Patterson, James - Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

“He was gone just like that. His body was cold to my touch. My good boy was dead.”

O’Mara put her hand on her witness’s arm to steady him. It was a moving gesture and seemed quite genuine.

“Do you need to take a moment?” she asked Friedlander, handing him a box of tissues.

“I’m all right,” he said. He cleared his throat again, dabbed at his eyes. Then he sipped from the water glass.

“I’m fine.”

O’Mara nodded, then asked him, “Were you given an explanation for Josh’s sudden death?”

“They said that his blood sugar bottomed out, and I wanted to know why. Dr. Garza said that he was mystified,” the witness said, stiffening his lips around the word, trying to control the quiver in his voice.

“I was mystified, too,” Friedlander continued. “Josh had been stabilized the day before. He’d eaten a couple of meals. Went to the bathroom without help. Then, overnight, right there in the hospital, he went into a coma and died! It made no sense.”

“Did the hospital do an autopsy on Josh?” O’Mara asked.

“I demanded it,” Friedlander said. “The whole thing was fishy—”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Kramer bellowed from his seat. “We all sympathize with the witness, but please instruct him to simply answer the questions.”

The judge nodded, then addressed the witness. “Mr. Friedlander, just tell us what happened, please.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

O’Mara smiled encouragingly at her witness. “Mr. Friedlander, were you ever given the results of the autopsy?”

“Eventually, I was.”

“And what were you told?” Maureen asked.

Friedlander exploded, his face turning the brightest red. “They said that Josh’s blood was loaded with insulin! I was told that it was injected into his IV bag sometime during the night. That Josh got that insulin by mistake. And that’s what killed him. A mistake by the hospital.”

O’Mara stole a look at the stricken faces of the jurors before asking, “I’m sorry to have to ask, Mr. Friedlander, but how did you feel when you learned about that mistake?”

“How did I feel?” Friedlander asked. “I felt like my heart had been cut out of my chest with a spoon. . . .”

“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Friedlander.”

“Josh was our only child. . . . We never expected to be in the world without him. . . . The pain never stops. . . .”

“Thank you, Mr. Friedlander. I’m sorry to have put you through this. You did just fine. Your witness,” O’Mara said, and motioned to Kramer.

The witness snatched several tissues from the box in front of him. He held them up to his face as hoarse sobs racked his body.

Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

Chapter 29

LAWRENCE KRAMER STOOD and slowly buttoned his jacket, giving the witness a moment to pull himself together, thinking that the man’s son was in the ground, for God’s sake. Now all he had to do was neutralize his awful testimony — without antagonizing the jury — and, if possible, turn Stephen Friedlander into a witness for the defense.

Kramer walked to the witness box and greeted Mr. Friedlander in a kindly manner, almost as if he knew the man, as if he were a friend of the family.

“Mr. Friedlander,” Kramer said, “let me first express my condolences on the tragic loss of your son.”

“Thank you.”

“I want to clear up a few things, but I promise to keep this as short as I possibly can. Now, you mentioned that you met David Lewis, the young man who was sharing your son’s room when you visited Josh on July twenty-sixth.”

“Yes. I met him the one time. He was a very nice boy.”

“Did you know that David has diabetes?”

“I think I knew that. Yes.”

“Mr. Friedlander, do you know the number of the bed your son occupied in his hospital room?”

Friedlander had been leaning forward in his chair, but now he sat back.

“Number? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, the hospital refers to the bed closest to the window as ‘bed one,’ and the bed closest to the door is ‘bed two.’ Do you remember which bed Josh occupied?”

“Okay. He would have been in bed one. He was by the window.”

“Do you know why hospital beds are numbered?” Kramer asked.

“I don’t have any idea,” said the witness, his tone edgy, getting irritated.

“The beds are numbered because the nurses dispense medication according to the room and bed number,” Kramer explained. He went on. “By the way, do you recall if you ordered a special television package for Josh?”

“No, he was only supposed to be there for the one day. What’s your point?”

“My point,” Kramer said, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. “My point is that David Lewis checked out of the hospital after lunch on the day you saw him there.

“Your son, Josh, expired in bed number two that night. Josh was in David’s bed when he died, Mr. Friedlander.”

“What are you saying?” Friedlander asked, his eyebrows flying up, his mouth twisting with anger. “What the hell are you trying to tell me?”

“Let me say this in a different way,” Kramer said, showing the jurors with his body language and his phrasing, I’m doing my job. But I mean this man no harm.

“Do you know why your son was found in bed number two?”

“No idea.”

“Well, it was because of the TV. Josh got out of his bed by the window, pulled his mobile IV pole over to bed number two so he could watch the movie channels — let’s see. . . .” Kramer referred to his notes.

“He ordered a movie on Showtime.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“I am aware of that,” Kramer said, his voice compassionate, even fatherly, thinking, knowing, that the witness wasn’t getting it. He still didn’t have a clue what had happened to his son and why he had died.

“Mr. Friedlander, you have to understand. Josh did get David Lewis’s insulin by mistake. The paperwork on David Lewis’s discharge hadn’t yet caught up with the nurse’s orders. That can happen in a hospital the size of Municipal. But let me ask you this. Wouldn’t any fair-minded person understand how the nurse didn’t catch this error?

“David and Josh were about the same age. The nurse brought insulin for the sleeping patient in bed number two and injected it into the IV bag beside that bed. If Josh had stayed in his own bed . . .”

Kramer turned as an anguished howl rose from the gallery. A middle-aged woman stood, dark clothing hanging from her frail body, wailing, “Noo,” as she clutched at her face.

Friedlander reached out a hand to her from the witness box: “Eleanor! Eleanor, don’t listen to this. He’s lying! It wasn’t Joshie’s fault. . . .”

Lawrence Kramer ignored the roar of voices in the courtroom, the repeated crack of the gavel. He dipped his head respectfully.

“We’re very sorry, Mr. Friedlander,” he said. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”

Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

Chapter 30

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER 8:00 P.M. as I grunted my way up Potrero Hill on the return leg of my nightly run.

I obsessed as I ran, the long blur of the investigation repeating itself in my mind — seeing the cops in my office all day, running their cases, me advising, giving orders, treading paper, going after warrants, settling disputes, hating the stress of the whole sorry business.

On most nights, the rhythmic slapping of my rubber soles on pavement had a calming effect, but it wasn’t happening tonight.

And for this I blamed Chief Tracchio.

His lecture, or whatever it was, had gotten to me.

As I pushed forward into a cold wall of wind, I second-guessed every decision I’d made so far on the Caddy Girl case, worried that I was letting everyone down, including myself.