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.
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