hand and a grab bar. She balanced and turned herself around to face the door, holding the tank top up with both hands. She heard the outside door knob rattle, then a loud thump that sounded like a kick, then phutt, phutt, the dreaded sound of the silencer—the sound she had come to learn and fear during the last ten or so minutes.

  Steps echoed on the tile floor as he slowly approached. She heard him open a stall door—the stall next to them. She saw his feet. They were huge in black, shiny shoes. He stopped.

  She waited. Carmen could feel Lily’s breath and her trembling, little body behind her.

  The door opened slowly and then—smash! Without hesitation Carmen swung the tank lid into Rudi’s face with a two-handed back swing. Her body crashed into the side of the stall from the momentum. She heard the cracking of bone as his nose and orbital socket shattered under the weight of the heavy porcelain lid. Blood sprayed everywhere as he fell backward, hitting the sink. The mirror was splattered with red, and so was Carmen. She dropped the blood-smeared lid, which shattered into large pieces as it hit the floor, and then wiped the greasy red residue from her face.

  “Let’s go.” Carmen grabbed Lily’s hand, and they flew out of the bathroom into the carnage Rudi had left for them. There was blood everywhere, and she was disgusted by its feel and smell. But there was no time. “Come on!” she yelled.

  Lily finally let out the scream she had been holding back for the last twenty minutes. It was ear-shattering. But it didn’t matter. No one could hear it. No one could respond.

  Carmen and Lily skirted two bodies lying on the floor next to empty desks. Two secretaries with their faces shot off. Down the hall there were three more men in jeans, contorted in various positions on the floor, not moving, presumed dead. Carmen didn’t look into the offices as she ran through the narrow hall, deftly avoiding the corpses. She picked up the first phone she saw behind an empty work station, its receiver dangling from a vacant desk, and dialed 911. “Don’t look,” she said as she covered Lily’s eyes. The worker who belonged in the now empty work station lay under the desk, her head gaping open at the brow. Brain matter was spattered over her chair and the surface behind it. Red globules dripped thickly down the white surround.

  “Hello, is this the police?” Carmen had no patience. She cut through the questions of the 911 operator, which she considered wasteful and time consuming. “Look, just send the cops and an ambulance. No,” she paused, “send about five or six ambulances— because they’re all dead. And I killed one of them—myself.”

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, Mr. Ceratto, but I’m sanctioning you right now. You will pay this court five hundred dollars. And each time you pull a stunt like that, it will be a thousand more. And if you force me into calling a mistrial, I’ll have you confined for contempt. And then I’m going to file a complaint with the Disciplinary Board and see to it that you’re disbarred in Pennsylvania and every other state you try to set foot in.” Barnes, red-faced, drew in a breath and, choking on his own venom, coughed loudly.

  “Are you all right, Judge?” Nick asked in a sincere tone while wishing the man in black would strangle on his own saliva.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Look, Judge. There’s no need to be so upset with me. I’m only doing what I’m supposed to do as an attorney.”

  “Sell your clients down the river?” The judge’s eyes bulged with hatred for the young man before him.

  “No. Get to the truth.”

  “Truth, shmuth. You’re trying to force a mistrial and your own ruin. I’m telling you, Ceratto. Don’t.”

  “Judge, I’m an officer of the court like you, and my interest is that justice is served, not simply to win a case. And neither you nor any other judge is going to threaten me on or off the record like you’re doing now.” Nick cocked his head to the side, wearing his best street corner smirk. “That doctor is not guilty. He didn’t do a fucking thing but try to save that cop’s life. I know for a fact that the cop was murdered—to set this case up—and the fucking bitch who did it is the one you let compose herself.”

  “Mr. Ceratto, you’re beyond reprimand. You’re beyond sanctioning—you’re teetering on the edge of arrest. How dare you insult this court with foul language and slanderous accusations—unfounded accusations, I might add.” Barnes’s voice shook with anger, especially because Nick appeared so cool. He simply smiled and listened. “Either you have a death wish or you are totally insane. I prefer to think the latter. I prefer to think you are under pressure with a case you inherited that is simply too much for you, and that is the reason for these antics. So, Mr. Ceratto, which will it be, jail, a mental hospital or the courtroom? You choose.”

  “No, Judge. You choose,” Nick snapped, still smiling. “You see, the way I look at is if you have me locked up, I’m safe. At least I won’t wind up in the morgue. And you’ll have to declare a mistrial. Then I’ll go to the press and your goose is cooked. The hospital? Those two murdering assholes out there, your buddies, would take care of me the same way they did Sean Riley. But the case still mistries and you lose your perfect record. The press will ask a million questions. They’ll eat up what I say, even from the loony bin. But you’ll never make the Supreme Court—not if this lunatic can help it! Or—” he took a long breath, cocking his head, squinting defiantly—”you let me try this case, the way I want to. If I win, you win. If I lose, you still win. But that jury out there…” he pointed to the door, “makes the decision, not you.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Ceratto?” The judge’s voice dropped two octaves. His expression changed.

  “No, Judge, I’m just telling it like it is, that’s all. Threats never work. I learned that the hard way. You’ve got to walk the long walk, and I have good strong legs.”

  “Then let’s talk, Mr. Ceratto and see where you’re headed.” The judge angrily smacked “0” on the speaker phone and barked at his secretary, “Get Mr. Asher in here.”

  The second pot of coffee had been brought into the room where the jurors sat—or at least were supposed to sit—in quiet detachment. Juror number three checked her makeup in a compact mirror she always carried, adjusting her curls now and then. Two of the older men played cards—highly unusual and hardly permitted during Barnes’s trials, but this one was an exception.

  Alonzo Hodge paced like a caged animal, arms folded, purposely not socializing with any other juror.

  “Mr. Hodge, I’d appreciate your not walking about. You’re making me quite nervous and just making things worse for everyone,” Mrs. Carla Fisher, an English teacher at Central High said with her most tole
rant, tutorial smile. She looked at him squarely, waiting for a response, the smile still pasted on her jowled face. She got none. She adjusted her tortoiseshell half-glasses, closing her hardback copy of Dickens’s Hard Times. “Mr. Hodge?”

  “Look, teach,” snapped Alonzo, quickly pivoting to face her. “I’m not one of your students. I got a family to support and a job I probably lost to worry about. You bein’ paid your fifty thousand dollar salary while we wait for these assholes to get on with the case. So, shut the fuck up, OK?”

  “Mr. Hodge. There’s no need to become vulgar and abusive,” she indignantly. “I didn’t know…”

  A portly truck driver named Domenic DeMeo slowly rose to his feet. He was between thirty-five and forty. The ravioli and all his other favorite dishes had taken their toll, and he strained as he lifted his two hundred and seventy-five pounds from his chair. “Come on, all you people,” he interrupted. “We gotta get along here. We got important decisions to make.” His outstretched arms summoned peace. “Look, we all wanna get outta here, so let’s play nice, and when the game is up we vote guilty, give the widow lady a bunch a money, and get outta here.”

  Mr. Hirsch puts his cards down and shook his gray head. “Highly irregular, Mr. DeMeo. We’re not supposed to discuss the case, let alone make decisions, until the end—until all the evidence is presented and the judge gives us our instructions. Then we deliberate and vote, and then and only then do we reach a verdict.”

  “What are you—a lawyer?” mocked DeMeo, his stomach jiggling with laughter.

  “No, but my son is. And I know a little bit about the process. And I, Mr. DeMeo, have a conscience. I don’t find people guilty and ruin their lives just because I want to go home.”