Crisis

8

"All rise!" the court officer called as Judge Marvin Davidson emerged from his chambers and mounted the stairs to the bench. The black robes shielded his feet, so he seemed to glide like an apparition. "Be seated," the court officer called out after the judge had done so.

Jack looked behind himself so he could lower his posterior onto the seat without knocking over his Starbucks coffee. After the fact, he'd noted that no one else had brought any refreshments into the courtroom, so he'd guiltily stashed his coffee beside him on the bench.

He was sitting next to Alexis in the crowded spectators' section. He'd asked her why there were so many observers, but she'd told him she had no idea whatsoever. Almost all the spectator seats were taken.

The morning at the Bowman residence had gone better than Jack had imagined. Although Craig had flip-flopped to a degree from being conversational to brooding, they'd at least had a mutually honest talk, and Jack felt infinitely better being a guest in their home. After the girls had left for school, there'd been more conversation, but then it was mostly between Alexis and Jack. Craig had reverted to his sullen, preoccupied state.

There'd been a long discussion about transportation to and from town, but ultimately Jack had firmly insisted he'd drive. He wanted to come to the courtroom to get a feel for the principals, particularly the lawyers, but then around midmorning, he wanted to drive to the Boston medical examiner's office, where he'd start his investigation about Massachusetts 's rules regarding exhumation. After that, he didn't know what he'd do. He'd told them he might come back to the courtroom, but if he didn't, he'd meet them at the Newton house in the late afternoon.

As the court took its time getting ready to begin by handling the usual housekeeping motions, Jack studied the principal actors. The African-American judge looked like a former college football player gone to seed, yet the sense of authority he radiated through the confident deliberativeness with which he handled the paperwork on his desk and conversed sotto voce with his clerk gave Jack the reassuring feeling he knew what he was doing. The two lawyers were exactly as Alexis had described. Randolph Bingham was the picture of the elegant, polished, big-firm attorney in the way he dressed, moved, and spoke. In sharp contrast, Tony Fasano was the brazen, flashy young lawyer who flaunted his trendy clothes and clunky gold accessories. Yet the characteristic of Tony that Jack noticed right off and which Alexis had not mentioned was that Tony appeared to be enjoying himself. Although the bereaved plaintiff sat rigidly, Tony and his assistant were carrying on an animated conversation with smiles and suppressed laughter, which was a far cry from the defense table, which sat in either frozen propriety or defiant despair.

Jack's eyes moved staccato down the line of jurors as they filed into the jury box. It was obviously a diverse group, which he thought appropriate. It struck him that if he ducked out of the court and strolled down the street, the first twelve people he'd confront would be an equivalent group.

While Jack was studying the jurors, Tony Fasano called the first witness of the day. It was Marlene Richardt, Craig's matronly secretary-cum-receptionist, and she was duly sworn and seated in the witness box.

Jack turned his attention to the woman. To him, she looked like the strong-willed Frau that her German name suggested. She was of sizable proportions and built square, not too dissimilar from Tony. Her hair was up in a tight bun. Her mouth was set bulldog-style, and her eyes sparkled with defiance. It wasn't hard to sense she was a reluctant witness, whom Tony had the judge declare a hostile witness.

From the podium, Tony started out slowly, trying to joke with the woman, but he was unsuccessful, at least that's what Jack thought until he switched his attention to the jurors. In contrast to the witness, most of them smiled at Tony's attempts at humor. All at once, Jack could see what Alexis had implied, namely that Tony Fasano had a flair for connecting with the jury.

Jack had read Marlene's deposition, which had very little connection to the case, since the day of Patience Stanhope's demise she'd not been in contact with the patient, because the patient had not come into the office. The two times Craig had seen the patient had been at her home. So Jack was surprised that Tony was taking as long as he was with Marlene, painstakingly charting her association with Craig and her own troubled personal life. Since she and Craig had worked together for fifteen years, there was a lot to talk about.

Tony maintained his humorous style. Marlene ignored it at first, but after about an hour of what was starting to smack of a filibuster on Tony's part, she began to get angry, and as she did so she started to respond emotionally. It was at that point that Jack correctly sensed that the jokey style was a deliberate ploy on Tony's part. Tony wanted her off-balance and angry. As if sensing something unexpected was coming, Randolph tried to object that the testimony was endless and immaterial. The judge seemed to agree, but after a short sidebar conversation, which Jack could not hear, the questioning resumed and quickly hit pay dirt for the plaintiff's cause.

"Your Honor, may I approach the witness?" Tony asked. He was holding a folder in the air.

"You may," Judge Davidson said.

Tony stepped up to the witness box and handed the folder to Marlene. "Could you tell the jury what you are holding?"

"A patient file from the office."

"And whose file is it?"

"Patience Stanhope."

"Now there is a file number on the file."

"Of course there's a file number!" Marlene snapped. "How would we find it otherwise?"

"Could you read it aloud for the jury," Tony said, ignoring Marlene's mini-outburst.

"PP eight."

"Thank you," Tony said. He retrieved the file and returned to the podium.

Expectantly, several of the jurors leaned forward.

"Mrs. Richardt, would you explain to the jury what the initials PP stand for."

Like a cornered cat, Marlene's eyes darted around the room before settling for a moment on Craig.

"Mrs. Richardt," Tony prodded. "Hello! Anybody home?"

"They are letters," Marlene snapped.

"Well, thank you," Tony said sarcastically. "I believe most of the jurors recognized them as letters. What I'm asking is what they stand for. And permit me to remind you that you are sworn, and giving false testimony is perjury, which carries a severe penalty."

Marlene's face, which had become progressively red during her testimony, got redder still. Even her cheeks swelled as if she were straining.

"If it will help you remember, later testimony will suggest that you and Dr. Craig Bowman came up with this filing designation, which is not typical in your office. In fact, I have two other patient file numbers from your office." Tony held up the two additional folders. "The first one is Peter Sager's, and the number is PS one twenty-one. We chose this particular file since the individual's first initials are the same as the deceased, yet the letters on her file are PP, not PS.

"And my third file is Katherine Baxter, and this number is KB two thirty-three. There were others as well, and in each instance, the two first letters corresponded with the patient's initials. Now, we are aware that there are a few other PPs, but very few. So I ask again. What does the PP stand for, since it is not the patient's initials?"

"PP stands for 'problem patient,' " Marlene snapped defiantly.

Tony's face twisted into a wry smile for the jury's benefit. "Problem patient!" he repeated slowly but loudly. "What in heaven's name does that mean? Do they act up in the office?"

"Yes, they act up in the office," Marlene spat. "They're hypochondriacs. They have a bunch of stupid complaints that they make up and take the doctor's time away from the people who are really sick."

"And Dr. Bowman agreed with your giving the patients this designation."

"Of course. He's the one who told us which ones."

"And just so there is no misunderstanding, Patience Stanhope's file was a PP file, meaning she was a problem patient. Is that true?"

"Yes!"

"No further questions."

Jack leaned over toward Alexis and whispered, "This is a public-relations nightmare. What was Craig thinking?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. But something like this is not helping. In fact, things are looking even bleaker."

Jack nodded but didn't say anything more. He couldn't believe Craig could be so foolish. Every doctor had patients he or she labeled "problem patients," but it was never indicated in the record. Every practice had patients that were hated or despised, and that the doctors would try to get rid of as patients but often couldn't. Jack could remember in his own ophthalmology practice he'd had two or three who were so unpleasant that when he saw their names on the schedule, it would influence his mood for the whole day. He knew such a response was human nature, and being a doctor does not absolve the physician from such feelings. It was an issue that was swept under the rug during training, except in psychiatry.

Randolph smoothly tried on cross-examination to repair the damage as best he could, although it was clear the issue had blindsided him. With the ritualized process of discovery, such surprises were rare. Tony sported a smug smile.

"Labeling a patient as a 'problem patient' is not necessarily disparaging, is it, Mrs. Richardt?"

"I guess not."

"In fact, the reason to flag such a patient is to plan on giving them more attention rather than less."

"We did schedule them more time."

"That's exactly my point. Is it correct to say that as soon as you spotted PP, you scheduled the doctor to be with the patient longer?"

"Yes."

"So it was for the patient's benefit to have the PP designation."

"Yes."

"No more questions."

Jack leaned over to Alexis again. "I'm going to head over to the medical examiner's office. This has given me a bit more motivation."

"Thank you," Alexis whispered back.

Jack felt definite relief as he emerged from the courthouse. Being ensnared in the legal system had always been one of his phobias, and having it happen to his brother-in-law hit too close to home. The notion that justice would miraculously prevail was unreasonably idealistic, as Craig's case was threatening to show. Jack didn't trust the system, although he couldn't think of a better one.

He retrieved his rented Hyundai from beneath the Boston Common. He'd parked it there that morning, having stumbled on the public garage after vainly looking for street parking in Boston 's Government Center district. He had no idea where Craig and Alexis had parked. The original idea had been for him to follow them into the city, but whenever he let so much as a car length develop between himself and the Bowmans' Lexus, another car always immediately slid in. It was especially true once they got on the turnpike, and, not willing to be as aggressive at highway speeds as would have been necessary to stay directly behind Craig and Alexis, he lost them in the sea of commuters. From his perspective, the Boston driving, which had been difficult the night before, was a hundred times more challenging in true rush-hour traffic.

Using the Hertz map, he'd been able to get into Boston proper easily enough. From the garage, it had been a relatively short and quite pleasant walk to the courthouse.

Once he was out of the dimly lit garage, Jack pulled to the side of the road and consulted the Hertz map. It took him a while to find Albany Street, but once he had, he was able to orient himself with the help of the Boston Common, which was to his right, and the Boston Public Garden, which was to his left. The garden was ablaze with late-spring flowers. Jack had forgotten what a charming, attractive city Boston was once you got into it.

While he drove, which took most of his concentration, he tried to think of any other way to help Craig's cause. It seemed an ironic absurdity that Craig was going to be found liable for malpractice because he'd been gracious enough to make a house call.

Albany Street was relatively easy to find, as was the medical examiner's office. Making it even easier was a multi-story public parking facility immediately adjacent. Fifteen minutes later, Jack was talking through a protective glass screen to an attractive young female receptionist. In contrast to the outdated medical examiner's facility in New York, the Boston headquarters was spanking new. Jack couldn't help being both envious and impressed.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked cheerfully.

"I imagine you can," Jack said. He went on to explain who he was and that he wanted to talk to one of the medical examiners. He said he wasn't choosy, just whoever was available.

"I think they are all in the autopsy room, doctor," the woman said. "But let me check."

While the woman made several calls, Jack glanced around. It was a utilitarian decor with the characteristic odor of fresh paint. There was an office for the liaison with the police department, and through the open door Jack saw a uniformed officer. There were several other rooms, but Jack could only guess at their function.

"Dr. Latasha Wylie is available after all, and she'll be right down," the receptionist said. She had to practically yell for Jack to hear through the glass partition.

Jack thanked her and began to wonder exactly where the Park Meadow Cemetery was. If Craig and Alexis wanted him to do the autopsy he was going to have to move very quickly since they were already at day two of a predicted five-day trial. Actually doing the autopsy wouldn't be the challenge. The challenge would be the bureaucratic red tape, and in a city as old as Boston, Massachusetts, Jack feared the red tape might be formidable. "Dr. Stapleton?" a voice questioned.

Jack started. He'd been nosily and surreptitiously glancing into one of the other rooms off the lobby, trying to figure out its role. Guiltily, Jack turned to face a surprisingly youthful African-American woman with flowing, coal-black tresses and beauty-pageant good looks. Jack went from feeling guilty to being momentarily nonplussed. There had been too many times lately when he'd faced professional female medical colleagues who looked to him like college coeds. It made him feel ancient.

After introductions, which included Jack's showing his ME badge just to emphasize that he wasn't some deranged creep off the street, he gave a thumbnail sketch of what he wanted – namely, information about the exhumation procedure in Massachusetts. Latasha immediately invited Jack upstairs to her office, which made Jack even more envious when he compared it to his own. The room wasn't huge or sumptuous, but it had both a desk and work area, so the inevitable paperwork and microscopic work could be kept separated such that one didn't have to be put away to switch to the other. It also had windows. It was only a view of the nearby parking garage, but it let in a significant amount of daylight, something he didn't see in his office.

Once in the office, Jack gave a detailed account of Craig's malpractice case. He stretched reality by saying Craig was one of the city's premier internists even though he practiced in the suburbs, and by suggesting he was going to be found liable for the deceased's death unless the deceased was exhumed and autopsied.

His rationale for this embellishment was that he thought that if the Boston ME 's office was motivated enough, they could slice through any bureaucratic problems. In New York, that would have been the case. Unfortunately, Latasha disabused him of this idea immediately.

"We medical examiners in Massachusetts cannot get involved in ordering an exhumation unless it's a criminal case," she observed. "And even then, it has to go through the district attorney, who in turn has to go to a judge to get a court order."

Jack groaned inwardly. Bureaucracy was rearing its ugly head.

"It's a lengthy process," Latasha continued. "Essentially, it involves this office convincing the district attorney there is a high suspicion of criminality. On the other hand, if there is no crime involved, then it's a pro forma procedure here in Massachusetts."

Jack's ears pricked up. "Really? How is that?"

"All you need is a permit."

Jack felt his pulse quicken. "And how do you get a permit?"

"From the town clerk where the cemetery is located or from the Board of Health if it's here in Boston. The easiest way would be to contact the funeral director who did the burial in the first place. If the funeral home is in the same town as the cemetery, and it usually is, he knows the town clerk or Board of Health personnel personally. It could probably be obtained in an hour with the right contacts."

"That's good news," Jack said.

"If you go ahead with an autopsy, we could help, not doing it here, of course, since this is a public facility, and I can't imagine our chief authorizing something like that. But we could help by providing specimen jars and fixatives, and help processing the specimens. We could also help with toxicology if it's appropriate."

"Will the death certificate have the funeral home on it?"

"Absolutely. Disposition of the body has to be recorded. What's the name again?"

"Patience Stanhope. She died about nine months ago."

Latasha used her computer to bring up the death certificate. "Here it is. September eighth, 2005, to be exact."

"Really?" Jack questioned. He got up and peered over Latasha's shoulder at the date. It seemed a coincidence. September 8, 2005, had been significant in his life as well. It had been the date of the dinner at Elio's when he and Laurie had gotten engaged.

"It's the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home in Brighton who took the body. Want me to write the address and phone number down?"

"Thank you," Jack said. He was still marveling about the date. He retook his seat. He wasn't superstitious, but the coincidence intrigued him.

"What's the time frame? When do you see yourself doing this autopsy?" Latasha asked.

"To be perfectly honest, it hasn't been decided to actually do it," Jack admitted. "It's up to the doctor and his wife. It's my feeling it would help, which is the reason I suggested it, and why I'm looking into how to go about it."

"There is something about the exhumation permit I forgot to mention," Latasha said as an afterthought.

"Oh," Jack said, reining in his enthusiasm.

"You'll need the approval and signature of the next of kin."

Jack's shoulders visibly sagged. He chided himself for not remembering what was now so obvious. Of course the next of kin would have to agree. He'd allowed his zeal of helping his sister overwhelm his rationality. He couldn't imagine the plaintiff agreeing to allow his dead wife to be dug up in hopes of helping the defense. But then he remembered that stranger things have happened, and since doing an autopsy might be the only thing he could offer Alexis, he wasn't going to accept an unchallenged defeat. But then again, there was Laurie back in New York. If he were to do an autopsy, it would mean staying in Boston, which would get her upset. Like so many things in life, the situation was far more complicated than he'd like.

Fifteen minutes later, Jack was back in his Hyundai Accent, drumming his fingers on the driver's-side air-bag cover. What to do was the question. He looked at his watch. It was twelve twenty-five. Any thoughts of returning to the courtroom were nixed, since the court would be in recess for lunch. He could have called Alexis's cell phone, but instead he decided on paying a visit to the funeral home. With that decided, he unfolded his Hertz city map and plotted his course.

Driving out of Boston was no easier than driving in, but once he stumbled onto the Charles River, he was oriented. Twenty minutes later, he was on the appropriate street in the suburban area of Brighton, and five minutes after that, he found the funeral home. It was a housed in a large, white, wood-frame, previously single-family home built in the Victorian style, complete with a turret and Italianate details. Extending from the rear was a modern addition of an indeterminate style built of concrete block. Most important from Jack's perspective was that it had ample parking.

After locking the car, Jack walked around to the front of the building and mounted the stairs to a spacious wraparound porch. There was no porch furniture. The front door was unlocked, so he walked into the building's foyer.

Jack's immediate impression was that the interior was as serene as a deserted medieval library, with muted Gregorian chants providing the appropriate background noise. He would have liked to have said it was as severe as a deserted funeral home, but since it was a funeral home, he felt obligated to come up with something else. To his left was a casket gallery with all the caskets propped open to reveal their velvet or satin interiors. Comforting names like Eternal Bliss were displayed, but prices were not. To the right was a viewing room, which was currently vacant. Rows of collapsible chairs faced a raised dais with an empty catafalque. Floating in the air was a whiff of incense, as though it were a Tibetan souvenir shop.

At first Jack was confused as to where to go to find a live human, but before he could wander too far, one appeared as if by magic. Jack hadn't heard a door open or even approaching footsteps.

"Can I help you?" a man inquired in a barely audible voice. He was slender and austere in his black suit, white shirt, and black tie. With his pasty and cadaverous face, he looked like a candidate for the establishment's services. His thin, short, and deeply colored dyed hair was plastered to the scabrous dome of his head. Jack had to suppress a smile. The man embodied a familiar but false stereotype of a funeral home employee. It was as if he'd been called by central casting for a part in a ghoulish movie. Jack knew that reality didn't support the Hollywood image. In his role as a medical examiner, Jack had a lot of interaction with funeral home employees, and none of them resembled the man standing in front of him.

"Can I help you?" the man repeated slightly louder but almost in a whisper despite there being no one, not even the dead, whom he could have disturbed. He held himself rigidly in check, with his hands clasped piously over his abdomen and his elbows tucked in against his body. The only thing moving were his narrow lips. He didn't even seem to blink.

"I'm looking for the funeral director."

"At your service. My name is Harold Langley. We are a family-owned and -operated establishment."

"I'm a medical examiner," Jack said. He flashed his official badge quickly enough to be reasonably certain Harold didn't have time to notice it was not from Massachusetts. Harold visibly stiffened as if Jack were an emissary from the Massachusetts Division of Professional Licensure. Suspicious by nature, Jack thought the reaction curious, but he pressed on. "You people handled the arrangements for Patience Stanhope, who passed away this past September."

"Indeed, we did. I remember it well. We also handled the services for Mr. Stanhope, a very prominent gentleman in the community. Also for the only Stanhope child, I'm afraid."

"Oh!" Jack grunted in response to information he'd not been seeking. He quickly stored it away and returned to the issue at hand. "Some questions have arisen surrounding Mrs. Stanhope's death, and an exhumation and autopsy are being considered. Has the Langley-Peerson Home had experience doing such a thing?"

"We have, but on an infrequent basis," Harold said, relaxing back to his originally restrained, ceremonious self. Jack was apparently no longer viewed as a possible threat. "Are you in possession of the required paperwork?"

"No. What I'm hoping is that you could help in that regard."

"Certainly. What's needed is an exhumation permit, a transportation permit, and a reinterment permit, and, most importantly, the permit must have the signature of the current Mr. Stanhope as the next of kin. It is the next of kin who must give authorization."

"So I understand. Would you have the necessary forms here?"

"Yes, I believe so. If you'll follow me, I can give them to you."

Harold led Jack through an archway in the direction of the main stairs but immediately turned left into a darkened, deep pile-carpeted hallway. It was now apparent to Jack how Harold had managed to silently appear.

"You mentioned that the first Mr. Stanhope was prominent in the community. How so?"

"He was founder of the Stanhope Insurance Agency of Boston, which was very successful in its heyday. Mr. Stanhope was a wealthy man and quite a philanthropist, which is rare in Brighton. Brighton is a working-class community."

"Meaning the current Mr. Stanhope must be a wealthy man."

"Undoubtedly," Harold said as he led Jack into an office as austere as he was. "The current Mr. Stanhope's history is a marvelous Horatio Alger story. He was born Stanislaw Jordan Jaruzelski, a local boy from a working-class immigrant family who started working at the agency right out of Brighton High School. He was a whiz kid, even though he didn't go to college, who worked himself up by his bootstraps to management. When the old man passed on, he married the widow, sparking some lurid speculation. He even took the family name."

Although it was a bright, sunshine-filled June day outside, inside Harold's office it was dark enough to necessitate the desk lamp and a floor lamp to be on. The windows were covered by heavy, dark green velvet drapes. After finishing the current Mr. Stanhope saga, Harold went to an upright, four-drawer file cabinet covered with mahogany veneer. From the top drawer, he pulled out a folder. From within the folder, he took three papers, one of which he handed to Jack. The other two he placed on his desk. He motioned toward one of the velvet-upholstered chairs facing the desk for Jack before sitting himself down in his high-backed desk chair.

"That's the exhumation permit I gave you," Harold said. "There's a place for Mr. Stanhope to sign, giving authorization."

Jack glanced at the paper as he sat down. Getting the signature was obviously going to be the deal-breaker, but for the moment, he wasn't going to worry about it. "Who will fill in the rest after Mr. Stanhope signs?"

"I will do that. What is the time frame you are looking at?"

"If it's to be done, it has to be done immediately."

"Then you'd better let me know quickly. I'd have to arrange for the vault company's truck and a backhoe."

"Could the autopsy be done here at the home?"

"Yes, in the embalming room, working around our schedule. The only problem is we might not have all the tools you would like. For instance, we don't have a cranial saw."

"I can get the tools." Jack was impressed. Harold looked rather weird, but he was informed and efficient.

"I should mention this will be an expensive undertaking."

"What are we talking about?"

"There'll be the vault company and backhoe charge, as well as cemetery fees. On top of that will be our charges for obtaining the permits, supervision, and use of the embalming room."

"Can you give me a ballpark idea?"

"At least several thousand dollars."

Jack whistled softly as if he thought the figure high, whereas in actuality he thought it was cheap with all that was involved. He stood up. "Do you have an off-hours phone number?"

"I'll give you my cell phone number."

"Terrific," Jack said. "One other thing. Do you know the address of the Stanhope home?"

"Of course. Everybody knows the Stanhope house. It's a landmark in Brighton."

A few minutes later, Jack was back in the rent-a-car again, drumming the steering wheel while he thought of what he should do next. It was now after two p.m. Returning to the courtroom didn't thrill him. He'd always been more of a performer than a spectator. Instead of going back into Boston, he reached for the Hertz map. It took him a few minutes, but he located the Newton Memorial Hospital and oriented himself, and eventually arrived at his destination.

Newton Memorial Hospital resembled almost every suburban hospital Jack had been in. It was built in a confusing hodgepodge of various wings added over the years. The oldest section had period details like decoration on a cake, mostly Greek Revival, but the new structures were progressively plainer. The most recent addition was just brick and bronze-tinted glass with no embellishments whatsoever.

Jack parked in the visitors' area, in a lot that backed onto a wetland with a small pond. A flock of Canada geese were floating motionless on the surface like a bunch of wooden decoys. Consulting the fat case file, Jack memorized the names of the people he wanted to speak with: the emergency-room doctor, Matt Gilbert; the emergency-room nurse, Georgina O'Keefe; and the staff cardiologist, Noelle Everette. All three were on the plaintiff's witness list, and all three had been deposed by the defense. What was troubling Jack was the cyanosis issue.

Instead of going to the front entrance of the hospital, Jack went to the emergency area. The ambulance bay was empty. To the side was an automatic sliding glass door. Jack walked in and headed directly to the admitting desk.

It seemed like a good time to visit. There were only three people in the waiting area; none of them appeared sick or injured. The nurse at the desk looked up as Jack approached. She was dressed in scrubs and had the usual stethoscope slung around her neck. She was reading The Boston Globe.

"Calm before the storm," Jack joked.

"Something like that. What can we do for you?"

Jack went through his usual spiel, including the ME badge flash. He asked for Matt and Georgina, purposefully using their first names to suggest familiarity.

"They're not here yet," the duty nurse said. "They work the evening shift."

"When does that start?"

"At three."

Jack looked at his watch. It was going on three. "So they will be here shortly."

"They better be!" the duty nurse said sternly but with a smile to show she was being humorous.

"What about Dr. Noelle Everette?"

"I'm sure she's here someplace. Want me to page her?"

"That would be helpful."

Jack retreated to the waiting area with the other three people. He tried to make eye contact, but no one was willing. He eyed an old National Geographic magazine but didn't pick it up. Instead, he marveled about Stanislaw Jordan Jaruzelski transforming himself into Jordan Stanhope, and then he brooded about how he was going to get Jordan Stanhope to sign an exhumation permit. It seemed impossible, like climbing Mount Everest not only without oxygen but also without clothes. He smiled briefly at the thought of a couple of bare-assed climbers standing triumphantly on the rocky summit. Nothing is impossible, he reminded himself. He heard Dr. Noelle Everette's name over an old-fashioned page system. Such a page system seemed like an anachronism in the information age, with grammar-school kids text-messaging.

Five minutes later the ER duty nurse called him back to the admitting desk. She told him that Dr. Everette was up in radiology and would be happy to talk with him. The nurse then gave him directions.

The cardiologist was busy reading and dictating cardioangiograms. She was sitting in a small viewing room with an entire wall filled with X-ray films on a movable conveyor belt. The only light came from behind the films and washed her with its fluorescent blue-whiteness, similar to moonlight but brighter. It made the cardiologist appear ghostlike, particularly in her white coat. Jack assumed he looked equally washed-out. Jack was completely forthright. He explained who he was and why he was associated with the case.

"I am to be an expert witness for the plaintiff," Noelle said, wishing to be equally forthright. "I'm going to testify that by the time the patient arrived here at the emergency room, we really had no chance to resuscitate her, and I was indignant to learn there had been an avoidable delay. Some of us old-fashioned physicians who treat all comers and not just those who pay us up front are angry about these concierge doctors. We're convinced they are self-serving rather than acting in the patients' best interests as they claim and which true professionalism dictates."

"So you are testifying because Dr. Bowman is practicing concierge medicine?" Jack asked. He was taken aback by Noelle's emotional response.

"Absolutely not," Noelle said. "I'm testifying because there had been a delay getting the patient to the hospital. Everyone knows that after a myocardial infarction, it is critical to start fibrinolytic and reperfusion treatment absolutely as soon as possible. If that opinion secondarily says something about my feelings vis-a-vis concierge medicine, so be it!"

"Listen, I respect your position, Dr. Everette, and I'm not here to try to convince you otherwise. Believe me! I'm here to ask you about the degree of cyanosis the patient apparently had. Is that something you remember particularly?"

Noelle relaxed to a degree. "I can't say particularly, since cyanosis is a frequent sign seen with severe cardiac illness."

"The ER nurse wrote in the notes the patient had central cyanosis. I mean, she specifically said 'central' cyanosis."

"Listen, when the patient got here, she was close to death, with dilated pupils, completely flaccid body, and a pronounced brachycardia with total AV black. Her heart could not be externally paced. She was on death's door. Cyanosis was just part of the whole picture."

"Well, thanks for talking with me," Jack said. He stood.

"You're welcome," Noelle responded.

As Jack made his way back down to the emergency room, he was even more pessimistic about the outcome of the case than he'd been earlier. Dr. Noelle Everette was going to be a powerful expert witness for the plaintiff, not only because of her expert status as a cardiologist but also because she was articulate and a dedicated physician, and because she had been directly involved in the case. "Times have changed," Jack murmured out loud, thinking that it used to be hard to find a doctor to testify against another doctor. It seemed to him that Noelle was looking forward to testifying, and despite what she'd said, part of her motivation was antipathy toward concierge medicine.

By the time Jack got back to the ER, the shift had changed. Although the ER was still peaceful, Jack had to wait to talk with the nurse and the doctor while they got themselves updated on the patients present who were waiting for test results or for the arrival of their personal physicians. It was close to three thirty when Jack finally was able to sit down with them in a small staff lounge area directly behind the admitting desk. Both were young. Jack guessed early thirties.

Jack said essentially the same thing he'd said to Noelle at the outset, but the emergency-room staff's response was much less emotional or censorious. In fact, Georgina, in her bubbly style, professed to have been greatly impressed by Craig.

"I mean, how many doctors arrive at the ER riding with the patient in the ambulance? I can tell you: not many. The fact that he's being sued is a travesty. It shows how far out of whack the system is when doctors like Dr. Bowman are ambushed by the likes of the ambulance-chaser lawyer on the case. I can't remember his name."

"Tony Fasano," Jack offered. He was enjoying hearing someone who shared his thoughts, although he wondered if Georgina had heard the social side of Craig's tale, especially since Leona had come to the ER that fatal night.

"That was it: Tony Fasano. When he first came snooping around here, I thought he was an extra in one of those gangster movies. I really did. I mean, I couldn't imagine he was for real. Did he really go to law school?"

Jack shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, it wasn't Harvard, I can tell you that. Anyway, I can't imagine him calling me as a witness. I told him exactly what I thought of Dr. Bowman. I think he did a great job. He even had a portable ECG machine and had already tested for biomarkers before they arrived here at the ER."

Jack nodded as Georgina spoke. He'd read all this in her deposition in which she'd fulsomely praised Craig.

When she fell silent, Jack said, "What I wanted to talk to you people about was the cyanosis."

"What about the cyanosis?" Dr. Matt Gilbert asked. It was the first time he'd spoken. His laid-back personality was overwhelmed by Georgina 's vivacity.

"You remember the cyanosis, silly," Georgina said, giving Matt a playful slap on the shoulder before Jack could speak. "She was as blue as a blue moon when they brought her in here."

"I don't think that expression has anything to do with color," Matt said.

"It doesn't?" Georgina questioned. "Well, it should."

"Do you not remember the cyanosis?" Jack asked Matt.

"Vaguely, I suppose, but her general condition trumped everything else."

"You described it as 'central cyanosis' in your notes," Jack said to Georgina. "Was there some specific reason for that?"

"Well, of course! She was blue all over, not just her fingers or legs. Her whole body was blue until they got her on oxygen with the respirator and started doing cardiac massage."

"What do you think might have been the cause?" Jack asked. "Do you think it could have been a right-to-left shunt or maybe severe pulmonary edema?"

"I don't know about a shunt," Matt said. "But she didn't have any pulmonary edema at all. Her lungs were clear."

"One thing I remember," Georgina said suddenly. "She was completely flaccid. When I started another IV line, her arm was like a rag doll's."

"Is that unique, in your experience?" Jack asked.

"Yeah," Georgina said. She looked at Matt for confirmation. "There's usually some resistance. I guess it varies with the degree of consciousness."

"Did either of you see any petechial hemorrhages in her eyes, any strange marks on her face or neck?"

Georgina shook her head. "I didn't." She looked at Matt.

"I was worrying too much about the big picture to see any such details," Matt said.

"Why do you ask?" Georgina questioned.

"I'm a medical examiner," Jack explained. "I'm trained to be cynical. Smothering or strangulation has to be at least considered in any sudden death with cyanosis."

"Now that's a new angle," Georgina said.

"A biomarker assay confirmed a heart attack," Matt said.

"I'm not questioning there was a myocardial infarction," Jack said. "But I'd be interested if something other than a natural process brought it on. Let me give you an example. I once had a case of a woman, arguably a few years older than Mrs. Stanhope, who had a heart attack immediately after being robbed at gunpoint. It was easy to prove a temporal connection, and the perpetrator is sitting on death row to this day."

"My word!" Georgina said.

After giving both individuals a business card that included his cell phone number, Jack headed back to his car. By the time he unlocked the door and climbed in, it was after four o'clock. He sat for a moment, looking out at the small pond. He thought about his conversation with the hospital staff, thinking it was a wash in regard to Craig's cause between Noelle and Georgina, with one avidly for and one avidly against. The trouble was that Noelle was surely going to testify, whereas Georgina, as she expected, probably would not since she wasn't on the defense list. Other than that, he hadn't learned much, or if he had, he was too dumb to recognize it. One thing was for certain: He'd liked and was impressed by all these people, and if he got into an accident and was brought in there, he'd feel he was in good hands.

Jack thought about his next move. What he would have liked to do was drive back to the Bowman house, suit up in his basketball gear, and have a run with David Thomas, Warren 's friend, over on Memorial Drive. But realistically speaking, Jack knew that if there were any chance of his contributing to the case by doing an autopsy on Patience Stanhope's earthly remains, he had to force himself to face Jordan Stanhope with the idea of getting him to sign the exhumation permit. The problem was how to get him to do it short of procuring a pistol and holding it to his temple. Jack could not think of a single reasonable stratagem and ultimately resigned himself to ad-libbing while trying to appeal to the man's sense of justice and fairness.

Jack took out the three-by-five index card that Harold Langley had given him with Harold's cell phone number and Jordan Stanhope's address. Balancing it on the steering wheel, he picked up the trusty Hertz map and tried to find the street. It took a bit of patience, but he located it near both Chandler Pond and Chestnut Hill Country Club. Assuming that the court would have recessed somewhere in the three thirty to four o'clock range, he thought now would be as appropriate a time as any to drop in for a visit. Whether he'd get into the man's house or not he had no idea, but it wasn't going to be for lack of trying.

It took him a half-hour of navigating a maddening maze of twisty streets to find the Stanhope house. The fact that Jordan Stanhope was a wealthy man was immediately apparent. The house was huge, with spacious, immaculate grounds, carefully pruned trees and shrubs, and flowering gardens. A shiny, new, dark blue Bentley two-door coupe was parked in the circular drive that fronted the house. A separate three-car garage with a carriage house above was just visible through the trees to the right of the main building.

Jack pulled his Hyundai Accent up alongside its obscenely expensive counterpart. The juxtaposition was a study in contrasts. He got out of his car and approached the other. He had to look inside the extravagant machine, humorously attributing his unexpected interest to a heretofore unexpressed gene on his Y chromosome. The windows were down, so the aroma of the luxurious leather bathed the whole area. The car was obviously brand-spanking-new. After making sure he wasn't being observed, Jack stuck his head through the driver's-side window. The control panel had a simple, rich elegance. Then he noticed something else: The keys were in the ignition. Jack stepped back. Although he thought it was the height of ridiculousness to spend the kind of money he imagined the car cost, the fact that the keys were available unleashed a pleasant fleeting fantasy of breezing down a scenic road in the Bentley with Laurie at his side. It was a reverie that reminded him of a recurrent dream of flying he'd had in his youth. But the daydream quickly dissolved to be replaced by a mild embarrassment of coveting another man's car, even if just for an imagined joyride.

Jack skirted the Bentley and approached the front door. His reaction to the car had surprised him on several levels, most important of which concerned the idea of unabashedly enjoying himself. For many years after the fateful plane crash, he'd been unable to do so, since it aroused his guilt of being the only one in the family still alive. The fact that he could entertain the idea now was the best suggestion yet that he'd made significant progress toward recovery.

After ringing the doorbell, Jack turned back to the gleaming Bentley. He'd thought about what the car meant to him, but now he pondered what it said about Jordan Stanhope, aka Stanislaw Jordan Jaruzelski. It suggested that the man was seriously indulging himself with his new wealth.

Hearing the door open brought Jack's attention around and to the issue at hand. In his inside jacket pocket was the signatureless exhumation permit, and it crinkled as he brought his hand up to shield his eyes. The late afternoon sun was reflecting off the polished brass door knocker and momentarily blinded him.

"Yes?" Jordan questioned. Despite the glare, Jack could tell he was being eyed suspiciously. Jack was wearing his usual jeans, blue chambray shirt, knitted tie, and summer-weight blazer that hadn't been cleaned or pressed for longer than he cared to admit. In contrast, Jordan had on a plaid smoking jacket with a cravat. From around his silhouette wafted cool, dry air, suggesting the home's airconditioning was on despite the mild outdoor temperature.

"I'm Dr. Stapleton," Jack began. With a sudden decision to suggest a quasi-official explanation for his visit, Jack fumbled to extract his wallet with his medical examiner badge. He held it up for moment. "I'm a medical examiner, and I'd like a moment of your time."

"Let me see!" Jordan said as Jack tried to quickly return the wallet and badge to its normal location.

Jack was surprised. Rarely did people actually examine his official credentials.

" New York?" Jordan questioned, glancing back up into Jack's face. "Aren't you rather far afield?" To Jack's ear, Jordan spoke with a mock-melodiousness and a hint of an English accent that Jack associated with elite New England boarding schools. To Jack's double surprise, Jordan had reached out to grasp Jack's hand to steady it while he'd studied the badge. His precisely manicured fingers were cool to the touch.

"I take my job seriously," Jack said, defensively reverting to sarcasm.

"And what is your job that brings you from New York all the way to our humble home?"

Jack couldn't suppress a smile. The man's comment suggested he had an ironic sense of humor similar to Jack's. The home was anything but humble.

"Who is it, Jordie?" a crystalline voice called from the cool depths of the home's interior.

"I don't precisely know yet, dearest," Jordan affectionately called back over his shoulder. "It's a doctor from New York."

"I've been asked to help with the legal case you are currently involved in," Jack said.

"Really!" Jordan said with a hint of amazement. "And exactly how are you intending to help?"

Before Jack could answer, an attractive, doe-eyed young woman half Jordan 's age appeared from around Jordan and stared at Jack. She had slipped an arm around Jordan 's neck and the other around his middle. She smiled pleasantly, revealing startlingly white, perfect teeth. "Why are you standing here? Invite the doctor in! He can join us for tea."

Following the woman's suggestion, Jordan stepped to the side, motioned for Jack to come into the house, and then led him on a lengthy journey through a central hall, an expansive living room, and out into a conservatory built off the building's rear. Surrounded on three sides and roofed with glass, the room gave Jack the feeling he was back outdoors in the garden. Although Jack initially had thought "tea" was to be a euphemism for cocktails, he was wrong.

Ensconced in an oversized white wicker chair with pastel chintz cushions, Jack was served tea, whipped cream, and biscuits by a reserved woman in a French maid's uniform who quickly disappeared. Jordan and his girlfriend, Charlene McKenna, were seated opposite on a matching wicker sofa. Between Jack and his hosts was a low glass table supporting a silver service with additional sweets. Charlene could not keep her hands off Jordan, who acted as if he were unaware of her overt affection. The conversation initially ranged freely before centering on their plans for the summer, which were to include a cruise along the Dalmatian coast.

It was amazing to Jack that the couple were willing to do all the talking. He sensed that they were starved for entertainment, since he didn't have to say much beyond where he was from and that he was currently a houseguest at his sister's in Newton. After that, all he had to go was give an occasional "un-huh" to indicate he was paying attention. This gave Jack lots of opportunity to merely observe, and he was fascinated. Jack had heard that Jordan was enjoying himself, and apparently had been enjoying himself practically from the day Patience Stanhope had died. There had been little time for mourning since Charlene had moved in with him several weeks after the funeral. The Bentley in the driveway was only a month old, and the couple had spent a portion of the winter in St. Bart's.

Thanks to a melding of this new information with his cynical nature, the possibility in Jack's mind of foul play being involved in Patience's death became more than a passing thought and made the idea of doing an autopsy even more appropriate and necessary. He thought about going back to the Boston medical examiner's office with his suspicions, even if entirely circumstantial, to see if they would be willing to approach the district attorney about going to a judge to order the exhumation, because surely Jordan would never agree to one if he'd been in any way responsible for Patience's death. But the longer Jordan talked and the more apparent it was that he was playing the role of an ersatz, cultured, aristocratic gentleman, the less sure Jack was of Jordan's response to an autopsy. There had been criminal cases where the perpetrators thought themselves so intelligent that they actively helped law enforcement just to prove how smart they were. The pretender Jordan seemed to be might fall into that category and agree to an autopsy to make the game that much more exciting.

Jack shook his head. His rationality suddenly kicked in, and he knew without a shadow of doubt that he was letting his imagination run wild.

"You don't agree?" Jordan asked. He'd seen Jack's head motion.

"No, I mean yes," Jack said as he verbally stumbled, trying to cover his blunder. The truth was he'd not been following the conversation at that point.

"I'm saying the best time to go to the Dalmatian coast is during the fall and not the summer. You don't agree?"

"I agree," Jack insisted. "There's no doubt whatsoever."

Mollified, Jordan returned to what he'd been saying. Charlene nodded appreciatively.

Jack went back to his musing and admitted to himself that the chance of foul play being involved with Patience's death was infinitesimally small. The main reason was that Patience had had a heart attack and that there'd been too many accomplished physicians involved, including Craig. Craig wasn't Jack's favorite person, particularly to be married to his sister, but he was one of the sharpest, most knowledgeable physicians that Jack had ever known. There was no way Jordan could have fooled such a collection of professionals by somehow causing his wife to have a heart attack.

Such a realization yanked Jack back to square one. The medical examiner's office could not get him an exhumation and autopsy. If it were to happen, he had to do it himself. In that regard, Jordan 's masquerading as the Boston Brahmin might help. Jack could appeal to him as a gentleman, since true gentlemen have a duty to set the example in ethical behavior by making sure justice prevails. It was a long shot, but it was all he could come up with.

While Jordan and Charlene debated the best time of year to go to Venice, Jack put down his cup and saucer and reached into his side pocket to pull out one of his business cards. When a break occurred in the conversation, he leaned forward and with his thumb snapped the card down onto the glass tabletop.

"I say! What do we have here?" Jordan questioned, immediately taking the bait. Bending forward, he glanced at the card be-fore picking it up to examine it more closely. Charlene took it from him and looked at it as well.

"What's a medical examiner?" Charlene asked.

"It's the same thing as a coroner," Jordan explained.

"Not quite," Jack said. "A coroner historically is an appointed or elected official tasked to look into causes of death, who may or may not have any specific training. A medical examiner is a medical doctor who's had graduate training in forensic pathology."

"I stand corrected," Jordan said. "You were about to tell me how you intend to help with my suit, which I have to say I'm finding rather a bore."

"And why is that?"

"I thought it would be exciting, like watching a boxing match. Instead, it is tedious, like watching two people arguing."

"I'm certain I could make it more interesting," Jack said, snatching the opportunity Jordan 's unexpected opinion about the trial afforded him.

"Please be more specific."

"I like your simile comparing the trial to boxing, but the reason the match is uninteresting is because the two boxers are blindfolded."

"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 courtroom, 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 club-like, 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 his 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 brick-like 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 who 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 several 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."

"Well, I'm not going to be a party to it. I'll sign the exhumation permit."