The Doctor and Mr. Dylan (29 page)

The glint in Hamilton’s eyes showed he was pleased with Elizabeth’s testimony. Still he showed compassion, and seemed empathetic to how awful an ordeal it was for her to relive Angel’s death. “Thank you, Ms. Scipioni. I’m sorry for the loss of your sister.”

“I think about her every day. Still.” Elizabeth Scipioni started to cry, and she dabbed the white linen hanky to her eyes to wipe away the tears.

I still thought about Angel every day myself. I’d relived that last evening with Angel countless times, through thousands of sleepless nights and thousands of lonely days. Angel was so weak, so frail, and so sad. She’d lost her will to go on. I would have felt the same way. Her arms had atrophied into fleshy matchsticks. Angel lacked the strength to reach for the pill bottle. Her fingers lacked the fine-motor skills to grasp a pill. I only did what she asked. I placed each pill against the leather of her tongue and held the glass of water to her parched lips. She swallowed, and I watched. Could Angel have done it without me? No. Did I kill her? I always believed Angel killed herself, but that was my fable. I had to live with the reality that my fingerprints were on that bottle of morphine.

After Angel swallowed that mouthful of pills, I climbed into bed next to her and told her I loved her. Her reply never came. She dropped off the edge into a soft snore. Within minutes, the snore went silent, and Angel breathed no more. I cried like I’d never cried before. I prayed for Angel’s soul, and I mourned the blood on my rapier.

When it was Ed Martinovich’s turn to cross-examine Elizabeth Scipioni, I sensed the circumstances were difficult. The witness was vulnerable and pitiful. Any effort by Martinovich to embarrass her would be unpopular. He needed to discredit Elizabeth in some fashion without being an ass himself.

He stood up from his chair, and did not leave the defense table. He spoke in a mezzo piano voice, a sharp contrast to his cup-rattling showmanship from the day before. “It seems that Nico Antone’s role in your sister’s last hours isn’t very clear. Was anyone else present when she died?”

“No.”

“With no one else there, isn’t it possible his role could have been as passive as handing Angel a glass of water and a pill bottle?”

Elizabeth Scipioni pulled the handkerchief away from her face. Her mouth hung open in a perfect O.

“Objection,” Hamilton said. “Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained,” the Judge answered.

“Ms. Scipioni,” Martinovich said, “Let me rephrase my question. What evidence is there that my client killed Angel?”

“She was alive when I left. Four hours later Angel was dead. No one else was there but him.”

“Isn’t it possible that your sister took the morphine overdose on her own accord?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I understand that you may choose not to believe that. But answer the question please. Is it possible that your sister took the overdose herself?”

Elizabeth shook her head back and forth, back and forth, and said, “Possible, yes. Likely, no.”

Martinovich said, “I have no further questions, Your Honor,” and he sat down.

Hamilton stood and said, “I have no further witnesses, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

“This court will adjourn until 9 a.m. tomorrow morning, at which time the defense will initiate its case,” Judge Satrum said. One firm tap of the gavel, and the day was finished. The judge left the room.

I tried to quiet the throbbing in my head. I’d started my day as a murder suspect, but now my predicament was worse. I was now a despicable man who’d killed not one, but two wives.

Martinovich growled into my ear, “Why didn’t you tell me about your first wife?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Are you kidding? That testimony destroyed you. It looks like you can kill a wife like most people swat a fly. It’s a hell of a hole for me to dig you out of.”

“Sorry.”

“What else are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“You worry me, Dr. Antone.”

“I’m not hiding anything.”

Martinovich placed one hand on each of my shoulders, locked eyes with me, and said, “Either way, I’ll defend you to the end of the Earth, Doctor. Remember, I’m your biggest fan. Your biggest fan.” He looked at his watch and said, “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a ninety-minute drive back to Duluth. It’s important that your attorney sleep in his own bed once or twice a week, you know?”

Martinovich left the courtroom, bound for his Mercedes and a warm dinner with his family seventy-five miles away on the shores of Lake Superior. I was headed for my own depressing 6 X 8-foot jail cell. I remained alone there at the defense table, and my thoughts circled back to the image of Bobby Dylan, clad in faded green scrubs, walking out of Alexandra’s operating room before the appendectomy. Martinovich needed to prove that Dylan did it, not me. Dylan also had the opportunity, the motive, and the emotional makeup to murder Alexandra Antone in the operating room that day. My defense hinged on the jury believing he was guilty.

And Mr. Dylan would take the witness stand tomorrow.

CHAPTER 24

LONG BLACK COAT

I took my seat at the defense table the next day. Judge Satrum arrived at the bench, called the court to order, and said, “Today Mr. Martinovich will begin calling witnesses for the defense. Mr. Hamilton will have the opportunity to cross-examine. Looking at the list of planned testimonies, I’ve formulated a timeline for this trial. I expect the list of defense witnesses to require no more than three additional days of testimony. Closing arguments will require a fourth day, and we will send the case to the jury for a verdict following closing arguments. Let us begin. Mr. Martinovich?”

I sensed the impatience in Satrum’s voice. The retired hockey star’s trials were said to resemble athletic events, and I could see the parallels. There were two opponents and a time clock. When that clock ticked down to zero, the buzzer would ring. My fate would be in the jurors’ hands within one week. These next days would be a competition to redeem my liberty or condemn me for life, and the specter of failure terrified me. All denial was stripped away. I was powerless. All I could do was watch and listen.

Ed Martinovich stepped to the podium. Today he wore a double-breasted brown suit with a white shirt and a maroon necktie. His level of poise was reassuring. He seemed cocky and confident, born for this moment. He said, “The defense calls Dr. William Sladen as our first witness.”

Dr. William Sladen was the most renowned anesthesia expert witness in the United States. The week I was arraigned, my anesthesia chairman at Stanford advised me to hire William Sladen just to prevent the prosecution from claiming him. Sladen was renowned for his intellect and his domineering courtroom personality. His nickname was “Doc Slayer,” because he laid waste to every doctor he testified against. Lucky for me, Doc Slayer was on my team.

Dr. Sladen strode down the aisle like he owned the place. He wore a trim black suit and a navy blue necktie with red Boston Red Sox
B’s
in a diagonal pattern. His hair was a wonder of white waves. After taking the oath, he broke into a big smile as he descended into the witness chair.

“Dr. Sladen,” Martinovich said. “Can you inform us as to your medical training and qualifications as an expert witness?”

“Of course.” He turned his toothy grin on for the jury, and said, “I graduated from Harvard College and Harvard Medical School. My residency and fellowship training in anesthesia were at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. I am a Professor of Anesthesia at Harvard Medical School.” Martinovich led Dr. Slayer through a thirty minute description of the professor’s list of outstanding medical accomplishments, the dialogue designed to convince the jury they were in the presence of a man with unequaled expertise in the world of anesthesiology.

“Excellent. And what materials have you reviewed in preparation for this testimony?”

“I’ve reviewed Alexandra Antone’s medical records from Hibbing General Hospital, including the laboratory reports and brain scans.”

“Very well. Have you formulated an opinion as to what caused Alexandra Antone’s brain damage?” Martinovich crossed his arms and leaned back, delighted to hand the stage to Dr. Sladen.

“Her brain damage occurred during her general anesthetic. There is no doubt about that. The glucose and insulin levels are conclusive. She died from an overdose of injected insulin.”

“Do you have an opinion as to when and where the insulin was injected?”

“I don’t know when or where the insulin was injected. One possibility is that Dr. Antone injected the insulin into her intravenous line during the general anesthetic, as he has been accused. But there is another credible explanation.”

“Enlighten us.”

“Anyone who had access to Mrs. Antone’s intravenous line that morning could have injected insulin into that line.”

“We’ve heard testimonies that no one other than Dr. Antone injected any medication after Mrs. Antone went to sleep.”

“I’m aware of that. It’s my expert opinion that another individual who had access to the IV prior to the anesthetic could easily have deposited a large dose of insulin in Alexandra Antone’s IV bag, before Dr. Antone arrived that morning.”

“Really? How is that possible?”

“It’s like this,” Sladen said, addressing the jury eye to eye. “Mrs. Antone had a full liter bag of normal saline solution connected to her IV line at the beginning of the anesthetic. Normal saline is salt water, similar to a solution that one might use to store their contact lenses in. Normal saline contains no sugar. The entire bag of normal saline was infused during Alexandra Antone’s hour-long anesthetic. The insulin could well of been injected into the IV bag before the anesthetic, and caused the coma that was evident when she did not awaken after the surgery.”

“Do you have an opinion as to who could have done this?”

“The chart documents that the nurse anesthetist Bobby Dylan brought the patient into the operating room prior to Dr. Antone’s arrival. Mr. Dylan had ample opportunity to inject insulin into her IV bag during that time frame. When Dr. Antone arrived, Dylan left the room. The insulin could well have been in the IV liter bag at the time he left the room.”

I was flying high with the angels in heaven as I listened to Sladen testify. The most prominent anesthesia expert witness in the United States was here in Hibbing, telling everyone that Dylan gave the insulin. For the first time in the entire trial, someone was pointing a finger away from Nico Antone.

At cross-examination, Hamilton asked Dr. Sladen, “How much are you being paid to testify on Nico Antone’s behalf?”

“I’m not being paid to testify on Dr. Antone’s behalf. I’m being paid for my opinion.”

“Yes, I see. And how much are you being paid?”

“I charge $10,000 a day plus travel expenses for a court appearance.”

“Ten thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money. How did you select that rate?”

“My rates are consistent with the hourly attorney fees in Boston, Massachusetts where I live and work. When I testify as a legal expert, I always charge the same rate as a first-rate attorney charges in my home town.”

“And your expert opinion is that someone killed Alexandra Antone with an insulin injection, correct?”

“Correct.”

“As an expert witness, is it your job to tell the jury who injected the insulin?”

“No. I wasn’t there. I have no idea who injected the insulin.”

“Correct. You were not there. Then how can you be sure that nurse anesthetist Bobby Dylan injected the insulin that day?”

“I am not certain that Bobby Dylan injected the insulin. It’s only a theory.”

“Only a theory. Dr. Nico Antone spent more than an hour in that operating room with Alexandra Antone during the anesthetic and surgery. Would you agree that Dr. Antone had the opportunity to inject insulin during that time?”

“Yes.”

I frowned. Sladen’s testimony was growing weaker by the second. He was looking more and more like some elite overpaid East Coast snob.
Come on, Harvard Doc. Stick your neck out a little, and stoke the fire of Dylan as the murderer
. I checked the expressions on the jurors’ faces, and they weren’t smiling. They didn’t like Sladen. I could understand, because I didn’t like the guy either. His big-city smugness was a major turnoff in this little mining town. Sladen laid the groundwork for our assault on Bobby Dylan, but he was smelling more and more like dirty underwear. I was ready for our highbrow East Coast expert to go away as soon as possible.

After Sladen stepped down, Martinovich shuffled through his list of witnesses and said, “The defense would like to call Johnny Antone.”

I spun around toward the gallery seats behind me to marvel at the sight of Johnny walking down the center aisle. His eyes were fixed straight ahead at Judge Satrum. I hadn’t seen my son for so long that I’d forgotten what a beautiful human he was. His hair was slicked back behind his ears in a style that made him look more like a GQ model than a high school kid. He wore a slim dark sport coat and a skinny black necktie. He was dressed to the nines for this nefarious occasion. It made my heart ache—it was as if Johnny was on trial as much as I was.