by Paul Levine
Outside the window, a bird cawed. I didn't see it, but I knew it was the black fish crow that had built a nest in the live oak tree. Charlie Riggs had told me that the crows are extremely loyal and mate for life. Unlike the black-capped chickadees.
"We used to think most birds were monogamous," Charlie had said, "but we were wrong. The female chickadee will sneak out of the nest for a tryst with a male who ranks above her mate in the bird hierarchy. A queen bee will mate with two dozen drones in a day, and they'll all die when their genitals explode."
"Is there a lesson in this?" I'd asked.
"The mammals are the most promiscuous," Charlie had continued. "Probably less than two percent of the species practice monogamy."
Certainly not ours. In the backyard, the bird cawed again, though it was more like a cah, my crow picking up a Boston accent.
I squeezed a lime over the papaya and tried to catch a glimpse of the bird. No luck.
"Jake, what are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"That's impossible."
It didn't seem like a question, so I didn't answer.
"I'm frightened when I wake up and you're not in bed," she said. "I always think you've left me."
"I woke up early. That's all."
My dream was still with me. A naked woman. Chrissy? Who could tell? The director hadn't called for any close-ups, and the lighting was bad. I walked into the picture, reaching out, my hands cupping her full, bare breasts. A grinding sound, and then the pain. Her nipples became drill bits, stabbing me, cutting through my palms. It was so damn obvious I didn't even need to call Dr. Santiago for her analysis.
I had awakened in a sweat and crawled out of bed. Chrissy stirred beside me, but I made it downstairs without waking her. I slipped a CD into the player, turned the volume down low, and listened to Sade whisper that I was a smooth operator. Right.
What was I doing? Where was I headed? I am a man without a plan, a defined goal. Careening through life, bouncing off immovable objects, finding friends, battling foes, losing lovers. Drifting on the currents, so near, so far from shore.
In the middle of a trial, there is nothing else. There is nothing that happened before; there can be no life after. All-consuming, this trial more than any other.
Because of her. Now I didn't know which was worse, losing her or letting her down.
The world seemed to be closing in. Abe Socolow was wrapping up his case. Yesterday, a fingerprint expert had testified that Chrissy's latents were on the Beretta that was recovered at her feet. Then came the assistant medical examiner, whose testimony as to cause of death was even more important than Dr. Quintana's because she had done the autopsy.
Dr. Mai Ling wore a white lab coat, a photo ID clipped to her pocket. She was petite and short-haired, prim and fastidious, and it was hard to imagine her elbow-deep in some drunk driver's stomach contents or, even worse, examining the body of an infant tortured by a maniac stepfather. After Abe Socolow ran through Dr. Ling's degrees, fellowships, internship, residencies, and advanced training, he got down to business.
"Now, Dr. Ling, please tell the jury what services you did, vis-a-vis the body of Harry Bernhardt," Abe instructed.
Vis- a — vis? How Continental of you, Abe.
"First, I examined the body. I noted evidence of three recent injuries, all bandaged. I removed the bandages and noted the existence of bullet wounds of a small caliber. There were still EKG patches attached to the torso. I also noted one tattoo." She paused and consulted her notes. "The name 'Emily,' on the decedent's shoulder. Otherwise, there were no scars or disfigurements."
"Then what did you do?"
"I proceeded with the autopsy in the usual fashion…"
Easy for her to say.
"I made a Y-incision through the chest and abdomen, cutting under the skin and muscle to expose the chest wall. I used rib shears to cut through and remove the breastplate. I examined the chest cavity for evidence of blood or other fluids."
"And what did you find?" Abe asked.
"There were traces of body fluids in the cavity, a yellowish liquid made up of water, proteins, and electrolytes."
"Indicating what?"
"Evidence of heart failure. As the heart and lungs gave out, the fluids backed up into the chest cavity."
"Then what did you do?"
"I incised the sac around the heart and took blood samples from the aorta. The blood was sent to Toxicology for routine tests."
Which had come back normal, I knew. No arsenic and old lace, or arsenic and an old shrink.
"Then what?"
"I cut through the pulmonary venous return, the pulmonary artery, the superior and inferior venae cavae, and the aorta. Then I removed the heart and weighed it…" She consulted her notes again.
C'mon, tell us. Was Harry a bighearted guy?
"The heart weighed four hundred five grams, which is in the normal range for a man of his size. I made incisions along the coronary arteries and found evidence of stenosis, a narrowing of the lumen."
"Indicating what?"
"Atherosclerosis. There was both a narrowing and hardening of the left anterior descending coronary artery and the right ascending artery. Probably in the vicinity of seventy to seventy-five percent obstruction in each. Actually, I had some trouble cutting through the arteries and had to replace my scalpel with scissors."
"Why was that?"
"Mr. Bernhardt had what we call lead-pipe arteries. When you touch them, you can actually feel the calcification inside."
"What else did you do?"
"I examined the myocardium, the heart muscle, for evidence of prior heart attacks."
"And what did you find?"
"No evidence of any scar tissue."
"Anything else?"
"I looked for any pale areas which might indicate the lack of oxygen over a prolonged period of time, and found none. I looked for evidence of a thrombus with a superimposed clot, but there was none."
"Based on your examination and the autopsy as a whole, did you reach conclusions as to cause and manner of death?"
"I did."
"What did you conclude?"
"The cause of death was cardiac arrest precipitated by multiple gunshot wounds and the resulting stress to Mr. Bernhardt, all of which aggravated his chronic atherosclerotic heart disease. The manner of death, therefore, was homicide."
Abe Socolow nodded sagely. Then, anticipating my defense, Abe raised a straw man.
"Now, Dr. Ling," Abe Socolow said, "you are familiar with the fact that the gunshots did not strike a vital organ?"
"Yes, I am."
"He did not bleed to death as a result of the shooting?"
"No, he did not."
It sounded a little like cross-examination, but I knew just where Abe was headed.
"Then how can you state that the shooting caused Mr. Bernhardt's heart attack?"
Knocking that old scarecrow down.
"By the process of elimination, for one thing," she responded. "There was no evidence of any other apparent physical cause."
"But you've just told us that Mr. Bernhardt had significant evidence of heart disease."
Again, setting up that raggedy guy…
"Yes, but Mr. Bernhardt had no prior heart attacks. There are many methods available to treat his atherosclerosis. Medication, angioplasty, bypass surgery. He could have lived a long time."
And knocking him down.
"Then why did he die?"
"The trauma to the system due to the injuries and the resulting surgery precipitated the incident."
Abe smiled his sincere look, allowed as how thankful he was that Dr. Ling could scoot over from the morgue-situated comically on Bob Hope Road-and handed me his witness.
I stood up and bowed politely. "If I understand your testimony, Dr. Ling, you believe the injuries caused the cardiac arrest because you can't find anything else that conclusively did."
"In a sense. It is, as I said, by the process of eli
mination."
"Did you eliminate the possibility that it was just time, that Harry Bernhardt would have suffered cardiac arrest that Friday night, regardless whether he was shot three times or had three shots of bourbon?"
"There was no objective evidence indicating that the heart should have simply failed."
"So you eliminated the possibility because you couldn't find such a cause?"
Dr. Ling smiled tightly. "I couldn't find such a cause because none was there."
"You're not telling us that Harry Bernhardt was a healthy man, are you, Doctor?"
"Healthy, no. But, except for the shooting, Mr. Bernhardt likely would have enjoyed several more years of life."
"And except for the shooting, Mr. Lincoln would have enjoyed the play," I said.
"Mr. Lassiter!" The judge scowled at me.
"Sorry, Your Honor," I said humbly, then turned back to the witness. "How many years?"
"There is no way to determine that. However, I have seen cases where patients lived with far worse arterial deterioration."
"And you have seen cases where persons with less evidence of coronary disease have died of heart attacks, have you not?"
"Yes."
An honest answer. The jury would like her. Still, I was scoring a few small points.
"Isn't it true that Harry Bernhardt could have dropped dead today or tomorrow or next year?"
"We'll never know that, will we, because of your client's actions?"
"Your Honor!" Oh, she was a feisty one. Good witnesses know how to counterpunch. "I realize Dr. Ling has the same employer as Mr. Socolow, but-"
"I object to that!" Socolow bounded toward the podium, but I elbowed him aside.
"The medical examiner is supposed to be an impartial servant of the people," I bellowed. "The defense asks that the court admonish the doctor-"
"All right, all right." The judge waved at us with the gavel. "Jake, you ask questions. Doctor, you answer them simply and directly. Abe, you sit down."
No harm, no foul.
I decided to go off in another direction. "Doctor, what is sudden cardiac death syndrome?" I asked.
She seemed to sigh. "It is the unexpected death due to either too fast or too slow a heart rate combined with respiratory arrest."
"Sudden cardiac death is not an ailment in itself, is it?"
"No, it's a comprehensive term that describes a method of death usually accompanied by ventricular fibrillation."
"As with Harry Bernhardt?"
"Yes."
"And what are the causes of sudden cardiac death?"
"There are many. Heart disease. Hypertension. Certain rare disorders such as Romano-Ward, plus external causes such as electrocution or acidosis as a result of chronic alcoholism. It has many etiologies."
"Including those cases where no objective evidence can be found that caused the heart stoppage?"
She paused. "Yes."
"In other words, if the heart fails in an otherwise healthy person, you might very well determine it was sudden cardiac death syndrome?"
"You might, yes, in certain cases."
"But not in a case where the state attorney has filed murder charges?"
"Objection!" Socolow bounded to his feet. "Argumentative."
"Sustained."
I was thinking about sitting down. I had made my point, such as it was. But sometimes, I try to make it twice. I know better than to ask a "why" question on cross-examination of a state witness, particularly someone experienced at testifying.
"Broadly speaking, how many causes of death are there, Dr. Ling?"
"Four. Natural, accident, suicide, and homicide."
"And you listed homicide as the cause of Harry Bernhardt's death?"
"Yes."
"Though it could very well have been listed as natural, based on sudden cardiac arrest syndrome?"
"That is not my opinion."
"O-pin-ion," I said, tasting the word and finding it bitter. "Defined as your belief, your idea, your notion of what may have happened?"
Socolow's chair scraped the floor. "Objection, Your Honor. Dr. Ling has been qualified as an expert and is entitled to express her opinion without Mr. Lassiter's sarcasm."
"So she is," I responded. "But I am reminded of Justice Bok's classic statement that an expert opinion is just a guess dressed up in evening clothes."
"Your Honor!" Socolow pounded his table this time, and the judge waved his gavel at me, sort of penalizing me fifteen yards for unsportsmanlike conduct.
"Mr. Lassiter, you know better than that," the judge said icily. He turned to the jury box. "The jury shall disregard Mr. Lassiter's last statement."
I didn't mind the instruction. In my experience, jurors forget most everything I say, except what the judge tells them to disregard.
So here I was, the morning after.
Taking stock of my life. And my client's. Wondering how I let myself get entwined with her body and her case. A lawyer must care deeply about the client's fate, but not too deeply. For the same reason a surgeon shouldn't operate on his spouse, a lawyer shouldn't sleep with his client. Too much at stake. Way too much.
"What's going to happen today?" Chrissy asked. She was nibbling some raisin toast she had blackened on the number nine setting.
"The guy from the gun shop will be first. He'll testify you bought the Beretta on June thirteenth, three days before the shooting. On cross, I'll bring out that you used your own name and ID and properly registered the gun. There may be another housekeeping witness or two, but then Abe will rest, and it'll be our turn."
"What about my brother and Larry?"
"Abe doesn't need them. Probably doesn't want them either. Abe's got great instincts. If he senses those two are trouble, he won't call them."
"Are they trouble?"
"Look, even if Schein whispered in your ear that you should kill your father, you're still technically guilty. But jurors do strange things. Look at the O. J. Simpson case. A couple jurors thought he killed his ex-wife but were so offended by Mark Fuhrman that they went along with the acquittal. Part of a defense lawyer's job is to get the jury mad at somebody else."
She moved close to me. A charred crumb stuck to her pouty lower lip. "So you'll put them on the stand?"
I took her in my arms. "I'll call Schein. His tapes both help and hurt us, but I don't have a choice."
"Will it work? Will the jury get mad at somebody else?"
"Sure," I said. "Probably at me."
27
Bird Spit Soup
There were no surprises. Just the procession of reliable witnesses, Abe Socolow finishing his house, sanding the wood, applying a slick coat of paint and then another. Waterproof, hurricane-proof, Lassiter-proof.
At precisely 4:30 P.M., the witnesses having testified, the last of the exhibits having been identified, marked, and admitted, the judge turned to Abe Socolow and waited. The lanky prosecutor pulled himself out of his chair, dusted imaginary lint from his trousers, stood ramrod-straight, and announced crisply, "The state rests." He made it sound so triumphant, Hannibal crossing the Alps, that I half expected a corps of buglers to accompany him.
"Very well," Judge Stanger said. "We start with the defense case at nine A.M. tomorrow." He banged his gavel and sent us on our way.
The pickup truck arrived at the house just after eight P.M. with its precious cargo: my nephew, my granny, and my doc.
"Jake, I believe that gray-and-white bird in the chinaberry tree is a swift," Doc Charlie Riggs said.
"Uh-huh."
"It's too dark to see it clearly right now, but in the morning, I'll check it out."
"Sure, Charlie."
Granny hauled her wicker basket into the kitchen. A checkered cloth covered the goodies, and for some reason I thought of all those movies where the prisoner gets the gift of a pie with a file or gun inside. "Criminy, Doc! Jake's in no mood to talk about birds," Granny said, pulling a sweet-potato pie out of the basket. It was still warm, and I could smell
the cinnamon, but I didn't see any trace of a weapon.
"All right, all right," Charlie said. "I just thought I'd look for the nest. It's what the Chinese use to make bird's nest soup."
"Yuck," Kip said, wrinkling his face. "That's gross." He was helping Granny put jars and bowls in the refrigerator. I caught sight of some swamp cabbage ambrosia made with hearts of palm, papayas, oranges, and coconut. If I knew Granny, there'd also be a sour-cream cake; hopping John made from rice, black-eyed peas, and salt pork; and bread pudding. Granny's idea of nouvelle cuisine is draining the fat from the bacon before wrapping it around a scamp steak.
Charlie cleared his throat. "Kippers, bird's nest soup is a rare delicacy. Swifts make their nests entirely from saliva, and if you're ever in Hong Kong, I recommend-"
"Spit!" Kip was carrying a plastic bowl of deep-fried conch fritters. "You eat soup made of bird spit?"
"Don't be squeamish, lad," Charlie said. "In some parts of the world, termite larvae are added to rice for flavoring and protein."
"Gross and double gross!"
"Caterpillar has as much protein per gram as beef, and ten times the iron. Personally, I have tried Rhynchophorous phoenicis, weevil, and found it delightful."
"I think I'm gonna hurl," Kip said.
"Not in my kitchen," I advised, then turned to my old friend, the deranged gourmet. "Charlie, if you're finished educating Kip, maybe we can talk."
"We can indeed, but not just yet. I seem to have worked up an appetite."
"You're spitting against the wind," Charlie said, and I wondered if he was still thinking of his favorite soup. We were sitting on the back porch, Charlie sipping at a mason jar of moonshine. I stuck to coffee.
"I've read and reread the autopsy report," he said, "as well as the surgeon's notes, the hospital records, and I've talked to the nurses. There's nothing to indicate Dr. Schein did anything remotely suspicious in that hospital room. The only marks on the body came from the gunshot wounds and the surgery. A heart attack caused Harry's death. You have no proof of anything else."
"Just the knowledge that Guy Bernhardt wanted his father dead and Larry Schein is Guy's errand boy."
"Why? What's the motive?"
"Harry's estate. With Chrissy convicted of murder, Guy gets it all."
