Robin Cook - Crisis

With his telephoning out of the way, Jack switched his attention to a practical problem. Thanks to his amateurish bribing of

Walter and Percy in which he'd obviously offered too much considering how rapidly they had accepted, he was now obligated to come up with the promised cash. The twenty or thirty dollars he normally carried in his wallet wasn't going to get him far. But cash wasn't a problem, thanks to his credit card. All he needed was an ATM, and there had to be plenty in the city.

When Jack had done everything he could think of, he resigned himself to going back to the courtroom. He wasn't excited about the idea. He'd seen quite enough of his sister being humiliated, and the initial slight twinge of schadenfreude he'd felt but barely admitted to himself at Craig's comeuppance had long since disappeared. Jack had come to have strong empathy for both individuals and found it distasteful to witness them being skewered and their relationship debased by the likes of Tony Fasano for his venal self-interest.

On the other hand, Jack had promised both individuals he'd show up, and both had in their own ways expressed appreciation for his being there. With these thoughts in mind, Jack started his rent-a-car, managed a three-point turn, and drove out of the cemetery. Just outside the elaborate statue-encrusted gate, he pulled to the side of the road to glance at the map. It was a good thing, because he immediately discerned there was a much better way to get into Boston proper than retracing the route back past the funeral home.

Once under way, Jack found himself smiling. He wasn't quite laughing, but he was suddenly amused. He'd been to Boston for two and a half days, had been racking his brain over a senseless medical malpractice lawsuit, had been slapped and punched, had been shot at, and had been terrorized by a thug in a black Cadillac, and yet had, in reality, accomplished nothing. There was a kind of comic irony to the whole affair that appealed to his admittedly warped sense of humor.

Then another thought occurred to him. He'd become progressively concerned about Laurie's response to his being delayed in Boston to the point that he had become progressively reluctant to talk with her for fear of her response. But he wasn't concerned about the delay itself. If doing the autopsy forced him to fly to New York in the morning, he had to acknowledge that he might not make the wedding. Even though the chances were small that that would be the case, since there was a flight scheduled every thirty minutes from six thirty a.m. on, the probability was not zero, yet it didn't bother him. And the fact that it didn't bother him made him question his unconscious motivations. He loved Laurie, of that he was certain, and he believed he wanted to remarry. So why wasn't he more concerned?

Jack had no answers other than a concession that life was more complicated than his usual devil-may-care attitude would suggest. He apparently functioned on multiple levels, some of which were guarded if not actively suppressed.

With no cars chasing him, no misty fog to negotiate, and no rush-hour traffic, Jack made excellent time driving into downtown Boston. Even though he was approaching from a new direction, he was able to stumble onto the Boston Public Garden and the Boston Common where the two were bisected by Charles Street. And once he found that, he'd also found the underground garage he'd previously used.

After parking the car, Jack walked back to the attendant and asked about an ATM. He was directed to the commercial section of Charles Street and found the machine across from the hardware store where he'd purchased the unused pepper spray. With the upper limit of cash he could withdraw in hand, Jack followed his previous day's route in reverse. He walked up Beacon Hill, enjoying the neighborly ambience of the handsome town houses, many with carefully cultivated window boxes overflowing with flowers.

The recent rain had washed the streets and the bricked sidewalks. The overcast sky made him aware of something he'd not noticed in the sunlight the day before: The nineteenth-century gas lamps were all ablaze, apparently day in, day out.

Pushing into the courtroom, Jack hesitated by the exit. Superficially, the scene looked exactly as he'd left it the afternoon before, except that Craig was on the stand instead of Leona. There was the same cast of characters mirroring the same attitudes. The jurors were impassive, as if they were cutout figures, save for the plumber's assistant, who made examining his nails a continuous endeavor. The judge was preoccupied with the papers on his desk, similar to the day before, and the spectators were contrarily attentive.

As Jack's eyes scanned the spectators, he saw Alexis in her usual spot with a seat next to her apparently saved for him. On the opposite side of the spectator gallery in the spot normally occupied by Franco sat Antonio. He was a smaller version of Franco but significantly more handsome. He was now wearing the Fasano team apparel: gray suit, black shirt, and black tie. Although Jack had been reasonably confident Franco would be out of the picture for a few days, he wondered if he'd have trouble with Antonio. He also wondered if either Franco or Antonio or both had anything to do with the assault on Craig's children.

Appropriately excusing himself, Craig moved into the aisle where Alexis was sitting at the very end, the closest seat to the jury box. She saw him coming and flashed a quick, nervous smile. Jack didn't take it as auspicious. She gathered up her belongings so he could sit. They gripped hands briefly before he sat.

"How's it going?" Jack whispered, leaning toward her.

"Better now that Randolph is doing the cross."

"What happened with Tony Fasano on the direct?"

Alexis cast a fleeting glance at Jack, betraying her anxiousness. Her facial muscles were tense, and her eyes were more wide open than usual. She had her hands tightly clasped in her lap.

"Not good?" Jack questioned.

"It was terrible," Alexis admitted. "The only positive thing that could be said was that Craig's testimony was consistent with his deposition. In no way did he contradict himself."

"Don't tell me he got angry: not after all that rehearsal."

"He got furious after only an hour or so, and it was downhill from there. Tony knew his buttons, and he pressed every one. The worst part was when Craig told Tony he had no right to criticize nor question doctors who were sacrificing their lives to take care of their patients. Craig then went on to call Tony a despicable ambulance-chaser."

"Not good," Jack said. "Even if it is true."

"It got worse," Alexis said forcibly, raising her voice.

"Excuse me," a voice said from behind. Someone had tapped Jack on the shoulder.

"We can't hear the testimony," the spectator complained.

"Sorry," Jack said. He turned back to Alexis. "Want to step out into the hall for a moment?"

Alexis nodded. She obviously needed a break.

They stood up. Alexis left her things. They worked their way to the main aisle. Jack opened the heavy courtroom door as quietly as possible. In the elevator lobby, they sat on a leather-covered bench, hunched over, elbows on knees.

"For the life of me," Alexis muttered. "I don't see what all those voyeurs get out of watching this damn trial."

"Have you ever heard the term schadenfreude? " Jack asked, marveling he'd just been musing about it a half-hour previously in relation to his initial reaction to Craig's imbroglio.

"Remind me," Alexis suggested.

"It's German. It refers to when people exult over someone else's problems and difficulties."

"I'd forgotten the German term," Alexis said. "But the concept I'm well aware of. As prevalent as it is, we should have a word for it in English. Hell, it's what sells tabloids. Anyway, I actually know why people are in there watching Craig's ordeal. They see doctors as powerful, successful people. So don't listen to me when I carp."