“That’s a droll image. Two fighters unable to see each other and just flailing away.”
“Precisely! And they are blinded because they don’t have all the information they need.”
“What do they need?”
“They are arguing about the care of Patience Stanhope without Patience being able to tell her side of the story.”
“And what story would she tell if she could tell it?”
“We won’t know unless I can ask her.”
“I don’t understand what you two are talking about,” Charlene complained. “Patience Stanhope is dead and buried.”
“I believe he’s talking about doing an autopsy.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“You mean dig her up?” Charlene questioned with consternation. “Yuck!”
“It’s not all that uncommon,” Jack said. “It’s been less than a year. I guarantee something will be learned by doing it, and the boxing match, as you call it, will be in broad daylight and far more engaging.”
“Like what?” Jordan questioned. He’d gone quiet, pensive.
“Like what portion of her heart was involved with the heart attack, how it progressed, whether there was any preexisting condition. Only when these issues are known can the question of her care be addressed.”
Jordan chewed his lower lip while he considered what Jack had said.
Jack was encouraged. He knew what he was trying to do was still an uphill struggle, but Jordan had not dismissed the idea outright. Of course, he might not realize that permission to do the exhumation rested with him.
“Why are you offering to do this?” Jordan asked. “Who’s paying you?”
“No one is paying me. I can honestly say that I’m motivated to see that justice prevails. At the same time, I have a conflict of interest. My sister is married to the defendant, Dr. Craig Bowman.”
Jack carefully watched Jordan’s face for signs of anger or irritation and saw neither. To the man’s credit, he seemed to be rationally mulling over Jack’s comments without emotion.
“I’m all for justice,” Jordan said at length. For the moment, his mild English accent had abandoned him. “But it seems to me it would be hard for you to be completely objective.”
“Fair enough,” Jack said. “It’s a good point, but if I were to do an autopsy, I would preserve all specimens for expert review. I could even get a medical examiner to assist me who had no conflict.”
“Why wasn’t an autopsy done originally?”
“Not all deaths result in autopsies. If there had been any question of the manner of death, an autopsy could have been ordered by the medical examiner’s office. At the time, there were no questions. Patience had had a documented heart attack and was attended by her physician. If the lawsuit had been anticipated, an autopsy could have been done.”
“I hadn’t planned on filing suit, although I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit your brother-in-law angered me that night. He was arrogant and accused me of not communicating adequately about Patience’s condition when I was pleading with him to take Patience directly to the hospital.”
Jack nodded. He’d read about this particular point in both Jordan’s and Craig’s depositions, and had no intention of getting involved in the issue. He knew that the origins of many malpractice suits involved poor communication from the physician or his staff.
“In fact, I hadn’t intended to file suit until Mr. Anthony Fasano contacted me.”
Jack’s ears pricked up. “The attorney sought you out and not vice versa?”
“Absolutely. Just like you did. He came to the door and rang the bell.”
“And he talked you into filing.”
“He did, and for essentially the same justification you are using: justice. He said it was my responsibility to see that the public was protected from doctors like Dr. Bowman and what he called the ‘inequities and inequalities’ of concierge medicine. He was quite persistent and persuasive.”
Good Lord, Jack thought to himself. Jordan’s gullibility for the come-on of an ambulance-chasing personal-injury lawyer undermined the regard Jack had begun to feel for the man. Jack reminded himself that the man was a phony—a wealthy phony, but a phony nonetheless, who had married up. Having laid the groundwork, Jack decided it was time to go for the jugular and get the hell out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the exhumation permit. He placed it on the table in front of Jordan. “In order for me to do the autopsy, you would have to merely sign this authorization. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“What kind of paper is it?” Jordan questioned, his put-on accent returning. He leaned over and glanced at it. “I’m not a lawyer.”
“It’s just a routine form,” Jack said. He could think of several sarcastic quips, but he restrained himself.
Jordan’s response caught Jack off guard. Instead of any more questions, he reached into the pocket of his jacket, but unfortunately not for a pen. Instead, he pulled out a cell phone. He speed-dialed a number and sat back. He eyed Jack as the call went through.
“Mr. Fasano,” Jordan said while looking out at his lush lawn. “I’ve just been handed a form by a medical examiner from New York that might impact the trial. It’s to give my permission to dig up Patience for an autopsy. I want you to view it before I sign.”
Even from where he was sitting more than ten feet away, Jack could hear Tony Fasano’s response. Jack couldn’t understand the actual words, but the tone was quite clear.
“All right, all right!” Jordan repeated. “I shan’t sign it until you review it. You have my word. He flipped his phone shut, then looked at Jack. He’s on his way over.”
The last thing Jack wanted was to involve the lawyers. As he’d told Alexis the day before, he didn’t like lawyers, particularly personal-injury lawyers with their self-serving claims of fighting for the little guy. After the plane crash, he’d been hounded by lawyers trying to get him to sue the commuter airline.
“Maybe I’ll head out,” Jack said, getting to his feet. He couldn’t help but feel that with Tony Fasano involved the chances of getting an authorization signature were close to zero. “You have my cell phone number on my card in case you want to get ahold of me after your lawyer checks out the form.”
“No, I want to deal with this now,” Jordan said. “If I don’t do it now, I don’t do it at all, so sit down! Mr. Fasano will be here before you know it. How about a cocktail. It’s after five, so it’s legal.” He smiled at his hackneyed quip and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Jack eased himself back down into the wicker chair. He resigned himself to the visit’s conclusion, whatever it was to be.
Jordan must have had a hidden call button, because the woman in the French maid outfit suddenly materialized. Jordan asked for a pitcher of vodka martinis and a dish of olives.
As if nothing had transpired in the interim, Jordan comfortably lapsed back into the discussion of his and Charlene’s imminent travel plans. Jack declined the offer of a martini. He couldn’t think of anything he would have wanted less. He was entertaining the idea of getting some exercise as soon as he could break away.
Just when Jack was reaching the limits of his patience, a carillon of bells announced visitors at the front door. Jordan didn’t move. In the distance, the front door was heard opening, followed by muted voices. A few minutes later, Tony Fasano swept into the room. A few steps behind was another man dressed identically to Tony but intimidatingly larger.
In a reflex show of respect, Jack stood up. He noticed that Jordan didn’t.
“Where is this supposed form?” Tony demanded. He had no time for niceties. Jordan pointed with his free hand. The other was holding his martini. Charlene was sitting snugly at his side, toying with the hair on his nape.
Tony snatched up the exhumation permit from the glass-topped table and gave it a rapid once-over with his dark eyes. While he did so, Jack looked him over. In contrast to his earlier blithe demeanor in the co
urtroom, he was now ostensibly irate. Jack estimated he was in his mid-to late thirties. He had a broad face with rounded features and square teeth. His hands were clublike, with short fingers. Jack’s attention switched to the significantly larger associate who was dressed in the same gray suit, black shirt, and black tie. He had come to the room’s threshold and stopped. He was obviously Tony’s strong-arm crony. The fact that Tony apparently thought he needed such an associate on a visit to a client gave Jack pause.
“What’s this nonsense?” Tony demanded, waving the form in Jack’s direction.
“I’d hardly call an official city form nonsense,” Jack said. “It’s an exhumation permit.”
“What are you, some kind of hired gun for the defense?”
“Absolutely not.”
“He’s Dr. Bowman’s wife’s brother,” Jordan explained. “He’s in town, staying at his sister’s home to make sure justice prevails. That’s in his own words.”
“Justice, my ass!” Tony growled at Jack. “You have some nerve busting in here, talking to my client.”
“Wrong!” Jack said lightly. “I was invited in for a tea party.”
“A wiseass on top of it,” Tony snapped.
“It’s true! He was invited in,” Jordan said. “And we did have tea prior to the martinis.”
“I’m just trying to pave the way to do an autopsy,” Jack explained. “The more information available, the better the chance justice will be served. Someone needs to talk for Patience Stanhope.”
“I can’t believe this bullshit,” Tony said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. Then he waved to his associate. “Franco, get over here and get this dog turd out of Mr. Stanhope’s home!”
Franco obediently stepped into the room. He grasped Jack’s arm around the elbow, hiking up Jack’s shoulder in the process. Jack debated the rationale for as well as the consequences of resisting as Franco started out of the room with Jack in tow. Jack glanced at his host, who’d not budged from the wicker sofa. Jordan appeared surprised at the proceedings but didn’t intervene as Tony apologized for the interruption and promised to take care of the intruder.
Maintaining his firm grip on Jack’s arm, Franco marched through the formal living room and out into the marbled central hall with the grand staircase, pulling Jack along.
“Can’t we discuss this like gentlemen?” Jack said. He began to mildly resist their forward progress as his internal debate continued about how to handle the situation. Jack wasn’t keen on getting physical, even though he had been provoked. Franco was the kind of blocky individual Jack associated with linebackers when he played football in college. Running into a mass of similar size and proportion had been the end of Jack’s brief football career.
“Shut up!” Franco snapped without even so much as a glance back at Jack.
Franco stopped when he reached the front door. After opening it, he propelled Jack outside, letting go of his arm in the process.
Jack adjusted his jacket and walked down the two steps to the gravel driveway. Parked at an angle behind the Bentley and the Hyundai was a large black Cadillac of indeterminate vintage. It looked like a houseboat compared with the other two vehicles.
Although Jack had started for his car and had the keys in his hand, he stopped and turned around. His rationality told him to get into the car and drive away, but that same area on his Y chromosome that had admired the Bentley was outraged at this summary dismissal. Franco had stepped out of the house and was standing on the stoop with his legs planted apart and arms akimbo. A taunting smirk lingered on his acne-scarred face. Before anything could be said, Tony barreled out of the house, pushing past Franco. Shaped like a considerably smaller version of the bricklike Franco, he had to swing his hips in a peculiar way to walk with his thick, short legs. He came directly up to Jack, poking into Jack’s face with his index finger.
“Let me tell you the reality here, cowboy,” Tony snarled. “I got at least a hundred grand tied up in this case, and I’m expecting one hell of a payoff. Are you hearing me? I don’t want you screwing things up. Everything is going just fine, so no autopsy. Capisce?“
“I don’t know why you are so upset,” Jack said. “You could arrange to have your own medical examiner work with me.” He knew the autopsy issue was dead in the water, but he felt a certain satisfaction in aggravating Tony. The man was slightly bug-eyed to begin with and was even more so now. The veins on the sides of his forehead stuck out like dark worms.
“What do I have to say to you?” Tony snarled rhetorically. “I don’t want an autopsy! The case is just fine as is. No surprises are needed or wanted. We’re going to nail that arrogant, concierge M.D.’s ass, and he deserves it.”
“Sounds like you’ve lost your objectivity,” Jack remarked. He couldn’t help but notice how Tony’s full lips curled back in unmitigated derision as he pronounced “concierge.” Jack wondered if the man had latched onto the issue as a personal crusade. There was a touch of zealotry in his expression.
Tony glanced up at Franco for support. “Can you believe this guy? It’s like he’s from another planet.”
“Sounds to me like you are afraid of facts,” Jack said.
“I ain’t afraid of facts,” Tony yelled. “I got plenty of facts. That woman died of a heart attack. She should have been at that hospital an hour earlier, and if she had, we wouldn’t be standing here talking.”
“What’s a ‘hah’d attack’?” Jack asked, poking fun at Tony’s accent. There hadn’t been a hint of an “r” sound, and the “t” was like a soft “d.”
“That’s it!” Tony blurted. He snapped his fingers for Franco’s attention. “Get this idiot in his car and out of my sight.”
Franco came down the steps quickly enough to jangle the coins in his pocket. He stepped around Tony and tried to give Jack a shove with the flats of his hands. Jack stood his ground.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you guys how you coordinate your outfits,” Jack said. “Do you decide the night before, or is it something you do first thing in the morning? I mean, it’s kind of sweet.”
Franco reacted with a speed that caught Jack by surprise. With an open palm, he slapped Jack on the side of his face hard enough to cause Jack’s ears to ring. Jack recoiled instantly and returned the favor with a similar and equally effective blow.
Unaccustomed to people unintimidated by his size, Franco was more astonished than Jack at having been struck. As his hand reflexively rose to touch his burning face, Jack grabbed him by the shoulders and kneed him in the groin. Franco doubled over into a crouch for a brief instant, struggling to get his breath. When he came back up, he was holding a gun.
“No!” Tony shouted. He grabbed Franco’s arm from behind and pulled it down.
“Get the hell out of here!” Tony growled to Jack, holding back the enraged Franco like a handler with a mad dog. “If you screw up my case in any way, you’ll be history. There’s not going to be an autopsy.”
Jack backed up until he bumped into the Hyundai. He didn’t want to take his eyes off Franco, who was still not standing completely upright and still had the gun in his hand. Jack’s legs felt rubbery from the adrenaline coursing around in his bloodstream.
Once in the car, he quickly started it. As he looked back at Tony and his sidekick, he caught sight of Jordan and Charlene standing in the doorway.
“You ain’t seen the last of me,” Franco yelled through Jack’s open passenger-side window as Jack drove away.
For more than a quarter of an hour, Jack drove in a circuitous route through residential areas, taking turns haphazardly but not wanting to stop. He did not want anyone following him or finding him, particularly a large black Cadillac. He knew he’d been stupid at the end of his visit to the Stanhope mansion. It had been a brief resurgence of the risk-taking, defiant personality that had emerged after the depression the plane crash and the loss of his family had caused. As he came down from the adrenaline rush, he felt weak. Totally lost but within sight of sev
eral street signs, he pulled over to the side of the road in the shade of a gigantic oak tree to get his bearings.
As he’d been driving, Jack had toyed with the idea of driving out to the airport, washing his hands of the whole affair, and flying back to New York. The burning skin on the left side of his face was an argument in favor, as was the fact that the possibility of doing an autopsy to help his sister and brother-in-law was now defunct. The other compelling argument was that his wedding was approaching at warp speed.
Yet Jack couldn’t do it. Sneaking out of town was a cowardly thing to do. He picked up the Hertz map and tried to guess which main thoroughfare he should try to find and in which direction it would be. It wasn’t easy, because the street he was on wasn’t on the map. It was either too small or beyond the map’s range. The problem was, he didn’t know which was the case.
Just as he was about to start driving again blindly to find a main street, his cell phone came to life. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out. He didn’t recognize the number. He answered the call and said hello.
“Dr. Stapleton, this is Jordan Stanhope. Are you okay?”
“There have been happier times in my life, but basically I’m okay.” Jack was taken aback by the call.
“I wanted to apologize for the way Mr. Fasano and his associate treated you at my home.”
“Thank you,” Jack said. He thought of other, more clever retorts, but he held his tongue.
“I saw you being slapped. I was impressed by your response.”
“You shouldn’t have been. It was an embarrassingly dim-witted thing to do, especially considering the man was armed.”
“I felt he had it coming.”
“I doubt he shares your opinion. That was my least favorite part of my visit.”
“I’ve come to realize just how boorish Mr. Fasano is. It’s embarrassing.”
It’s not too late to call off the hounds, Jack thought but did not say.
“I’m also questioning his tactics and his blithe disregard for finding the truth.”
“Welcome to the legal profession,” Jack said. “Unfortunately, in civil procedures, the goal is dispute resolution, not finding the truth.”