Crisis

6

Jack deplaned from the six thirty Delta Shuttle and allowed the clutch of people to carry him along. He assumed they knew where they were going. In short order, he found himself curbside of the Delta terminal, and within five minutes the Hertz rent-a-car bus pulled up. Jack boarded.

He'd not been in Boston for some time, and thanks to the interminable construction of the airport, he didn't recognize a thing. As the bus wended its way among the various terminals, he wondered what kind of welcome he was going to find when he arrived at the Bowman homestead. The only person he could count on being hospitable was Alexis. As far as the others, he had no idea of what to expect, particularly Craig. And even Alexis he'd not seen in person for more than a year, which was going to make it some-what awkward. The last time he'd seen her had been in New York City, where she'd come solo to attend a professional psychology meeting.

Jack sighed. He didn't want to be there in Boston, especially since he knew his chances of accomplishing anything were minimal, other than to pat his sister on the back and commiserate with her, and also since his going had upset Laurie. He was confident Laurie would get over it, but she had already been under stress from her mother for the previous few weeks. The irony was that she was supposed to enjoy the wedding ceremony as well as the lead-up to it. Instead, it had become more of a burden. Jack had had to bite his tongue on several occasions when he'd been tempted to tell her she should have assumed as much. If it had been up to Jack, they would have scheduled a small, private affair with just a few friends. From his cynical perspective, the reality of major social events never lived up to romantic expectation.

Jack and his fellow passengers were eventually dropped off at the Hertz facility and without too much stress he found himself behind the wheel of a cream-colored Hyundai Accent that reminded him of an old-fashioned Minute Maid juice can. Armed with a poor map and a few slapdash directions, he bravely ventured forth and immediately got lost. Boston was not a city that was at all kind to a visiting driver. Nor were the Boston drivers. It was like a rally as Jack struggled to find the suburban town where Alexis lived. On his rare previous visits, he'd always met his sister in town.

Shaken but not down-and-out, Jack pulled into the Bowman driveway at a quarter to nine. It was still not completely dark, thanks to the approaching summer solstice, but the interior incandescent lights were on, giving the home what Jack assumed to be the falsely cozy appearance of the happy family. The house was impressive, like others in the immediate Newton neighborhood. It was a large two-and-a-half-story structure made of brick and painted white with a series of dormers poking out of the roof. Also, like the other homes, there was an expansive lawn, lots of shrubs, towering trees, and extensive flower beds. Below each window on the ground floor was a window box brimming with blossoms. Next to Jack's Hyundai was a Lexus. Inside the garage, Jack knew from one of Alexis's earlier conversations there was the de rigueur station wagon.

No one came flying out of the house waving a banner of welcome. Jack turned off the engine and for a moment entertained the idea of just turning around and leaving. Yet he couldn't do that, so he reached into the backseat for his carry-on bag and got out of the car. Outside, there were the familiar noises of the crickets and other creatures. Save for those sounds, the neighborhood seemed devoid of life.

At the front door, Jack peered in through the sidelights. There was a small foyer with an umbrella stand. Beyond that was a hallway. He could see a flight of stairs that rose up to the second floor. Still, there were no people, not a sound. Jack rang the bell, which was actually chimes that he could hear distinctly through the door. Almost immediately a small, androgynous figure appeared bounding down the stairs. She was dressed in a simple T-shirt and shorts and no shoes. She was a lithe towhead with milky white blemish-free skin and delicate-appearing arms and legs. She threw open the door. It was obvious she was strong-willed.

"You must be Uncle Jack."

"I am, and you?" Jack felt his heart quicken. He could already see his late daughter Tamara.

"Christina," she declared. Then, without taking her greenish eyes from Jack, she yelled over her shoulder, "Mom! Uncle Jack is here."

Alexis appeared at the end of the hallway. As she approached, she exuded major domesticity. She was wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a checkered dishtowel. "Well, ask him in, Christina."

Although looking appropriately older, Alexis appeared pretty much the same as Jack remembered her back in their childhood home in South Bend, Indiana. There was no doubt they were siblings. They had the same sand-colored hair, the same matching maple-syrup eyes, the same defined features, and the same complexion, which suggested they'd been in the sun even when they hadn't. Neither was completely pale, even in the dead of winter.

With a warm smile, Alexis walked directly up to Jack and gave him a sustained hug. "Thanks for coming," she whispered in his ear. While still embracing Alexis, Jack saw the other two girls appear at the top of the stairs. It was easy to tell them apart, since Tracy at age fifteen was more than a foot taller than Meghan at eleven. As if not sure what to do, they came down the stairs slowly, hesitating at each step. As they neared it was easy for Jack to see their personalities differed as much as their height. Tracy 's sky-blue eyes burned with a brazen intensity, whereas Meghan's hazel eyes flitted about, not willing to make eye contact. Jack swallowed. Meghan's eye movement suggested she was shy and introverted just like Jack's Lydia.

"Come down here and say hello to your uncle," Alexis ordered goodnaturedly.

As the girls reached the floor level, Jack was surprised at Tracy 's height. He was regarding her at nearly eye level. She was a good three to four inches taller than her mother. The other thing he saw was that she had two obvious piercings. One was on her nostril, topped with a small diamond. The other was a silver ring tucked into her exposed navel. Her attire included a cropped sleeveless cotton top that stretched across precociously impressive breasts.

On her lower half, she wore low-rise billowy harem pants. The outfit and accessories gave her a saucy sensuality as brazen as her stare.

"This is your uncle, girls," Alexis said as a way of introduction.

"How come you've never visited us?" Tracy demanded right off. She had both hands defiantly thrust into pants pockets.

"Did your daughters really die in a plane crash?" Christina asked almost simultaneously.

"Girls!" Alexis blurted, drawing the word out as if it were five or six syllables long. Then, she apologized to Jack. "I'm sorry. You know children. You never know what they are going to say."

"It's all right. Unfortunately, they are both reasonable questions." Then, looking into Tracy 's eyes, he said, "Maybe over the next day or so we could talk. I'll try to explain why I've been a stranger." Then, looking down to Christina, he added, "In answer to your question, I did lose two lovely daughters in a plane tragedy."

"Now Christina," Alexis said, butting in. "Since you're the only one who's finished her homework, why don't you take Uncle Jack down to the basement guest room. Tracy and Meghan, you two head back upstairs and finish your work. And Jack, I assume you've not eaten."

Jack nodded. He'd wolfed down a sandwich at LaGuardia Airport, but that had long since disappeared into the lower reaches of his digestive tract. Although he hadn't expected to be, he was hungry.

"How about some pasta. I've kept the marinara sauce hot, and I can throw together a salad."

"That would be fine."

The basement guest room was as expected. It had two high windows that looked into brick-lined window wells. The air had a damp, cool feeling like a root cellar. On the plus side, it was taste-fully decorated in varying shades of green. The furniture included a king-size bed, a desk, a club chair with a reading lamp, and a flat-screen TV. There was also a bathroom en suite.

While Jack pulled his clothes out of his carry-on bag and hung what he could in the closet, Christina threw herself into the easy chair. With her arms flat on the chair's arms and her feet sticking straight out into space, she regarded Jack critically. "You're skinnier than my dad."

"Is that good or bad?" Jack questioned. He put his basketball sneakers on the floor of the closet and carried his shaving kit into the bathroom. He liked the fact that there was a generous shower stall rather than a generic bathtub.

"How old were your daughters when they crashed in the plane?"

Although Jack should have expected Christina to return to the sensitive issue after his inadequate response, such a direct, personal question snapped him back to that disturbing sequence when he'd said good-bye to his wife and daughters at the Chicago airport. It had been fifteen years ago almost to the day that he'd driven his family to the airport to take a commuter flight back to Champaign while a band of rogue thunderstorms and tornadoes were approaching through the vast midwestern plains. He'd been in Chicago, retraining in forensic pathology after a health-care giant had gobbled up his ophthalmology practice back in the heyday of managed care's expansion. Jack had been trying to get Marilyn to agree to move to Chicago, but she had rightfully refused for the children's sake.

The passage of time had not numbed Jack's memory of the last good-bye. As if it had been yesterday, he could see in his mind's eye, watching through the glass partition, Marilyn, Tamara, and Lydia descend the ramp behind the departure gate. As they reached the maw of the Jetway only Marilyn turned to wave. Tamara and Lydia, with their youthful enthusiasm, had just disappeared.

As Jack was to learn later than night, only fifteen or twenty minutes after takeoff the small prop plane had plowed full-speed into the fertile black earth of the prairie. It had been struck by lightning and caught in a profound wind shear. All aboard had been killed in the blink of an eye.

"Are you okay, Uncle Jack?" Christina asked. For several beats, Jack had been motionless as if caught in a freeze-frame.

"I'm fine," Jack said with palpable relief. He'd just relived the moment in his life that he strenuously avoided thinking about, and yet the episode concluded without the usual visceral sequelae. He didn't feel as if his stomach had flip-flopped, his heart had skipped a beat, or as if a heavy, smothering blanket had descended over him. It was a sad story, but he felt enough distance that it could have involved someone else. Perhaps Alexis was right. As she'd said on the phone: Perhaps he'd processed his grief and moved on.

"How old were they?"

"The same as you and Meghan."

"That's awful."

"It was," Jack agreed.

Back up in the kitchen/great room, Alexis had Jack sit at the family table while she finished boiling the pasta. The girls had all retreated upstairs to get ready for bed. It was a school night. Jack's eyes ranged around the room. It was an expansive yet cozy room befitting the house's external appearance. The walls were a light, sunburst yellow. A deep, comfortable sofa upholstered in a bright green floral fabric and covered with cushions faced a fireplace surmounted by the largest flat-screen television Craig had ever seen. The curtains were the same print as the sofa and framed a bow window looking out on a terrace. Beyond the terrace was a swimming pool. Beyond that was lawn with what looked like a gazebo in the gloom.

"It's a beautiful house," Jack commented. In his mind it was more than beautiful. Compared to how he had been living over the last ten years, it was the epitome of luxury.

"Craig has been a wonderful provider, as I said on the phone," Alexis said as she poured the pasta into a colander.

"Where is he?" Jack questioned. No one had mentioned his name. Jack assumed he was out, perhaps on an emergency medical call or possibly conferring with his attorney.

"He's asleep in the upstairs guest room," Alexis said. "As I implied, we're not sleeping together and haven't been since he left to live in town."

"I thought maybe he was out on a medical call."

"No, he's free of that for the week. He's hired someone to cover his practice during the trial. His attorney recommended it. I think it's a good thing. As dedicated a doctor as he is, I wouldn't want him for my doctor right now. He's too preoccupied."

"I'm impressed he's asleep. If it were me, I'd be up, pacing the house."

"He's had a little help," Alexis admitted. She brought the pasta and salad over to the table and put it in front of Jack. "It was a hard day with the opening of the trial, and he's understandably depressed. I'm afraid he's been self-prescribing sleeping pills to deal with insomnia. There's also been some alcohol: scotch, to be exact, but not enough to worry about, I don't think. At least not yet."

Jack nodded but didn't say anything.

"What would you like to drink? I'm going to have a glass of wine."

"A little wine would be nice," Jack said. He knew more than he wanted to about depression. After the plane crash, he'd fought it for years.

Alexis brought over an opened bottle of white wine and two glasses.

"Did Craig know I was coming?" Jack asked. It was a question he should have asked before he'd agreed to come.

"Of course he knew," Alexis said while pouring the wine. "In fact, I discussed the idea with him before I called you."

"And he was okay with it?"

"He questioned the rationale but said he'd leave the decision up to me. To be truthful, he wasn't excited about it when we discussed it, and he said something that surprised me. He said he thought you disliked him. You never said anything like that, did you?"

"Absolutely not," Jack said. As he began to eat, he wondered how far to take the conversation. The truth of the matter was that back when Alexis and Craig had gotten engaged, he didn't think Craig was appropriate for Alexis. But Jack had never said anything, mainly because he thought, without knowing exactly why, that doctors in general were a poor risk, marriagewise. It was only relatively recently that Jack's tortured road to recovery had given him the insight to explain his earlier gut reaction – namely, that the whole medical training process either selected narcissistic people or created them, or some combination of the two. In Jack's estimation, Craig was the poster boy in this regard. His single-minded dedication to medicine almost guaranteed that his own personal relationships would be correspondingly shallow, a kind of psychological zero-sum game.

"I told him you didn't feel that way," Alexis continued. "In fact, I said you admired him because you told me that once. Am I remembering correctly?"

"I told you I admired him as a consummate physician," Jack said, aware that he was being mildly evasive.

"I did qualify it by saying you were envious of his accomplishments. You did say something to that effect, didn't you?"

"Undoubtedly. I have always been awed by his ability to do real, publishable basic science research while handling a large, successful clinical practice. That is the romantic goal of a number of physicians who never even come close. I made a stab at it back when I was an ophthalmologist, but in retrospect, my supposed research was a joke."

"I can't imagine that's true, knowing what I do about you."

"Getting back to the critical issue, how does Craig feel about me actually being here? You really didn't answer that."

Alexis took a sip of her wine. It was apparent she was considering the answer, and the longer she paused while doing so, the more uneasy Jack became. After all, he was a guest in the man's house.

"I suppose my not answering it was deliberate," she admitted. "He's embarrassed to be asking for help, as you suggested he might be on the phone. There's no doubt he sees dependency as a weakness, and this whole affair had made him feel totally dependent."

"But I have a feeling he's not the one asking for help," Jack said. He finished his pasta and started in on his salad.

Alexis put her wineglass down. "You are right," she said reluctantly. "I'm the one who's asking for help on his behalf. He's not all that happy about you being here because he's embarrassed. But I'm ecstatic you are here." Alexis reached across the table and took Jack's hand. She squeezed it with unexpected ferocity. "Thank you for caring, Jack. I've missed you. I know it's not the best time for you to be away, and that makes it even more special. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

A sudden flash of emotion washed over Jack, and he felt his face flush. At the same time, the avoidant nature of his personality kicked in and asserted itself. He detached his hand from Alexis's, took a gulp of wine, than changed the subject. "So, tell me about the opening day of the trial."

Alexis's slight smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "You are smooth, just like the old days! That was an impressively quick U-turn from an emotionally charged arena. Did you think I might not notice?"

"I keep forgetting you're a psychologist," Jack said with a laugh. "It was an instinctual reaction for self-preservation."

"At least you admit to your emotional side. Anyway about this trial, all that's happened so far are the two opening statements by the opposing attorneys and the testimony of the first witness."

"Who was the first witness?" Jack finished the salad and picked up the wineglass.

"Craig's accountant. As Randolph Bingham explained later, the whole reason he was included was merely to establish that Craig owed a duty to the deceased, which was easy, since the deceased had paid the retainer fee, and Craig had been seeing her on a regular basis."

"What do you mean 'retainer fee'?" Jack asked with surprise.

"Craig switched from a traditional fee-for-service practice to a concierge practice almost two years ago."

"Really?" Jack questioned. He'd had no idea. "Why? I thought Craig's practice was booming, and he loved it."

"I'll tell you the main reason even if he won't," Alexis said, moving herself in closer to the table as if she was about to reveal a secret. "Over the last number of years, Craig has felt he has been progressively losing control of patient decisions. I'm sure you know all this, but with more and more involvement of insurance companies and various health plans with cost containment, there's been more and more intrusion into the doctor-patient relationship, essentially telling doctors what they can and cannot do. For someone like Craig, it has been a progressive, ongoing nightmare."

"If I were to ask him why he made the change, what reason would he give?" Jack questioned. He was fascinated. He'd heard of concierge medicine, but he thought it was a small fringe group or a mere trendy quirk in the system. He'd never talked with a doctor who practiced in such a setting.

"He wouldn't admit he'd ever compromised a patient decision because of outside influence, but he'd be fooling himself. Just to keep his practice solvent, he has had to see progressively more patients in any given day. The reason he gives for switching to concierge medicine is that it affords him the opportunity to practice medicine the way he was taught in medical school, where he could spend as much time as needed with each patient."

"Well, it's the same thing."

"No, there's a subtle difference, although there's an aspect of rationalization on his part. The difference is between a negative push and a positive pull. His explanation emphasizes the patient."

"Is the style of his practice playing a role in the malpractice case?"

"Yes, at least according to the plaintiff's attorney, who I have to say is performing better than anticipated."

"How do you mean?"

"To look at him, and you'll see for yourself if you come to the courtroom, you'd not imagine on first glance he'd be effective. How should I say this: He's a composite stereotype of the tawdry, ambulance-chasing personal-injury lawyer and the mafioso defense attorney, about half Craig's defense attorney's age. But he's relating to the jury in a surprisingly effective manner."

"How is Craig's practice style supposed to play into the case? Did the plaintiff's attorney address it in his opening statement?"

"Absolutely, and very effectively. The whole concept of concierge medicine is predicated on being able to satisfy patient needs, like a concierge at a hotel."

"I get the association."

"To that end, each patient has access to the doctor through cell phone and/or e-mail so that they can contact the doctor at all hours and be seen if necessary."

"Sounds like an invitation to abuse on the part of the patient."

"I suppose with some patients. But it didn't bother Craig. In fact, he seemed to like it because he started making house calls at off-hours. I think to him there was something retro and nostalgic about it."

"House calls?" Jack questioned. "Making house calls is usually a waste of time. As a modern-age doctor you're so limited in what you can do."

"Nonetheless, some of the patients love it, including the deceased. Craig had seen her often after hours. In fact, he had seen her at her home the morning of the very day the malpractice was supposed to have occurred. That evening she took a turn for the worse, and Craig made a house call."

"It seems to me it would be hard to find fault with that."

"One would assume so, but according to the plaintiff's attorney, it was Craig's making the house call rather than sending the patient to the hospital that caused the malpractice, since it delayed the diagnosis and emergency treatment of a heart attack."

"That seems absurd," Jack said indignantly.

"Not when you hear it coming from the plaintiff's attorney during his opening statement. You see, there are other circumstances surrounding the episode that are important. It happened when Craig and I were officially separated. At the time, he was living in an apartment in Boston with one of his nubile secretary-cum-file clerks named Leona."

"Good God!" Jack exclaimed. "I don't know how many stories I've heard of married physicians having affairs with their office help. I don't know what it is about male medical doctors. In this day and age, most men in other endeavors know not to date their employees. It's asking for legal troubles."

"My sense is you are being too generous to the middle-aged married males who find themselves locked in a reality that didn't live up to their romantic expectations. I think Craig falls into such a group, but it wasn't Leona's twenty-three-year-old body that was the initial lure. It was, ironically enough, the change to the concierge practice, which provided something he'd never had: free time. Free time can be a dangerous thing for someone who'd spent half of his life as single-minded as Craig. It was like he woke up and looked at himself in the mirror and didn't like what he saw. All of a sudden he had this manic interest in culture. He wanted to make up for lost time and become overnight his image of a well-rounded person. But it wasn't enough for him to do it alone like a hobby. Just as he did with medicine, he wanted to indulge it with one hundred percent effort, and he insisted I go along with it. But obviously I couldn't, not with my job and the responsibility of the girls. That's what drove him out, at least as far as I know. Leona came later, as he realized he was lonely."

"If you're trying to make me feel sorry for him, it's not going to work."

"I just want you to know what we're up against. The plaintiff's attorney knows that Craig and Leona had tickets for the symphony on the night the plaintiff's wife died. He says witnesses will prove that Craig made the house call even though he suspected the patient had a heart attack on the outside chance it wasn't. If he had found that to be the case, he would have been able to make the concert. Symphony Hall is closer to the plaintiff's house than Newton Memorial Hospital."

"Let me guess – this Leona is scheduled to be a witness."

"Of course! She's now the spurned lover. To make matters worse, she is still working in Craig's office and he can't fire her for fear of another lawsuit."

"So the plaintiff's attorney is contending that Craig put the patient at risk by playing the odds against the possible diagnosis."

"That's essentially it. They're saying that it's not up to the standard of care in terms of making a timely diagnosis, which for a heart attack is critical, as events have shown. They don't even have to prove that the woman would have survived had she been taken to the hospital immediately, just that she might have. Of course, the cruel irony is that the allegation is diametric to Craig's practice style. As we've said, he's always put patients first, even before his own family."

Jack ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "This is more complicated than I thought it would be. I assumed the question revolved around some specific medical issue. This kind of case means there is even less chance of my being any help than I thought."

"Who knows?" Alexis said fatalistically. She pushed back from the table, went over to the service desk, and hefted a sizable manila envelope stuffed with papers. She brought it back to the table and plopped it down. It made a resounding thump. "Here's a copy of the case I put together. It's pretty much everything, from interrogatories to depositions to medical records. The only thing that's not included is a transcript of today's proceeding, but I've given you a good idea of what was said. There's even a couple of Craig's recent research papers he suggested I include. I don't know why: maybe to save face, imagining you'll be impressed."

"I probably will be if I can understand them. Anyway, it looks like I have my work cut out for me."

"I don't know where you want to work. You have a lot of choices. Can I show you a few alternatives besides your room downstairs?"

Alexis led Jack on a tour of the first floor of the house. The living room was huge but appeared uncomfortably pristine, as if no one had ever stridden across its deep pile carpet. Jack nixed that. Off the living room was a mahogany-paneled library with a wet bar, but it was dark and funereal with poor lighting. No thanks! Down the hall was a media room with a ceiling-mounted projector and several rows of lazy-boy chairs. Inappropriate, and worse lighting than the library. At the end of the hall was a sizable study with matching his-and-hers desks on opposing walls. His desk was neat with each pencil in a pencil cup sharpened to a needle-like point. Her desk was the opposite, with haphazard stacks of books, journals, and reprints. There were several reading chairs and hassocks. A bow window similar to the one in the great room looked out onto a flower bed with a small fountain. Directly opposite the window was floor-to-ceiling shelving on either side of the entrance door. Among a mixture of medical and psychology texts was Craig's old-fashioned leather doctor's bag and a portable ECG machine. As far as being a work area, the best thing about the room was the lighting setup, with recessed ceiling fixtures, individual desk lamps, and floor lamps by each club chair.

"This is a terrific space," Jack said. "But are you sure you don't mind me in your personal study?" He switched on one of the floor lamps. It cast a wide, warm glow.

"Not in the slightest."

"What about Craig, since it's his space, too?"

"He wouldn't mind. One thing I can assure you about Craig. He's not territorial."

"Okay, then, here's where I'll be. I have a feeling it will take me quite a few hours." He put the bulging manila envelope down on the table between the two reading chairs.

"As the saying goes, knock yourself out. I'm off to bed. With the need to get the kids off to school, tomorrow comes early around here. There are plenty of drinks in the kitchen refrigerator and more in the wet bar, so help yourself."

"Terrific! I'm all set."

Alexis let her eyes wander down Jack's frame, then back to his face. "I have to tell you, brother, you look good. When I visited you out in Illinois, and you had your ophthalmology practice, you looked like a different person."

"I was a different person."

"I was afraid you were going to become overweight."

"I was overweight."

"Now you look hale, hungry, and hollow-cheeked, like an actor in a spaghetti western."

Jack laughed. "That's a creative description. Where did that come from?"

"The girls and I recently watched some old Sergio Leone movies. It was an assignment for a film class Tracy's taking at her school. Seriously, you look like you're in good shape. What's your secret?"

"Street basketball and bike riding. I treat them like second careers."

"Maybe I should give them a try," Alexis said with a wry smile. Then she added: "Good night, brother. See you in the morning. As you might expect, it's always a bit chaotic with three girls."

Craig watched Alexis walk down the hall and then with a final wave disappear up the stairs. He turned around and scanned the room again. A sudden silence descended like a blanket. The place looked and smelled so different from his own surroundings, it could have been on a different planet.

Somewhat self-conscious about being in someone else's space, Jack sat down in the easy chair illuminated by the floor lamp. The first thing he did was take out his cell phone and turn it on. There was a message, and it was from Warren, with the promised name and phone number of his friend in Boston. The name was David Thomas, and Jack called immediately, thinking he might be in need of exercise if the morrow turned out to be as stressful as he feared. Alexis's evasiveness about Craig's response to Jack's visit was enough to make anyone feel less than welcome.

Warren must have been full of praise about Jack when he talked to David, because David was overly enthusiastic about Jack coming for a run.

"This time of year we play every night starting about five o'clock, man!" David had said. "Get your honky ass over there and we'll see what you got." He gave Jack directions to the court on Memorial Drive near Harvard. Jack said he'd try to get there in the late afternoon.

Next, Jack called Laurie to report that he was settled as best as could be expected so far.

"What do you mean?" she asked warily.

"I have yet to see Craig Bowman. The story is, he's not all that happy I'm here."

"That's not very nice, all things considered, particularly the timing."

Jack then described what he thought was the positive news about his response to Alexis's daughters. He told Laurie that one of the girls had even brought up the crash right off the bat, but that he had taken it in stride, to his pleasant surprise.

"I'm amazed and pleased," Laurie said. "I think it's terrific, and I'm relieved."

Jack went on to say that the only bad news was that the malpractice didn't involve a technical medical issue, but rather something far more convoluted such that there was even less chance that he could help them than he'd thought.

"I hope that means you'll be on your way back here straight away," Laurie said.

"I'm about to read the file," Jack said. "I imagine I'll know more at that point."

"Good luck."

"Thanks. I'll need it."

Jack ended the call and put his phone away. For a moment, he strained to hear any noise in the vast house. It was as silent as a tomb. Picking up the manila envelope, he dumped the contents onto the side table. The first thing he picked up was a research paper Craig had coauthored with a renowned Harvard cell biologist and had published in the prestigious New EnglandJournal of Medicine. It was about the function of sodium channels in cell membranes responsible for nerve and muscular action potentials. There were even some diagrams and electron micrographs of subcellular molecular structure. He glanced at the materials-and-methods section. It was amazing to him that someone could conceive of such arcane concepts, much less study them. Seeing as it was all beyond his current comprehension, he tossed the paper aside and picked up a deposition instead. It was the deposition of Leona Rattner.