"Crisis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Robin)

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"All rise," the uniformed court officer called out as he emerged from the judge's chambers. He was holding a white staff. Directly behind the bailiff appeared the judge, swathed in flowing black robes. He was a heavyset African American with pendulous jowls, graying, kinky hair, and a mustache. His dark, intense eyes cast a quick glance around his fiefdom as he mounted the two steps up to the bench with a forceful, deliberate gait. Reaching his chair, he turned to face the room, framed by the American flag to his right and the Massachusetts state flag to his left, both capped by eagles. With a reputation of fairness and sound knowledge of the law, but a quick temper, he was the embodiment of steadfast authority. Enhancing his stature, a concentrated band of bright morning sunlight penetrated the edge of the shades that were pulled down over the metal mullioned windows and cascaded over his head and shoulders, giving his outline a golden glow like that of a pagan god in a classical painting.

"Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye," the court officer continued in his baritone, Boston-accented voice. "All persons having anything to do before the honorable justices of the Superior Court now sitting at Boston and in the County of Suffolk draw near, give your attendance, and you shall be heard. God save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Be seated!"

Reminiscent of the effect of the conclusion of the national anthem at a sporting event, the bailiff's final command initiated a murmur of voices as everyone in Courtroom 314 took their seats. While the judge rearranged the papers and water pitcher before him, the clerk sitting at a desk directly below the bench called out, "The estate of Patience Stanhope et al. versus Dr. Craig Bowman. The Honorable Justice Marvin Davidson presiding."

With a studied motion, the judge snapped open an eyeglasses case and slipped on his rimless reading spectacles, positioning them low on his nose. He then looked over the tops at the plaintiff's table and said, "Will counsels identify themselves for the record." In contrast to the bailiff, he had no accent, and his voice was in the bass range.

"Anthony Fasano, Your Honor," the plaintiff's attorney said quickly with an accent not too dissimilar to the bailiff's as he rose from his chair to a half-standing position as if supporting a heavy weight on his shoulders. "But most people call me Tony." He gestured first to his right. "I'm here on behalf of the plaintiff, Mr. Jordan Stanhope." He then gestured to his left. "Next to me is my able colleague, Ms. Renee Relf." He then quickly regained his seat as if he was too shy to be in the spotlight.

Judge Davidson's eyes moved laterally to the defense table.

"Randolph Bingham, Your Honor," the defense attorney said. In contrast to the plaintiff's attorney, he spoke slowly, emphasizing each syllable in a mellifluous voice. "I'm representing Dr. Craig Bowman, and I'm accompanied by Mr. Mark Cavendish."

"And I can assume you people are ready to get under way," Judge Davidson said.

Tony merely nodded in assent, whereas Randolph again rose to his feet. "There are some housekeeping motions before the court," he said.

The judge glared at Randolph for a beat to suggest he didn't like or need to be reminded of preliminary motions. Looking down, he touched his index finger to his tongue before searching through the pages in his hands. The way he moved suggested he was vexed, as if Randolph 's comment had awakened the renowned disdain he had for lawyers in general. He cleared his throat before saying, "Motions for dismissal denied. It is also the court's feeling that none of the proposed witnesses or evidence is either too graphic or too complex for the jury's ability to consider it. Consequently, all motions in limine denied." He raised his eyes and again glowered at Randolph as if saying "Take that," before switching his gaze to the court officer. "Bring in the venire! We have work to do." He was also known as a judge who liked to move things along.

As if on cue, an expectant murmur arose again from the spectators beyond the bar. But they didn't have long to converse. The clerk rapidly pulled sixteen names from the jury hopper, and the court officer went to fetch the people selected from the jury pool. Within minutes, the sixteen were escorted into the room and sworn to begin the voir dire. The assemblage was visibly disparate, and almost equally divided between the sexes. Although the majority was Caucasian, other minorities were represented. Approximately three-quarters were dressed appropriately and respectfully, with half of them businessmen or businesswomen. The rest were attired in a mixture of T-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, sandals, and hip-hop clothes, some of which had to be continuously hiked up to keep them from falling off. A few of the experienced venirepersons had brought reading material, mostly newspapers and magazines, although one late-middle-aged woman had a hardcover book. Some were awed by the surroundings, others brazenly dismissive, as the group filed into the jury box area and took their seats.

Judge Davidson gave a short introduction, during which he thanked the prospective jurors for their service and told them how important it was, since they were to be finders of fact. He briefly described the selection process despite knowing they had already been apprised of the same in the jury room. He then began asking a series of questions to determine suitability, with the hope of weeding out those jurors with particular bias that might prejudice them against either the plaintiff or the defendant. The goal was, he insisted, that justice be served.

"Justice, my ass!" Craig Bowman said to himself. He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. He had not been aware of how tense he'd been. He lifted his hands, which had been coiled into fists in his lap, and placed them on the table, leaning forward on his forearms. He opened his fingers and fully extended them, feeling more than hearing snapping from his complaining joints. He was dressed in one of his most conservative gray suits, white shirt, and tie, all on specific orders of his attorney, Randolph Bingham, seated to his immediate right.

Also on specific orders from his attorney, Craig kept his facial expression neutral, as difficult as that was in such a humiliating circumstance. He had been instructed to act dignified, respectful (whatever that meant), and humble. He was to guard against appearing arrogant and angry. Not appearing angry was the difficult part, since he was furious at the whole affair. He was also instructed to engage the jurors, to look them in the eyes, to consider them as acquaintances and friends. Craig laughed derisively to himself as his eyes scanned the prospective jurors. The idea that they were his peers was a sad joke. His eyes stopped on a waif-like female with blond, stringy hair that was all but hiding her pale pixie face. She was dressed in an oversized Patriots sweatshirt, the arms of which were so long that only the tips of her fingers were visible as she continuously parted her hair in front of her face, pulling it to the sides in order to see.

Craig sighed. The last eight months had been pure hell. When he'd been served with the summons the previous autumn, he'd guessed the affair was going to be bad, but it had been worse than he'd ever imagined. First there had been the interrogatories poking into every recess of his life. As bad as the interrogatories were, the depositions were worse.

Leaning forward, Craig looked over at the plaintiff's table and eyed Tony Fasano. Craig had disliked a few people in his life, but he had never hated anyone as much as he'd come to hate Tony Fasano. Even the way Tony looked and dressed, in his trendy gray suits, black shirts, black ties, and clunky gold jewelry added to his loathing. To Craig, Tony Fasano, appearing like a sleazy mafioso understudy, was the tawdry stereotype of the modern-day personal-injury, ambulance-chasing lawyer out to make a buck over someone else's misfortune by squeezing millions out of rich, reluctant insurance companies. To Craig's disgust, Tony even had a website bragging as much, and the fact that he might ruin a doctor's life in the process made no difference in the world.

Craig's eyes switched to Randolph 's aristocratic profile as the man concentrated on the voir dire proceeding. Randolph had a slightly hooked, high-bridged nose not too dissimilar to Tony's, but the effect was altogether different. Whereas Tony looked at you from beneath his dark, bushy eyebrows, his nose directed downward partially covering a cruel smirk on his lips, Randolph held his nose straight out in front, maybe slightly elevated, and regarded those around him with what could be considered by some to be mild disdain. And in contrast to Tony's full lips, which he wetted frequently with his tongue as he talked, Randolph 's mouth was a thin, precise line, nearly lipless, and when he talked, a tongue was all but invisible. In short, Randolph was the epitome of the seasoned and restrained Boston Brahmin, while Tony was the youthful and exuberant playground entertainer and bully. At first Craig had been pleased with the contrast, but now, looking at the prospective jurors, he couldn't help but wonder if Tony's persona would make more of a connection and have more influence. This new concern added to Craig's unease.

And there was plenty of reason for unease. Randolph 's reassurances notwithstanding, the case was not going well. Of particular note, it had been in essence already found for the plaintiff by the statutory Massachusetts tribunal, which had ruled after hearing testimony that there was sufficient, properly substantiated evidence of possible negligence to allow the case to go to trial. As a corollary to this finding, there was no need for the claimant, Jordan Stanhope, to post a bond.

The day that Craig had learned this news was the blackest for him of the whole pre-trial period, and unbeknownst to anyone, he had for the first time in his life considered the idea of suicide. Of course, Randolph had offered the same pabulum that Craig had been given initially; namely, that he should not take the minor defeat personally. Yet how could he not take the finding personally, since it had been rendered by a judge, a lawyer, and a physician colleague? These were not high-school dropouts or stultified blue-collar laborers; they were professionals, and the fact that they thought he had committed malpractice, meaning he had rendered care that was substandard, was a mortal blow to Craig's sense of honor and personal integrity. He had literally devoted his entire life to becoming the best doctor he could be, and he had succeeded, as evidenced by stellar grades in medical school, by stellar evaluations during the course of his residency at one of the most coveted institutions in the country, and even by the offer to become part of his current practice from a celebrated and widely renowned clinician. Yet these professionals were calling him a tortfeasor. In a very real sense, the entire image of his self-worth and self-esteem had been undermined and was now on the line.

There had been other events besides the tribunal's ruling that had seriously clouded the horizon. Back at the beginning, even before the interrogatories had been completed, Randolph had strenuously advised that Craig make every effort to reconcile with his wife, Alexis, give up his in-town, recreational apartment (as Randolph had referred to it), and move back to the Newton family home. It had been Randolph 's strong feeling that Craig's relatively new, self-indulgent (as he called it) lifestyle would not sit well with a jury. Willing to listen to experienced advice although chafing at the dependency it represented, Craig had followed the recommendations to the letter. He'd been pleased and thankful that Alexis had been willing to allow him to return, albeit to sleep in the guest room, and she'd been graciously supportive as evidenced by her sitting at that very moment in the spectator section. Reflexively Craig twisted around and caught Alexis's eye. She was dressed in a casually professional style for her work as a psychologist at the Boston Memorial Hospital, with a white blouse and blue cardigan sweater. Craig managed a crooked smile, and she acknowledged it with one of her own.

Craig redirected his attention to the voir dire. The judge was castigating a frumpy accountant who was intent on being excused for hardship. The man had claimed clients couldn't do without him for a week's trial, which was how long the judge estimated the proceeding would take considering the witness list, which was mostly the plaintiff attorney's list. Judge Davidson was merciless as he told the gentleman what he thought of his sense of civic responsibility but then dismissed him. A replacement was called and sworn and the process continued.

Thanks to Alexis's personal generosity, which Craig attributed primarily to her maturity and secondarily to her training as a psychologist, things had gone reasonably well at home over the last eight months. Craig knew it could have been intolerable if Alexis had chosen to behave as he probably would have if the situation had been reversed. From his current vantage point, Craig was able to view his so-called "awakening" as a juvenile attempt to be someone he wasn't. He was born to be a doctor, which was an encompassing calling, and not a Brahmin socialite. In fact, he'd been given his first doctor kit by his doting mother when he was four, and he could remember administering to his mother and older brother with a precocious seriousness that foreshadowed his clinical talent. Although in college and even the first years of medical school he'd felt his calling was basic medical research, he would later realize he had an inherent gift for clinical diagnosis, which impressed his superiors, and thereby pleased him as well. By the time he graduated from medical school, he knew he was to be a clinician with an interest in research, not vice versa.

Although Alexis and his two younger daughters – Meghan, eleven, and Christina, ten – had been forgiving and seemingly understanding, Tracy had been another story. At age fifteen and in the throes of adolescence, she had been overtly and persistently unable to forgive Craig for abandoning the family for six months. Perhaps associated, there had been some unfortunate episodes of rebelliousness with disturbing drug use, open violation of curfews, and even sneaking out of the house at night. Alexis was concerned, but since she had an open communication with the girl, she was reasonably confident that Tracy would come around. Alexis urged Craig not to interfere under the circumstances. Craig was happy to oblige, since he would have had no idea how to handle the situation under the best of circumstances and was intellectually and emotionally preoccupied with his own disaster.

Judge Davidson struck two potential jurors for cause. One was openly hostile to insurance companies and thought they were ripping off the country: ergo sayonara. Another had a cousin who'd been in Craig's former practice and had heard Craig was a wonderful doctor. Several other juror prospects were dismissed when the counselors began using some of their peremptory challenges, including a well-dressed businessman by Tony and a young African-American male dressed in elaborate hip-hop gear by Randolph. Four more veniremen were called from the jury pool and sworn. The questions continued.

Having to deal with Tracy 's resentment had hurt Craig, but it was nothing compared to the problems he had with Leona. As the spurned lover, she became vindictive, especially when she found herself having to find another apartment. Her poor attitude disrupted the office, and Craig was caught between a rock and a hard place. He couldn't fire her for fear of a sexual discrimination suit on top of his malpractice problem, so he had to deal with her as best as he could. Why she didn't quit on her own, he had no idea, since it was open warfare between her and the duo Marlene and Darlene. Every day there was a new crisis with both Marlene and Darlene threatening to quit. But Craig couldn't let them, since he needed them more than ever. As handicapped as he was emotionally and physically from the lawsuit, he found practicing medicine almost impossible. He couldn't concentrate, and he saw every patient as a potential litigant. Almost from the day he'd been served, he suffered recurrent bouts of anxiety, which aggravated his hypervigilant digestive system, causing heartburn and diarrhea. Compounding everything was the insomnia, forcing him to use sleeping pills and making him feel sodden instead of refreshed when he awoke. All in all, he was a mess. The only good part was that he didn't regain the weight he had lost from going to the gym, thanks to his lack of appetite. On the other hand, he did regain his previously sallow, pudgy face, which was now made worse by sunken eyes lined with dark circles.

As baneful as Leona's behavior was in the office in terms of complicating Craig's life, it was trumped by her effect on the malpractice suit. The first hint of trouble occurred when she appeared on Tony Fasano's witness list. How bad it was going to prove to be became evident at her deposition, which was a painful affair for Craig, as he was forced to witness the depth of her resentment, ultimately humiliating him with her scoffing description of his lack of male prowess.

Prior to the deposition, Craig had confessed to Randolph the details of his affair with Leona so Randolph would know what to expect and what questions to ask. He'd also warned how irresponsibly talkative he'd been about his feelings toward the deceased the night he'd been served, but he might as well have saved his breath. Whether it was from spite or just a good memory, Leona had recalled most everything Craig had said about Patience Stanhope, including his hating the woman, calling her an entitled hypochrondriacal bitch, and his assertion that her passing was a blessing for everyone. After such revelations, even Randolph 's perennial optimism about the suit's ultimate outcome had taken a serious hit. When he and Craig left Fasano's second-floor office on Hanover Street in Boston 's North End, Randolph was even more taciturn and constrained than usual.

"She's not going to help my case, is she?" Craig had asked, vainly hoping that his fears were unfounded.

"I hope this is the only surprise you have for me," Randolph had answered. "Your glibness has succeeded in making this an uphill struggle. Please reassure me you haven't spoken in a similar regrettable fashion to anyone else."

"I haven't."

"Thank God!"

As they had climbed into Randolph 's waiting car, Craig had acknowledged to himself that he despised Randolph 's superior attitude, although later he came to understand that what he hated was the dependency that bound him to the lawyer. Craig had always been his own man, struggling singlehandedly against the obstacles he'd faced, until now. Now he couldn't do it alone. He needed Randolph, and as a consequence, Craig's feelings toward the defense attorney went back and forth during the pre-trial months, depending on how the affair unfolded.

Craig became aware of a huff of displeasure from Randolph as Tony used his last preemptory strike to remove a nattily dressed nursing-home administrator. Randolph 's elegant finger tapped with displeasure against his yellow legal pad. Seemingly in retribution, Randolph then struck the waif in the oversized sweatshirt. Two more individuals were then called from the jury pool and sworn, and the questions continued.

Leaning over toward his lawyer, Craig asked in a whisper what he needed to do to use the restroom. His hypervigilant colon was responding to his anxiety. Randolph assured him it wasn't a problem and that he should just indicate the need as he was now doing. Craig nodded and pushed back his chair. It was humiliating to sense all eyes upon him as he exited the bar through the gate. The only person he acknowledged was Alexis. With everyone else he avoided eye contact.

The men's room was old-fashioned and reeked of stale urine. Craig wasted no time getting into a stall to avoid any contact with several suspicious-looking unshaven men loitering by the sinks and conversing in hushed voices. With its graffitied walls, its marble mosaic floor in disrepair, and the disagreeable odor, the men's room seemed symbolic of Craig's current life, and with his digestive system behaving as it was, he was afraid he'd be making frequent visits to its unpleasant surroundings during the course of the trial.

With a piece of toilet paper, he wiped the seat. After he'd sat down, he thought again of Leona's deposition, and although it had been possibly the worst deposition in regard to its potential impact on the case's outcome, it hadn't been the worst from a purely emotional point of view. That dubious honor belonged to both his own deposition and those of Tony Fasano's experts. To Craig's dismay,

Tony had had no trouble getting local area experts to agree to testify and the lineup was impressive. All were people he knew and admired and who knew him. First to be deposed was the cardiologist who'd helped with the resuscitation attempt. Her name was Dr. Madeline Mardy. Second was Dr. William Tardoff, chief of cardiology at Newton Memorial Hospital, and third, and most distressing for Craig, was Dr. Herman Brown, chief of cardiology at Boston Memorial Hospital and chair of cardiology at Harvard Medical School. All three testified that the first minutes after a heart attack were the most crucial in terms of survival. They also concurred that it was common knowledge that it was absolutely key to get the patient to a hospital facility as expeditiously as possible and that any delay was unconscionable. Although all were dismissive of the idea of making a house call in the face of a suspected myocardial infarction, Randolph made all of them state that they believed Craig did not know for certain the patient's diagnosis before arriving at her bedside. Randolph had also gotten two of the three to state on the record that they were impressed by Craig's willingness to make a house call no matter what the diagnosis.

Randolph had not been as troubled by the experts' depositions as Craig, and took them in stride. The reason they bothered Craig so much was that the doctors were respected colleagues. Craig took their willingness to testify for the plaintiff as an overt criticism of his reputation as a physician. This was especially true for Dr. Herman Brown, whom Craig had had as a preceptor in medical school and as an attending during his residency. It was Dr. Brown's criticism and disapproval that cut Craig to the quick, especially since Craig had gotten such approbation from the same individual when Craig had been a student. To make matters worse, Craig had been unable to get any local colleague to testify on his behalf.

As upsetting as Craig found the experts' depositions, his own deposition had been far more disturbing. He'd even judged it the single most irksome and distressing experience in his life to date, especially since Tony Fasano had stretched the session out for two grueling days like a kind of filibuster. Randolph had to a degree anticipated Craig's difficulties and had tried to coach him. He'd advised Craig to hesitate after a question in case an objection was appropriate, to think for a moment about the ramifications of a question before answering, to take his time answering, to avoid offering anything not asked, and above all not to appear arrogant, and not to get into an argument. He'd said he couldn't be more specific, since he'd never opposed Tony Fasano in the past, mainly because it was apparently Tony's first foray into the malpractice arena from his usual personal-injury specialty.

The deposition had taken place in Randolph 's posh 50 State Street office with its stunning view over Boston Harbor. Initially, Tony had been reasonable, not quite pleasant but certainly not confrontational. That was the playground entertainer persona. He'd even persisted in cracking a few off-the-record jokes, although only the court reporter had giggled. But the entertainer persona soon disappeared, to be replaced by the bully. As he began to hammer and accuse, about Craig's professional and private life in humiliating detail, Craig's weak defenses began to crumble. Randolph objected when he could, even tried to suggest recess at several junctures, but Craig had gotten to the point where he would not hear of it. Despite being warned against anger, Craig had gotten angry, very angry, and then proceeded to violate all of Randolph 's admonitions and ignore all recommendations. The worst exchange happened in the early afternoon of the second day. Even though Randolph had again warned Craig about losing control during lunch and Craig had promised to follow his advice, Craig quickly fell into the same trap under the onslaught of Tony's preposterous allegations.

"Wait a second!" Craig had snapped. "Let me tell you something."

"Please," Tony had retorted. "I'm all ears."

"I've made some mistakes in my professional life. All doctors have. But Patience Stanhope was not one of them! No way!"

"Really?" Tony had questioned superciliously. "What do you mean by 'mistakes'?"

"I think it wise if we take a break here," Randolph had said, trying to intervene.

"I don't need a goddamned break," Craig shouted. "I want this asshole to understand just for a second what it's like to be a doctor: to be the one right there in the front-line trenches with sick people as well as hypochondriacs."

"But our goal is not to educate Mr. Fasano," Randolph had said. "It doesn't matter what he believes."

"Mistakes are when you do something stupid," Craig had said, ignoring Randolph and leaning forward to get his face closer to Tony's, "like cutting a corner when you're exhausted and have ten more patients to see, or forgetting to order a test when you know it's indicated because you had an intervening emergency."

"Or like making a stupid house call instead of meeting a seriously ill patient who was struggling to breathe at the hospital so you could get to the symphony on time?"

The sound of the outer men's room door slamming brought Craig back to the present. Hoping his lower intestine would stay quiescent for the rest of the morning, he finished up, pulled on his suit jacket, and went out to wash his hands. As he did so, he looked at himself in the mirror. He winced at his reflection. His appearance now was markedly worse than it had been before he started at the gym, and he didn't see much chance for improvement in the near future with the trial just getting under way. It was going to be a long, stressful week, especially considering his disastrous performance at his deposition. Immediately after the debacle, he hadn't needed Randolph to tell him how miserably he'd performed, although Randolph was gracious enough merely to suggest that they needed to practice prior to his testifying at the trial. Before Craig had left Randolph 's office that day Craig had pulled Randolph aside and looked him in the eye. "There is something I want you to know," he'd said insistently. "I have made mistakes, as I told Fasano, even though I've tried my damnedest to be a good doctor. But I didn't make a mistake with Patience Stanhope. There was no negligence."

"I know," Randolph had said. "Believe me, I understand your frustration and your pain, and I promise you no matter what, I'll do my best to convince the jury of the same."

Back in the courtroom, Craig regained his seat. The voir dire had been completed and the jury impaneled. Judge Davidson was giving them some initial instructions, including making certain their cell phones were off and explaining the civil procedure they were about to witness. He told them that they and they alone were to be the triers of fact in the case, meaning they would be deciding the factual issues. At the end of the trial, he said he would charge them with the appropriate points of law, which was his bailiwick. He thanked them again for their service before looking over his spectacles at Tony Fasano.

"Plaintiff ready?" Judge Davidson asked. He had already told the jury that the proceedings would start with the plaintiff attorney making his opening statement.

"One moment, Your Honor," Tony said. He leaned over and conversed in a whisper with his assistant, Ms. Relf. She nodded while she listened, and then handed him a stack of note cards.

During the brief delay, Craig tried to begin engaging the jury as Randolph had recommended by regarding each in turn, hoping for eye contact. As he did so he hoped that his expression did not reflect his inner thoughts. For him the concept that this disparate, mixed bag of laypeople represented his peers seemed ludicrous at best. There was a nonchalant firefighter in a spotless white T-shirt with bulging muscles. There was a clutch of house-wives who appeared to be electrified about the whole experience. There was a blue-haired retired schoolteacher who looked like everybody's image of a grandmother. An overweight plumber's assistant in jeans and dirty T-shirt had one foot propped up on the front rail of the jury box. Next to him, in sharp contrast, was a well-dressed young man with a scarlet pocket square spilling out of the breast pocket of a tan linen jacket. A prim female nurse of Asian extraction was next, with her hands folded in her lap. Next were two struggling small-businessmen in polyester suits who clearly looked bored, as well as irritated at having been coerced into their civic duty. A considerably more well-to-do stockbroker was in the back row, directly behind the businessmen.

Craig felt a mounting despair as his eyes went from each individual juror to the next. Except for the Asian nurse, none were willing to make eye contact even briefly. He couldn't help but feel that there was little chance any of these people, save for the nurse, could have any idea of what it was like being a doctor in today's world. And when he combined that realization with his performance during his deposition, and with Leona's expected testimony and the plaintiff's experts' testimony, chances for a successful outcome seemed distant at best. It was all very depressing, yet a fitting end to a horrid eight months of anxiety, grief, isolation, and insomnia, engendered by his constant mental replaying of the whole affair. Craig was aware that the experience had affected him deeply, robbing him of his self-confidence, his sense of justice, his self-esteem, even his passion for practicing medicine. As he sat there looking at the jurors, he wondered, irrespective of the outcome, if he would ever be able to be the doctor he had once been.