Wrongful Death: The AIDS Trial
Page 1
WRONGFUL DEATH
The AIDS Trial
A Novel by
Stephen Davis
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2006, 2010 by L & G Productions, LLC
Chapter One
October, 2011
“Grayson, please eat your cereal.”
Sarah tries to help her seven-year-old by putting a spoon filled with something that slightly resembles oatmeal into his hand and guiding it toward his mouth. Grayson only clamps his lips tighter and turns his head away until she gives up, hands him the spoon, and goes back to the counter to finish making lunches.
“And Peyton, you have to eat something.”
“I told you, I can’t eat in the morning, Mom. I’m already too fat! And please tell Grayson to close his mouth when he eats.” The eleven-year-old shoots a nasty look at her younger brother. “That’s disgusting!”
Grayson takes another spoonful of cereal, puts it in his mouth, looks directly at his sister, opens wide and lets some more dribble out onto his chin. Then he smiles with that devilish look in his eyes.
“Mom, he’s doing it again!” It isn’t a whine from Peyton as much as a plea for help.
“Grayson, stop it please…and eat your cereal, don’t play with it.”
Matthew, the oldest at thirteen, finally shows up for breakfast, sees his little brother spewing cereal out of his mouth like a volcano and gives him a gentle slap across the top of the head to try to make him stop.
“Mom, just once can’t we have bacon and eggs, or waffles, or anything that normal people have for breakfast? Do we always have to eat so…healthy?” Matthew knows he isn’t going to get an answer, or if he does, it would be the same one he always gets to that question. Peyton doesn’t wait for a response either.
“Mom, can you take me to get my piercing this afternoon?”
“Oh, Peanut, I’m sorry. Probably not today.” Sarah winces at the disappointment that makes its way across Peyton’s face, overshadowing her normally cheerful and captivating smile. “I just can’t promise anything today. I doubt it…I might have to be in court all day.”
Sarah puts down the almond butter knife for a moment and looks out her oversized kitchen window into the perfectly manicured desert garden. It’s hard to tell whether she’s frustrated, confused, anxious, or simply thinking about the big day ahead.
“Bill, is that coffee ready yet? I really need…”
Before she can finish, Bill reaches around her with a full cup, putting it gently into her right hand and kissing her on the cheek at the same time, whispering in her ear, “It’s a big day for you. Good luck!”
Sarah turns and kisses him back, blows away the steam rising from the cup, and then carefully takes a sip.
“Thanks.”
She glances at her watch.
“Oh, my God. I just can’t be late today! Kids, please help me out.”
Bill takes the knife from her hand, unties her apron, and starts shooing her out of the kitchen.
“We’ll be fine. This is important, so you go, now. I can finish their lunches.” When Sarah resists, he insists. “Go ahead, get out of here. The kids and I will manage somehow.”
Sarah takes a long look at Bill to make sure he’s serious, then kisses him again. “Kids, your father is in charge. I’ll see everyone tonight…love you.”
Sarah tidies her hair in the hall mirror, puts on her suit coat, grabs her briefcase and keys, and punches a button on the wall as she enters the garage. She glances back at Bill one last time, who waves her on before the door closes between them. She then lowers herself into the driver’s seat of her top-down Chrysler Sebring convertible.
Clearly, Sarah Meadows doesn’t have to work. Her husband, Dr. William Meadows, is a very successful chiropractor who makes all the money they need, and then some. Their Scottsdale home is top-of-the-line, all three kids go to the right schools, and Sarah could stay at home and play mom fulltime if she wanted.
But she doesn’t want. She’s an intelligent and very capable woman with two degrees: Journalism and Alternative Health. She feels like there is a contribution she can make, and wants to make, beyond that of being a really good mom. Her weekly column for the Arizona Tribune, Health Matters, fulfills and completes her in a way her husband and family simply couldn’t; and rather than feel guilty about it, she feels blessed to be able to have it all.
Except today. Today she feels more stressed than blessed. This is without a doubt the biggest assignment she’s ever had.
Sarah turns on the radio as she heads south on the Squaw Peak Parkway into the center of Phoenix. Suite: Judy Blue Eyes is just ending. She turns up the volume.
“David Crosby, Steven Stills, and Graham Nash…live from Woodstock, 1969 on your best Oldies station, 95.4. Keep it right here while we go to our Eye in the Sky. Roger, what’s the traffic like this morning?”
“Pretty typical morning, Stan...slow moving on I-17 southbound into the city, especially as you approach the I-10 interchange. Superstition Freeway backed up westbound starting at the 101 exchange. 51 South okay except for a car stalled in the right lane at Bethany Home. And we have some accidents to report on surface streets, one at Camelback and 7th....”
Sarah punches a button on the radio to find a news station.
“...don't know exactly what to expect. Maybe a month, maybe two, depending...”
A voice she recognizes interrupts, “Do you at least expect them to finish both opening arguments today?”
Sarah assumes some paid legal expert is offering his opinion on the hottest story to hit Phoenix in quite a while, other than the weather. “That's hard to say. We still don't know what the defense has in mind. After all, this is the biggest trial in history, with a 3 trillion dollar price tag, and not since Richard Nixon in the 1970’s have top government officials been involved in such litigation. I think we better expect some surprises, and definitely lots of posturing, which may start in just a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Jeff. That was Jeff Manning here in Atlanta. I’m told we have Joseph Schell standing by at the Federal Courthouse in Phoenix. Joe, have the attorneys started to arrive yet?”
“It looks like the defense team has just pulled up and is starting to get out of their limos. I'm going to try to make my way through this mob and see if I can get a statement. Hold on for a second, will you...”
The sound on the radio turns to confusion, people shouting in the background. Schell’s voice is barely audible above the din, with bits and pieces coming through, “out of the way, please…look out…GNN radio, coming through...”
And then silence as Sarah turns off the car, having found one of the few empty parking spaces left within walking distance. She hurries toward the spectacular new, ultra-modern, 127 million dollar Federal Courthouse building at 401 West Washington Street, named in honor of Sandra Day O’Connor, an Arizonan and the first female Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court.
As she rounds the corner she comes face to face with a mob scene only hinted at on the radio. Parked at the curb are three stretch limousines surrounded by news reporters from every kind of media from every part of the world. TV cameras and microphones are literally everywhere, most of them now pointing toward a dozen men who obviously just exited the limos and are trying to make their way to the courthouse entrance. The rest of the block is packed with demonstrators, crowds of people fro
m both sides of the issue carrying signs and angrily hurling accusations at each other. The impact of the sound stops Sarah dead in her tracks, as if she had run into a wall.
While everyone else is focused outside, Sarah gets her body moving again and makes her way around the back of the mob and into the Courthouse. What’s going on out there is really not of much interest to her. It’s what’s going to happen next, in here, she says to herself. She knows how lucky she is to have a ringside seat, being a lowly health reporter. But as the hometown newspaper, the Arizona Tribune has just enough seats allocated in the courtroom to include her in the main event.
Her watch says she still has a couple minutes before the bell, so she ducks into the ladies’ room. As she’s washing her hands, she stares into the mirror, adjusts a misplaced strand of red hair, and tries to ignore the early signs of crow’s-feet. Not bad for going on forty, she thinks.