Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

Another head shot. But this time, from the plaintiff's side of the table. Matt fussed with his notes. Sarah could feel him struggling to maintain composure as he searched carefully for the next question.

"This production and packaging facility," he asked finally, "is it out there on the grounds of the Xanadu Community?"

"It is."

"Shipping, too?"

"In a separate building, but yes. Shipping is done at Xanadu also."

"Mr. Ettinger, just how much money are you two raking in off this powder?"

"Objection!" Mallon cried out. "Peter, don't answer. Mr. Daniels, the form and content of that question are amateurish-in the baseball terms you might better understand, strictly bush league. Until now I have made a number of allowances for the fact that, aside from a misplaced molar or whatever, this is your first malpractice case. But I draw the line at questions like this."

Crimson rushed to Matt's cheeks. Beneath the table, Sarah patted him gently on the thigh.

"Easy does it," she whispered.

Matt calmed himself with a slow, deep breath. "Mr. Ettinger, go over briefly what happens at this production plant of yours."

"It's quite simple, really," Ettinger said, as if he were speaking to a third grader. "The raw plants and roots come in, get thoroughly washed, inspected, and sterilized by heat or U.V. light. Next they're ground or pulverized, proportioned out according to the ancient Ayurvedic menu we're using, and combined with the commercially prepared protein base. Finally, the mixture is sterilized again and packaged."

"And then just like that it's shipped?"

"The final, shipped product includes four months' worth of powder, a manual on Ayurveda and Ayurvedic dietary principles, and a supply of vitamins."

"Vitamins?"

Matt visibly perked up at the word.

"Yes."

"Herbal vitamins? Like Dr. Baldwin's?"

Again Peter grinned smugly.

"Hardly." His delivery was pure vinegar. "Dr. Baldwin's supplements are, well, Dr. Baldwin's. Ours are pure vitamins-standard, FDA-approved multivitamins, manufactured for us by Huron Pharmaceuticals."

Matt's eagerness deflated.

"Pills?" he asked.

"Actually, they're gelatin capsules. One is dissolved in each daily weight loss shake."

Jeremy Mallon feigned a yawn.

"Mr. Daniels, please," he said. "Your fishing expedition has run aground, and you know it. Mr. Ettinger has been much more patient with you than need be. Certainly more tolerant than I would have been in his position."

"Mr. Ettinger, are you and Dr. Singh partners?" Matt asked, ignoring Mallon's protest.

"We are."

"How would I go about locating this man, this Ayurvedic Herbal partner of yours?"

"Enough!" Mallon barked.

"That's okay," Ettinger said. "The truth is, Pramod spends most of his time in India now. And mostly he's traveling. I reach him through an American Express office in New Delhi. If you want that address, I'll be happy to have my secretary send it to you."

"Now, enough," Mallon said. "Find another line of questioning, or it's over and out."

"Actually, I'm done. But I have something to say to both you and Mr. Ettinger. Strictly off the record."

"Evelyn, we're finished. Thank you." Mallon chatted in whispers with his associate until the stenographer had cleared out. "Okay, go ahead," he said then.

"Even though we haven't mentioned them, and I intend to see that they are not part of this case, we all know with certainty that two other women beside Lisa Grayson have had this DIC."

"So?"

"I said before that we had proof that Lisa Grayson was treated by Dr. Singh some years ago with what I assume was the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System. Well, we also have proof that the other two DIC cases lost large amounts of weight with him as well."

"What!" Ettinger exclaimed.

Anticipating Matt's revelation, Sarah had her attention fixed on the man across the table from her. His surprise seemed genuine. However, she reminded herself, she had misread Peter Ettinger before.

"Easy, Peter," Mallon said. "This man's been playing losing cards all morning. I see this as just a bluff to rattle us."

"It's no bluff," Sarah said.

"I want to see your so-called proof," Mallon said.

"And we want to see a blood sample from Lisa Grayson," Sarah countered angrily.

"That's it, we're done," Mallon declared.

He threw his papers into his briefcase and as much as pulled Peter Ettinger to his feet and toward the door.

"This is no game," Matt said. "This is people's lives. Don't you care?"

"Fuck you," replied Mallon.

"Peter," Sarah tried, "this is very important. Remember, Annalee took your powder, too."

"But she didn't take those bogus herbs of yours. You just stay away from her and she'll do just fine."

His vitriol nearly brought her hurtling over the table and into his face.

"Peter?" she said sweetly instead.

"Yes."

"Don't tell me what to do."

October 17

Autumn on Long Island was profoundly beautiful. Dressed in an aqua running suit, Lisa Grayson loped through a tunnel of shimmering foliage, up the mile-long hill of Kennesaw Road, and onto the flat, gravelly stretch that led back to Stony Hill. She was perspiring, but not excessively so-especially considering that when she reached home, she would have completed her first half-marathon ever. Fantastic! she thought. Thirteen miles by a woman who not too long ago considered a brisk walk to the corner convenience store to be her physical limit.

"Too darn much… Too darn much…"

She sang the words nursery-rhyme style, in sync with her strides. The Boston Marathon was in mid-April, and she might well be ready. Her physical therapist knew the organizers of the race. If Lisa could do the twenty-six plus miles in anything under four and a half hours, he would see to it that the documented marathon time necessary to receive an official entry and number was waived.

"See how she runs… See how she runs…"

Some sweat dripped from her forehead into her eyes. Slowing just a little, Lisa reached her right hand into her jacket pocket.

Fist, she thought intently. Fist.

The Otto Boch myo-electric hand was truly incredible, but it had no sensory input. She had to rely on other messages to tell her the prosthesis was doing what she wanted it to. First she sensed the now-familiar tension around her elbow. The electrodes had been implanted there, in what remained of her forearm flexor muscles. Next she felt the firmness of the closed fist, pressing against her side from within the jacket pocket.

"Come on, fake hand," she said, panting in cadence. "Do your stuff."

She pulled her arm free of the pocket and sensed without looking that the lifelike fingers were clutching her balled-up handkerchief.

"Way to go, hand," she said, mopping her brow without breaking stride. "Way to go."

Over the two months since receiving the limb, she had made remarkable progress. In time, she had been promised by the physical therapist and the prostheticist, she would be able to pick up a cigarette ash without having it crumble. She would also be able to latch onto an object and dare anyone-anyone-to pull it away from her. The Bionic Woman! There were limits, to be sure. She had chosen the less obtrusive "cosmetic" skin over the more functional and more easily maintained metal pincers. In general though, the hand far exceeded her projections of what being an amputee would be like. And focusing on learning to use it had done worlds for her depression.

She still missed her baby terribly and thought many times each day about how life would have been with him. But she also knew that somehow, all she had been through had become a passage for her. In facing her tragedy, in working to overcome the pain and grief, she was growing up in areas that had not changed since the day she ran away from home.