Crisis

17

The unease that Jack had experienced after Alexis and the kids left the evening before was magnified in the morning. Jack didn't know if Craig's mind-set was from the stress of his upcoming testimony or a hangover from his alcohol and sleeping pills, but he had reverted to his silent, brooding sullenness, similar to how he'd been on Jack's first morning at the Bowman residence. Back then Alexis and the children had made the situation sufferable, but without them it was decidedly unpleasant.

Jack had tried to be upbeat when he'd first emerged from his basement lair but had received a cold stare for his efforts. It was only after Jack had gotten himself some cereal and milk that Craig had said anything.

"I got a call from Alexis," Craig said in a husky, forlorn voice.

"She said you two had spoken last night. Anyway the message is: The autopsy is on."

"Fine," Jack responded simply. As bad a mood as Craig seemed to be in, Jack couldn't help but wonder what he would say if Jack owned up to having gone upstairs in the middle of the night to take a look at him and listen to his breathing. Everything had seemed normal enough, so Jack had not tried to wake him, which had been his original plan. It was a good thing he hadn't, considering Craig's current disposition without the intrusion and reminder of his neediness.

After Craig was ready to leave, he partially compensated for his behavior by coming over to Jack, who was at the dining table drinking coffee and glancing at the newspaper.

"I'm sorry for being a lousy host," Craig said in a more normal voice, devoid of either superciliousness or sarcasm. "This isn't my shining moment."

Out of respect, Jack pushed back his chair and stood up. "I understand what you are going through. I've never experienced a malpractice suit, but several of my friends did back in my ophthalmology days. I know it's awful and as bad as divorce."

"It sucks," Craig said.

Then Craig did something totally unexpected. He gave Jack an awkward hug, then immediately let go before Jack had had a chance to react. He avoided looking Jack in the eyes while he adjusted his suit jacket. "For what it's worth, I appreciate you coming up here. Thanks for your efforts, and I'm sorry you had to take a couple of whacks for me."

"I'm glad to have done it," Jack said, struggling to avoid sarcastically saying, "My pleasure." He hated being less than truthful, but he'd been caught off guard by the switch in Craig's behavior.

"Will I see you in the courtroom?"

"At some point."

"All right. See you then."

Jack watched Craig leave. Once again, he'd underestimated the man.

Jack went down to his basement guest room and put his belongings in his carry-on bag. He didn't know what to do about the bed linens. He ended up stripping them off the bed and leaving them and the towels in a heap. He folded the blankets. There was a notepad by the phone. He wrote a short thank-you note and put it on the blankets. He debated about the front door key but decided to keep it and give it back in person when he returned the case file to Alexis. He wanted to keep the case file until after the autopsy, in case the autopsy raised questions that the case file could shed light on or answer. He pulled on his jacket. He could feel the gun in one side and his cell phone on the other.

With the bulging manila envelope under one arm and his carry-on in the other hand, Jack climbed the stairs and opened the front door. Although the weather had been terrific since he'd been in Boston, it had taken a decided turn for the worse. It was darkly overcast and raining. Jack eyed his Hyundai. It was about fifty soggy feet away. Just to the side of the door was an umbrella stand. Jack pulled one out that said Ritz-Carlton. There was no reason he couldn't give it to Alexis when he returned the other things.

With the umbrella, it took several trips leaping over puddles to get his things in the car. When all was ready, he started the engine, turned on the wipers, and cleared away the windshield's mist with the side of his hand. He then backed out of the driveway, waved to the policeman sitting in his cruiser, apparently watching the house, and accelerated down the street.

He had to use his hand to clear the windshield mist again after only a short distance. With one eye on the road, he used the other to locate the defrost button. Once the defrost got up to speed, the mist problem abated. To help, Jack cracked the driver's-side window.

As Jack wound his way through the suburban streets, traffic gradually increased. Due to the dark, low cloud cover, many cars had their lights on. When he got to the entrance to the Massachusetts Turnpike, where he had to wait for a traffic light, he was reminded it was rush hour. Ahead, the toll road was swarming with racing autos, buses, and trucks creating a swirling, vaporous mist. Jack girded himself to enter the fray as he waited for the light to turn green. He was aware he was not a particularly good driver, especially since he rarely drove after moving to New York City a decade ago. Jack much preferred his beloved mountain bike, even though most people thought it dangerous to bike in city traffic.

The next thing Jack knew, something crashed into his car's rear, causing his head to bounce off his headrest. The moment he had recovered enough, he twisted in his seat to look out the water-streaked back window. He couldn't see much other than a large black vehicle pressed up against the rear of his. It was at this point that Jack realized his car was moving forward despite his foot continuing to compress the brake pedal.

Twisting back around to face forward, Jack's heart skipped a beat. He was being pushed through the red light! Outside, he could hear the horrid grating noise of his locked wheels against the pebble-strewn macadam as well as the growl of the powerful engine propelling him. The next thing Jack was aware of was a headlight bearing down on him from his left and a car horn blaring a dire warning. Then came a harrowing, screeching sound of rubber against pavement, followed by the glaring headlights being diverted ahead.

Reflexively Jack's eyes closed, expecting an impact into his car's left side. When it came, it was more of a brush than a crash, and Jack became aware of the water-blurred image of a car pressed sideways against his Hyundai alongside his driver's-side door. There was a scraping of metal against metal.

Jack lifted his foot from the brake, thinking the brake was not working and needed to be pumped. The second he did so, his car shot forward toward the press of racing cars on the turnpike. Jack jammed his foot back down on the brake pedal. He could feel his wheels lock and the grating sound of his tires against the road's surface reoccurred, but his forward speed did not lessen. Jack glanced behind him again. The large black car was ineluctably pushing him toward the dangerous toll road that was less than fifty feet away. Just before spinning his head around to face forward yet again, he caught sight of the pushing car's hood ornament. Although the fleeting image was indistinct in the fog and drizzle, Jack saw that it consisted of two crescent-shaped sprigs bordering a coat of arms. He instantly made the association. It was the hood ornament of a Cadillac, and in Jack's mind, a black Cadillac meant Franco until proven otherwise.

Since the brake was useless against the Cadillac's excessive horsepower, Jack released it and stomped on the accelerator instead. The Accent responded nimbly. There was another agonizing sound of metal against metal, and with a perceptible pop, the Hyundai managed to detach itself from its bullying fellow automobile.

Gripping the steering wheel in desperation, Jack merged into the four lanes of speeding highway traffic like he'd never merged before. At the last second, he actually closed his eyes, since there was no shoulder on that part of the road, so there was no choice but to join the stream of cars in the far right-hand lane. Although the Boston drivers had seemed overly aggressive to Jack during his previous driving experiences, he had to give them credit for being alert and for having rapid reflexes. Despite a cacophony of horn blowing and screeching tires, Jack's car managed to merge into the traffic. When he blinked his eyes open, he found himself compressed between two vehicles with no more than six feet in front and seemingly inches behind. Unfortunately, the car behind was an intimidating Hummer, and it stayed where it was, suggesting the driver was venomously angry.

Jack tried to adjust his speed exactly equal to the car in front, despite feeling it was much too fast for the weather. He felt he had little choice. He was reluctant to slow down for fear the Hummer would ram him in a similar fashion as the black Cadillac had. Meanwhile, he frantically tried to search for the Cadillac in his side and rearview mirrors, but it wasn't easy. It required taking his eyes off the car in front, which was nothing but a hazy blur despite the windshield wipers working at top speed. Jack didn't see the Cadillac, but he did catch glimpses of the Hummer driver alternately shaking his fist and giving him the finger when he sensed Jack was looking in his direction.

The need to concentrate on driving was not the only handicap in the search for his vehicular assailant. Whirling eddies of fog and water vapor were whipped up into a frenzy by the rushing vehicles, particularly the trucks whose eighteen wheels, each almost the size of Jack's car, flailed against the wet pavement, sending billows of mist into the air around the edges of their mud flaps.

Suddenly, to Jack's right a short stretch of shoulder appeared as a turnout for disabled vehicles. He had to make a snap decision, since the length of the turnout was not long, and at the speed his car and the others were traveling, the opportunity would soon be lost. Impulsively, Jack veered to the right out of the line of traffic, jammed on the brake, then fought against the car's tendency to skid first one way, then the other.

With great relief, Jack was able to bring the car to a stop, but he didn't get a moment to rest. In the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the black Cadillac pulling out of the lines of traffic exactly as he had.

Jack sucked in a chestful of air, gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, and stomped the accelerator to the floor. The acceleration wasn't neck-snapping, but it was still impressive. Ahead, the fenced end of the pullout rapidly loomed, forcing Jack again to merge abruptly into the traffic. This time it wasn't blind, but it caused the same fury in the driver behind. Yet with the Cadillac obviously still in pursuit, Jack didn't concern himself. In fact, there was a good side. The man continued to express his anger by riding Jack's tail. Under normal circumstances, Jack would have considered such a situation dangerous and irritating. But now it meant that there was no room for the Cadillac, which would have been far worse than a mere irate driver.

Jack knew that coming ahead some miles down the road was his turnoff that surprisingly forked from the far left lane. Not too far beyond that were tollbooths marking the end of the toll road. Jack tried to reason which was better. The tollbooths meant staff and maybe even State Troopers, which was good, but it also meant long lines, which was bad. Although David Thomas had relieved Franco of his gun, Jack knew the man undoubtedly had access to others. If Franco was crazy enough to ram him in an attempt to push him out into traffic, Jack felt he'd have little qualms about shooting at him. The exit road had less staff and no troopers, which was bad, but no lines, particularly in two fast lanes, which was good.

As Jack was weighing these possibilities, he'd been vaguely aware that some distance beyond the buildings spanning the toll road, a true shoulder appeared. He'd not thought much about it since he had no intention of pulling out of the traffic for a second time. What he'd not considered was the Cadillac using the breakdown lane to catch up.

It wasn't until the Cadillac pulled alongside that Jack caught sight of it. And when he did, he saw that its driver's-side window was down. More important, Franco was driving with one hand. In his other hand was a gun, which he proceeded to stick out the window. Jack touched his brakes and simultaneously his passengerside window shattered into a million pieces and a bullet hole appeared in the plastic cover over the windshield support to Jack's immediate left.

The man behind Jack was back to blowing his horn continuously in utter exasperation. Jack could fully understand his agitation. He was also impressed the man had been able to avoid a collision, making Jack vow never to complain about Boston drivers ever again.

The next instant after Jack had touched his brake, he pressed the accelerator to the floor and used his newly developed merging technique to move laterally across several lanes of traffic. Now everybody around him was beeping to beat the band. Jack couldn't rest on his laurels since Franco had pulled an even greater merging feat and was now in the same lane as Jack with only one vehicle between them. Ahead, Jack saw the sign for his turnoff, Allston-Cambridge Left Lane, rapidly approach and then whip by. Impulsively, he made a snap decision that depended on his agile, compact Accent being able to make a tighter, high-speed turn than Franco's boat-like vintage Cadillac. Franco cooperated by remaining in lane, presumably avoiding using the relatively empty far-left lane to overtake Jack for fear of being forced off the road by the swiftly approaching exit.

Jack's entire body tensed as he fixed his eyes on his goal. What he wanted to do was execute a left turn as sharp as he could into the exit without rolling the car and clear a triangle of barrel-sized yellow plastic containers placed to cushion any vehicles destined to hit the concrete exit abutment. What he hoped was that Franco would have to sail on past.

At what he hoped was the proper instant, Jack whipped the steering wheel counterclockwise. He heard the tires screech in protest and felt the powerful centrifugal force attempting to fish-tail the car or cause it to flip. Tentatively, he touched the brake, not knowing if it helped or hindered. For a second it felt as if the car was on two wheels, but it straightened itself and agilely missed the protective canisters with several feet to spare.

Rapidly throwing the steering wheel in the opposite direction, Jack straightened the car on the exit, heading for the line of toll-booths directly ahead. He began to brake. At that point, he glanced into the mirror just in time to see Franco slam sideways into the apex of yellow barrels. What was most impressive was that the Cadillac was already upside down, ostensibly having immediately rolled when Franco tried to follow Jack.

Jack winced at the force of the impact, which threw tires and other debris into the air. He found himself marveling at the degree of Franco's anger, which had obviously trumped any rationality.

As Jack approached the line of tollbooths, the two attendants leapt out from their stations, abandoning the drivers waiting to pay their tolls. One of the attendants was carrying a fire extinguisher. Jack checked his rearview mirror. He now saw tendrils of fire licking up the side of the upended vehicle.

With the reassurance that there was little he could do, Jack drove off. As he put some distance between himself and the whole episode beginning with Franco slamming into the back of his car, he got progressively more anxious, to the point that he was noticeably shaking. In some respects, such a response surprised him more than the experience itself had. It hadn't been that many years ago that he would have relished such a happening. Now he felt more responsible. Laurie was depending on him to stay alive and be at Riverside Church at one thirty the very next day.

When Jack pulled into the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home twenty minutes later, he'd recovered enough to recognize he had a responsibility to report what he knew about Franco's accident, although he didn't want to take time to go to the Boston police. Remaining in the car, he got out his phone and Liam Flanagan's business card, which had his cell number. Jack placed the call. When Liam answered, Jack could hear a babble of voices in the background.

"Am I calling at a bad time?" Jack asked.

"Hell, no. I'm in line in Starbucks to get my mocha latte. What's up."

Jack told the story of his latest run-in with Franco from its beginning to its dramatic and decisive conclusion.

"I've got one question," Liam said. "Did you return fire with my gun?"

"Of course not," Jack said. It was hardly the question he expected. "To tell the truth, the idea never even occurred to me."

Liam told Jack he'd relay the information to the State Troopers who patrol the turnpike, and if there were any questions, he'd have them call Jack directly.

Pleased that the reporting job was as easy as it had been, Jack leaned forward and examined the bullet hole in the car's plastic interior trim, knowing Hertz was not going to be happy. It was relatively neatly punched out, as he'd frequently seen with entrance wounds in victims' skulls. Jack inwardly shuddered at the thought of how close it had been to being his skull, which made him wonder if Franco's attacking him with his vehicle had been plan B. Plan A could have been either waiting for Jack to come out of the Bowmans' house or, worse yet, breaking into the house during the night. Maybe the police surveillance had been the deterrent, making Jack shudder anew at how sure he'd felt the previous night that there would be no intruders. Ignorance was bliss.

Making a conscious decision not to dwell on "what ifs," Jack got the umbrella from the backseat and went into the funeral home. With no services apparently scheduled, the establishment was back to its silent, sepulchral serenity, save for the barely audible Gregorian chants. Jack had to find his own way back to Harold's heavily curtained office.

"Dr. Stapleton," Harold said, seeing Jack in his doorway. "I'm afraid I have bad news."

"Please!" Jack urged. "Don't say that. I've already had a bumpy difficult morning."

"I got a call from Percy Gallaudet, the backhoe operator. The cemetery has him on another job, then he's going off-site to dig out someone's sewer line. He said he won't be able to get to your job until tomorrow."

Jack took a breath and looked away for a moment to calm himself. Harold's unctuous manner made this new hurdle that much more difficult to bear. "Okay," Jack said slowly. "How about we get another backhoe. There must be more than one in the area."

"There are a lot, but only one is currently acceptable to Walter Strasser, the superintendent of the Park Meadow Cemetery."

"Are there kickbacks involved?" Jack said, more as a statement than a question. Only one backhoe operator smelled suspiciously like small-town graft.

"Heaven knows, but the reality is that we are stuck with Percy Gallaudet."

"Shit!" Jack exclaimed. There wasn't any way he could do the autopsy in the morning and still be at the Riverside Church at one thirty in the afternoon.

"There's another problem," Harold said. "The vault company's truck is not available tomorrow, and I had to call them and tell them we were not going to use them today."

"Wonderful!" Jack commented sarcastically. He took another breath. "Let's go over this carefully so we know what our options are. Is there some way we can accomplish this without the vault company?"

"Absolutely not," Harold said indignantly. "It would mean leaving the vault in the ground."

"Hey, I don't mind if the vault stays put. Why do you have to take it out anyway?"

"That's the way it is done. It is a top-of-the-line vault stipulated by the late Mr. Stanhope. The one-piece lid has to be removed with care."

"Couldn't the lid be removed without lifting the whole vault?"

"It could, I suppose, but it might crack."

"So what difference would that make?" Jack questioned, losing patience. He felt that burial practices in general were bizarre and was a fan of cremation. All someone had to do was look at mummies of Egyptian pharaohs gruesomely on display to realize allowing one's earthly remains to hang around was not necessarily a good idea.

"A crack could compromise the seal," Harold said with renewed indignation.

"I'm getting the picture the vault can be left in the ground," Jack said. "I'll take responsibility. If the lid cracks, we can get a new one. I'm certain that would please the vault company."

"I suppose," Harold said, moderating his stance.

"I'm going to go and personally speak to Percy and Walter and see if I can resolve this impasse."

"As you wish. Just keep me informed. I must be present if and when the vault is opened."

"I'll be sure to do that," Jack said. "Can you give me directions to the Park Meadow?"

Jack walked out of the funeral home in a different frame of mind than he was when he had gone in. He was now irritated as well as overstimulated. Three things that never failed to rile him were bureaucracy, incompetence, and stupidity, especially when they occurred together, which they often did. Getting Patience Stanhope out of the ground was proving to be more arduous than he had expected when he first insouciantly suggested doing a postmortem.

When he got to the car he looked at it critically for the first time since the turnpike ordeal. Besides the broken window and the bullet in the windshield post, the whole left side was scraped and dented, and the rear was pushed in. The back was so damaged he feared he might not be able to open the trunk. Luckily, his fears were unfounded when he was able to pop the lid. He wanted to be certain he'd have access to the autopsy materials Latasha had given him. What Hertz's reaction was going to be to all the damage he didn't want to think about, although he was happy he'd opted for full insurance.

Once inside the car he got out the map and, combining it with Harold's directions, he was able to plot his route. The cemetery wasn't far, and he found it without much effort or incident. It dominated a hill within sight of an impressive religious institution that looked similar to a college with numerous separate buildings. The cemetery was quite pleasant, even in the rain, and looked like a park with headstones. The main gate was an elaborate stone structure that spanned the entrance road and bristled with statuary of the prophets. The individual gates were black, cast-iron grates and would have been forbidding except that they were permanently propped open. The entire cemetery was encircled with a fence that matched the entranceway gates.

Just beyond the portal and tucked behind it was a Gothic building comprising an office and multi-bay garage. It stood on a cobblestoned area from which roads led up into the cemetery proper. Jack parked his car and walked through the open door of the office. There were two people at two desks. The rest of the furniture included several old four-drawer metal filing cabinets and a library table with captain's chairs. On the wall was a large map of the cemetery depicting all the separate plots.

"Can I help you?" a dowdy woman asked. She was neither friendly nor unfriendly as she gave Jack an appraising look. It was a deportment Jack was beginning to associate with New England.

"I'm looking for Walter Strasser," Jack said.

The woman pointed toward the man without looking at him or back at Jack. She had already returned her attention to her monitor screen.

Jack stepped over to the man's desk. He was of indeterminate late middle age and corpulent enough to suggest he indulged in his share of the seven deadly sins, particularly gluttony and sloth. He was sitting stolidly at the desk with his hands clasped over his impressive girth. His full face was red like an apple.

"Are you Mr. Strasser?" Jack asked when the man made no attempt to speak or move.

"I am.

Jack made a rapid introduction that included flashing his official ME badge. He went on to explain his need to examine the late Patience Stanhope to help with a civil lawsuit and that the required permits had been obtained for the exhumation. He said all he needed was the corpse.

"Mr. Harold Langley has spoken to me about this issue at length," Walter said.

Thanks for telling me straight off, Jack thought but did not say. Instead, he asked, "Did he also mention there's a scheduling problem? We had planned on the exhumation happening today."

"Mr. Gallaudet has a conflict. I told him to call Mr. Langley this morning and explain the situation."

"I got the message. Why I came over here in person is to see if some small extra consideration for your efforts and for Mr. Gallaudet's could get the exhumation back on today's schedule. I'm afraid I must leave town this evening…" Jack trailed off with his vague offer of a bribe, hoping that covetousness was as much a part of Walter's foibles as gluttony seemed to be.

"What kind of extra consideration?" Walter asked, to Jack's gratification. The man's eyes flicked warily toward the woman, suggesting she was not to be party to his shenanigans.

"I was thinking of double the usual fee in cash."

"There's no problem from this end," Walter said. "But you'll have to talk with Percy."

"How about another backhoe?"

Walter chewed on the suggestion for a moment, then declined. "Sorry! Percy has a long association with Park Meadow. He knows and respects our rules and regulations."

"I understand," Jack said agreeably while guessing Percy's long association most likely had more to do with kickbacks than with rules and regulations. But Jack was not going to belabor the issue unless he struck out with Percy. "Word is that Mr. Gallaudet is doing work on-site as we speak."

"He's up by the big maple tree with Enrique and Cesar, preparing for a noontime burial."

"Who are Enrique and Cesar?"

"They are our caretakers."

"Can I drive up there?"

"By all means."

As Jack drove up the hill, the rain lessened and then conveniently stopped. He was relieved, since he was driving without a passenger-side window, thanks to Franco.

Jack turned off the windshield wipers. As he rose, he got a progressively better view of the surrounding area. To the west near the horizon was a band of clear sky promising better weather in the near future.

Jack found Percy and the others near the crest of the hill. Percy was in the glass-enclosed cab of his backhoe, scooping out a grave, while the two caretakers looked on, leaning on long-handled shovels. Percy had the backhoe's scoop down in the deep trench, and the vehicle's diesel engine was straining to draw it near and then up and out. The fresh soil was piled in a cone on a large, waterproof tarpaulin. A white pickup truck with the cemetery's name stenciled on the door was pulled to the side.

Jack parked his car and walked over to the backhoe. He tried to get Percy's attention by shouting his name, but the roar of the diesel drowned him out. It wasn't until he rapped on the glass of the cab that Percy became aware he was being accosted. Percy immediately eased up on the controls, and the diesel's roar became a more bearable purr. Percy opened the cab's door.

"What's up?" he yelled as if the backhoe's engine was still making considerable racket.

"I need to talk to you about a job," Jack yelled back.

Percy bounced out of the cab. He was a short, squirrelly man who moved in sudden, quick jerks and had a perpetually questioning expression on his face, with fixed raised eyebrows and a furrowed forehead. His hair was short but spiked, and both forearms were heavily tattooed.

"What kind of job?" Percy asked.

Jack went through an even more elaborate introduction and explanation than he had used with Walter Strasser, in hope of evoking whatever pathos Percy might have possessed in order to reschedule Patience Stanhope's resurrection for that day. Unfortunately, it didn't work.

"Sorry, man," Percy said. "After this job, I got a buddy with a backed-up sewer and newborn twins."

"I heard you were busy," Jack said. "But as I told Mr. Strasser, I'm willing to pay double the fee in cash to get it done today."

"And what did Mr. Strasser say?"

"He said there was no problem from his end."

Percy's eyebrows hiked up a smidgen as he mulled over Jack's offer. "So you are willing to pay twice the cemetery fee and twice my fee?"

"Only if it gets done today."

"I still have to dig out my buddy," Percy said. "It would have to be after that."

"So what time would you be able to do it?"

Percy pursed his lips and nodded his head as he pondered. He checked his watch. "For sure, it would be after two."

"But it will get done?" Jack questioned. He had to be certain.

"It'll get done," Percy promised. "I just don't know what I'm going to run into with my buddy's sewer. If that goes fast, I could be back here around two. If there's a problem, then it's anybody's guess."

"But you'll still do it even if it is late in the afternoon."

"Absolutely," Percy said. "For twice my usual fee."

Jack stuck out his hand. Percy gave it a quick shake. While Jack returned to his beat-up car, Percy climbed back into his backhoe's cab. Before Jack started the engine, he called Harold Langley.

"Here's the story," Jack said in a voice that implied there was no room for discussion. "We're back on for digging up Patience sometime after two this afternoon."

"You don't have a more precise time?"

"It's going to be after Mr. Gallaudet finishes what he has scheduled. That's all I can tell you at the moment."

"I only need a half-hour's notice," Harold said. "I'll meet you graveside."

"Fine," Jack said. He struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Considering the fee he would be paying the Langley-Peerson Funeral Home, he felt Harold should be the one out running around and strong-arming Walter Strasser and Percy Gallaudet.

With the sound of Percy's backhoe grinding away, Jack tried to think of what else he had to do. He checked his watch. It was close to ten thirty. The way things were going, Jack's intuition told him that he'd be lucky to get Patience Stanhope back to the Langley-Peerson Home in the mid- to late afternoon, which meant that Dr. Latasha Wylie might be available. He wasn't sure her offer to help was entirely sincere, but he thought he'd give her the benefit of the doubt. With help the case would go faster, and he'd have someone to bounce ideas off of and to offer opinions. He also wanted the bone saw she offered to bring. Although he didn't think that the brain would be important in this particular case, Jack hated to do anything half-assed. More important, he thought there might be a chance he would want to use a microscope or a dissecting scope, and Latasha's presence would make that a viable possibility. Most important was her boss's offer of help with toxicology, which Latasha would be able to make happen. Now that Jack had the idea of an overdose or a wrong medication given at the hospital, he definitely wanted a toxicology screen, and he'd need it done immediately for it to be included in the report.

Such thoughts made Jack concede a distinct possibility that he had been unconsciously avoiding, namely, that there was a good chance he might not make the last shuttle flight from Boston to New York, meaning he'd be forced to fly in the morning. Since he knew the first flights were at the crack of dawn, there was no worry about making the one thirty church service, even with a stop at the apartment for his tuxedo. The concern was telling Laurie.

Acknowledging that he was not up to such a conversation and rationalizing that he didn't know for sure he wouldn't make the flight that evening, Jack opted not to try to phone at that time. He rationalized further that it would be far better to speak to her when he had definitive information.

Leaning to the side to facilitate getting his wallet from his back pocket, Jack got out Latasha Wylie's card and dialed her cell number. Considering the time, he wasn't surprised he got her voicemail. Undoubtedly, she was in the autopsy room. The message he left was simple. The exhumation was delayed, so the autopsy would be late in the afternoon, and he'd love to have help if she was inclined. He left his cell phone number.

With his telephoning out of the way, Jack switched his attention to a practical problem. Thanks to his amateurish bribing of

Walter and Percy in which he'd obviously offered too much considering how rapidly they had accepted, he was now obligated to come up with the promised cash. The twenty or thirty dollars he normally carried in his wallet wasn't going to get him far. But cash wasn't a problem, thanks to his credit card. All he needed was an ATM, and there had to be plenty in the city.

When Jack had done everything he could think of, he resigned himself to going back to the courtroom. He wasn't excited about the idea. He'd seen quite enough of his sister being humiliated, and the initial slight twinge of schadenfreude he'd felt but barely admitted to himself at Craig's comeuppance had long since disappeared. Jack had come to have strong empathy for both individuals and found it distasteful to witness them being skewered and their relationship debased by the likes of Tony Fasano for his venal self-interest.

On the other hand, Jack had promised both individuals he'd show up, and both had in their own ways expressed appreciation for his being there. With these thoughts in mind, Jack started his rent-a-car, managed a three-point turn, and drove out of the cemetery. Just outside the elaborate statue-encrusted gate, he pulled to the side of the road to glance at the map. It was a good thing, because he immediately discerned there was a much better way to get into Boston proper than retracing the route back past the funeral home.

Once under way, Jack found himself smiling. He wasn't quite laughing, but he was suddenly amused. He'd been to Boston for two and a half days, had been racking his brain over a senseless medical malpractice lawsuit, had been slapped and punched, had been shot at, and had been terrorized by a thug in a black Cadillac, and yet had, in reality, accomplished nothing. There was a kind of comic irony to the whole affair that appealed to his admittedly warped sense of humor.

Then another thought occurred to him. He'd become progressively concerned about Laurie's response to his being delayed in Boston to the point that he had become progressively reluctant to talk with her for fear of her response. But he wasn't concerned about the delay itself. If doing the autopsy forced him to fly to New York in the morning, he had to acknowledge that he might not make the wedding. Even though the chances were small that that would be the case, since there was a flight scheduled every thirty minutes from six thirty a.m. on, the probability was not zero, yet it didn't bother him. And the fact that it didn't bother him made him question his unconscious motivations. He loved Laurie, of that he was certain, and he believed he wanted to remarry. So why wasn't he more concerned?

Jack had no answers other than a concession that life was more complicated than his usual devil-may-care attitude would suggest. He apparently functioned on multiple levels, some of which were guarded if not actively suppressed.

With no cars chasing him, no misty fog to negotiate, and no rush-hour traffic, Jack made excellent time driving into downtown Boston. Even though he was approaching from a new direction, he was able to stumble onto the Boston Public Garden and the Boston Common where the two were bisected by Charles Street. And once he found that, he'd also found the underground garage he'd previously used.

After parking the car, Jack walked back to the attendant and asked about an ATM. He was directed to the commercial section of Charles Street and found the machine across from the hardware store where he'd purchased the unused pepper spray. With the upper limit of cash he could withdraw in hand, Jack followed his previous day's route in reverse. He walked up Beacon Hill, enjoying the neighborly ambience of the handsome town houses, many with carefully cultivated window boxes overflowing with flowers.

The recent rain had washed the streets and the bricked sidewalks. The overcast sky made him aware of something he'd not noticed in the sunlight the day before: The nineteenth-century gas lamps were all ablaze, apparently day in, day out.

Pushing into the courtroom, Jack hesitated by the exit. Superficially, the scene looked exactly as he'd left it the afternoon before, except that Craig was on the stand instead of Leona. There was the same cast of characters mirroring the same attitudes. The jurors were impassive, as if they were cutout figures, save for the plumber's assistant, who made examining his nails a continuous endeavor. The judge was preoccupied with the papers on his desk, similar to the day before, and the spectators were contrarily attentive.

As Jack's eyes scanned the spectators, he saw Alexis in her usual spot with a seat next to her apparently saved for him. On the opposite side of the spectator gallery in the spot normally occupied by Franco sat Antonio. He was a smaller version of Franco but significantly more handsome. He was now wearing the Fasano team apparel: gray suit, black shirt, and black tie. Although Jack had been reasonably confident Franco would be out of the picture for a few days, he wondered if he'd have trouble with Antonio. He also wondered if either Franco or Antonio or both had anything to do with the assault on Craig's children.

Appropriately excusing himself, Craig moved into the aisle where Alexis was sitting at the very end, the closest seat to the jury box. She saw him coming and flashed a quick, nervous smile. Jack didn't take it as auspicious. She gathered up her belongings so he could sit. They gripped hands briefly before he sat.

"How's it going?" Jack whispered, leaning toward her.

"Better now that Randolph is doing the cross."

"What happened with Tony Fasano on the direct?"

Alexis cast a fleeting glance at Jack, betraying her anxiousness. Her facial muscles were tense, and her eyes were more wide open than usual. She had her hands tightly clasped in her lap.

"Not good?" Jack questioned.

"It was terrible," Alexis admitted. "The only positive thing that could be said was that Craig's testimony was consistent with his deposition. In no way did he contradict himself."

"Don't tell me he got angry: not after all that rehearsal."

"He got furious after only an hour or so, and it was downhill from there. Tony knew his buttons, and he pressed every one. The worst part was when Craig told Tony he had no right to criticize nor question doctors who were sacrificing their lives to take care of their patients. Craig then went on to call Tony a despicable ambulance-chaser."

"Not good," Jack said. "Even if it is true."

"It got worse," Alexis said forcibly, raising her voice.

"Excuse me," a voice said from behind. Someone had tapped Jack on the shoulder.

"We can't hear the testimony," the spectator complained.

"Sorry," Jack said. He turned back to Alexis. "Want to step out into the hall for a moment?"

Alexis nodded. She obviously needed a break.

They stood up. Alexis left her things. They worked their way to the main aisle. Jack opened the heavy courtroom door as quietly as possible. In the elevator lobby, they sat on a leather-covered bench, hunched over, elbows on knees.

"For the life of me," Alexis muttered. "I don't see what all those voyeurs get out of watching this damn trial."

"Have you ever heard the term schadenfreude?" Jack asked, marveling he'd just been musing about it a half-hour previously in relation to his initial reaction to Craig's imbroglio.

"Remind me," Alexis suggested.

"It's German. It refers to when people exult over someone else's problems and difficulties."

"I'd forgotten the German term," Alexis said. "But the concept I'm well aware of. As prevalent as it is, we should have a word for it in English. Hell, it's what sells tabloids. Anyway, I actually know why people are in there watching Craig's ordeal. They see doctors as powerful, successful people. So don't listen to me when I carp."

"Do you feel all right?"

"Other than a headache, I'm okay."

"What about the children?"

"Apparently, they're doing fine. They think they're on vacation, skipping school and staying at Grandma's. There have been no calls on my cell. Each of them knows the number by heart, and I would have heard if there was a problem of any sort."

"I've had an eventful morning."

"Really? What's going on with the autopsy? We're in the market for a miracle."

Jack told the story of his morning's ordeal on the Massachusetts Turnpike, which Alexis listened to with a progressive drooping of her lower jaw. She was equally astounded and alarmed.

"I should be asking you if you are all right," she said when Jack described Franco's final, spectacular upside-down crash.

"I'm fine. The rent-a-car is worse for wear. I know Franco's hurting. He's probably in a hospital somewhere. I wouldn't be surprised if he's also under arrest. I reported the incident to the same Boston detective that came to the house last night. I would assume the authorities would take a dim view of discharging firearms on the Massachusetts Turnpike."

"My God," Alexis said sympathetically. "I'm sorry all this has happened to you. I can't help but feel responsible."

"No need! I'm afraid I have a penchant for trouble. It's all my own doing. But I'll tell you, everything that's happened has done nothing but fan my determination to do this damn autopsy."

"What is the status?"

Jack described his machinations with Harold Langley, Walter Strasser, and Percy Gallaudet.

"My gosh," Alexis said. "After all this effort, I hope it shows something significant."

"You and me both."

"Are you okay with possibly putting off flying to New York to tomorrow morning?"

"What has to be has to be," Jack said with a shrug. He wasn't about to get into that personally thorny issue.

"What about with your wife-to-be, Laurie?"

"I haven't told her yet," Jack admitted.

"Good lord!" Alexis commented. "This is not a good way for me to start out a relationship with a new sister-in-law."

"Let's get back to what's going on in the trial," Jack said to change the subject. "You were about to tell me how Craig's testimony got worse."

"After he castigated Tony for being a despicable ambulance-chaser, he took it upon himself to lecture the jury that they were not his peers. He said they were incapable of judging his actions, since they'd never had to try to save someone like he tried to save Patience Stanhope."

Jack slapped a hand to his forehead in stupefaction. "What was Randolph doing during this?"

"Everything he could. He was jumping up and down objecting, but to no avail. He tried to get the judge to recess, but the judge asked Craig if he needed a rest, and Craig said no, so on it went."

Jack shook his head. "Craig is his own worst enemy, although…"

"Although what?" Alexis questioned.

"Craig has a point. In some respects, he's speaking for all us doctors. I bet most every physician who's gone through the hell of a medical malpractice trial feels the same way. It's just that they would have the sense not to say it."

"Well, he sure as hell shouldn't have said it. If I were a juror fulfilling my civic responsibility and got that kind of rebuke, I'd be incensed and much more apt to buy into Tony's interpretation of events."

"Was that the worst part?"

"There were many parts that qualified for being the worst. Tony got Craig to admit he'd had some concern that the fateful house call was for a legitimate emergency, as Leona had testified, and also that a heart attack was on his list of possible diagnoses. He also got Craig to admit that driving from the Stanhope residence to Symphony Hall would take a shorter time than from the Newton Memorial Hospital, and that he was eager to get to the concert before it began to show off his trophy girlfriend. And perhaps particularly incriminating, he got Craig to admit he'd said all those unflattering things about Patience Stanhope to the tart, Leona, including that Patience's passing was a blessing for everyone."

"Whoa," Jack said with yet another shake of his head. "Not good!"

"Not good at all. Craig managed to present himself as an arrogant, uncaring M.D. who was more interested in getting to Symphony Hall on time with his sex object than doing what was right for his patient. It was exactly what Randolph told him not to do."

Jack sat up straight. "So what is Randolph doing on cross-examination?"

"Attempted damage control would be the best description. He's trying to rehabilitate Craig on each individual issue, from the PP, problem patient, designation all the way to the events that happened on the night Patience Stanhope died. When you came in, Craig was testifying to the difference between Patience's condition when he arrived at the home and the description he'd gotten from Jordan Stanhope on the phone. Randolph had already made sure that Craig told the jury that he did not say Patience Stanhope was having a heart attack when he was speaking with Jordan, but rather it was something that had to be ruled out. Of course, that was in contradiction to what Jordan had said during his testimony."

"Did you get any sense of how the jury was responding to Craig's testimony during the cross as compared with the direct?"

"They seem more impassive now than before, but that may be just my pessimistic perception. I'm not optimistic after Craig's performance on direct. Randolph has a real uphill struggle ahead of him. He told me this morning that he's going to ask Craig to tell his life's story to counter Tony's character assassination."

"Why not," Jack said. Even though he wasn't all that enthusiastic, he felt a rekindling of sympathy for Alexis and wanted to be supportive. As they returned to their seats in the courtroom, he wondered how a finding for the plaintiff would affect Alexis's relationship with Craig. Jack had never championed their union, from the first time he'd met Craig some sixteen years previously. Craig and Alexis had met while in training at the Boston Memorial Hospital and had come as houseguests to Jack's home while they were engaged. Jack had found Craig insufferably self-centered and one-dimensionally oriented toward medicine. But now that Jack had had a chance to see them together in their own environment, despite the current, difficult circumstance, he could see that they complemented each other. Alexis's very mildly histrionic and dependent character, which had been much more apparent as a child, melded well with Craig's more serious narcissism. In a lot of ways, from Jack's perspective, they complemented each other.

Jack settled back and got himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. Randolph was standing stiffly erect at the podium, exuding his normal blue-blooded resplendence. Craig was in the witness box, leaning slightly forward, his shoulders rounded. Randolph 's voice was crisply articulate, melodic, and slightly sibilant. Craig's was vapid, as if he'd been in an argument and was now exhausted.

Jack felt Alexis's hand insinuate itself between his elbow and his side and then move forward to grab his hand. He squeezed in return, and they exchanged a fleeting smile.

"Dr. Bowman," Randolph intoned. "You've wanted to be a doctor since you were given a toy doctor's kit at age four and proceeded to administer to your parents and older brother. But I understand there was a particular event in your childhood that especially firmed this altruistic career choice. Would you tell the court about this episode."

Craig cleared his throat. "I was fifteen years old and in tenth grade. I was a manager for the football team. I'd tried to make the team but didn't, which was a big disappointment for my father, since my older brother had been a star player. So I was the manager, which was nothing more than the water boy. During the timeouts, I ran onto the field with a bucket, ladle, and paper cups. During a home game, one of our players was hurt and a time-out was called. I dashed onto the field with the bucket, but as I drew near I could see the injured player was a friend of mine. Instead of carrying my bucket to the huddle of players, I ran to my friend. I was the first one from the sidelines to get to him, and what I confronted was disturbing. He had badly broken his leg such that his cleated foot stuck off in a markedly abnormal direction, and he was writhing in agony. I was so struck by his need and my inability to help him that I decided on the spot that not only did I want to become a doctor, I had to become a doctor."

"That is a heartrending story," Randolph said, "and stirring because of your immediate compassionate impulse and the fact that it motivated you to follow what was to be a difficult path. Becoming a doctor was not easy for you, Dr. Bowman, and that al-truistic urge you so eloquently described had to be strong indeed to propel you over the obstacles you faced. Could you tell the court something of your inspiring Horatio Alger story?"

Craig perceptively straightened in the witness chair.

"Objection," Tony shouted, getting to his feet. "Immaterial."

Judge Davidson took off his reading glasses. "Counsels, approach the bench."

Dutifully, Randolph and Tony congregated to the judge's right.

"Listen!" Judge Davidson said, pointing his glasses at Tony. "You made character a centerpiece of the plaintiff's case. I allowed that, over Mr. Bingham's objection, with the proviso you established foundation, which I believe you did. What's good for the goose is good for the gander. The jury has every right to hear about Dr. Bowman's motivations and training. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Tony said.

"And furthermore, I don't want to hear a flurry of objections in this regard."

"I understand, Your Honor," Tony said.

Tony and Randolph retreated to their original spots, with Tony at the plaintiff's table and Randolph at the podium.

"Objection overruled," Judge Davidson called out for the court recorder's benefit. "Witness may proceed to answer the question."

"Do you recall the question?" Randolph asked.

"I should hope so," Craig said. "Where should I begin?"

"At the beginning would be appropriate," Randolph said. "I understand you did not get parental support."

"At least not from my father, and he ruled the house with an iron fist. He was resentful of us kids, particularly me, since I wasn't the football or hockey prodigy like my older brother, Leonard Junior. My father thought I was a 'candy ass,' and told me so on multiple occasions. When my browbeaten mother let it slip that I wanted to be a doctor, he said it would be over his dead body."

"Did he use those exact terms?"

"Absolutely! My father was a plumber who was dismissive of all professionals, which he labeled as a collective bunch of thieves. There was no way he wanted a son of his to become part of such a world, especially since he never finished high school. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, no one in my family on either side went to college, including my own brother, who ended up taking over my father's plumbing business."

"So your father wasn't supportive of your academic interests."

Craig laughed mirthlessly. "I was a closet reader as a youngster. I had to be. There were occasions on which my father whacked me around when he caught me reading instead of doing things around the house. When I got report cards, I had to hide them from my father and have my mother sign them secretly because I got all A's. With most of my friends, it was the other way around."

"Was it easier when you got to college?"

"In some ways yes and some ways no. He was disgusted with me, and instead of calling me a 'candy ass,' I became a 'highfalutin' ass'. He was embarrassed to talk about me to his friends. The biggest problem was that he refused to fill out the financial forms necessary to apply for a scholarship and, of course, refused to contribute a cent."

"How were you able to pay for college?"

"I relied on a combination of loans, scholastic awards, and every type of job I could manage to get and still keep a four-point-oh grade point average. The first couple of years it was mostly restaurant work, washing dishes and waiting tables. During the last two I was able to work in a variety of science labs. During summers I worked in the hospital at any job they would give me. Also, my brother helped me a little, although he couldn't do much, since he'd already started a family."

"Did your goal of medicine and your desire to help people support you during these difficult years?"

"Absolutely, especially the summer work in the hospital. I worshipped the doctors and the nurses, particularly the residents. I could not wait to become one of them."

"What happened when you got to medical school? Were your financial difficulties worse or less severe?"

"Much worse. The expenses were greater and the curriculum required more hours, essentially all day every day in contrast to college."

"How did you manage?"

"I borrowed as much as I was allowed; the rest I had to earn with a myriad of jobs all around the medical center. Luckily, jobs abounded."

"How did you find the time? Medical school is considered a full-time occupation and then some."

"I went without sleep. Well, not totally, since that is physically impossible. I learned to sleep in short snatches even during the day. It was difficult, but at least in medical school the goal was in sight, which made it easier to endure."

"What kind of jobs did you do?"

"All the usual medical center jobs like drawing blood, type and cross-matching blood, cleaning animal cages: anything and everything that could be done at night. I even worked in the medical center kitchen. Then, during the second year, I landed a terrific job with a researcher studying sodium ion channels in nerve and muscle cells. I've even kept up that work today."

"With such a busy schedule in medical school, how were your grades?"

"Excellent. I was in the top ten percent of my class and a member of the Alpha Omega Alpha honorary scholastic society."

"What do you consider your biggest sacrifice? Was it the chronic lack of sleep?"

"No! It was the lack of any time for social contact. My classmates had time to interact and discuss the experience. Medical school is quite intense. During my third year, I was conflicted about whether to go into academic/basic-science medicine or clinical medicine. I would have loved to debate the pros and cons and have the benefit of others' opinions. I had to make the decision myself."

"And how did you make the decision?"

"I realized I liked taking care of people. There was an immediate gratification that I savored."

"So it was the contact with individuals that you found enjoyable and rewarding."

"Yes, and the challenge of coming up with the differential diagnoses, as well as the paradigm for narrowing the field."

"But it was the contact with the people and helping them that you cherished."

"Objection," Tony said. He had been progressively fidgeting. "Repetitious."

"Sustained," Judge Davidson said with a tired voice. "No need to belabor the point, Mr. Bingham. I am confident the jury has gotten it."

"Tell us about your residency training," Randolph said.

"That was a joy," Craig said. He was now sitting up straight, with his shoulders back. "Because of my grade point average, I was accepted to train at the prestigious Boston Memorial Hospital. It was a wonderful learning environment, and suddenly I was being paid, not a lot of money, but some. Equally important, I was no longer paying tuition, so I could begin to pay off the shocking debt I'd assumed from college and medical school."

"Did you continue to enjoy the necessarily close bonds that had to form between you and your patients?"

"Absolutely. That was by far the most rewarding part."

"Now tell us about your practice. I understand there were some disappointments."

"Not at first! Initially, my practice was everything I had dreamed it would be. I was busy and stimulated. I enjoyed going in each and every day. My patients were challenging intellectually and appreciative. But then the insurance companies began to withhold payments, often needlessly challenging certain charges, making it progressively difficult to do what was best for my patients. Receipts began to fall while costs continued to rise. In order to keep the doors open, I had to increase productivity, which is a euphemism for seeing more patients per hour. I was able to do this, but as it continued, I became progressively concerned about quality."

"I understand that your style of practice changed at that point."

"It changed dramatically. I was approached by an older, revered physician who was practicing concierge medicine but who was having health issues. He offered me a partnership."

"Excuse me for interrupting," Randolph said. "Perhaps you could refresh for the jurors the meaning of the term 'concierge medicine.'"

"It's a practice style in which the physician agrees to limit the practice size to offer extraordinary accessibility for an annual retainer fee."

"Does extraordinary accessibility include house calls?"

"It can. It's up to the doctor and the patient."

"What you are saying is that with concierge medicine, the doctor can tailor the service to the needs of the patient. Is that correct?"

"It is. Two fundamental principles of good patient care are the principle of patient welfare and the principle of patient autonomy. Seeing too many patients per hour threatens to violate these principles, since everything is rushed. When the doctor is pressed for time, the interview has to be forced, and when that happens, the patient's narrative is lost, which is tragic, since it is often within the narrative that the critical facts of the case are hidden. In a concierge practice, like mine, I can vary the time I spend with the patient and the location of the service according to the patient's needs and wishes."

"Dr. Bowman, is the practice of medicine an art or a science?"

"It is definitely an art, but it is based on a bedrock of proven science."

"Can medicine be appropriately practiced from a book?"

"No, it cannot. There are no two people alike in the world. Medicine has to be tailored for each patient individually. Also, books are invariably outdated by the time they come on the market. Medical knowledge is expanding at an exponential rate."

"Does judgment play a role in the practice of medicine?"

"Absolutely. In every medical decision, judgment is paramount."

"Was it your medical judgment that Patience Stanhope was best served by your making a visit to her home on the evening of September eighth, 2005."

"Yes, it was."

"Can you explain to the jury why your judgment led you to believe this was the best course of action?"

"She detested the hospital. I was even reluctant to send her to the hospital for routine tests. Visits to the hospital inevitably exacerbated her symptoms and general anxiety. She much preferred for me to come to her home, which I had been doing almost once a week for eight months. Each time it had been a false alarm, even on those occasions when I was told by Jordan Stanhope that she believed she was dying. On the evening of September eighth, I was not told she thought she was dying. I was confident the visit would be a false alarm like all the others, yet as a doctor, I could not ignore the possibility she was truly ill. The best way to do that was to go directly to her home."

"Ms. Rattner testified that you told her en route that you thought her complaints might be legitimate. Is that true?"

"It is true, but I didn't say that I considered the chances to be extremely small. I said I was concerned because I noted slightly more concern than usual in Mr. Stanhope's voice."

"Did you tell Mr. Stanhope on the phone that you believed Mrs. Stanhope had had a heart attack?"

"No, I did not. I told him that it would have to be ruled out with any complaint of chest pain, but Mrs. Stanhope had had chest pain in the past that had proved to be insignificant."

"Did Mrs. Stanhope have a heart condition?"

"I had done a stress test several months previous to her demise that was equivocal. It wasn't enough to say she had a heart condition, but I felt strongly that she should have more definitive cardiac studies by a cardiologist at the hospital."

"Did you recommend that to the patient?"

"I strongly recommended it, but she refused, particularly since it involved going to the hospital."

"One last question, doctor," Randolph said. "In relation to your office's PP, or problem patient, designation, did that signify the patient got more attention or less attention?"

"Considerably more attention! The problem with patients so designated was that I could not relieve their symptoms, whether real or imagined. As a doctor, I found that a continual problem, hence the terminology."

"Thank you, doctor," Randolph said as he gathered up his notes. "No more questions."

"Mr. Fasano," Judge Davidson called. "Do you wish to redirect?"

"Absolutely, Your Honor," Tony barked. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the podium like a hound after a rabbit.

"Dr. Bowman, in relation to your PP patients, did you not say to your then live-in girlfriend while riding in your new red Porsche on the way to the Stanhope home on September eighth, 2005, that you couldn't stand such patients and that you thought hypochondriacs were as bad as malingerers?"

There was a pause as Craig fixed Tony with his eyes as if they were weapons.

"Doctor?" Tony asked. "Cat got your tongue, as we used to say in elementary school?"

"I don't remember," Craig said finally.

"Don't remember?" Tony questioned with exaggerated disbelief. "Oh, please, doctor, that's a too convenient excuse, especially from someone who has excelled throughout his training at remembering trivial details. Ms. Rattner certainly remembered as she testified. Perhaps you can remember telling Ms. Rattner on the evening you were served your summons for this lawsuit that you hated Patience Stanhope and that her passing was a blessing for everyone. Is that possibly something you can recall?" Tony leaned forward over the podium as much as his short stature would allow and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I said something to that effect," Craig reluctantly admitted. "I was angry."

"Of course you were angry," Tony exclaimed. "You were outraged that someone, like my bereaved client, could possibly have the gall to question whether your judgment was in keeping with the standard of care."

"Objection!" Randolph said. "Argumentative!"

"Sustained," Judge Davidson said. He glared at Tony.

"We are all impressed with your rags-to-riches story," Tony said, maintaining his disdain. "But I'm not sure what that means now, especially considering the lifestyle your patients have provided you over the years. What is the current market value of your home?"

"Objection," Randolph said. "Irrelevant and immaterial."

"Your Honor," Tony complained. "The defense presented economic testimony to attest to the defendant's commitment to become a physician. It is only reasonable for the jury to hear what economic rewards have accrued."

Judge Davidson pondered for a moment before saying, "Objection overruled. The witness may answer the question."

Tony redirected his attention at Craig. "Well?"

Craig shrugged. "Two or three million, but we didn't pay that."

"I would now like to ask you a few questions about your concierge practice," Tony said, gripping the sides of the podium tightly. "Do you believe that demanding an annual, up-front payment of thousands of dollars is beyond some patients' means?"

"Of course," Craig snapped.

"What happened to those beloved patients of yours who either could not or did not for whatever reason come up with the retainer fee that was financing your new Porsche and your sex den on Beacon Hill?"

"Objection!" Randolph said. He stood up. "Argumentative and prejudicial."

"Sustained," Judge Davidson barked. "Counsel will restrict his questions to elicit appropriate factual information and will not word his questions to float theories or arguments better left for summation. This is my last warning!"

"I'm sorry, Your Honor," Tony said before turning back to Craig. "What happened to those beloved patients whom you had been caring for over the years?"

"They had to find new doctors."

"Which I'm afraid is often easier said than done. Did you help with this chore?"

"We offered names and numbers."

"Did you just get them out of the Yellow Pages?"

"They were local physicians, with whom my staff and I were acquainted."

"Did you call these physicians?"

"In some cases."

"Which means in some cases you did not call. Dr. Bowman, did it not bother you to abandon your supposedly cherished patients who were desperate, looking to you for their health needs?"

"I didn't abandon them!" Craig spat indignantly. "I gave them choices."

"No more questions," Tony said. He rolled his eyes on the way back to the plaintiff's table.

Judge Davidson looked over his glasses at Randolph. "Does the defense wish to recross?"

"No, Your Honor," Randolph said, half rising out of his chair.

"The witness may step down," Judge Davidson said.

Craig stood, and with a deliberate step, walked back to the defense table.

The judge turned his attention to Tony. "Mr. Fasano?"

Tony stood. "Plaintiff rests, Your Honor," he said confidently before retaking his seat.

The judge's eyes swept back to Randolph.

On cue, Randolph stood up to his full patrician height. "Based on the inadequacy of the plaintiff's case and lack of evidence thereof, the defense moves to dismiss."

"Overruled," Judge Davidson said crisply. "The evidence presented is sufficient for us to go forward. When court reconvenes after a lunch break, you may call your first witness, Mr. Bingham." He then brought his gavel down sharply, and the sound echoed like a gunshot. "Recess for lunch. You are admonished again not to discuss the case among yourselves or with anyone and to withhold any opinions until the conclusion of the testimony."

"All rise," the court officer called out.

Jack and Alexis got to their feet along with everyone else in the courtroom as the judge stepped down from the bench and disappeared through the paneled side door.

"What did you think?" Jack asked while the jury was ushered out.

"I'm continually amazed at the level of Craig's apparent inner anger at these proceedings, that he has such little self-control over his behavior."

"With you being the in-house expert, I'm surprised you're surprised. Isn't it consistent with his narcissism?"

"It is, but I was hoping that with the insight he expressed yesterday at lunch, he'd be able to control himself better. When Tony merely stood up even before he started his questions, I could see Craig's expression change."

"Actually, I was asking your opinion of how Randolph orchestrated the part of the cross-examination we heard."

"Unfortunately, I don't think it was as effective as I would have hoped. It made Craig sound too preachy, like he was giving a lecture. I would have preferred the whole cross to have been punchy and direct, like it was at the end."

"I thought Randolph 's cross was pretty effective," Jack said. "I never realized Craig was such a self-made man. Working as hard as he did at gainful employment while going to medical school and still getting the grades he did is very impressive."

"But you're a doctor, not a juror, and you didn't hear Tony's direct. Craig might have struggled as a student, but from the juror's perspective, it's hard to have sympathy now that Craig and I are living in what is probably closer to being a four-million-dollar home, and Tony was very clever on his redirect, the way he brought back Craig's negative feelings about the patient, the red Porsche, the girlfriend, and the fact that he had to forsake many of his old patients."

Jack reluctantly nodded. He had been struggling to look on the bright side for Alexis's benefit. He tried a different tack: "Well, now it's Randolph 's turn in the sun. It's time for the defense to shine."

"I'm afraid there's not going to be much sunshine. All Randolph is going to do is present two or three expert witnesses, none of whom are from Boston. He said he'll be finished this afternoon. Tomorrow will be the summations." Alexis shook her head dejectedly. "Under the circumstances, I don't see how he could turn this thing around."

"He's an experienced malpractice attorney," Jack said, attempting to generate enthusiasm he didn't feel. "Experience generally prevails in the final analysis. Who knows. Maybe he has a surprise up his sleeve."

Jack didn't realize he was half-right. There was to be a surprise, but it wasn't going to come from Randolph 's sleeve.