"Do you mind?" Craig asked, motioning to the couch where Jack was sitting.
"Not at all," Jack said, wondering why he bothered to ask. Jack moved closer to the opposite end. He turned off the TV and twisted around to face his host, who'd plopped down, still holding both bottle and glass.
Craig took a large slug of his scotch and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. He was staring into the empty fireplace.
"How did the rehearsal go?" Jack asked. He felt obligated to try to have a conversation.
Craig merely laughed scornfully.
"Do you feel prepared?" Jack persisted.
"I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be. But that's not saying a whole bunch."
"What was Randolph 's advice?"
Craig forced another laugh. "You know, the usual. I'm not supposed to pick my nose, fart too loudly, or laugh at the judge."
"I'm serious," Jack said. "I'd like to know."
Craig regarded Jack. A bit of the tenseness that had been so apparent drained from his face. "The usual admonitions like I mentioned at lunch and maybe a few more. I'm supposed to avoid stuttering and inappropriate laughter. Can you believe that? Tony Fasano is going to verbally attack me, and I'm supposed to calmly let it happen. If anything, I'm supposed to look hurt and not angry so the jury will sympathize with me. Can you imagine?"
"I think it sounds reasonable."
Craig's eyes narrowed as he looked at Jack. "Maybe to you, but not to me."
"I couldn't help but hear raised voices. I mean, I couldn't hear what it was about. Did you and Randolph disagree on something?"
"Not really," Craig said. "He just pissed me off. Of course, that was what he was trying to do. He was play-acting as if he were Fasano. You see the problem is that when I'm on the stand, I'm sworn, whereas Tony Fasano won't be. That means he can make up and say whatever allegation he wants, and I'm supposed to have thick skin, but I don't. I even got mad at Randolph. I'm hopeless."
Jack watched as Craig drained his glass and then poured another drink. He knew that often the personality traits of really good clinicians like Craig made them susceptible to malpractice suits, and the same traits made them poor witnesses in their own defense. He also knew that the opposite was true: Really bad doctors made an effort at bedside manner to make up for their professional deficiencies and avoid suits, and the same doctors, if they were sued, could often offer Oscar-worthy performances on their behalf.
"It's just not looking good," Craig continued, more sullen than angry. "And I'm still worried Randolph is not the right guy despite his experience. He's so damn pretentious. As slimy as Tony Fasano is, he has the jurors eating out of his hands."
"Juries have a surprising way of eventually seeing through the fog," Jack said.
"The other thing that really pisses me off about Randolph is he keeps talking about the appeal," Craig said as if he'd not heard Jack. "That was what put me over the top right at the end of our session. I couldn't believe he'd bring it up at that point. Of course, I know I have to think about it. Just like I have to think about what I'll be doing with the rest of my life. If I lose, I'm sure as hell not going to stay in practice."
"That's a double tragedy," Jack said. "The profession cannot afford to lose its best clinicians, nor can your patients."
"If I lose this case, I'm never going to be able to look at a patient without worrying about being sued and having to go through this kind of experience again. This has been the worst eight months of my life."
"But what would you do if you don't practice? You've got a young family."
Craig shrugged. "Probably work for big pharma in some capacity. There are lots of opportunities. I know several people who have gone that route. The other possibility is managing somehow to do my research full-time."
"Could you really do that sodium-channel work full-time and be content?" Jack questioned.
"Absolutely. It's exciting stuff. It's basic science yet has immediate clinical application."
"I suppose big pharma is interested in that arena."
"Without doubt."
"Switching subjects," Jack said. "While I was outside saying good-bye to everyone, I had a thought that I wanted to run by you."
"About what?"
"About Patience Stanhope. I've got the whole case file, which I've read over several times. It includes all your records, but the only thing from the hospital is the emergency-room sheet."
"That's all there was. She was never admitted."
"I know that, but there's no labwork other than what is mentioned in the notes, and no order sheet. What I'm wondering is whether a major mistake could have occurred at the hospital, like the wrong drug given or a large overdose. If so, whoever was responsible could be desperate about covering up their tracks and be more than happy you are set up to take the fall. I know it's a theory somewhere out there in left field, but it's not as far out as the conspiracy idea. What's your take? I mean, it's clear from what happened here this afternoon to your children that someone is very, very against my doing an autopsy, and if Fasano is not to blame, the reason has to involve something other than money."
Craig stared off for a minute, mulling over the idea. "It's another wild but interesting thought."
"I assume that during discovery all the pertinent records from the hospital were obtained."
"I believe so," Craig said. "And an argument against such a theory is that I was there with the patient the whole time. I would have sensed something like that. If there's a major overdose or the wrong drug, there's usually a marked change in the patient's status. There wasn't. From the time I first saw her at the Stanhope residence until she was pronounced, she just faded away, unresponsive to anything we did."
"Right," Jack said. "But maybe the idea is something to be kept in mind when I get to do the autopsy. I was planning on a toxicology screen regardless, but if there's a chance of an overdose or the wrong drug, it's more critical."
"What does a toxicology screen pick up?"
"The usual drugs, and even some unusual ones if they have high enough concentrations."
Craig polished off his second drink, eyed the scotch bottle, and thought better of pouring a third. He stood up. "Sorry not to be a better host, but I have a date with my favorite hypnotic agent."
"It's bad news mixing alcohol with sleeping pills."
"Really?" Craig questioned superciliously. "I never knew that!"
"See you in the morning," Jack said. He felt Craig's provocative comment did not deserve a response.
"Are you worried about the bad guys coming back?" Craig asked in a taunting tone.
"I'm not," Jack said.
"Me neither. At least not until after the autopsy is done."
"Are you having second thoughts?" Jack asked.
"Of course I'm having second thoughts, especially with you telling me the chances of finding something relevant are small and Randolph saying it's not going to influence the trial irrespective of what's found, because it won't be admissible."
"I said the chances of finding something were small before someone broke into your house warning you not to allow me to do it. But this isn't an argument. It's up to you and Alexis."
"She's set on it."
"Well, it's up to you guys. You have to tell me, Craig. Do you want me to do it?"
"I don't know what to think, especially after two double scotches."
"Why don't you just give me your final word in the morning," Jack said. He was losing patience. Craig was not the easiest guy to like, even without two double scotches.
"What kind of person would be willing to terrorize three young girls to make a point?" Craig asked.