Although it was a bright, sunshine-filled June day outside, inside Harold's office it was dark enough to necessitate the desk lamp and a floor lamp to be on. The windows were covered by heavy, dark green velvet drapes. After finishing the current Mr. Stanhope saga, Harold went to an upright, four-drawer file cabinet covered with mahogany veneer. From the top drawer, he pulled out a folder. From within the folder, he took three papers, one of which he handed to Jack. The other two he placed on his desk. He motioned toward one of the velvet-upholstered chairs facing the desk for Jack before sitting himself down in his high-backed desk chair.
"That's the exhumation permit I gave you," Harold said. "There's a place for Mr. Stanhope to sign, giving authorization."
Jack glanced at the paper as he sat down. Getting the signature was obviously going to be the deal-breaker, but for the moment, he wasn't going to worry about it. "Who will fill in the rest after Mr. Stanhope signs?"
"I will do that. What is the time frame you are looking at?"
"If it's to be done, it has to be done immediately."
"Then you'd better let me know quickly. I'd have to arrange for the vault company's truck and a backhoe."
"Could the autopsy be done here at the home?"
"Yes, in the embalming room, working around our schedule. The only problem is we might not have all the tools you would like. For instance, we don't have a cranial saw."
"I can get the tools." Jack was impressed. Harold looked rather weird, but he was informed and efficient.
"I should mention this will be an expensive undertaking."
"What are we talking about?"
"There'll be the vault company and backhoe charge, as well as cemetery fees. On top of that will be our charges for obtaining the permits, supervision, and use of the embalming room."
"Can you give me a ballpark idea?"
"At least several thousand dollars."
Jack whistled softly as if he thought the figure high, whereas in actuality he thought it was cheap with all that was involved. He stood up. "Do you have an off-hours phone number?"
"I'll give you my cell phone number."
"Terrific," Jack said. "One other thing. Do you know the address of the Stanhope home?"
"Of course. Everybody knows the Stanhope house. It's a landmark in Brighton."
A few minutes later, Jack was back in the rent-a-car again, drumming the steering wheel while he thought of what he should do next. It was now after two p.m. Returning to the courtroom didn't thrill him. He'd always been more of a performer than a spectator. Instead of going back into Boston, he reached for the Hertz map. It took him a few minutes, but he located the Newton Memorial Hospital and oriented himself, and eventually arrived at his destination.
Newton Memorial Hospital resembled almost every suburban hospital Jack had been in. It was built in a confusing hodgepodge of various wings added over the years. The oldest section had period details like decoration on a cake, mostly Greek Revival, but the new structures were progressively plainer. The most recent addition was just brick and bronze-tinted glass with no embellishments whatsoever.
Jack parked in the visitors' area, in a lot that backed onto a wetland with a small pond. A flock of Canada geese were floating motionless on the surface like a bunch of wooden decoys. Consulting the fat case file, Jack memorized the names of the people he wanted to speak with: the emergency-room doctor, Matt Gilbert; the emergency-room nurse, Georgina O'Keefe; and the staff cardiologist, Noelle Everette. All three were on the plaintiff's witness list, and all three had been deposed by the defense. What was troubling Jack was the cyanosis issue.
Instead of going to the front entrance of the hospital, Jack went to the emergency area. The ambulance bay was empty. To the side was an automatic sliding glass door. Jack walked in and headed directly to the admitting desk.
It seemed like a good time to visit. There were only three people in the waiting area; none of them appeared sick or injured. The nurse at the desk looked up as Jack approached. She was dressed in scrubs and had the usual stethoscope slung around her neck. She was reading The Boston Globe.
"Calm before the storm," Jack joked.
"Something like that. What can we do for you?"
Jack went through his usual spiel, including the ME badge flash. He asked for Matt and Georgina, purposefully using their first names to suggest familiarity.
"They're not here yet," the duty nurse said. "They work the evening shift."
"When does that start?"
"At three."
Jack looked at his watch. It was going on three. "So they will be here shortly."
"They better be!" the duty nurse said sternly but with a smile to show she was being humorous.
"What about Dr. Noelle Everette?"
"I'm sure she's here someplace. Want me to page her?"
"That would be helpful."
Jack retreated to the waiting area with the other three people. He tried to make eye contact, but no one was willing. He eyed an old National Geographic magazine but didn't pick it up. Instead, he marveled about Stanislaw Jordan Jaruzelski transforming himself into Jordan Stanhope, and then he brooded about how he was going to get Jordan Stanhope to sign an exhumation permit. It seemed impossible, like climbing Mount Everest not only without oxygen but also without clothes. He smiled briefly at the thought of a couple of bare-assed climbers standing triumphantly on the rocky summit. Nothing is impossible, he reminded himself. He heard Dr. Noelle Everette's name over an old-fashioned page system. Such a page system seemed like an anachronism in the information age, with grammar-school kids text-messaging.
Five minutes later the ER duty nurse called him back to the admitting desk. She told him that Dr. Everette was up in radiology and would be happy to talk with him. The nurse then gave him directions.
The cardiologist was busy reading and dictating cardioangiograms. She was sitting in a small viewing room with an entire wall filled with X-ray films on a movable conveyor belt. The only light came from behind the films and washed her with its fluorescent blue-whiteness, similar to moonlight but brighter. It made the cardiologist appear ghostlike, particularly in her white coat. Jack assumed he looked equally washed-out. Jack was completely forthright. He explained who he was and why he was associated with the case.
"I am to be an expert witness for the plaintiff," Noelle said, wishing to be equally forthright. "I'm going to testify that by the time the patient arrived here at the emergency room, we really had no chance to resuscitate her, and I was indignant to learn there had been an avoidable delay. Some of us old-fashioned physicians who treat all comers and not just those who pay us up front are angry about these concierge doctors. We're convinced they are self-serving rather than acting in the patients' best interests as they claim and which true professionalism dictates."
"So you are testifying because Dr. Bowman is practicing concierge medicine?" Jack asked. He was taken aback by Noelle's emotional response.
"Absolutely not," Noelle said. "I'm testifying because there had been a delay getting the patient to the hospital. Everyone knows that after a myocardial infarction, it is critical to start fibrinolytic and reperfusion treatment absolutely as soon as possible. If that opinion secondarily says something about my feelings vis-a-vis concierge medicine, so be it!"
"Listen, I respect your position, Dr. Everette, and I'm not here to try to convince you otherwise. Believe me! I'm here to ask you about the degree of cyanosis the patient apparently had. Is that something you remember particularly?"