James Halperin - The First Immortal

“I doubt that’ll be necessary,” Webster said. There was no sense making the decision too early. He could always move to disqualify him later if he became too big a pain in the ass. “Let me call Dr. Fiske and get his side of the story. Can I drop by your office this afternoon? Say, half past three?”

“Not a problem.”

The two men had never met before, but Pat Webster had already grilled two of his partners. Brandon Butters, he’d learned, was fair, principled, smart, and too nice a guy for the job; a man whose objective was justice, not glory. Webster knew that to deal effectively with such a man, he would have to forget everything he’d ever learned about prosecutors. The thought both disturbed and inspired him.

He’d carefully reread the terms of the Smith Family Cryonic Trust, drafted almost six years earlier, and had determined to his satisfaction, and delight, that the Trust would cover any of Tobias Fiske’s legal fees.

At 3:45 P.M. he arrived fifteen minutes late, his tardiness intentional, a show of confidence. When he offered Brandon his hand, the man grasped it with a subtly exaggerated pressure and waited for Webster to meet his eyes.

“That doesn’t work with me, Mr. Webster,” Brandon said evenly. “Whatever books you may have read on gaining power advantages, showing confidence, or asserting control… forget them in this office. Respect my time, and I’ll respect yours. We’ll both like it better that way.”

Webster’s mouth flew open like a hand puppet’s, a pretense at surprise. He shook his head as he rethought the lie. Then he grinned. “Busted!”

Brandon laughed, and the two pumped a genuine handshake.

“I now officially represent Tobias Fiske,” Webster said. “How do I convince you my client’s innocent?”

“That may be difficult. I have a sworn deposition that Dr. Fiske slipped a syringe, presumably empty, into his pocket immediately after declaring Benjamin Smith dead. Would you care to tell me what was in that syringe?”

“Off the record?”

“If you’d like.”

“Okay. If you do prosecute, we reserve the right to make you prove this. But just between us, it was morphine.”

“That’s what I assumed,” Brandon said. “Now the important question: Was it administered at the patient’s request?”

“Of course.”

“Any witnesses to that effect?”

“How often have you heard of one doctor asking another to break the law with witnesses attending the conversation? Look at it logically; Ben Smith was dying. The morphine might arguably have sped the process by an hour or two, but certainly no more.”

“Unfortunately,” Brandon explained, “your client is the only person who knows if that’s actually true. No other physician possesses sufficient knowledge to judge, unless you know something I don’t…”

Webster shook his head.

“Then I have no choice. We both know there’s not enough evidence for a murder charge, but I still have to move on with this inquiry.”

Butters was absolutely right, Webster decided. No capable prosecutor would have dropped the matter then. “What do you suggest?”

“I’ve already received authorization from the D.A. to file manslaughter charges against Dr. Fiske for assisting a suicide. I intend to file tomorrow. I won’t object to his release without bail, and I’ll make sure he spends no time in jail before his arraignment. But the charges are technically necessary to initiate discovery.”

“What kind of discovery?”

“An autopsy. If the coroner agrees that Dr. Smith only had a few hours to live, I’ll drop all charges against your client. But if the coroner decides that Dr. Smith was not dying, I think most juries would be suspicious, especially considering the deceased’s sizable bequest to Dr. Fiske. Two hundred thousand dollars is a credible motive. We’d have to refile, seeking a voluntary manslaughter conviction at the very least, possibly second degree murder.”

“You realize that Dr. Smith was frozen at his own request, hoping that medical science might someday have the means to restore his life.”

Brandon looked thoughtfully at Webster, as if gauging his adversary with a standard blend of suspicion and compassion. Finally he spoke in measured words: “In the eyes of the law, and frankly in my opinion as well, Benjamin Smith is dead. Tobias Fiske, however, is not. If you believe in your client’s innocence, I’d strongly suggest that you advise him not to object to this autopsy.”

The telephone rang at Banks & Smith, and it was Brandon Butters on the line. Jan put him on the speaker so Noah could hear. “I’ve just informed Pat Webster we’re filing second degree manslaughter charges against Tobias Fiske tomorrow morning.”

“Man-two?” she asked. “That’s it?”

“Look, I’m sorry, Jan, but this might be just a simple assisted suicide. We’ll seek a court order to autopsy the body, and if it turns out your father wasn’t terminal, we’ll add a murder charge. But if he was dying anyway, I doubt this will ever go to trial.”

Noah nodded, signaling Jan to save any arguments for later.

“I understand, Brandon.”

“Jan, you okay?”

“I’m fine. Really,” she said, unconsciously intensifying the misery in her voice. “And thanks for everything.”

“You bet. Now don’t worry; it’ll all work out.” He hung up.

Jan turned toward her husband. “Guess he didn’t believe me.”

“He’s doing it by the book is all. There’s no evidence without an autopsy. Besides, it’s pretty obvious, you know? Your dad was about to die.”

Jan felt her body stiffen. “You mean you don’t think it was murder? But you seemed so sure before.”

He walked to her chair and began to massage her shoulders. Then he reached down and cupped her left breast with his right hand, squeezing the nipple hard, arousing her so easily, as always.

“I’m your husband,” he said, the words reassuring, Svengali reborn. “But I’m also your lawyer. I had to prepare you to make the best possible presentation to the ADA. I imagine, though, that Brandon’s right; it was just another mercy killing.”

“If you believe that, why are we pushing so hard for this autopsy? Dad wanted to be frozen. What if he was right and they really can revive people someday?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, honey. We both know the whole thing’s a crock. Besides, once Ben’s autopsied and buried, it’ll be a lot easier to challenge his bequest to the Trust. That should be our—your family’s—money.”

He lowered his hand to work between her legs. Jan stared at her husband: the gaze of someone glimpsing a truth she’s always known but could not acknowledge, especially now. She had already committed herself, and the momentum of her choice would scarcely permit such drastic reevaluation.

She grabbed Noah and moaned. Massaging her belly, she told herself that they were pursuing Noah’s plan for the sake of Sarah and Michael, and their third child kicking inside of her. Noah was right; cryonics was a crock. It had to be. But even as she felt him entering her, some part of Jan’s brain began to imagine the life she could have had with Brandon Butters, a man whose motives she’d always known would need no daily safety inspection.

December 25, 1988

—While Jewish settlers continue to move into the West Bank, Palestinians harass them with stones and firebombs. Meanwhile in Bethlehem, the mostly Christian Arab residents mourn their 300 countrymen killed in the past year’s uprising against Israeli rule.—Securities firm Drexel Burnham Lambert pleads guilty to securities related fraud, leaving its star employee, Michael Milken, isolated in the face of criminal charges.—The remains of 235 victims of last week’s Pan Am plane crash over Lockerbie, Scotland, have thus far been found. The search continues for more bodies and for the cause of the crash.