by Robin Cook
“That would be my take as well, and it probably explains the unresponsive heart. A sudden, even transient, blockage would have caused a massive heart attack involving parts of the conduction system. I imagine the entire posterior side of the heart was involved in the infarction. But as dramatic as it is, it doesn’t explain the pulmonary changes.”
“Why don’t you open the heart?”
“That was exactly my intention.”
Exchanging the scissors and forceps for the butcher knife, Jack made a series of cuts into the heart’s chambers. “Voila!” he said, leaning out of the way so Laurie could see the splayed organ.
“There you go: a damaged, incompetent mitral valve!”
“A very incompetent mitral valve. This woman was a walking time bomb waiting to explode. It’s amazing she didn’t have symptoms from either the coronary narrowing or the valve to drive her to a physician. It’s also too bad. Both problems were surgically correctable.”
“Fear often makes some people sadly stoic.”
“You’ve got that right,” Jack said as he started taking samples for microscopic examination. He put them into appropriately labeled bottles. “You still haven’t told me why you were looking for me.”
“An hour ago I got some news. We now have a wedding date. I was eager to run it by you, because I have to get back to them as soon as possible.”
Jack paused in what he was doing. Even Miguel at the sink stopped rinsing out the intestines.
“This is a curious environment for such an announcement,” Jack said.
Laurie shrugged. “It’s where I found you. I was hoping to call back this afternoon before the weekend.”
Jack briefly glanced over at Miguel. “What’s the date?”
“June ninth at one thirty. What do you think?”
Jack chuckled. “What am I supposed to think? It seems a long time off now that we have finally decided to go through with it. I was kind of thinking about next Tuesday.”
Laurie laughed. The sound was muffled by her plastic face screen, which briefly fogged up. “That’s a sweet thing to say. But the reality is that my mother has always anticipated a June wedding. I personally think June is a great month because the weather should be good, not only for the wedding but also for a honeymoon.”
“Then it’s okay with me,” Jack said, casting a second quick look in Miguel’s direction. It was bothering him that Miguel was just standing there, not moving and obviously listening.
“There is only one problem. June is so popular for weddings that the Riverside Church is already booked for all the Saturdays in the month. Can you imagine, eight months in advance. Anyway, June ninth is a Friday. Does that bother you?”
“Friday, Saturday—it doesn’t matter to me. I’m easy.”
“Fabulous. Actually, I’d prefer Saturday because it’s traditional and easier for guests, but the reality is that the option’s not available.”
“Hey, Miguel!” Jack called. “How about finishing with those intestines. Let’s not make it your life’s work.”
“I’m all done, Dr. Stapleton. I’m just waiting for you to come on over and take a peek.”
“Oh!” Jack said simply, mildly embarrassed for assuming the tech was eavesdropping. Then to Laurie he said, “Sorry, but I have to keep this show on the road.”
“No problem,” Laurie said. She trailed after him over to the sink.
Miguel handed over the intestines, which had been opened throughout their length and then thoroughly rinsed to expose the mucosal surface.
“There’s something else I found out today,” Laurie said. “And I wanted to share it with you.”
“Go ahead,” Jack said as he methodically began to examine the digestive system, starting from the esophagus and working southward.
“You know, I’ve never felt particularly comfortable in your apartment, mainly because the building is a pigsty.” Jack lived in a fourth-floor walk-up unit in a dilapidated building on 106th Street just opposite the neighborhood playground he had paid to have completely reconditioned. Stemming from a persistent belief that he didn’t deserve to be comfortable, he lived significantly below his means. Laurie’s presence, however, had altered the equation.
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings about this,” Laurie continued. “But with the wedding coming up, we have to give some thought to our living situation. So I took the liberty of looking into who actually owns the property, which the supposed management company where you send your checks was reluctant to divulge. Anyway, I found out who owns it and contacted them to see if they would be interested in selling. Guess what? They are, as long as it’s purchased in its ‘as is’ condition. I think that raises some interesting possibilities. What do you think?”
Jack had stopped examining the guts in his hands as Laurie spoke, and he now turned to her. “Wedding plans over the autopsy table, and now hearth-and-home issues over the intestinal sink. Don’t you think this might not be the best place for this discussion?”
“I just learned about this minutes ago, and I was excited to tell you so you could start mulling it over.”
“Terrific,” Jack said, suppressing an almost irresistible urge to be more sarcastic. “Mission accomplished. But what do you say to the idea we discuss buying and, I assume, renovating a house over a glass of wine and an arugula salad in a slightly more appropriate setting?”
“That’s a marvelous idea,” Laurie said happily. “See you back at the apartment.”
With that said, Laurie turned on her heels and was gone.
Jack continued to stare at the door to the hall for several beats after it had closed behind her.
“It’s great you guys are getting married,” Miguel said to break the silence.
“Thank you. It’s not a secret, but it’s not common knowledge, either. I hope you can respect that.”
“No problem, Dr. Stapleton. But I have to tell you from experience that getting married changes everything.”
“How right you are,” Jack said. He knew that from experience as well.
1
(eight months later)
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Monday, June 5, 2006
9:35 a.m.
All rise,” the uniformed court officer called out as he emerged from the judge’s chambers. He was holding a white staff.
Directly behind the bailiff appeared the judge, swathed in flowing black robes. He was a heavyset African-American with pendulous jowls, graying, kinky hair, and a mustache. His dark, intense eyes cast a quick glance around his fiefdom as he mounted the two steps up to the bench with a forceful, deliberate gait. Reaching his chair, he turned to face the room, framed by the American flag to his right and the Massachusetts state flag to his left, both capped by eagles. With a reputation of fairness and sound knowledge of the law, but a quick temper, he was the embodiment of steadfast authority. Enhancing his stature, a concentrated band of bright morning sunlight penetrated the edge of the shades that were pulled down over the metal mullioned windows and cascaded over his head and shoulders, giving his outline a golden glow like that of a pagan god in a classical painting.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye,” the court officer continued in his baritone, Boston-accented voice. “All persons having anything to do before the honorable justices of the Superior Court now sitting at Boston and in the County of Suffolk draw near, give your attendance, and you shall be heard. God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Be seated!”
Reminiscent of the effect of the conclusion of the national anthem at a sporting event, the bailiff’s final command initiated a murmur of voices as everyone in Courtroom 314 took their seats. While the judge rearranged the papers and water pitcher before him, the clerk sitting at a desk directly below the bench called out, “The estate of Patience Stanhope et al. versus Dr. Craig Bowman. The Honorable Justice Marvin Davidson presiding.”
With a studied motion, the judge snapped open an eyeglasses case and slipped on his rimless reading spectacles, po
sitioning them low on his nose. He then looked over the tops at the plaintiff’s table and said, “Will counsels identify themselves for the record.” In contrast to the bailiff, he had no accent, and his voice was in the bass range.
“Anthony Fasano, Your Honor,” the plaintiff’s attorney said quickly with an accent not too dissimilar to the bailiff’s as he rose from his chair to a half-standing position as if supporting a heavy weight on his shoulders. “But most people call me Tony.” He gestured first to his right. “I’m here on behalf of the plaintiff, Mr. Jordan Stanhope.” He then gestured to his left. “Next to me is my able colleague, Ms. Renee Relf.” He then quickly regained his seat as if he was too shy to be in the spotlight.
Judge Davidson’s eyes moved laterally to the defense table.
“Randolph Bingham, Your Honor,” the defense attorney said. In contrast to the plaintiff’s attorney, he spoke slowly, emphasizing each syllable in a mellifluous voice. “I’m representing Dr. Craig Bowman, and I’m accompanied by Mr. Mark Cavendish.”
“And I can assume you people are ready to get under way,” Judge Davidson said.
Tony merely nodded in assent, whereas Randolph again rose to his feet. “There are some housekeeping motions before the court,” he said.
The judge glared at Randolph for a beat to suggest he didn’t like or need to be reminded of preliminary motions. Looking down, he touched his index finger to his tongue before searching through the pages in his hands. The way he moved suggested he was vexed, as if Randolph’s comment had awakened the renowned disdain he had for lawyers in general. He cleared his throat before saying, “Motions for dismissal denied. It is also the court’s feeling that none of the proposed witnesses or evidence is either too graphic or too complex for the jury’s ability to consider it. Consequently, all motions in limine denied.” He raised his eyes and again glowered at Randolph as if saying “Take that,” before switching his gaze to the court officer. “Bring in the venire! We have work to do.” He was also known as a judge who liked to move things along.
As if on cue, an expectant murmur arose again from the spectators beyond the bar. But they didn’t have long to converse. The clerk rapidly pulled sixteen names from the jury hopper, and the court officer went to fetch the people selected from the jury pool. Within minutes, the sixteen were escorted into the room and sworn to begin the voir dire. The assemblage was visibly disparate and almost equally divided between the sexes. Although the majority was Caucasian, other minorities were represented. Approximately three-quarters were dressed appropriately and respectfully, with half of them businessmen or businesswomen. The rest were attired in a mixture of T-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, sandals, and hip-hop clothes, some of which had to be continuously hiked up to keep them from falling off. A few of the experienced venirepersons had brought reading material, mostly newspapers and magazines, although one late-middle-aged woman had a hardcover book. Some were awed by the surroundings, others brazenly dismissive, as the group filed into the jury box area and took their seats.
Judge Davidson gave a short introduction, during which he thanked the prospective jurors for their service and told them how important it was, since they were to be finders of fact. He briefly described the selection process despite knowing they had already been apprised of the same in the jury room. He then began asking a series of questions to determine suitability, with the hope of weeding out those jurors with particular bias that might prejudice them against either the plaintiff or the defendant. The goal was, he insisted, that justice be served.
“Justice, my ass!” Craig Bowman said to himself. He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. He had not been aware of how tense he’d been. He lifted his hands, which had been coiled into fists in his lap, and placed them on the table, leaning forward on his forearms. He opened his fingers and fully extended them, feeling more than hearing snapping from his complaining joints. He was dressed in one of his most conservative gray suits, white shirt, and tie, all on specific orders of his attorney, Randolph Bingham, seated to his immediate right.
Also on specific orders from his attorney, Craig kept his facial expression neutral, as difficult as that was in such a humiliating circumstance. He had been instructed to act dignified, respectful (whatever that meant), and humble. He was to guard against appearing arrogant and angry. Not appearing angry was the difficult part, since he was furious at the whole affair. He was also instructed to engage the jurors, to look them in the eyes, to consider them as acquaintances and friends. Craig laughed derisively to himself as his eyes scanned the prospective jurors. The idea that they were his peers was a sad joke. His eyes stopped on a waiflike female with blond, stringy hair that was all but hiding her pale pixie face. She was dressed in an oversized Patriots sweatshirt, the arms of which were so long that only the tips of her fingers were visible as she continuously parted her hair in front of her face, pulling it to the sides in order to see.
Craig sighed. The last eight months had been pure hell. When he’d been served with the summons the previous autumn, he’d guessed the affair was going to be bad, but it had been worse than he’d ever imagined. First there had been the interrogatories poking into every recess of his life. As bad as the interrogatories were, the depositions were worse.
Leaning forward, Craig looked over at the plaintiff’s table and eyed Tony Fasano. Craig had disliked a few people in his life, but he had never hated anyone as much as he’d come to hate Tony Fasano. Even the way Tony looked and dressed, in his trendy gray suits, black shirts, black ties, and clunky gold jewelry added to his loathing. To Craig, Tony Fasano, appearing like a sleazy mafioso understudy, was the tawdry stereotype of the modern-day personal-injury, ambulance-chasing lawyer out to make a buck over someone else’s misfortune by squeezing millions out of rich, reluctant insurance companies. To Craig’s disgust, Tony even had a website bragging as much, and the fact that he might ruin a doctor’s life in the process made no difference in the world.
Craig’s eyes switched to Randolph’s aristocratic profile as the man concentrated on the voir dire proceeding. Randolph had a slightly hooked, high-bridged nose not too dissimilar to Tony’s, but the effect was altogether different. Whereas Tony looked at you from beneath his dark, bushy eyebrows, his nose directed downward partially covering a cruel smirk on his lips, Randolph held his nose straight out in front, maybe slightly elevated, and regarded those around him with what could be considered by some to be mild disdain. And in contrast to Tony’s full lips, which he wetted frequently with his tongue as he talked, Randolph’s mouth was a thin, precise line, nearly lipless, and when he talked, a tongue was all but invisible. In short, Randolph was the epitome of the seasoned and restrained Boston Brahmin, while Tony was the youthful and exuberant playground entertainer and bully. At first Craig had been pleased with the contrast, but now, looking at the prospective jurors, he couldn’t help but wonder if Tony’s persona would make more of a connection and have more influence. This new concern added to Craig’s unease.
And there was plenty of reason for unease. Randolph’s reassurances notwithstanding, the case was not going well. Of particular note, it had been in essence already found for the plaintiff by the statutory Massachusetts tribunal, which had ruled after hearing testimony that there was sufficient, properly substantiated evidence of possible negligence to allow the case to go to trial. As a corollary to this finding, there was no need for the claimant, Jordan Stanhope, to post a bond.
The day that Craig had learned this news was the blackest for him of the whole pretrial period, and unbeknownst to anyone, he had for the first time in his life considered the idea of suicide. Of course, Randolph had offered the same pabulum that Craig had been given initially; namely, that he should not take the minor defeat personally. Yet how could he not take the finding personally, since it had been rendered by a judge, a lawyer, and a physician colleague? These were not high-school dropouts or stultified blue-collar laborers; they were professionals, and the fact that they thought he had commit
ted malpractice, meaning he had rendered care that was substandard, was a mortal blow to Craig’s sense of honor and personal integrity. He had literally devoted his entire life to becoming the best doctor he could be, and he had succeeded, as evidenced by stellar grades in medical school, by stellar evaluations during the course of his residency at one of the most coveted institutions in the country, and even by the offer to become part of his current practice from a celebrated and widely renowned clinician. Yet these professionals were calling him a tortfeasor. In a very real sense, the entire image of his self-worth and self-esteem had been undermined and was now on the line.
There had been other events besides the tribunal’s ruling that had seriously clouded the horizon. Back at the beginning, even before the interrogatories had been completed, Randolph had strenuously advised that Craig make every effort to reconcile with his wife, Alexis, give up his in-town, recreational apartment (as Randolph had referred to it), and move back to the Newton family home. It had been Randolph’s strong feeling that Craig’s relatively new, self-indulgent (as he called it) lifestyle would not sit well with a jury. Willing to listen to experienced advice although chafing at the dependency it represented, Craig had followed the recommendations to the letter. He’d been pleased and thankful that Alexis had been willing to allow him to return, albeit to sleep in the guest room, and she’d been graciously supportive as evidenced by her sitting at that very moment in the spectator section. Reflexively, Craig twisted around and caught Alexis’s eye. She was dressed in a casually professional style for her work as a psychologist at the Boston Memorial Hospital, with a white blouse and blue cardigan sweater. Craig managed a crooked smile, and she acknowledged it with one of her own.
Craig redirected his attention to the voir dire. The judge was castigating a frumpy accountant who was intent on being excused for hardship. The man had claimed clients couldn’t do without him for a week’s trial, which was how long the judge estimated the proceeding would take, considering the witness list, which was mostly the plaintiff attorney’s list. Judge Davidson was merciless as he told the gentleman what he thought of his sense of civic responsibility but then dismissed him. A replacement was called and sworn and the process continued.