James Halperin - The First Immortal

“Harvey Bacon. I’m an ambulance operator and technician,” the witness answered.

“Imagine that! An operator, deposed by a chaser,” Webster cracked. Grinning, he gently elbowed his youthful associate, Bryan Perry, whose principal assignment today was to watch and learn—and to bill the client, the Smith Family Cryonic Trust, at the rate of $185 per hour.

Toby smiled; he thought the comment gratuitous but accepted the mindset that the psychological warfare of litigation required.

Jan scowled at Webster and said nothing.

Over the past five months, Noah Banks and Jan Smith had spent nearly half of their billable hours on this case. The family had yet to receive their inheritance from probate, and the bank loan Noah had arranged against it was already spent. Cash was tight, and all three depositions so far had been virtual nonevents: a waste of time they could ill afford. Noah was not amused. “If Mr. Webster would refrain from puerile interruptions,” he said, “we might actually finish this deposition today.”

Webster smirked. Some incentive, he thought. Billing at $350 per hour including travel, plus his partnership share of the associate’s time, he would be thrilled if it lasted all week. The income was pleasing; all well and good. But he’d always found a special pleasure in tormenting cocky, self-inflated weasels like Noah Banks.

Finally Noah arrived at the events occurring on the day of Ben’s death and suspension. Webster watched, calm and smug. How could this lightweight ever expect to win such a convoluted case? He’d never have the stamina for it. They would simply outlast him.

“How, where, and when were you first summoned to New England Medical Center?” Noah asked.

“The Phoenix paged us at eleven-seventeen A.M. We were in Providence at the time. I called their 800 number immediately, and the receptionist gave me the information.”

“Who accompanied you to Boston?”

“Kent Chamberlain and Steve Reed.”

Banks was wasting his time, Webster gloated to himself. Bacon was a great witness all right—but for Webster’s side.

“You generally work with them?” Noah asked.

Webster yawned.

“Yes, sir. I run three ambulances and employ fourteen technicians in all, but only four of us have been trained in cryonic preparation techniques.”

“Who would the other one be?”

Another useless question, Webster celebrated to himself.

“Susan Reed, Steve’s wife. But she was off duty at the time. Steve and Sue rarely work the same shifts; they have a small child at home.”

Now Webster grimaced. Man, just stick to answering the questions! he tried to telegraph. Don’t disentomb more details than you have to. The estate attorney had seen too many witnesses dig their own graves with such habits, although he doubted Bacon possessed so much as a spoonful of relevant knowledge, much less a shovel.

Indeed, the only thing Webster’s side had to fear from these depositions was the opposition somehow learning of Toby’s administration of morphine to Ben. That fact could give Noah considerable leverage, and leverage was what this type of litigation almost always boiled down to. Who could know what a judge or jury would do if they found that Toby Fiske, now the trustee of the Trust and a beneficiary of the Will, had intentionally shortened his patient’s life?

Webster had become aware of “their potential problem” from conversations with Toby prior to his testimony several weeks earlier. At the time, Webster had managed, by invoking doctor/patient confidentiality, to shield Fiske from disclosing any private conversations with Ben. And if such confidentiality were ever to be overruled, the defendant could always, if necessary, resort to the Fifth Amendment. During preparation, he’d imparted to Toby the standard legal boilerplate: “Answer honestly and listen carefully; but only respond to the precise questions he asks. Never, never volunteer information.” Now he wished he’d had the same conversation with Bacon.

Well, no big deal, he decided.

“I see,” said Noah. “How long did it take you to get to the hospital?”

“About fifty minutes.”

“What did you do when you arrived?”

“First I talked to the patient’s doctor, and then to his daughter; explained the whole procedure to them.”

“Would his doctor have been Tobias Fiske?”

“Yes.”

“Had you known Dr. Fiske previously?”

Another unconcealed yawn emanated from Patrick Webster.

“No. Never met the man before that.”

“And how did he react to your description of cryonics?” “He listened, asked a few questions. Seemed a little distracted, actually.”

To Webster it seemed as if Bacon was enjoying listening to himself. He knew such an inclination was never a good thing in a witness, but nevertheless sat back in his chair, barely noticing that the medic had just given Noah yet another small piece of unsolicited, and potentially damaging, information.

“What do you mean by distracted?”

“Well, he told me that the patient was his best friend. I guess he was kind of upset. Who wouldn’t be? Hmm. I suppose that might explain… well, never mind.”

Oh shit! Suddenly no longer so relaxed, Webster interrupted. “Noah, I’d like to take a short break if you don’t mind.”

“I do, actually,” Noah said, apparently oblivious to the value of the information he’d just received. “Let me finish this line of questioning first.”

“I’m afraid I have to take a bathroom break,” Webster said. “Sorry. I’ll only be a minute.” He left the room.

Perry continued to sit like a piece of granite, saying nothing. But you didn’t make law review at Stanford just for showing up. The young associate’s only real task of the day was now to make certain that Noah asked no questions of the witness until Webster returned.

Predictably enough, Noah said, “Mr. Bacon, could you please clarify something you just said? Off the record?”

“Sure.”

“Actually, Mr. Banks,” Perry interrupted without hesitation, “it wouldn’t be fair to speak with Mr. Bacon without Mr. Webster present. I think you’d better wait till he gets back.”

“Why?” Noah asked. “It’s off the record.”

Perry turned to Bacon. “Regardless of what Mr. Banks says to you, please wait until Mr. Webster returns before you say another word.”

Bacon nodded, and pantomimed a zipper stroke across his mouth.

Noah sat down. This particular scuffle was over.

Meanwhile Webster was using the time to regroup. He stood in front of the men’s room mirror, eyes closed, and tried to concentrate. Bacon knew something, but what? Unless… Oh damn. Unless he’d seen the empty syringe. Shit! That had to be it. Well, maybe he could get Bacon to keep any other gratuitous musings to himself.

Returning to the conference room, Webster smiled apologetically, his well-rehearsed expression of “aw-shucks” charm and sincerity. “Sorry about that, Noah,” he said. “Just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Before we start over, do you mind if I speak with Mr. Bacon privately for a moment?”

“Not until I finish this line of questioning,” Noah shot back.

“Okay,” Webster said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. Better this way than not saying anything at all. “I only intended to advise him to listen to your questions more carefully, Noah.”

“Exactly what are you getting at?” Noah asked.

“I want to make sure Mr. Bacon understands,” Webster said, “that he’s only supposed to answer your direct questions; he doesn’t need to waste your valuable time telling you anything you haven’t asked him about.”

“I know that,” Bacon interjected.

Webster gazed intently at Bacon. “I’m sure you do, but I just had to make sure.”