“Can you tell the Court about the night of July twenty-fifth?” O’Mara asked.
“Yes,” Friedlander said. He cleared his throat. “My son, Josh, had a grand mal seizure.”
“And how old was Josh?”
“He was seventeen. He would have been eighteen this month.”
“And when you got to the hospital, did you see your son?”
“Yes. He was still in the emergency room. Dr. Dennis Garza brought me to see him.”
“Was Josh conscious?”
Friedlander shook his head. “No.”
This prompted O’Mara to ask him to speak up for the court reporter.
“No,” he said, much louder this time. “But Dr. Garza had examined him. He told me that Josh would be back at school in a day or two, that he’d be as good as new.”
“Did you see Josh after that visit to the emergency room?” O’Mara asked.
“Yes, I saw him the next day,” Friedlander said, a smile flitting briefly across his face. “He and his girlfriend were joking with the fellow in the other bed, and I was struck by that because there was kind of a party atmosphere in the room. The other boy’s name was David Lewis.”
O’Mara smiled, too, then assumed a more sober expression when she spoke again.
“And how was Josh when you got to see him the next morning?”
“They let me see my son’s body the next morning,” Friedlander said, his voice breaking. He reached forward, clasping the rail of the witness box with his hands, the chair legs scraping the floor.
He turned his hopelessly sad and questioning eyes to the jury, and then to the judge. Tears sheeted down his furrowed cheeks.
“He was gone just like that. His body was cold to my touch. My good boy was dead.”
O’Mara put her hand on her witness’s arm to steady him. It was a moving gesture and seemed quite genuine.
“Do you need to take a moment?” she asked Friedlander, handing him a box of tissues.
“I’m all right,” he said. He cleared his throat again, dabbed at his eyes. Then he sipped from the water glass.
“I’m fine.”
O’Mara nodded, then asked him, “Were you given an explanation for Josh’s sudden death?”
“They said that his blood sugar bottomed out, and I wanted to know why. Dr. Garza said that he was mystified,” the witness said, stiffening his lips around the word, trying to control the quiver in his voice.
“I was mystified, too,” Friedlander continued. “Josh had been stabilized the day before. He’d eaten a couple of meals. Went to the bathroom without help. Then, overnight, right there in the hospital, he went into a coma and died! It made no sense.”
“Did the hospital do an autopsy on Josh?” O’Mara asked.
“I demanded it,” Friedlander said. “The whole thing was fishy —”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Kramer bellowed from his seat. “We all sympathize with the witness, but please instruct him to simply answer the questions.”
The judge nodded, then addressed the witness. “Mr. Friedlander, just tell us what happened, please.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”
O’Mara smiled encouragingly at her witness. “Mr. Friedlander, were you ever given the results of the autopsy?”
“Eventually, I was.”
“And what were you told?” Maureen asked.
Friedlander exploded, his face turning the brightest red. “They said that Josh’s blood was loaded with insulin! I was told that it was injected into his IV bag sometime during the night. That Josh got that insulin by mistake. And that’s what killed him. A mistake by the hospital.”
O’Mara stole a look at the stricken faces of the jurors before asking, “I’m sorry to have to ask, Mr. Friedlander, but how did you feel when you learned about that mistake?”
“How did I feel?” Friedlander asked. “I felt like my heart had been cut out of my chest with a spoon. . . .”
“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Friedlander.”
“Josh was our only child. . . . We never expected to be in the world without him. . . . The pain never stops. . . .”
“Thank you, Mr. Friedlander. I’m sorry to have put you through this. You did just fine. Your witness,” O’Mara said, and motioned to Kramer.
The witness snatched several tissues from the box in front of him. He held them up to his face as hoarse sobs racked his body.
Chapter 29
LAWRENCE KRAMER STOOD and slowly buttoned his jacket, giving the witness a moment to pull himself together, thinking that the man’s son was in the ground, for God’s sake. Now all he had to do was neutralize his awful testimony—without antagonizing the jury—and, if possible, turn Stephen Friedlander into a witness for the defense.
Kramer walked to the witness box and greeted Mr. Friedlander in a kindly manner, almost as if he knew the man, as if he were a friend of the family.
“Mr. Friedlander,” Kramer said, “let me first express my condolences on the tragic loss of your son.”
“Thank you.”
“I want to clear up a few things, but I promise to keep this as short as I possibly can. Now, you mentioned that you met David Lewis, the young man who was sharing your son’s room when you visited Josh on July twenty-sixth.”
“Yes. I met him the one time. He was a very nice boy.”
“Did you know that David has diabetes?”
“I think I knew that. Yes.”
“Mr. Friedlander, do you know the number of the bed your son occupied in his hospital room?”
Friedlander had been leaning forward in his chair, but now he sat back.
“Number? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, the hospital refers to the bed closest to the window as ‘bed one,’ and the bed closest to the door is ‘bed two.’ Do you remember which bed Josh occupied?”
“Okay. He would have been in bed one. He was by the window.”
“Do you know why hospital beds are numbered?” Kramer asked.
“I don’t have any idea,” said the witness, his tone edgy, getting irritated.
“The beds are numbered because the nurses dispense medication according to the room and bed number,” Kramer explained. He went on. “By the way, do you recall if you ordered a special television package for Josh?”
“No, he was only supposed to be there for the one day. What’s your point?”
“My point,” Kramer said, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. “My point is that David Lewis checked out of the hospital after lunch on the day you saw him there.
“Your son, Josh, expired in bed number two that night. Josh was in David’s bed when he died, Mr. Friedlander.”
“What are you saying?” Friedlander asked, his eyebrows flying up, his mouth twisting with anger. “What the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“Let me say this in a different way,” Kramer said, showing the jurors with his body language and his phrasing, I’m doing my job. But I mean this man no harm.
“Do you know why your son was found in bed number two?”
“No idea.”
“Well, it was because of the TV. Josh got out of his bed by the window, pulled his mobile IV pole over to bed number two so he could watch the movie channels—let’s see. . . .” Kramer referred to his notes.
“He ordered a movie on Showtime.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I am aware of that,” Kramer said, his voice compassionate, even fatherly, thinking, knowing, that the witness wasn’t getting it. He still didn’t have a clue what had happened to his son and why he had died.
“Mr. Friedlander, you have to understand. Josh did get David Lewis’s insulin by mistake. The paperwork on David Lewis’s discharge hadn’t yet caught up with the nurse’s orders. That can happen in a hospital the size of Municipal. But let me ask you this. Wouldn’t any fair-minded person understand how the nurse didn’t catch this error?
“David and Josh were about the same age. Th
e nurse brought insulin for the sleeping patient in bed number two and injected it into the IV bag beside that bed. If Josh had stayed in his own bed . . .”
Kramer turned as an anguished howl rose from the gallery. A middle-aged woman stood, dark clothing hanging from her frail body, wailing, “Noo,” as she clutched at her face.
Friedlander reached out a hand to her from the witness box: “Eleanor! Eleanor, don’t listen to this. He’s lying! It wasn’t Joshie’s fault. . . .”
Lawrence Kramer ignored the roar of voices in the courtroom, the repeated crack of the gavel. He dipped his head respectfully.
“We’re very sorry, Mr. Friedlander,” he said. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Chapter 30
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER 8:00 p.m. as I grunted my way up Potrero Hill on the return leg of my nightly run.
I obsessed as I ran, the long blur of the investigation repeating itself in my mind—seeing the cops in my office all day, running their cases, me advising, giving orders, treading paper, going after warrants, settling disputes, hating the stress of the whole sorry business.
On most nights, the rhythmic slapping of my rubber soles on pavement had a calming effect, but it wasn’t happening tonight.
And for this I blamed Chief Tracchio.
His lecture, or whatever it was, had gotten to me.
As I pushed forward into a cold wall of wind, I second-guessed every decision I’d made so far on the Caddy Girl case, worried that I was letting everyone down, including myself.
Martha was oblivious to my problems. She loped blithely ahead of me, often doubling back to bark at my feet, which is what border collies are born to do.
I panted, “Cut it out, Boo,” but I couldn’t stop my dog from dogging me. I was a lagging lamb, and she was my shepherd.
Twenty minutes later, I was home sweet home, showered, and smelling of chamomile shampoo.
I stepped into my favorite blue flannel pj’s, put the Reverend Al Green on the CD player, and cracked open a beer. I took a long, frosty slug from the amber bottle of Anchor Steam. Yum.
My favorite one-pot pasta meal was simmering on the stove, and I was starting to feel seminormal for the first time that day when the doorbell rang.
Damn.
I shouted, “Whoo-izit?” into the intercom, and a friendly voice shouted back.
“Lindseeee, it’s meeeeeee. May I please come up?”
I buzzed Yuki in, and as she made the climb, I set the table for two and took out glasses for the beer.
A minute later, Yuki blew into my apartment huffing and blowing like a small storm.
“Ooh, I like that,” I said, examining her platinum-streaked forelock. It had been magenta a few days ago.
“That’s two yes votes,” she said, throwing herself into an armchair. “My mom said, ‘That hair make you look like air hostess.’” Yuki laughed. “Hey, that’s her one unrealized dream. So, what smells so good, Lindsay?”
“It’s pot-au-feu, Boxer-style,” I said. “Don’t argue. I’ve made plenty for two.”
“Argue? You obviously don’t know how carefully I timed this impromptu drop-in.”
I laughed; we clinked glass mugs and said, “Cheers, dears” in unison. And then I dished up the meal. I almost told Yuki what had been bothering me, but I couldn’t find a trace of funk to whine about.
Over Edy’s heavenly chocolate chip ice cream and brewed decaf, Yuki brought me up to date on her mother’s condition.
“Her doctors were concerned because she’s really young to get a TIA,” Yuki told me. “But now she’s passed a whole battery of tests, and they’ve moved her out of the ICU into a private room!”
“So when are you bringing her home?”
“Tomorrow morning. Right after her personal savior, Dr. Pierce, checks her out. Then I’m going to take her for a weeklong cruise on this monster ship, the Pacific Princess.
“I know, I know, it sounds corny,” Yuki said, hands in constant motion as she talked, “but a floating hotel with a casino and a spa is just what the doctor ordered. And frankly, I need the time off, too.”
“Gee, I’m jealous,” I said, putting down my spoon and beaming into Yuki’s face.
I meant every word.
I imagined myself on a ship at sea. A pile of good books, a comfy deck chair, and the gentle roll of the waves putting me to sleep at night. Plus Joe, of course.
No meetings. No unsolved homicides. No stress.
“Lucky you,” I said. “And your lucky mom.”
Chapter 31
YUKI WAS ON HER WAY HOME from Lindsay’s, on Eighteenth Street just merging into I-280, when her cell phone’s fluting melody sang out from the depths of her handbag, which was now lying in the passenger-side footwell.
“Shoot. Wouldn’t you know it.”
She set an angled course toward the right lane of the highway, and while holding the wheel with her left hand, she fished below eye level for her handbag.
A large bronze SUV honked at her as she threw magazines, her makeup kit, and her wallet out of the voluminous bag onto the floor.
“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered; then she palmed her phone on the third ring.
“Mom?” she said.
“Ms. Castellano?”
Yuki didn’t recognize the man’s voice. She held the steering wheel with her elbow, buzzed up the windows, and turned off the radio so that she could hear a little better.
“Yes, this is Yuki.”
“It’s Andrew Pierce.”
Yuki’s mind scrambled as she fitted the two names together. It was Dr. Pierce. Her stomach lurched. Dr. Pierce had never called her before. Why was he calling now?
“Dr. Pierce. What’s wrong?”
His voice was tinny on the cell phone, overwhelmed by the roar of the traffic surrounding her. Yuki pressed the phone even tighter to her ear.
“Your mom’s in some trouble, Yuki. I’m on my way to the hospital now.”
“What do you mean? What happened to her? You said that she was okay!”
Yuki’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but she saw nothing.
“She’s had a stroke,” Dr. Pierce told her.
“A stroke? I don’t understand, Doctor.”
“She’s hanging in,” Dr. Pierce went on. “Can you meet me at the hospital?”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m less than ten minutes away.”
“Good. Your mother’s in the ICU on three. She’s a fighter, which is good news.”
Yuki tossed the phone onto the seat beside her. Images and words cascaded inside her head.
A stroke?
Her mother had been eating ice cream four hours ago. She’d been chatty. Funny. Perfectly fine!
Yuki forced her focus back to the road, realizing too late that she’d passed her exit. “Damn it!”
Frantically, desperately, she sped down I-280 to where it ended at Berry Street, then gunned through a yellow light as she took a sharp turn onto Third.
With her heart pounding, Yuki pointed her little Acura north toward Market Street. This was a slower route, more cars, more lights, more pedestrians crossing against them, but it was her only alternative now.
Yuki reviewed her brief conversation with Dr. Pierce. Had she heard him right? She’s hanging in, he’d said.
Tears gathered in Yuki’s eyes. Her mother was strong. Always. Her mother was a fighter. Even if Keiko was paralyzed . . . Nothing could keep her down.
Yuki wiped tears away with the back of her hand.
Visualizing every cross street and stoplight between her car and San Francisco Municipal Hospital, Yuki floored the accelerator.
Hang on, Mommy. I’m coming.
Chapter 32
FIGHTING DOWN PANIC, Yuki exited the elevator on Municipal Hospital’s third floor; she followed the arrows around turns and through doorways until she found the ICU waiting area and the nurses’ station beside it.
“I’m here to see Dr. Pierce,” she said tersely to the nurse at the de
sk.
“And you are?”
Yuki gave her name and stood until Pierce came out into the waiting room. His weathered face was buckled with concern as he led Yuki to a pair of small straight-backed chairs.
“I can’t tell you much right now,” the doctor finally said. “Most likely, plaque flaked off an arterial wall and formed a block to her brain. She’s on an anticoagulant —”
“Just tell me. What are her chances?”
“We’ll know soon,” Pierce told her. “I know this is hard —”
“I have to see her, Dr. Pierce. Please,” Yuki said. She reached out and clamped her hand around the doctor’s wrist. “Please.”
“Thirty seconds. That’s all I can do for you.”
Yuki followed the doctor through the swinging doors to the curtained-off slot where Keiko was lying. Wires and IV lines were running from her body to machines that had been assembled around her bedside like concerned friends.
“She’s unconscious,” Dr. Pierce said. “But she’s not in any pain.”
How could you possibly know that? Yuki wanted to yell at Dr. Pierce.
“Can she hear me?” she asked instead.
“I doubt it, Yuki, but it’s possible.”
Yuki bent close to her mother’s ear, spoke urgently.
“Mommy. It’s me. I’m here. Hold on, Mommy. I love you.”
She heard Dr. Pierce speaking to her, as if from miles away. “Will you be waiting outside? Yuki? If I can’t find you out there, I’ll call your cell —”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right outside. I’m not leaving under any circumstances.”
Yuki walked blindly out of the ICU, took up a position in a chair.
She sat, staring straight ahead, nerves screaming, all of her frightened thoughts fused into one.
There was only one way this could turn out.
Her mom was going to make it.
Chapter 33
KEIKO CASTELLANO HAD never been more frightened in her life. She felt the prick of a needle in the back of her hand.
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