Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones (27 page)

"Not directly, not if treated correctly and promptly."

"Which was done here?"

"Yes."

"And after surgery, what was Mr. Bernhardt's condition?"

"Guarded condition."

"Life signs stable?"

"Yes."

"Heart rate and blood pressure normal?"

"Within normal ranges, yes."

"When Harry Bernhardt was wheeled out of surgery, you didn't expect him to die two hours later, did you?"

"Objection," Socolow called out. "The doctor's expectations are irrelevant."

"Not to me," I fired back. I was hoping the jury would disregard the judge's preliminary instruction and be pissed off at Abe for cutting off the flow of information.

"Overruled. Doctor, you may answer."

"No, I did not expect him to die."

"No further questions."

Abe Socolow popped back up. He knew where I was going. The element of causation. Doc Charlie Riggs never thought much of my argument, but you never know what will move a jury.

"Dr. Quintana," Abe began, "when you said that the wounds were not directly life threatening, what did you mean?"

"Objection, leading." Now I was doing it, because I knew where Abe was going.

"It's not leading," Socolow shot back. "I'm simply asking for an explanation as to when an injury is directly life threatening versus indirectly life threatening. A man doesn't have to be shot through the heart to die as a consequence of the bullet."

"Now he's leading!" My pitch was a notch higher than normal.

The judge motioned to us. "Come up here. Both of you."

Abe and I circled around the far side of the bench, away from the jury. "Now, Jake, there was nothing wrong with Abe's question. It wasn't leading, and you know it. He's got a right to have her explain the answer she gave you. But, Abe, don't be making speeches in front of the jury, at least not 'til closing argument. The objection is overruled, so get back where you belong."

We retreated to our places, and the judge told Dr. Quintana that she could answer the question.

"None of these injuries individually would likely have killed Mr. Bernhardt. Even together, they might not have killed a younger man or a man with a healthier heart. But the stress of the injuries nonetheless killed him by ultimately causing the spontaneous ventricular fibrillations."

"Nothing further," Abe said, having repaired the damage and then some.

I stood up again for recross. "Mr. Bernhardt had a seriously diseased heart, did he not?"

"He had atherosclerosis, yes. The medical examiner who did the autopsy would be better able to describe the extent of it."

"Can you state with total certainty that Harry Bernhardt wouldn't have died of a heart attack on the night of June sixteenth even if he hadn't been shot?"

The doctor gave me a puzzled look, and I said, "Let me rephrase that one without the double negative. In Harry Bernhardt's condition, he could have suffered a heart attack on June sixteenth or the day after that, or any other day, even without having been shot or undergoing surgery, true?"

"Yes, that's true. He was a candidate for a heart attack at any time."

"Nothing further."

Next came the nurse who had tended to Harry Bernhardt in the recovery room, and then a second nurse who had accompanied him to a private room inside the ICU. Sort of the equivalent of chain-of-custody evidence, as Harry got passed along from Tinker to Evans to Chance.

Harry Bernhardt's life signs were strong when Sylvia Gettis, RN, checked on him at eleven P.M. She'd pulled the graveyard shift and was at the nurses' station when the EKG monitor went off at 11:51 P.M. She raced twenty paces from her station to Harry's room, which was more like a suite for VIPs who were fortunate enough to find themselves in Intensive Care at the plush hospital instead of the county facility. Harry Bernhardt was thrashing in the bed, yelling, in obvious pain. The emergency team—an intern, a resident, an ER physician, an anesthesiologist, a respiratory therapist, and an EKG specialist—flew into the room.

They intubated Harry and forced oxygen into his lungs. They injected him with epinephrine, an adrenaline-like drug, and they started CPR. They checked his blood gases. In the rapid-fire shorthand of physicians, they shouted, debating possible causes of the ventricular fibrillation. Internal bleeding. A collapsed lung. An unseen bullet wound.

Harry's heart was on fire, the muscles contracting fiercely, the organ quivering, shaking itself to death. Then the heart slowed.

"Mr. Bernhardt coded," the nurse told the jury.

"Which means what, Ms. Gettis?" Abe Socolow prompted.

"He flatlined. His heart stopped."

They tried the paddles, jolting Harry's heart with 250 joules of current.
Ka-boom. Ka-boom
. Again and again. Nothing. He was pronounced dead thirty minutes later.

"Did you speak to Mr. Bernhardt before he died?" I asked on cross, realizing she wouldn't have spoken to him after he died.

"No. He was still groggy from the anesthesia."

"And when you responded to the Code Blue, did you speak to him then?"

"I'm sure I asked him questions. He was conscious but in considerable pain. He was not really coherent."

"So he didn't say anything to you?"

"Nothing except sounds, painful cries, that sort of thing."

"Did he have any visitors before the monitor sounded at eleven-fifty-one?"

"Dr. Quintana stopped by. A detective looked in, then left. I told him the patient was in no condition to give a statement. And of course, the family physician."

I was already sitting down, about to say, "Nothing further," when I realized what she had said.

"The family physician," I repeated.

"Yes. Dr. Schein."

How could I not know that?

I had taken discovery. I had a copy of the ICU log. No mention of Dr. Schein. Of course, he wasn't a treating physician or an investigating cop. Just what the hell was he, anyway?

"What was Dr. Schein doing there?" I asked evenly.

"I believe he said he was a longtime friend of the Bernhardts as well as their physician. As I recall, he said he was practically a member of the family, something like that."

Right. This family needed a shrink on retainer.

"When did he arrive?"

She thought about it a moment. "Just as I was getting back from my break, eleven-forty P.M."

"You're sure of the time?"

"I was carrying my coffee, and I remember the doctor commenting on the battery acid they serve in the cafeteria downstairs. I always take my break between eleven-twenty and eleven-forty, so that's when it was."

"Eleven-forty," I repeated. "Which was how long before the patient coded?"

She looked at her notes. "The monitor sounded at eleven-fifty-one P.M., so it'd be eleven minutes."

"How long did Dr. Schein stay?"

"I don't know. I was attending to paperwork and I didn't see him leave, but it would have to be sometime between eleven-forty and eleven-fifty-one, because he wasn't in the room when I got there."

I thought it over. Harry Bernhardt hadn't died of the gunshot wounds. He'd died of a heart attack. What had Lawrence Schein said to him, done to him, in those precious minutes? I didn't know, and I probably never would. But I could use the trial lawyer's best friend, scurrilous innuendo. In a murder case, it's not a bad idea to imply that someone else might have done the killing. Possible suspects can include God with a lightning bolt or vengeful Colombian drug dealers stalking Faye Resnick.

"Did you leave Dr. Schein alone in the room with the patient?" I asked in a tone suggesting this would constitute a grave offense.

"Yes," she said, a bit defensively. Good.

"And he wasn't there when you raced into the room at eleven-fifty-one?"

"No, he wasn't."

"So, apparently, he quietly left the room and the ICU without being observed?" I wanted to say
sneaked out
, but Socolow would have pounded the table, and this got the point across anyway.

"Yes, I suppose he did."

"Did Dr. Schein speak to the patient?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there."

"And I suppose the answer would be the same if I asked whether Dr. Schein did anything to help Mr. Bernhardt."

"Again, I wasn't in the room, but of course, Dr. Schein was not there to treat the patient."

"Why was he there?"

"I'm not sure I understand the question," she said.

"Had Dr. Schein ever visited your ICU before?"

"Not that I recall."

"I'm just wondering," I said. "If Mr. Bernhardt was still groggy from the anesthesia, he couldn't carry on much of a conversation. I wonder what Dr. Schein was doing in there."

"In times of trouble, some people just like to be with those they care about," she said.

"Some people do," I agreed.

I missed the hibiscus flowers in bloom.

Rising early, rushing to court, coming home after dark. The delicate blood-red flowers open in the morning when the sun is up, then close at dusk.

Hibiscus rosa-sinensis
, Charlie Riggs calls my flowering bushes. Red, violet, and yellow, they grow in a tangle in the backyard. At dawn, I stood at my kitchen counter, slicing a papaya. The coffee gurgled and dripped through the filter into the pot. Somewhere outside, a cat wailed—an eerie, almost human scream. To the east, orange streaks appeared above the horizon, but in my overgrown yard of bushes, weeds, poinciana, live oak, and chinaberry trees, the world was still painted in dusky grays.

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Bare feet padding against the oak. She wore my old Penn State away jersey, the white one with the blue numbers. A faded grass stain on the belly. Had I made the tackle or ended up with a faceful of dirt? Who knows? No jazzy stripes or lightning bolts, no name on the back, no Nike swoosh in those innocent days, just number 58. Plain and simple. Like me.

She came up from behind and hugged me, laying her head on my shoulder. "You talked in your sleep," she said, "but I couldn't make out the words."

"Maybe I was practicing my inauguration speech for the Supreme Court."

"No. You were agitated."

"I was dreaming."

"Tell me."

"I don't remember," I lied.

"Uh-huh."

Chrissy let go and poured herself a cup of coffee. She didn't light a cigarette. I'd been trying to get her to stop. I try to be a good influence on my clients. Don't kill anyone else and please stop smoking.

Outside the window, a bird cawed. I didn't see it, but I knew it was the black fish crow that had built a nest in the live oak tree. Charlie Riggs had told me that the crows are extremely loyal and mate for life. Unlike the black-capped chickadees.

"We used to think most birds were monogamous," Charlie had said, "but we were wrong. The female chickadee will sneak out of the nest for a tryst with a male who ranks above her mate in the bird hierarchy. A queen bee will mate with two dozen drones in a day, and they'll all die when their genitals explode."

"Is there a lesson in this?" I'd asked.

"The mammals are the most promiscuous," Charlie had continued. "Probably less than two percent of the species practice monogamy."

Certainly not ours. In the backyard, the bird cawed again, though it was more like a
cah
, my crow picking up a Boston accent.

I squeezed a lime over the papaya and tried to catch a glimpse of the bird. No luck.

"Jake, what are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"That's impossible."

It didn't seem like a question, so I didn't answer.

"I'm frightened when I wake up and you're not in bed," she said. "I always think you've left me."

"I woke up early. That's all."

My dream was still with me. A naked woman. Chrissy? Who could tell? The director hadn't called for any close-ups, and the lighting was bad. I walked into the picture, reaching out, my hands cupping her full, bare breasts. A grinding sound, and then the pain. Her nipples became drill bits, stabbing me, cutting through my palms. It was so damn obvious I didn't even need to call Dr. Santiago for her analysis.

I had awakened in a sweat and crawled out of bed. Chrissy stirred beside me, but I made it downstairs without waking her. I slipped a CD into the player, turned the volume down low, and listened to Sade whisper that I was a smooth operator. Right.

What was I doing? Where was I headed? I am a man without a plan, a defined goal. Careening through life, bouncing off immovable objects, finding friends, battling foes, losing lovers. Drifting on the currents, so near, so far from shore.

In the middle of a trial, there is nothing else. There is nothing that happened before; there can be no life after. All-consuming, this trial more than any other.

Because of her. Now I didn't know which was worse, losing her or letting her down.

The world seemed to be closing in. Abe Socolow was wrapping up his case. Yesterday, a fingerprint expert had testified that Chrissy's latents were on the Beretta that was recovered at her feet. Then came the assistant medical examiner, whose testimony as to cause of death was even more important than Dr. Quintana's because she had done the autopsy.

Dr. Mai Ling wore a white lab coat, a photo ID clipped to her pocket. She was petite and short-haired, prim and fastidious, and it was hard to imagine her elbow-deep in some drunk driver's stomach contents or, even worse, examining the body of an infant tortured by a maniac stepfather. After Abe Socolow ran through Dr. Ling's degrees, fellowships, internship, residencies, and advanced training, he got down to business.

"Now, Dr. Ling, please tell the jury what services you did, vis-à-vis the body of Harry Bernhardt," Abe instructed.