Robin Cook - Crisis

"She sounds precociously self-possessed," Laurie said. "That's a blessing for the Bowmans. Now, let's talk about us. What's the bottom line about you coming back here?"

"Worst case is tomorrow evening," Jack said. "I'll do the autopsy write up the results, whatever they turn out to be, and give them to Craig's lawyer. Even if I wanted to, he doesn't think he could get me on the stand as a witness, so that's not an issue."

"You are cutting this mighty close," Laurie said. "If I end up being the bride left at the altar, I'll never forgive you. I just want you to know that."

"I said worst case. Maybe I'll be there in the middle of the afternoon."

"Promise me you're not going to do anything foolish."

Jack could think of a lot of great retorts for that setup, but he resisted. Instead, he said, "I'll be careful." Then he added, to make her even more comfortable, "The Newton police have promised extra surveillance."

Confident Laurie was reasonably assuaged, Jack extended some appropriate endearments and then said good-bye. He then made two other quick calls. He spoke briefly to Lou to explain what had happened with Liam Flanagan and to thank him for his help. He told him he'd see him at the church on Friday. Next, he called Warren and told him that not only was David a good b-ball player, but he'd also saved Jack's ass. Jack had to hold the phone away from his ear when Warren responded. Jack told him he'd see him at the church also.

With all his calls out of the way, Jack once again took in the peaceful scene. The concave snippet of moon had moved a little higher in the sky and had cleared the black silhouettes of the trees. A few stars even twinkled in the sky despite the general nighttime glow sent heavenward from the entire Boston metropolitan area. Jack took in a big lungful of the cool, fresh air. It was bracing. In the distance, a dog barked. The serenity made him wonder what the morrow would bring. Would there be violence at the exhumation? He didn't know, but the thought made him glad Liam had insisted he keep the gun. He patted it in his pocket. Its weighty solidness made him feel more secure, even though he knew statistics suggested the opposite. With a sense of fatalism that whatever was going to happen would happen no matter what he did, Jack shrugged, turned, and headed into the house.

Without Alexis and the children at home, Jack felt somewhat like an intruder. After he closed the front door, the silence of the house was almost palpable, even though he could hear Craig's and Randolph 's muffled voices from the library. He walked into the great room and went to the refrigerator. There were plenty of fixings, and he quickly made a sandwich. He popped open a beer and took both over to the couch. Careful to keep the sound low, he turned on the TV, and after rapidly scanning the channels, he found a news broadcast. Still feeling like a stranger in a strange land, he sat back and ate.

By the time he had finished the food and most of the beer, he heard raised voices coming from the library. It was obviously a disagreement. Jack quickly turned up the TV to keep from hearing. It made him feel similar to when he'd almost been caught snooping into Craig's doctor's bag. A few minutes later, the front door to the house slammed hard enough for Jack to feel the vibration. A few minutes after that, Craig came into the great room. It was apparent he was fuming from the way he acted, particularly the way he threw ice cubes into an old-fashioned glass and slammed shut the glass-front cabinet door. He helped himself to a healthy dollop of scotch, then brought the drink and bottle over to the couch.

"Do you mind?" Craig asked, motioning to the couch where Jack was sitting.

"Not at all," Jack said, wondering why he bothered to ask. Jack moved closer to the opposite end. He turned off the TV and twisted around to face his host, who'd plopped down, still holding both bottle and glass.

Craig took a large slug of his scotch and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. He was staring into the empty fireplace.

"How did the rehearsal go?" Jack asked. He felt obligated to try to have a conversation.

Craig merely laughed scornfully.

"Do you feel prepared?" Jack persisted.

"I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be. But that's not saying a whole bunch."

"What was Randolph 's advice?"

Craig forced another laugh. "You know, the usual. I'm not supposed to pick my nose, fart too loudly, or laugh at the judge."

"I'm serious," Jack said. "I'd like to know."

Craig regarded Jack. A bit of the tenseness that had been so apparent drained from his face. "The usual admonitions like I mentioned at lunch and maybe a few more. I'm supposed to avoid stuttering and inappropriate laughter. Can you believe that? Tony Fasano is going to verbally attack me, and I'm supposed to calmly let it happen. If anything, I'm supposed to look hurt and not angry so the jury will sympathize with me. Can you imagine?"

"I think it sounds reasonable."

Craig's eyes narrowed as he looked at Jack. "Maybe to you, but not to me."

"I couldn't help but hear raised voices. I mean, I couldn't hear what it was about. Did you and Randolph disagree on something?"

"Not really," Craig said. "He just pissed me off. Of course, that was what he was trying to do. He was play-acting as if he were Fasano. You see the problem is that when I'm on the stand, I'm sworn, whereas Tony Fasano won't be. That means he can make up and say whatever allegation he wants, and I'm supposed to have thick skin, but I don't. I even got mad at Randolph. I'm hopeless."

Jack watched as Craig drained his glass and then poured another drink. He knew that often the personality traits of really good clinicians like Craig made them susceptible to malpractice suits, and the same traits made them poor witnesses in their own defense. He also knew that the opposite was true: Really bad doctors made an effort at bedside manner to make up for their professional deficiencies and avoid suits, and the same doctors, if they were sued, could often offer Oscar-worthy performances on their behalf.

"It's just not looking good," Craig continued, more sullen than angry. "And I'm still worried Randolph is not the right guy despite his experience. He's so damn pretentious. As slimy as Tony Fasano is, he has the jurors eating out of his hands."

"Juries have a surprising way of eventually seeing through the fog," Jack said.

"The other thing that really pisses me off about Randolph is he keeps talking about the appeal," Craig said as if he'd not heard Jack. "That was what put me over the top right at the end of our session. I couldn't believe he'd bring it up at that point. Of course, I know I have to think about it. Just like I have to think about what I'll be doing with the rest of my life. If I lose, I'm sure as hell not going to stay in practice."

"That's a double tragedy," Jack said. "The profession cannot afford to lose its best clinicians, nor can your patients."

"If I lose this case, I'm never going to be able to look at a patient without worrying about being sued and having to go through this kind of experience again. This has been the worst eight months of my life."

"But what would you do if you don't practice? You've got a young family."

Craig shrugged. "Probably work for big pharma in some capacity. There are lots of opportunities. I know several people who have gone that route. The other possibility is managing somehow to do my research full-time."

"Could you really do that sodium-channel work full-time and be content?" Jack questioned.

"Absolutely. It's exciting stuff. It's basic science yet has immediate clinical application."

"I suppose big pharma is interested in that arena."

"Without doubt."

"Switching subjects," Jack said. "While I was outside saying good-bye to everyone, I had a thought that I wanted to run by you."