“I agree with the plaintiff’s attorney on one point. The real Karen Bessarian was a generous woman. She provided for over ten billion dollars in charitable bequests in her will—to charities including the American Cancer Society, the Humane Society of the United States, and Doctors Without Borders. An enormous amount of good work can be done with that money. No one is sadder that Ms. Bessarian has passed on than her devoted, loving son, Tyler. But he’s anxious to see his mother’s fortune help other people—precisely as she intended before she died. Let’s not stand in the way of a great woman’s last wish. Thank you.”
“Very well,” said Judge Herrington. “Mr. Draper, you may now present the plaintiff’s case.”
CHAPTER 22
Entering High Eden’s American-style restaurant, I spotted Malcolm Draper sitting alone, reading something on a datapad. I did that lunar walk/hop thing over to where he was. “Hey, Malcolm.”
He looked up. “Jake! Have a seat.”
I pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. “Whatcha reading?”
He held up the datapad so I could see its display. “Dino World.” He shrugged a bit. “My son really liked it, but I never gave it a try. I must say, it’s charming.”
I shook my head. “Isn’t it always the way? Nothing boosts an author’s sales like dying.”
He pressed the datapad’s OFF button. “Except, of course, that Karen Bessarian isn’t really dead,” he said. “The Mindscan Karen will get the royalty.”
I snorted. “Like she deserves it.”
Malcolm had a glass of white wine already. He took a sip. “She does deserve it. You know that.”
I snorted again, and Malcolm shrugged amiably. He must have seen a server behind me, because he made a beckoning motion with his hand, his Tafford ring glinting in the light. And, indeed, a moment later a waitress did appear: white, maybe twenty-five, curly hair, curvy everything else.
“’Evening, gentlemen,” she said. “What can I get for you?”
“A Caesar salad to start,” said Malcolm. “No croutons, please. Then a filet mignon wrapped in bacon, medium rare. Garlic mashed potatoes. Peas, carrots. Can do?”
“Of course, Mr. Draper. Whatever you wish. And what about you, Mr. Sullivan?”
I looked at her and blinked. How did she know my name? I mean, sure, she’d served me once or twice before, but …
It had been a long day, and I was getting a headache again—maybe it was because of all this dry air. Anyway, I didn’t want to peer at a menu, so I just said, “I’ll have the same thing, but bring me asparagus spears instead of peas and carrots, and I do want croutons.”
“Also medium rare for the filet?”
“Nah, a little less. Just past rare. And—Alberta beef.”
“Absolutely. To drink?”
I decided to be a pain. “Bring me an Old Sully’s Premium Dark.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll be—”
“You have that?” I said. “You have Old Sully’s?”
“Of course, sir. We stocked it just for you. We get full dossiers on everyone who is moving here.”
I nodded, and she went away.
“See?” said Malcolm, as if some point needed to be made. “This is a great place.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well.” I looked around the room. I’d eaten here several times, but I’d never really examined the place. The decor, of course, was magnificent: dark paneling, like the best steakhouses—probably that whipped regolith stuff, though—white tablecloths, Tiffany-style lamps, the whole nine yards. “You really like it here?” I asked Malcolm.
“What’s not to like?”
“The lack of freedom. And …”
“What?”
I rubbed the top of my head. “Nothing. Go back to your book.”
He frowned. “You’re not yourself today, Jake.”
It was an innocent comment—unless he was in on it, too. I found myself speaking harshly. “I’m not myself every day,” I snapped. “That—that thing down on Earth is me. At least, that’s what they say.”
Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Jake, are you feeling okay?”
I took a deep breath, trying to rein it in. “Sorry. I’ve got a headache.”
“Again?”
I hadn’t recalled telling Malcolm about the last time I’d felt this pounding on the top of my skull. I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, again.”
“You should see a doctor.”
“What do they know? You can’t trust them.”
He smiled. “Odd comment from a man whose life was recently saved by one.”
The waitress appeared with my beer, in a elaborate ceramic stein. She scurried away, I took a sip, and—
A stab of pain, like an ice pick to the head. Malcolm must have seen me wince. “Jake? Jake, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The beer’s very cold.”
The pain was dissipating. I took another sip.
“You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten,” said Malcolm.
I thought about that. I thought about food that had been prepared especially for me. I thought about the easiest possible solution to Immortex’s problem of me wanting to go back to Earth. I felt another twinge, an aftershock from the pain of a moment ago. “Actually,” I said, rising, “I think I’ll pass on dinner. I’m going to go lie down.”
Malcolm’s face was a study in concern. But, after a moment, he made a show of rubbing his belly. “Well, lucky me. Two steaks!”
I forced a laugh, and headed for the door. But I knew he’d leave the one that came with asparagus untouched. Whatever else he was, Malcolm Draper was no fool.
“Please state and spell your name for the record,” said the clerk, a slim black male with a pencil-thin mustache.
A man with skin darker than mine but lighter than the clerk’s was facing him, one hand on a bound copy of one of the several holy books available for this purpose. “First name: Pandit, P-A-N-D-I-T. Second name: Chandragupta, C-H-A-N-D-R-A-G-U-P-T-A.”
“Be seated,” said the clerk.
Chandragupta sat down just as Deshawn stood up. “Dr. Chandragupta,” Deshawn said. “You issued the death certificate in this case, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Karen Bessarian’s personal physician?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been?”
“No.”
“Did you ever treat her for any malady, condition, or disease?”
“No.”
“Do you know if she has a personal physician?”
“Yes. That is, I know who was treating her before she died.”
“And who is that?”
“His name is Donald Kohl.”
“And is Dr. Kohl a colleague of yours?”
“No.”
“Where do you work, Dr. Chandragupta?”
“The Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.”
“And is that where you claim Karen died?”
“No.”
“Where are you licensed to practice medicine?”
“In Maryland. Also in Connecticut.”
“Did Karen die in Maryland?”
“No.”
“Did Karen die in Connecticut?”
“No.”
“Are you a licensed medical examiner?”
“No, I’m—”
“Just answer the questions as put to you, Doctor,” said Deshawn, firmly but politely. “Are you a licensed medical examiner?”
“No.”
“Are you a state or county coroner?”
“No.”
“And yet you issued a death certificate in this case, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you issue this death certificate—not where you claim Karen died, but where did you generate the paperwork”
“In Baltimore.”
“Did you do this of your own volition?”
“Yes.”
“Really, Dr. Chandragupta, let’s try that question again: did you issue the
so-called death certificate of your own volition, or did you do it upon someone’s request?”
“Well, if you put it like that … the latter. At someone’s request.”
“Whose?”
“Tyler Horowitz’s.”
“The defendant in this case?”
“Yes.”
“He asked you to issue a death certificate?”
“Yes.”
“Did he initiate contact with you, or did you initiate contact with him?”
“I contacted him first,” said Chandragupta.
“Were you aware that Tyler stood to inherit tens of billions of dollars when you contacted him?”
“Not as an absolute fact, no.”
“But you suspected it?”
“It seemed logical, yes.”
“Did you charge him anything to issue that certificate?”
“Naturally there is a fee for such a service.”
“Naturally,” said Deshawn, his voice dripping venom. He looked meaningfully at the jury box. The jurors looked back, but I couldn’t tell what they were thinking.
“Mr. Draper, please,” said Chandragupta, spreading his arms. “I know Canada is just across the river from here, and that we have some Canadians in the courtroom. But, honestly, there is nothing immoral or unusual about a doctor making money for services rendered.”
“No,” said Deshawn. “I’m sure there isn’t.” He walked over to the jury box, and stood beside it, as if he had somehow become an eighth juror. “Tell us, though, exactly what fee you charged.”
“I admit that Mr. Horowitz was most generous, but—”
“The dollar amount, if you please.”
“I was paid one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for this service.”
Deshawn looked at the jurors, almost inviting them to whistle. One of them did.
“Thank you, Dr. Chandragupta. Your witness, Ms. Lopez.”
“Dr. Chandragupta,” she said, rising from her seat next to Tyler, “you said you are a medical doctor?”
“I am.”
“And what is your medical specialty?”
“I am a surgeon, specializing in cerebrospinal circulatory issues.”
I shifted in my seat. I wondered what, if anything, he knew about Katerinsky’s syndrome.
“Where did Ms. Bessarian die?”
Deshawn was on his feet. “Objection, your honor. Assumes facts not in evidence. We have not determined that Ms. Bessarian is, in fact, dead. Indeed, we assert exactly the opposite.”
Judge Herrington did his small-mouthed frown. “Mr. Draper, Detroit is not your home turf. Most lawyers in this town know that I hate picayune semantic distinctions.” My heart sank, but Herrington went on. “However, I concede that you do have a point in this instance. Sustained.”
Lopez nodded graciously. “Very well. Dr. Chandragupta, do you personally believe that Karen Bessarian is dead?”
“I do, yes.”
“And where is it that you personally believe that Karen Bessarian died?”
“In Heaviside Crater, on the far side of the moon.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because I was there.” I could see several members of the jury sitting up straight at this.
“What were you doing on the moon?” asked Lopez
“I had been flown there to perform surgery—they were requiring my expertise.”
That was a comforting thought, I suppose. Nice to know that Immortex really did look after its charges.
“So there are no other doctors at Heaviside?” continued Lopez.
“Oh, but no. There are several—perhaps a dozen. Good ones, too, I might add.”
“But they lacked your particular skills?”
“Correct.”
“The patient you had gone to the moon to treat was not Ms. Bessarian, was it?”
“No.”
“Then what contact did you have with Ms. Bessarian there?”
“I was on hand at her death.”
“How did that circumstance arise?”
“I was in the medical facility at Heaviside when the Code Blue sounded.”
“Code Blue?”
“A standard hospital code for cardiac arrest. Recall that I am a circulatory specialist. When I heard it announced, I ran into the corridor, saw other doctors and nurses running—indeed, fairly bouncing off the walls in the low lunar gravity. I joined them, reaching the hospital room containing Ms. Bessarian at the same time her personal physician did.”
“That would be the Dr. Donald Kohl you mentioned during direct?” asked Lopez.
“That’s right.”
“Then what happened?”
“Dr. Kohl tried defibrillating Ms. Bessarian.”
“And the result?”
“The results were negative. Ms. Bessarian passed away then and there. I must say, Dr. Kohl performed admirably, doing everything he should. And he seemed quite genuinely saddened by Karen Bessarian’s passing.”
“I’m sure he was,” said Lopez. She looked meaningfully at the jury, “As are we all.” Her voice wasn’t one that carried sympathy well, but she was trying. “Still, wouldn’t it normally be Dr. Kohl who would have issued a death certificate?”
“‘Normally’ being the operative word, yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“He told me he wasn’t going to issue one.”
“How did the topic come up?”
“I asked,” said Chandragupta. “When Ms. Bessarian died, I was curious about procedures. Given the unusual location, I mean—on the moon. I asked Dr. Kohl how the paperwork for a death would be handled.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said there was no paperwork. He said the whole point of having people like Ms. Bessarian up on the moon was so that they’d be outside of anyone’s jurisdiction.”
“So there would be no requirement that a death certificate be issued, correct?”
“Correct.”
“What about notifying the next of kin?”
“Kohl said they weren’t going to do that, either.”
“Why not?”
“He said it was part of their agreement with their clients.”
Lopez looked meaningfully at the jury, as if Chandragupta had just revealed a heinous conspiracy. She then turned slowly back to him. “How did you feel about that?”
Chandragupta apparently had a habit of stroking his beard; he was doing so now. “It bothered me. It didn’t seem right.”
“What did you do about this when you returned to Earth?”
“I contacted Tyler Horowitz in Detroit.”
“Why?”
“He is Ms. Bessarian’s next of kin—her son, in fact.”
“Now, let’s back up a step. How did you know that the woman who had died on the moon was Karen Bessarian?”
“Firstly, of course, because that was the name all the other doctors referred to her by.”
“Any other reasons?”
“Yes. I recognized her.”
Lopez had delicate eyebrows, which she lifted now; she’d frosted the outside tips of them with blonde, too. “She was known to you personally?”
Another stroke of the beard. “Not prior to this. But I’d read her books to my kids dozens of times. And I’d seen her on TV often enough.”
“You have no doubt in your mind about the identity of the woman who died on the moon?”
At last Chandragupta took his hand away from his face, but only to make an emphatic sweep of it, palm held out. “None at all. It was Karen Bessarian.”
“All right. And knowing this, you contacted her son, is that right?”
“Yes.”
Lopez lifted her eyebrows again. “Why?”
“I felt he should know. I mean, his mother was dead! A child deserves to know that.”
“And so you called him?”
“Yes. It was a sad duty, but certainly not the first time I’d had to do such a thing.”
“And did
Tyler ask you to do anything?”
“Yes. He requested I issue a death certificate.”
“Why?”
“He said he knew that the doctors on the moon wouldn’t issue one. He said he wanted to wrap up his mother’s affairs.”
“And so you agreed?”
“Yes.” Hand back on beard again. “It’s a duty I’ve performed before. I had the requisite electronic form stored locally. I filled out a copy, and emailed it to Mr. Horowitz, along with my digital signature.”
“Again, how confident are you that the dead woman was Karen Bessarian?”
“One hundred percent.”
“And how confident are you that she was, in fact, dead?”
“Also one hundred percent. I saw her stop breathing. I saw her EKG go flat. I saw her EEG go flat. I observed personally that her pupils had exploded.”
“Exploded?”
“Dilated to the maximal extent, leaving only the thinnest ring of iris visible around them. It is a sure sign of brain death.”
Lopez smiled ever so slightly. “Thank you, Dr. Chandragupta. Oh, one more question—your fee. Mr. Draper made much of how much you were paid for this service. Would you care to comment on that?”
“Yes, I would. The fee was Mr. Horowitz’s idea; he said I deserved it. Called it ‘Good Samaritan’ money—his way of saying thank you.”
“Did he offer the large fee before or after you agreed to provide a death certificate?”
“After. It was after, of course.”
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