The 5th Horseman

Chapter 28

CINDY THOMAS SAT on the back bench of courtroom 4A of the Civic Center Courthouse, squeezed between a reporter from the Modesto Bee and a stringer for the LA Times. She felt keyed-up, focused, and very, very possessive. This was her town, her story.

Her laptop was warm on her knees, and Cindy tapped at the keyboard, making notes as Maureen O’Mara’s first witness was sworn in.

“Good morning, Mr. Friedlander,” O’Mara said. The lawyer’s long auburn hair glowed against the flat blue wool of her suit. She wore a white blouse with a plain collar and a simple gold watch on the wrist of her ring-free left hand.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how old are you?” O’Mara asked her witness.

“I’m forty-four.”

Cindy was surprised. With his creased face and graying hair, she would have put Stephen Friedlander’s age at closer to sixty.

“Can you tell the Court about the night of July twenty-fifth?” O’Mara asked.

“Yes,” Friedlander said. He cleared his throat. “My son, Josh, had a grand mal seizure.”

“And how old was Josh?”

“He was seventeen. He would have been eighteen this month.”

“And when you got to the hospital, did you see your son?”

“Yes. He was still in the emergency room. Dr. Dennis Garza brought me to see him.”

“Was Josh conscious?”

Friedlander shook his head. “No.”

This prompted O’Mara to ask him to speak up for the court reporter.

“No,” he said, much louder this time. “But Dr. Garza had examined him. He told me that Josh would be back at school in a day or two, that he’d be as good as new.”

“Did you see Josh after that visit to the emergency room?” O’Mara asked.

“Yes, I saw him the next day,” Friedlander said, a smile flitting briefly across his face. “He and his girlfriend were joking with the fellow in the other bed, and I was struck by that because there was kind of a party atmosphere in the room. The other boy’s name was David Lewis.”

O’Mara smiled, too, then assumed a more sober expression when she spoke again.

“And how was Josh when you got to see him the next morning?”

“They let me see my son’s body the next morning,” Friedlander said, his voice breaking. He reached forward, clasping the rail of the witness box with his hands, the chair legs scraping the floor.

He turned his hopelessly sad and questioning eyes to the jury, and then to the judge. Tears sheeted down his furrowed cheeks.

“He was gone just like that. His body was cold to my touch. My good boy was dead.”

O’Mara put her hand on her witness’s arm to steady him. It was a moving gesture and seemed quite genuine.

“Do you need to take a moment?” she asked Friedlander, handing him a box of tissues.

“I’m all right,” he said. He cleared his throat again, dabbed at his eyes. Then he sipped from the water glass.

“I’m fine.”

O’Mara nodded, then asked him, “Were you given an explanation for Josh’s sudden death?”

“They said that his blood sugar bottomed out, and I wanted to know why. Dr. Garza said that he was mystified,” the witness said, stiffening his lips around the word, trying to control the quiver in his voice.

“I was mystified, too,” Friedlander continued. “Josh had been stabilized the day before. He’d eaten a couple of meals. Went to the bathroom without help. Then, overnight, right there in the hospital, he went into a coma and died! It made no sense.”

“Did the hospital do an autopsy on Josh?” O’Mara asked.

“I demanded it,” Friedlander said. “The whole thing was fishy—”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Kramer bellowed from his seat. “We all sympathize with the witness, but please instruct him to simply answer the questions.”

The judge nodded, then addressed the witness. “Mr. Friedlander, just tell us what happened, please.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

O’Mara smiled encouragingly at her witness. “Mr. Friedlander, were you ever given the results of the autopsy?”

“Eventually, I was.”

“And what were you told?” Maureen asked.

Friedlander exploded, his face turning the brightest red. “They said that Josh’s blood was loaded with insulin! I was told that it was injected into his IV bag sometime during the night. That Josh got that insulin by mistake. And that’s what killed him. A mistake by the hospital.”

O’Mara stole a look at the stricken faces of the jurors before asking, “I’m sorry to have to ask, Mr. Friedlander, but how did you feel when you learned about that mistake?”

“How did I feel?” Friedlander asked. “I felt like my heart had been cut out of my chest with a spoon. . . .”

“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Friedlander.”

“Josh was our only child. . . . We never expected to be in the world without him. . . . The pain never stops. . . .”

“Thank you, Mr. Friedlander. I’m sorry to have put you through this. You did just fine. Your witness,” O’Mara said, and motioned to Kramer.

The witness snatched several tissues from the box in front of him. He held them up to his face as hoarse sobs racked his body.