Paul Levine - Flesh and bones

"Unfortunately, you nailed the wrong perpetrator."

"Had I been right, we'd likely be here to discuss the murder of Guy Bernhardt," Schein fired back.

Ouch. A finely scripted answer, the handiwork of Jonas Blackwell, I was sure. I could have objected and moved to strike the nonresponsive answer, but that would have simply underlined it. Instead, I plowed ahead.

"Prior to yesterday's testimony, did you have any idea that Guy Bernhardt was the person guilty of raping Chrissy?"

"No, of course not."

"You find it hard to believe, even now, that your friend Guy is a rapist, don't you?"

"I believe the testimony is credible, but yes, it comes as a complete shock."

"Whereas you had no trouble believing that Harry Bernhardt, a man you hated, was guilty?"

"I thought he was guilty. Apparently I was wrong."

"When Chrissy was in your care, did Guy Bernhardt ever tell you he suspected his father of abusing Chrissy?"

He hesitated. "No."

Of course not. He'd already testified he hadn't discussed the therapy with Guy. He couldn't contradict that lie by telling the truth now.

"Who's that you're looking at?" I said, my voice just a notch below a holler.

"What?" Startled now.

"There, in the front row, the man in the suit taking notes." I pointed toward Jonas Blackwell as if he were a purse snatcher.

"That's my lawyer," he said softly.

"A law-yer!" Making it sound like a loathsome disease. "If you've sworn to tell the truth, why do you need a lawyer?"

"Objection, argumentative," Socolow said.

"Sustained," the judge said. "Mr. Lassiter, you know better than that." He turned toward the jury. "A witness is entitled to have a lawyer present in court, and you are not to infer anything regarding the witness's credibility from the fact that he does have a lawyer."

No problem. I'd already made my point.

"At any rate, Doctor, you now acknowledge that Chrissy Bernhardt was not raped by her father?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"But last June, you believed he was the worst kind of criminal, a man who would rape his own child."

"Yes, I believed that."

"Just as you believed he was responsible for the death of his wife, Emily, the woman you loved?"

Schein blinked. "Yes, he destroyed her life. Your client would agree with that."

"So as you drove to the hospital on June sixteenth, you were convinced that Harry Bernhardt deserved to die?"

"Objection, irrelevant," Socolow said. "The doctor's not on trial."

Not yet.

"I'll tie it up, Your Honor," I responded.

"Then I'll overrule for now."

"I'm not God," Schein said. "I don't determine who should live and who should die."

"Let's back up a bit, Doctor. At eleven-oh-five P.M. on June sixteenth, you left the Hotel Astor, rushing to get to the hospital, correct?"

"Yes, I believe I testified to that."

"And you arrived at the ICU at eleven-forty P.M., where you encountered Nurse Gettis?"

"That sounds about right."

"You drove up Alton Road to get to the hospital?"

"Yes."

"And it took thirty-five minutes to get there?"

"It was a Friday night. Traffic was heavy."

"If I told you a test drive we've done the last four Friday nights, never exceeding the speed limit, averaged twelve minutes, what would you say?"

He didn't say anything and neither did I. If I really had time to do test drives, all my exhibits would probably be in color-coded binders, too.

"Where did you stop on your way to the hospital, Dr. Schein?"

"Nowhere!" The answer was too quick and too loud. It surprised even me, but I was beginning to discover that the doctor was a bad liar. Most basically honest people are.

"I'm going to ask you again, Doctor, and if you want to consult with your lawyer before answering, I have no objection."

In other words, if you're going to lie, at least do it right.

"I don't need to consult anyone," he said, eyes flashing toward Jonas Blackwell, seeking support.

At the prosecution table, Abe Socolow watched intently. He loved to win, but deep down, he was a lot like me. He loved the truth even more.

Chrissy sat at the defense table, dressed in a short mint-green jacket with silver buttons over a matching A-line dress, her hands folded together in front of her. She chewed at her lower lip. Scared, confused, trusting me with her life. She didn't know where I was going. I hadn't told her. Early this morning, she had asked what I was doing as Cindy and I pored over a stack of prescription forms just delivered to my house from three pharmacies. Playing lawyer, I had told her. Now Cindy sat in the row of straight-backed chairs between the defense table and the bar separating the lions from the Christians. Her fingernails were painted black and embedded with silver stars like the nighttime sky. Toenails, too, judging from the planetarium view of a big toe sticking out of a straw sandal.

Thanks to Cindy, I had the ammunition, and it was time to start throwing hand grenades.

"Dr. Schein, isn't it true that you stopped at the Beach Mart Pharmacy on the way to the hospital?"

His mouth was locked tight, and the muscles of his jaws were doing isometrics. This time he didn't look at his lawyer. He looked directly at me.

Wondering.

How much did I know?

"I don't recall that." Hedging his bets.

"The pharmacy's located on Arthur Godfrey Road. It's open twenty-four hours. Does that refresh your recollection?"

"Not really."

Cindy had cased the place, and now I wanted to make it sound like my second home. "Just a little hole-in-the wall. Sunglasses up front, Russell Stover candies on a rack by the register, and a pharmacist behind bulletproof glass in back."

It wasn't a question, so he didn't answer. He was waiting, and I wanted him to wait some more. To sweat, to worry. How much does the shyster know? I know it all, Schein, and I can prove most of it.

I continued, "There's a pass-through counter in the glass wall that they hand the prescriptions through. On the inside of the counter sits a time stamp, so every time a prescription is filled, they stamp it, isn't that right?"

"I don't know." His neck was blotched with red, and I'd bet his heart was racing. Hook him up to an EKG and the stylus would draw the Himalayas.

I made a big production of going back to the defense table, opening files, looking for something, seeming to have lost it. I felt his eyes on my back. Let him sweat some more. "Ah, here it is, Doctor. Perhaps this will refresh your memory."

Sometimes I bluff, and sometimes I really hold the aces. "Your Honor, may I approach the witness?"

The judge waved me forward. On the way, I dropped a copy on Socolow's table, then handed the little rectangular form to Schein. He grabbed for it. "Can you identify that?" I asked.

He nodded.

"You'll have to answer audibly."

"It appears to be a prescription form from the Beach Mart Pharmacy."

"And that's your signature, isn't it?"

He studied it, as if trying to decipher the Axis war code. No answer. Wondering if he could deny it. Hoping for a miracle that would keep the sky from falling.

"Perhaps you remember the pharmacist as well as he remembers you," I prompted. Bluffing now. The pharmacist was on vacation in Barbados, not in the corridor waiting to testify. I hadn't been able to reach him.

"That's my signature," he said at last.

"KC1," I said. "What's that?"

"Potassium chloride." His voice was a whisper.

"What's it used for?"

"Many things. Making fertilizer, for one."

"You weren't doing some gardening that night, were you. Doctor?"

"It's a harmless substance," he blurted out. "Potassium and chloride. Both are found naturally in the body."

"Really? Then I suppose if someone was injected with potassium chloride, it wouldn't show up in a toxicology test?"