Kay smiled. “I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to make heads or tails out of Dale Matthias's record. I've seen medical records before, and they might as well be written in Sanskrit for all the good they would do me. Could I trouble you to just brief me.”
“Brief you?” The doctor looked puzzled.
Kay answered with a laugh. “Now I'm impressing you with legal jargon to get even. I just want a summary of his health status.”
“Ah! Now I see. Mr. Matthias had no special health problems.” The doctor began to leaf through the few pages in the folder.
“He came to the island some five years ago and had his records transferred here from Honolulu. By American standards, he had very few visits to health care providers. He was sound enough to serve in the military, and enlisted in time to have his appendix removed at the government's expense. He had a hernia at age twenty-two which was corrected through surgery. And then he had treatment for a minor eye infection at age twenty-nine. That was all before he came here. He had a persistent cough last year. We eventually resolved that problem.” Dr. Abang looked at Kay and smiled. “Between one professional and another, I must confess time solves as many problems as we doctors do.”
Kay smiled her appreciation at his attitude toward medicine, an attitude she shared.
“Ah, yes. That brings us up to date, to my treatment of Mr. Matthias the week before his death. He was very ill on that Saturday. He had been for two or three days. When he came into my office, the value of patients' records—charts as we call them here—became immediately apparent. He had all the symptoms of appendicitis. If I hadn't had his chart in front of me, I might have jumped to that diagnosis. It would have been easy to miss the very small hernia scar and mistake the appendectomy scar for the results of a hernia operation. I would not have inspired confidence in Mr. Matthias if I had suggested he have his appendix removed. But, even with the records, I'm not entirely happy with my diagnosis.”
“What was your diagnosis?”
“It was that Mr. Matthias was suffering from what the layman calls intestinal flu, though the causative agent is in no way related to the influenza virus.” Dr. Abang smiled as he said it. “But we doctors always feel much better once we have a name for an illness. And the patient seems to feel better about it, too. Though in the case, I had the distinct impression Mr. Matthias had concluded he could have stayed at home and come up with the same diagnosis. I wrote him a prescription for something to lessen his abdominal distress, and gave him the usual reassurances and cautionary advice. I told him to drink a lot of fluids and to get a lot of rest. I also told him to come back on Monday if he didn't feel better. Evidently he recovered, since I didn't see him again.”
“And that was it, then?” Kay asked, closing up her pad.
“Not quite. He called me at about eleven, on Saturday morning of the following week, to make an emergency appointment. My morning was full, but I told him I would be willing to wait until 12:30 for him, though we usually close the clinic at 12:00 on Saturdays.”
Kay settled back in her chair and re-opened her pad.
“The symptoms he reported were rather unusual. He was having severe chills, and the light was hurting his eyes.”
“Do you think it had anything to do with his illness of the previous week?”
The doctor's eyes lit up. “You are very astute, Mrs. Yoshinobu. Yes, indeed, I do think it had something to do with the illness of the previous week. But diagnosis at a distance is very uncertain. And, if I am using your legal terminology correctly, this case is now moot.”
“Would you venture even a guess at what it might have been?”
“But yes. Many things come to mind. And since no harm can any longer come to my patient through a rash diagnosis, I am quite willing to speculate. One of the so-called childhood diseases might have been the cause of it. Measles, for example, or scarlet fever. An examination of the body would settle that very quickly but, of course, that is no longer possible.”
Kay was scribbling furiously in her notes. “What else?”
“Possibly, but unlikely, some form of pneumonia, a bacterial rather than viral infection.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. But this is something I hesitate to mention, since it's not supposed to occur in the United States any more. However, I spent two years as a laboratory assistant in the Philippines before coming here to medical school. During that time I saw many cases of trichinosis.”
“Trichinosis?”
“Yes. I imagine you aren't familiar with the disease, and perhaps not even with the name. It's a parasitic infection due to eating contaminated meat, which has not been thoroughly cooked—generally pork, though it could be chicken or wild omnivores such as bear. Since the causative organism is a parasite, it is fairly easy to detect the infective agents under a low-power microscope. As a result, with the enforced meat inspection existing in the United States, it has been virtually eliminated.”
“How could you confirm the diagnosis?”
“The only sure way would be through a muscle biopsy after a series of other confirming tests, all of which in Mr. Matthias's case are obviously impossible.”
Kay nodded. “His body was cremated, unfortunately. Are there any less sure ways of telling?”
“Nicely put. There are always many less sure ways of diagnosis available. A blood sample, in this case, would provide one of the more certain of the less sure ways. But, you see,” the doctor spread out his hands palm upwards in a gesture of helplessness, “that is also impossible.”
“No, it isn't. I'm quite sure I can get you a sample,” Kay said, standing up.
As Dr. Abang was showing her out, he commented, “I was quite angry when Mr. Matthias didn't show up for his emergency appointment after the trouble I went to keep the clinic open for his benefit. However, the reason for missing it is certainly understandable.”
***
I felt sorry for Kay. Now she was as worried as I was, and nobody should ever have to feel that way. On the other hand, it did my heart good to hear her say, “I know you didn't kill Dale Matthias.”
Then she added, “But my knowing doesn't really help you much.” And I stopped feeling so good.
Well, I was still wrestling with Qual's description of our system of justice, so I said, “What's the problem? Can't you just walk in to the prosecutor's office and show him the evidence?”
“Not this prosecutor,” she said. “You've seen what he's like. Hal Christiansen, the actual county prosecuting attorney, would have listened to reason, but he’s in the hospital with an ulcer. He'd have even cooperated to find the real killer. But Ikeda wants to win this case. My guess is he wants to move on to the county council, and maybe even higher. It's his first homicide that will actually be going to trial without Christiansen looking over his shoulder, and his family has the local newspaper ready to splash the headlines across the front page. If he thinks he can convict you, he's not going to give a damn about whether or not you're innocent.”
I got hot under the collar about then. “Is this the kind of justice Qual was talking about? Just because some prosecutor's got his eye on a political job, I get thrown in prison?” `
“Well, you're not in prison yet. We're going to fight this thing all the way.”
I was still boiling. “What about the judge? Can't she do anything about it? Or is she as crooked as that little squirt?”
Kay shook her head. “Judge Raines is as straight as they come. But, unless I had overwhelming proof, I couldn't go to her and tell her what I know. She's supposed to hear the evidence from both sides in open court. But she'll give us a fair trial. I'm sure of that.”
Maybe I'm just naturally an optimist, but I felt a lot better after that conversation with Kay. It was great to have her talk about 'us' being involved in the trial. And it was especially nice knowing she was convinced I was innocent. But the real music was hearing her say, “We're going all out. Qual and Sid are dropping everything else to work on this case.�
��
Chapter 9
As Lisa Raines returned to chambers, she realized she wasn't at all pleased with her day in court, a day when she'd presided over several arraignments including one involving a drug dealer. Drug cases always seemed to belong somewhere else. The first time she had defended an addict when she was an attorney she'd told Jon it should have been a medical case rather than a legal one.
“In a democracy,” he'd said, “we blunder along and do the best we can. With an enlightened tyrant, we might be able to solve the problem overnight. But if he's not enlightened, you won't be able to reach him to educate him. When it's a case of depending on the majority, there's always the possibility they'll become enlightened through the efforts of those who are. If not today's majority, perhaps tomorrow's will make the shift. In the meantime, we continue to grope our way toward the light.”
Lisa found it hard to decide whether her undergraduate days were her happiest ones, or her days at law school, or perhaps the days when she was practicing law as a young attorney. But it wasn't hard to decide what made all those days happy. It was Jon.
They laughed when she was mistaken for his daughter. They were unashamedly in love. They were unbelievably happy.
The one shadow that had hovered on his horizon she quickly discovered and dispelled. Jon was nearly impotent, and she made a game of it. And he joined in the game.
As with almost all of the rest of their lives, they were completely open with each other about sex. Lisa found other ways to satisfy her urges when intercourse failed, and he was only too willing to cooperate. And they enjoyed the research into human sexuality his condition led them into.
The books piled up. Havelock Ellis, Kraft-Ebbing, the Kama Sutra, as well as raunchy and hilarious novels about hookers and nymphomaniacs, were interlarded with Gibbon and Tolstoy and Darwin. The borrowed VCR and their first pornographic tape caused an uproar.
“No one can bend that way,” Jon said in awe, mixed with genuine disbelief, on viewing a particularly agile performance.
When Lisa looked back at those days, she saw sex in the context of all the other learning flooding her consciousness in the years since she had walked into Jon Raines's office. It was satisfying, and for her was complete. And Jon told her that never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that that part of himself could have ever been so thoroughly fulfilled.
The time for more decisions came in her senior year at the University. That was a year of weighing options, a year of making choices, and a year of planning.
Jon had told her back in the first weeks of their friendship she was cursed with a plethora of alternatives. That was before she had become comfortable enough with him to admit her ignorance and inquire about a new word. But she'd rushed to the dictionary the moment she'd left his office.
“An often undesirable and hampering superfluity.” That set her off on what Jon called her dictionary expeditions. One word would lead to another and that to another. She was as engrossed in the trip as the other girls in her class were by a tour of the clothes section in a Spokane department store.
Never had she been more conscious of that plethora of alternatives than during the last year of undergraduate work. And, again, Jon consciously strove to guide without leading. “I'm playing Beatrice to your Dante. I can show you something of what Heaven has to offer, but I'm not about to make you go there.”
And then a sudden early-winter storm after a long dry spell became the catalyst for her decision. The dilapidated vehicles, driven by so many of the students, spilled oil and grease along the streets and alleys in the crowded collection of old houses now made over into tiny apartments just north of the campus. Steady rains washed the waste down into the sewers and out into Puget Sound. Dry weather built up the offal, and then a light shower could turn it into an efficient and dangerous lubricant, as it had on that day.
Jon and Lisa had just left his apartment when two cars skidded on the film and collided directly in front of them. They left their names with the officer who arrived at the scene, and then forgot about the incident. When they were called as witnesses, Jon could see his companion absorbing the surroundings of the court with the same intensity with which she consumed the volumes they both brought to their apartment.
That night he smiled at her enthusiasm and joined in it. “If it's going to be the law, you are going to get the best. And let's start on that right now.” By the weekend her application was off to Harvard Law School.
Three weeks later, when she stopped at the bookstore to eat lunch with Jon, his first words were, “I think they're impressed.”
She looked a question.
“I gave Harvard this business number, but I didn't really expect them to call, and certainly not as quickly. They want you to go back there for an interview. You're going to like Massachusetts.”
***
Chrissie got the business. All of it.
I asked Sid about that. He said it sounded peculiar to him, but then he didn't claim to be an expert in civil law.
Apparently, there had been some sort of contractual agreement between Dale and Chrissie that was unaffected by the divorce. So, exactly one week before jury selection for my trial, Chrissie showed up and moved into Dale's office. The kids were old enough to be in school, and she'd made arrangements for after-school care, so the crew had visions of her being around during the whole work day. There didn't seem to be any cries of joy at the prospect.
It wasn't that Chrissie couldn't handle the business. She was no novice when it came to real estate. She'd been an agent when she met Dale, and had kept a hand in for most of the time they'd been married. But when they moved to Elima, she had decided to stay home with the kids. I'm not sure but, knowing Dale, he probably wanted her to keep working to keep the money coming in. The rumor is that that was part of the reason for the divorce, but Kimmie Uchima was probably most of the reason, even if he didn't marry her after the final break up with Chrissie.
The day I saw her walking through the door of Royal Elima looking like she owned the place—because she did—I thought the sparks would fly between her and Kimmie. But, no way. The two of them started right off acting like Damon and Pythias. And darn if I didn't catch Chrissie pushing business in Kimmie's direction before the first week was out.
Dale had always been pretty even-handed in distributing leads. But don't get me wrong. That wasn't because he was trying to be fair. No one ever accused Dale of that. He just knew all heck would break loose if he did it any other way.
At first, I wrote off Chrissie's seeming favoritism toward Kimmie as unintentional and as being due to Chrissie's having been away from the business for so long. But by the end of the week, I began to get rumbles others in the office were catching on and that Chrissie knew darn well what she was doing. That was when Quentin and I went out for coffee and doughnuts, and to compare notes.
Since Kay had told me to keep her au courant with all the happenings at Royal Elima—and with Quentin's OK—I took her all the bits of information from that coffee break. With all those pieces, I thought there must be a way to make a picture out of them. When I brought all the odds and ends in to give to Kay, she was absolutely convinced they had to mean something.
Qual's comment, when he saw Kay getting excited, was to remind her of the story about the little boy who was so happy with the room full of manure he got for his birthday, because he knew there had to be a pony in there somewhere.
***
Sid, Kay, Qual and Craig were standing around the reception desk noisily discussing the nature of jury selection.
In exasperation, Leilani said, “You people go into one of the offices and close the door. If you don't, I'm going to move into one of them with the computer and leave you out here to handle the phone and the foot traffic.”
“We can take a hint,” Qual said as he led the others into his office.
“But I don't see how you can just say 'no' to a juror without giving a reason,” Craig said, bringing the conversation a
long with him.
“Those are peremptory challenges—perempts,” Sid answered. “We get twelve, and the prosecution gets twelve. It used to be there were that many only in capital cases, but the new law extends it to all homicides. I'm not sure of the historical reasons for perempts, though. Do you know, Qual?”
“They were to mitigate the impact of a biased judge. If he unjustly challenged the causes you cited for rejecting jurors, you still had a chance to get rid of at least some of the jurors you felt to be biased.”
“And both sides have unlimited challenges for cause,” Sid continued, “as does the bench.”
“Cause?”
“Sure. If the Crockett case were a capital case, which it isn't, Judge Raines would automatically drop anyone who was opposed to the death penalty. As it is, she'd definitely throw out anyone who works for Royal Elima if they happened to show up on the panel.”
“So you're going to be looking for cause, right?
“Right,” said Kay. “If we uncovered someone who'd had a business dealing with Ron and felt cheated, we'd boot the juror off.”
Sid laughed. “And if Ikeda finds someone with an unhappy business dealing with Dale Matthias, he'll boot that one off. In this instance, Ikeda will have an easier time of it. From what I've seen, just about everyone who dealt with Matthias thinks Dale's cheated them—and they would very likely be right.”
“So what kind of jurors are you going to try and get on?” Craig asked.
“That's a good question,” said Kay, “and now's as good a time as any to thrash that out. What are we looking for?”
Kay considered herself to be the best of the firm in jury selection, and with justification. When they had run post-trial analyses, her choices always came out best. She still respected Sid and Qual's judgment, even though they were prone to defer to hers.
“Number one, male,” Sid said, holding up a finger.
“Number two: haole,” Qual said.
No Time for Death: A Yoshinobu Mystery Page 6