Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

"Ling is one of Peter's oldest friends," Sarah whispered. "And Gorfinkle is just a hired gun. He makes a fortune testifying against other doctors."

"I'm not surprised," Matt said. "I'm sure my ex-wife would love the chance to do to me what Ettinger is doing to you."

"Mr. Daniels," Judge Land said, with a weariness in his voice that suggested Matt might as well remain mute, "you have about five minutes to present your arguments. You know that no letters from experts or other evidence will be considered from your side at this time."

"I do know that, your Honor, yes. Thank you… Sarah, listen," he whispered. "I don't want to say anything now that will give Mallon a clue as to what part of his case we intend to home in on. As, things stand, I can't see how we can win here. So we can only hurt ourselves."

"I understand." But Sarah wasn't at all certain she did.

"Your Honor, Dr. Dunleavy, Mr. Keefe," Matt said, eschewing the pacing tactics of his opponent and allowing just a hint of drawl into his speech. "What we're all looking for today is the presentation of a prima facie case from my colleague, Mr. Mallon. But what we have gotten instead is a very impressive smoke screen. What's missing? What void is Mr. Mallon trying to hide behind all that smoke? Well, I suspect you see the answer to those questions as well as I do. He's trying to hide the fact that he has nothing that connects action taken or not taken by Dr. Sarah Baldwin with the development of DIC in Lisa Grayson.

"Frankly, with what little substantive material he has produced today, I'm surprised Mr. Mallon has the gumption even to bring this case before a tribunal. We've heard a shouldn't have from Dr. Gorfinkle and a could possibly have from Mr. Ling, but those are the weakest speculations. There's no science here, no expert saying that what this caring, dedicated physician did was wrong, and that because-because-of her alleged actions, an infant was stillborn and her mother gravely injured. Without such an expert, Mr. Mallon has failed to prove his prima facie case. On that basis, I request a dismissal of the charges against my client."

"Bravo," Sarah whispered after Matt sat down. "Bravo."

"Bullshit," he whispered back.

"What?"

"I'm the one whipping up a smoke screen. And you can see by the faces on our panel up there that they know it. Mallon's done more than he had to to win here."

The judge thanked the participants, promised to have a decision within the hour, and dismissed the tribunal.

Matt spoke not at all as they left the courthouse and headed back toward his office.

"Well?" Sarah asked finally.

"Well, what?"

"Well, what do you think?"

"Think about what?" He seemed distracted and perplexed.

"About what just went on in there, of course," she said irritably.

"I think we lost."

"So what? You told me that was going to happen before we even went in."

"That doesn't make me feel any better about it. We were pretty much hammered in there. And Mallon did it without even working up a sweat." He sank down on a curbside bench. "Sarah, listen," he went on. "Dead babies and maimed young women make juries angry. Sometimes very angry. I don't know how solid a link Mallon's going to be able to forge between Mr. Kwong's herbs and Lisa Grayson's DIC, or even if a judge is going to allow him to introduce the two other DIC cases. But my sense is that with Kwong's drug arrest, and frail, pretty, one-armed Lisa coming forward to testify, he'll be able to pluck enough emotional chords to make a jury stick the burden of proof on us. And that's a position the defense never wants to be in."

There was a nervousness about him, a tension in his eyes and the set of his jaw, that Sarah had never seen before.

"Maybe you should go right to the bottom line," she said.

He looked up, startled that she had read him so quickly and so accurately. "Well, the bottom line is that there's an option available to us that I haven't discussed with you, but that I think we ought to seriously consider."

"Namely."

Black Cat Daniels chewed at his lower lip and scuffed at a cigarette butt with the toe of his shoe.

"Namely, to quit," he said.

The three-family clapboard tenement was on a dead-end street in a decaying section of Dorchester. It was badly in need of new shingles, gutters, and a coat of paint. Lugging a heavy briefcase, Rosa Suarez trudged up the front walk. Her data-gathering was well along now, but nothing had yet emerged to explain the three DIC patients at the Medical Center of Boston.

At her urging, the CDC had sent out requests to hundreds of hospitals searching for other, similar cases. But those that had been reported so far all had logical, well-established explanations such as abruptio placentae, toxemia, or overwhelming infection.

Now, in hopes of stirring up something that she might have overlooked, Rosa was retracing some steps. She was starting with follow-up interviews with the families of the two deceased victims and later in the week with Lisa Grayson. At the same time, she planned to check and recheck the massive number of cultures she was running.

Although her supervisor had said little to her directly, the first signs of his impatience had already surfaced in the form of a brief memo. Dr. Wayne Werner, senior field epidemiologist, would be finished with his current project and would be available for reassignment in three to four weeks, it read. Anyone in the department needing Werner's help with an ongoing investigation should submit a request in writing within the next two weeks. Rosa knew that the memo was at least a demand for some sort of likely hypothesis from her, and at worst a threat that she was soon to be replaced.

The name crudely painted just above the mail slot of the first-floor flat was BARAHONA. Fredy Barahona, a laborer, was home all day, every day, drawing disability for a back problem. His wife, Maria, was working the night shift in a sneaker factory. Maria's daughter by her previous marriage, and the only child she would ever conceive, was Constanza Hidalgo.

Rosa was feeling the strain of her intensive investigation, now nearly seven weeks along. She had lost weight, quarreled with her husband for the first time in several years, and developed an annoying tic at the corner of one eye. But she was frightened enough and determined enough to keep pushing herself to the limit. She desperately wanted to leave her profession a winner. More important, she wanted to head off what she firmly believed was impending disaster.

Someone had deliberately torn pages from the hospital records of at least two of the three DIC cases she was investigating. Sarah Baldwin was being followed and had been accosted once. And the meticulous research techniques that had served Rosa so faithfully over the years were not delivering. She felt as if she were tiptoeing around a ticking bomb, with no clear idea how to disarm it. The only thing that seemed certain to her at this point was that unless answers were found, and soon, more women and their unborn infants were going to die.

Maria Barahona was a plump, work-weary woman who had almost surely been quite attractive at one time in her life. She kept up a cheery front, but the pain of losing her only child showed in her eyes. Once, during Rosa's initial interview with her, she had begun to weep. But just as quickly she composed herself, apologized, and went on answering questions. Now, with her husband across the room, dozing on a tattered recliner, she served Rosa tea and talked once again of Connie. Although her English was decent enough, she seemed relieved to be conversing in Spanish.

"There were drugs in the car, you know," she said. "They told us Connie had marijuana in her blood, but I don't believe it. She was a happy girl. A good girl, too. And so, so beautiful. Her only crime was falling in love with that bastard, Billy Molinaro. Please, Mrs. Suarez, please. Forgive me for swearing."