Suddenly, Richard's eyes opened and he gasped, "Mistrial."
"What?"
"Get ... mistrial ... Must..
"Don't talk. Please, Dad. Save your strength."
Richard grabbed Peter's wrist and squeezed so hard his fingers left raw, red impressions.
"Must ... Mistrial," he managed again.
"Yes, I will," Peter promised, just as someone called, "Let me through."
Peter looked toward the doorway.
He recognized the older woman who was pushing through the crowd as a nurse the firm had hired to assist in working up personal injury cases. A moment later, Peter was standing on the far side of the conference table as the nurse tried to save his father's life.
The idea of Richard Hale dying sucked the air right out of Peter. He slumped onto a chair just as two medics rushed into the room with oxygen, a stretcher and a portable IV. Peter's mother had died several years ago after a long illness and her death had been expected, but Peter saw his father as a mountain that would last forever.
When he looked up he could not see his father through the crush of medical personnel who surrounded him.
What if Richard didn't pull through? he asked himself.
Peter's heart beat sora idly he had to will himself to p calm down. The anxiety attack passed. He opened his eyes and saw his briefcase and his files. The trial! Peter looked at his watch. It was almost time to go to court.
Suddenly, the people in front of the door were backing away and the medics were rushing out of the room with a stretcher that supported his father. Peter wanted to follow them to the hospital, but someone had to tell Mrs. Elliot what had happened and ask judge Pruitt for a mistrial. There was no way he could see his father now anyway. Peter knew he would probably have to stay in the hospital waiting room for hours before the doctors could tell him anything.
Peter stepped out of the conference room into the hall.
It was empty. Everyone had followed the medics to the elevator. Peter walked away from the crowd and left the offices by a back door that opened near the men's room.
He was trembling and flushed. He went to the rest room sink and splashed cold water on his face. Then, he leaned forward and looked at himself in the mirror. His brown, blow-dried hair was a mess, his shirt was rumpled and his tie had been wrenched to one side. Peter took out a pocket comb and wet it. When his hair looked presentable, he tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie.
Peter examined himself again. He saw a man whose genetic inheritance from his mother had softened the sharp features his father had contributed. Peter had his father's intense blue eyes, but he also had his mother's smooth, high cheekbones. His nose was straight instead of craggy and his lips were thinner than Richard Hale's.
At five feet ten, one hundred and sixty pounds, he was slender and wiry with none of the bulk or height of his father.
Peter straightened up. He felt back in control of himself and the situation. There was nothing he could do for his father now. Richard would be unconscious or drugged for hours. Peter decided that he would quickly explain what happened to the judge before going to the hospital. Certainly, Pruitt would grant a mistrial under the circumstances. No judge would require the trial to go on when the lead counsel had been stricken with a heart attack.
Peter took the elevator to the lobby. The courthouse was only a few blocks away. As he rushed toward it, an unsettling thought suddenly occurred to him. Mrs. Elliot was suffering terribly. He could see how hard it was for her to sit through her trial, both physically and emotionally. If a mistrial was declared, Mrs. Elliot would have to suffer through a second trial. In a second trial, the defense would have transcripts of Mrs. Elliot's witnesses and would know all of their strategy. Delay always helped the defendant when the plaintiff had a strong case. And the plaintiff's case was almost finished. Only two short witnesses remained.
Peter paused inside the courthouse doors. Lawyers, litigants, policemen and clerks swirled around him, the noise from dozens of conversations formed a constant din, but he was oblivious to the crowd. Was his father thinking clearly when he told Peter to ask for a mistrial?
He had been in unbearable pain. Did his father really want to abort the case when it was going so well? Would Richard even remember his order when he recovered from the trauma of his coronary? Peter was certain that following his father's wishes was not in Mrs. Elliot's best interest, but the thought of disobeying Richard Hale's command terrified him.
Peter realized that he was trembling. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down. A lawyer's first duty was to his client. Why, then, had his father told him to ask for a mistrial? It took a moment for the answer to dawn on Peter. Richard Hale had no confidence in Peter's ability to take over the case.
Peter's fear gave way to a sense of outrage. He squared his shoulders and strode across the lobby toward the elevators. By the time the elevator doors opened, Peter was ready to go to court. He would show his father just how good he was. He would win Elliot.
Then, he would place the multimillion-dollar judgment in front of Richard Hale, irrefutable proof that he was ready, willing and able to step up to the big time.
Alvin Pruitt was a cadaverous jurist with a military crew cut, beady, bloodshot eyes and sunken cheeks that always seemed to be covered by gray stubble. He was foul-tempered and ran his courtroom like a Marine barracks. By the time Peter walked into court, he was ten minutes late and the judge was furious.
"I hope you have a good explanation for your tardiness, Mr. Hale."
"I do, sir. There's been an emergency. May I approach the bench?"
Pruitt frowned and searched the room beyond Peter.
"Where is your father?"
"That's what I want to tell you," Peter answered, as he pushed through the low gate that separated the spectators from the area before the bench.
Pruitt beckoned Peter forward, then addressed the attorney representing Northwest Maritime and their driver.
Mr. Compton, you'd better get up here."
Peter paused at the plaintiff's table to say hello to his client. Nellie Elliot was a washed-out woman who had been worn down by poverty, the untimely death of her husband and the grueling task of raising five young children when life added a final insult by putting her in the path of a Northwest Maritime truck. Now, Mrs. Elliot was a wheelchair-bound quadriplegic and her lawsuit was worth millions.
"What's wrong?" Mrs. Elliot asked. Since the accident, she could move only her head, which bobbed toward her left shoulder as she spoke in the halting, of the defenslurred speech that was another product dant's negligence. -I'll fill you in after I confer with the judge," Peter answered with a reassuring smile.
"Well?" Judge Pruitt asked impatiently.
Peter spoke quietly, so his voice would not reach his client.
"Your Honor, my father had a heart attack just as we were leaving for court."
Lyle Compton looked stricken and the judge's hardbitten demeanor disappeared. Both men had known Richard Hale for more than twenty years. Though judge Pruitt was brusque with all who appeared before him, he had the highest regard for Richard. Richard and Lyle Compton had been friendly adversaries in countless courtroom battles.
"Is he going to be all right?" Pruitt asked with genuine concern.
"I don't know."
"Well, I'll adjourn court and we'll reconvene tomorrow so you can bring us up to date," the judge said.
Peter had been afraid the judge might try to stop the trial on his own. "There's no reason to adjourn," he said, hoping he did not sound as anxious as he felt. "I won't be able to see my father for hours."
judge Pruitt's brow furrowed. He looked at Peter as if he was certain he had misunderstood him.