Once under way, Jack found himself smiling. He wasn’t quite laughing, but he was suddenly amused. He’d been to Boston for two and a half days, had been racking his brain over a senseless medical malpractice lawsuit, had been slapped and punched, had been shot at, and had been terrorized by a thug in a black Cadillac, and yet had, in reality, accomplished nothing. There was a kind of comic irony to the whole affair that appealed to his admittedly warped sense of humor.
Then another thought occurred to him. He’d become progressively concerned about Laurie’s response to his being delayed in Boston to the point that he had become progressively reluctant to talk with her for fear of her response. But he wasn’t concerned about the delay itself. If doing the autopsy forced him to fly to New York in the morning, he had to acknowledge that he might not make the wedding. Even though the chances were small that that would be the case, since there was a flight scheduled every thirty minutes from six thirty a.m. on, the probability was not zero, yet it didn’t bother him. And the fact that it didn’t bother him made him question his unconscious motivations. He loved Laurie, of that he was certain, and he believed he wanted to remarry. So why wasn’t he more concerned?
Jack had no answers other than a concession that life was more complicated than his usual devil-may-care attitude would suggest. He apparently functioned on multiple levels, some of which were guarded if not actively suppressed.
With no cars chasing him, no misty fog to negotiate, and no rush-hour traffic, Jack made excellent time driving into downtown Boston. Even though he was approaching from a new direction, he was able to stumble onto the Boston Public Garden and the Boston Common, where the two were bisected by Charles Street. And once he found that, he’d also found the underground garage he’d previously used.
After parking the car, Jack walked back to the attendant and asked about an ATM. He was directed to the commercial section of Charles Street and found the machine across from the hardware store where he’d purchased the unused pepper spray. With the upper limit of cash he could withdraw in hand, Jack followed his previous day’s route in reverse. He walked up Beacon Hill, enjoying the neighborly ambience of the handsome town houses, many with carefully cultivated window boxes overflowing with flowers. The recent rain had washed the streets and the bricked sidewalks. The overcast sky made him aware of something he’d not noticed in the sunlight the day before: The nineteenth-century gas lamps were all ablaze, apparently day in, day out.
Pushing into the courtroom, Jack hesitated by the exit. Superficially, the scene looked exactly as he’d left it the afternoon before, except that Craig was on the stand instead of Leona. There was the same cast of characters mirroring the same attitudes. The jurors were impassive, as if they were cutout figures, save for the plumber’s assistant, who made examining his nails a continuous endeavor. The judge was preoccupied with the papers on his desk, similar to the day before, and the spectators were contrarily attentive.
As Jack’s eyes scanned the spectators, he saw Alexis in her usual spot with a seat next to her apparently saved for him. On the opposite side of the spectator gallery in the spot normally occupied by Franco sat Antonio. He was a smaller version of Franco but significantly more handsome. He was now wearing the Fasano team apparel: gray suit, black shirt, and black tie. Although Jack had been reasonably confident Franco would be out of the picture for a few days, he wondered if he’d have trouble with Antonio. He also wondered if either Franco or Antonio or both had anything to do with the assault on Craig’s children.
Appropriately excusing himself, Craig moved into the aisle where Alexis was sitting at the very end, the closest seat to the jury box. She saw him coming and flashed a quick, nervous smile. Jack didn’t take it as auspicious. She gathered up her belongings so he could sit. They gripped hands briefly before he sat.
“How’s it going?” Jack whispered, leaning toward her.
“Better now that Randolph is doing the cross.”
“What happened with Tony Fasano on the direct?”
Alexis cast a fleeting glance at Jack, betraying her anxiousness. Her facial muscles were tense, and her eyes were more wide open than usual. She had her hands tightly clasped in her lap.
“Not good?” Jack questioned.
“It was terrible,” Alexis admitted. “The only positive thing that could be said was that Craig’s testimony was consistent with his deposition. In no way did he contradict himself.”
“Don’t tell me he got angry, not after all that rehearsal.”
“He got furious after only an hour or so, and it was downhill from there. Tony knew his buttons, and he pressed every one. The worst part was when Craig told Tony he had no right to criticize nor question doctors who were sacrificing their lives to take care of their patients. Craig then went on to call Tony a despicable ambulance-chaser.”
“Not good,” Jack said. “Even if it is true.”
“It got worse,” Alexis said forcibly, raising her voice.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind. Someone had tapped Jack on the shoulder.
“We can’t hear the testimony,” the spectator complained.
“Sorry,” Jack said. He turned back to Alexis. “Want to step out into the hall for a moment?”
Alexis nodded. She obviously needed a break.
They stood up. Alexis left her things. They worked their way to the main aisle. Jack opened the heavy courtroom door as quietly as possible. In the elevator lobby, they sat on a leather-covered bench, hunched over, elbows on knees.
“For the life of me,” Alexis muttered. “I don’t see what all those voyeurs get out of watching this damn trial.”
“Have you ever heard the term schadenfreude?” Jack asked, marveling he’d just been musing about it a half hour previously in relation to his initial reaction to Craig’s imbroglio.
“Remind me,” Alexis suggested.
“It’s German. It refers to when people exult over someone else’s problems and difficulties.”
“I’d forgotten the German term,” Alexis said. “But the concept I’m well aware of. As prevalent as it is, we should have a word for it in English. Hell, it’s what sells tabloids. Anyway, I actually know why people are in there watching Craig’s ordeal. They see doctors as powerful, successful people. So don’t listen to me when I carp.”
“Do you feel all right?”
“Other than a headache, I’m okay.”
“What about the children?”
“Apparently, they’re doing fine. They think they’re on vacation, skipping school and staying at Grandma’s. There have been no calls on my cell. Each of them knows the number by heart, and I would have heard if there was a problem of any sort.”
“I’ve had an eventful morning.”
“Really? What’s going on with the autopsy? We’re in the market for a miracle.”
Jack told the story of his morning’s ordeal on the Massachusetts Turnpike, which Alexis listened to with a progressive drooping of her lower jaw. She was equally astounded and alarmed.
“I should be asking you if you are all right,” she said when Jack described Franco’s final, spectacular upside-down crash.
“I’m fine. The rent-a-car is worse for wear. I know Franco’s hurting. He’s probably in a hospital somewhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s also under arrest. I reported the incident to the same Boston detective that came to the house last night. I would assume the authorities would take a dim view of discharging firearms on the Massachusetts Turnpike.”
“My God,” Alexis said sympathetically. “I’m sorry all this has happened to you. I can’t help but feel responsible.”
“No need! I’m afraid I have a penchant for trouble. It’s all my own doing. But I’ll tell you, everything that’s happened has done nothing but fan my determination to do this damn autopsy.”
“What is the status?”
Jack described his machinations with Harold Langley, Walter Strasser, and Percy Gallaudet.
“My gosh,” Al
exis said. “After all this effort, I hope it shows something significant.”
“You and me both.”
“Are you okay with possibly putting off flying to New York to tomorrow morning?”
“What has to be has to be,” Jack said with a shrug. He wasn’t about to get into that personally thorny issue.
“What about with your wife-to-be, Laurie?”
“I haven’t told her yet,” Jack admitted.
“Good lord!” Alexis commented. “This is not a good way for me to start out a relationship with a new sister-in-law.”
“Let’s get back to what’s going on in the trial,” Jack said to change the subject. “You were about to tell me how Craig’s testimony got worse.”
“After he castigated Tony for being a despicable ambulance-chaser, he took it upon himself to lecture the jury that they were not his peers. He said they were incapable of judging his actions, since they’d never had to try to save someone like he tried to save Patience Stanhope.”
Jack slapped a hand to his forehead in stupefaction. “What was Randolph doing during this?”
“Everything he could. He was jumping up and down objecting, but to no avail. He tried to get the judge to recess, but the judge asked Craig if he needed a rest, and Craig said no, so on it went.”
Jack shook his head. “Craig is his own worst enemy, although…”
“Although what?” Alexis questioned.
“Craig has a point. In some respects, he’s speaking for all us doctors. I bet most every physician who’s gone through the hell of a medical malpractice trial feels the same way. It’s just that they would have the sense not to say it.”
“Well, he sure as hell shouldn’t have said it. If I were a juror fulfilling my civic responsibility and got that kind of rebuke, I’d be incensed and much more apt to buy into Tony’s interpretation of events.”
“Was that the worst part?”
“There were many parts that qualified for being the worst. Tony got Craig to admit he’d had some concern that the fateful house call was for a legitimate emergency, as Leona had testified, and also that a heart attack was on his list of possible diagnoses. He also got Craig to admit that driving from the Stanhope residence to Symphony Hall would take a shorter time than from the Newton Memorial Hospital, and that he was eager to get to the concert before it began to show off his trophy girlfriend. And perhaps particularly incriminating, he got Craig to admit he’d said all those unflattering things about Patience Stanhope to the tart, Leona, including that Patience’s passing was a blessing for everyone.”
“Whoa,” Jack said with yet another shake of his head. “Not good!”
“Not good at all. Craig managed to present himself as an arrogant, uncaring M.D. who was more interested in getting to Symphony Hall on time with his sex object than doing what was right for his patient. It was exactly what Randolph told him not to do.”
Jack sat up straight. “So what is Randolph doing on cross-examination?
“Attempted damage control would be the best description. He’s trying to rehabilitate Craig on each individual issue, from the PP, problem patient, designation all the way to the events that happened on the night Patience Stanhope died. When you came in, Craig was testifying to the difference between Patience’s condition when he arrived at the home and the description he’d gotten from Jordan Stanhope on the phone. Randolph had already made sure that Craig told the jury that he did not say Patience Stanhope was having a heart attack when he was speaking with Jordan, but rather that it was something that had to be ruled out. Of course, that was in contradiction to what Jordan had said during his testimony.”
“Did you get any sense of how the jury was responding to Craig’s testimony during the cross as compared with the direct?”
“They seem more impassive now than before, but that may be just my pessimistic perception. I’m not optimistic after Craig’s performance on direct. Randolph has a real uphill struggle ahead of him. He told me this morning that he’s going to ask Craig to tell his life’s story to counter Tony’s character assassination.”
“Why not,” Jack said. Even though he wasn’t all that enthusiastic, he felt a rekindling of sympathy for Alexis and wanted to be supportive. As they returned to their seats in the courtroom, he wondered how a finding for the plaintiff would affect Alexis’s relationship with Craig. Jack had never championed their union, from the first time he’d met Craig some sixteen years previously. Craig and Alexis had met while in training at the Boston Memorial Hospital and had come as houseguests to Jack’s home while they were engaged. Jack had found Craig insufferably self-centered and one-dimensionally oriented toward medicine. But now that Jack had had a chance to see them together in their own environment, despite the current, difficult circumstance, he could see that they complemented each other. Alexis’s very mildly histrionic and dependent character, which had been much more apparent as a child, melded well with Craig’s more serious narcissism. In a lot of ways, from Jack’s perspective, they complemented each other.
Jack settled back and got himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. Randolph was standing stiffly erect at the podium, exuding his normal blue-blooded resplendence. Craig was in the witness box, leaning slightly forward, his shoulders rounded. Randolph’s voice was crisply articulate, melodic, and slightly sibilant. Craig’s was vapid, as if he’d been in an argument and was now exhausted.
Jack felt Alexis’s hand insinuate itself between his elbow and his side and then move forward to grab his hand. He squeezed in return, and they exchanged a fleeting smile.
“Dr. Bowman,” Randolph intoned. “You’ve wanted to be a doctor since you were given a toy doctor’s kit at age four and proceeded to administer to your parents and older brother. But I understand there was a particular event in your childhood that especially firmed this altruistic career choice. Would you tell the court about this episode.”
Craig cleared his throat. “I was fifteen years old and in tenth grade. I was a manager for the football team. I’d tried to make the team but didn’t, which was a big disappointment for my father, since my older brother had been a star player. So I was the manager, which was nothing more than the water boy. During the time-outs, I ran onto the field with a bucket, ladle, and paper cups. During a home game, one of our players was hurt and a timeout was called. I dashed onto the field with the bucket, but as I drew near I could see the injured player was a friend of mine. Instead of carrying my bucket to the huddle of players, I ran to my friend. I was the first one from the sidelines to get to him, and what I confronted was disturbing. He had badly broken his leg such that his cleated foot stuck off in a markedly abnormal direction, and he was writhing in agony. I was so struck by his need and my inability to help him that I decided on the spot that not only did I want to become a doctor, I had to become a doctor.”
“That is a heartrending story,” Randolph said, “and stirring because of your immediate compassionate impulse and the fact that it motivated you to follow what was to be a difficult path. Becoming a doctor was not easy for you, Dr. Bowman, and that altruistic urge you so eloquently described had to be strong indeed to propel you over the obstacles you faced. Could you tell the court something of your inspiring Horatio Alger story
Craig perceptively straightened in the witness chair.
“Objection,” Tony shouted, getting to his feet. “Immaterial.”
Judge Davidson took off his reading glasses. “Counsels, approach the bench.”
Dutifully, Randolph and Tony congregated to the judge’s right.
“Listen!” Judge Davidson said, pointing his glasses at Tony. “You made character a centerpiece of the plaintiff’s case. I allowed that, over Mr. Bingham’s objection, with the proviso you established foundation, which I believe you did. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. The jury has every right to hear about Dr. Bowman’s motivations and training. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tony said.
“And furthermore, I don’t want to hear a flurry of objections in this regard.”
“I understand, Your Honor,” Tony said.
Tony and Randolph retreated to their original spots, with Tony at the plaintiff’s table and Randolph at the podium.
“Objection overruled,” Judge Davidson called out, for the court recorder’s benefit. “Witness may proceed to answer the question.”
“Do you recall the question?” Randolph asked.
“I should hope so,” Craig said. “Where should I begin?”
“At the beginning would be appropriate,” Randolph said. “I understand you did not get parental support.”
“At least not from my father, and he ruled the house with an iron fist. He was resentful of us kids, particularly me, since I wasn’t the football or hockey prodigy like my older brother, Leonard Junior. My father thought I was a ‘candy ass,’ and told me so on multiple occasions. When my browbeaten mother let it slip that I wanted to be a doctor, he said it would be over his dead body.”
“Did he use those exact terms?”
“Absolutely! My father was a plumber who was dismissive of all professionals, which he labeled as a collective bunch of thieves. There was no way he wanted a son of his to become part of such a world, especially since he never finished high school. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, no one in my family on either side went to college, including my own brother, who ended up taking over my father’s plumbing business.”
“So your father wasn’t supportive of your academic interests.”
Craig laughed mirthlessly. “I was a closet reader as a youngster. I had to be. There were occasions on which my father whacked me around when he caught me reading instead of doing things around the house. When I got report cards, I had to hide them from my father and have my mother sign them secretly because I got all A’s. With most of my friends, it was the other way around.”