by Scott Martin
I didn’t doubt that the jury, seated to the left of the witness stand and between Peters and me, saw the pure disdain staining my face. If such blatant displays of emotion were beneficial to my case or not, I couldn’t say, but one thing was for certain: I wasn’t the only one feeling so betrayed and hateful.
As Mike navigated his way to the issue of the blood test that was never conducted, my sister Nancy broke.
‘Why didn’t you check his blood?!’ she cried out in accusation, her voice desperate and raw. The front of the courtroom turned its collective heads to locate the sound of her distraught voice. I felt the flood of my own emotions begin to recede. My feelings meant so little in the face of my family’s. It was their suffering that cut me deeper than the amputations ever could.
Slowly, I turned my chair just far enough to peer over my shoulder at my oldest sister. When she realized the attention she had drawn, she folded herself into Jim’s open arms, burying her face against his shoulder. I caught a glimpse of tears erupting from bloodshot eyes before she was hidden in the protective embraces of her husband. Jim nodded to me as he rubbed her quivering back.
No amount of justice can make right the pain they’ve endured, I thought with tortured clarity. These were the people who refused to give up on me even when the doctors told them they should; the ones who sustained me as much as the machines that fed me oxygen and fluids had. And because of it they were now as altered as I was. Whatever the outcome of the case, some changes were irremediable.
~~~
Nancy
(Sister)
One day when you were in the coma I came in to visit. I put my left hand on your forehead and my right on your left arm. I felt an electrical shock that had the power of putting my hand in a socket but not the pain. That’s when I knew you were inside that body.
~~~
Dr. Gene Marsh of the University of Minnesota had excellent credentials. He also had whitening hair, steady hands, and a cool smile that emanated experience and expertise. The Defense had brought him in to serve as their expert witness.
Because their argument was that blood tests on my initial visit to the ER would have made no difference, the logical implication was that an aggressive dose of antibiotics administered early enough would have been fruitless as well. In an effort to demonstrate time was never on our side, Dr. Marsh was asked to add blue colored water to a Petri dish to represent the rate at which the toxin in my system grew over time.
As the jury was swooned by pretty colors and smooth talking, I extrapolated the numbers on my legal pad. If Dr. Marsh was to be believed in that each streptococcal bacterium divided every forty-five minutes, the amount of toxic fluid that would have built up in the time between my contraction of the illness and my visit to Dr. Peters in the ER would easily have been sufficient to identify the disease. That is, of course, if Peters had cared to look.
In reality, it had taken days for the infected area in my left flank to be located. The Defense, however, was presenting their case as if the clock had started then, when the infection was finally found. Sure, by then it was too late; the toxin had spread too deep and the damage been done. But if the days it went undiscovered were taken into account, there’s no telling what measures could have been taken. It was those precious moments we were in this courtroom fighting over; the moments that decided between life and death, limb loss and total recovery.
I quickly scrawled a note to Mike: They just proved our case! He pursed his lips and gave me a pained look. That may be, his doomed expression said, but we had no way of presenting what my numbers meant. Mike didn’t cry objection and we didn’t try to refute Marsh’s testimony with our own expert witness. Instead, Marsh’s calculations were allowed to stand in favor of attacking the heart of the matter: incongruity.
During his cross examination of Dr. Marsh, Mike used an overhead projector to blow up a slide of an article from Woman’s Day magazine. The article was titled “I Survived the Flesh-Eating Disease”. It was published in the August 8, 1995 edition of the magazine and written by a woman named Constance Stapleton. In the article, Dr. Marsh was quoted as saying, ‘The GAS organism tends to be localized in bruises or other places with impaired blood flow. There is a window of opportunity – usually three to four days after the onset – when antibiotics can stop the spread. But once the organism causes a significant drop in blood pressure, it becomes much harder to treat.’ My blood pressure was recorded as normal on my first visit to the ER. Accordingly, my visit to Dr. Peters would fit into Marsh’s ‘window of opportunity’.
As Mike projected the article, Wentworth again sprung to his feet.
‘Objection!’ he cried. I was beginning to hate how quick on his feet the man was. ‘That’s Double Hearsay, Your Honor.’
All eyes turned to Judge Barland, who sat calmly in his chair, his eyes distant, considering. After a period of ostensibly prolonged silence, he asked the bailiff to escort the Jury from the room and subsequently had Mike and Mr. Wentworth present their cases to him alone.
I anxiously watched the two lead attorneys conduct a trial within a trial. He’ll side with us, I thought, watching the judge’s cool expression as he absorbed the information. He has to.
‘Dr. Marsh,’ the judge called after the attorneys fell quiet.
‘Yes, Your Honor,’ the repulsively cool doctor responded.
‘Did you make the statement quoted in the prosecution’s article?’
I turned to look at Marsh in the witness stand. He had no choice. He had been quoted in a respectable publication and was now under oath. He had to admit to it. I held my breath.
‘I did not.’
I stared at him, aghast. Liar! I thought with barely concealed vehemence in my clenched expression. Double Hearsay or whatever, I wanted to shout at the judge. It doesn’t change the fact that Dr. Marsh is clearly two-faced scum, eager to pander for whomever cares to pay his fee.
But for better or worse, I held my tongue and tried to stomach my fury. Two doctors that made – two doctors who had betrayed me and shown their true colors. At Marsh’s denial, Judge Barland dismissed the article as hearsay and had it removed from the trial.
‘If we’d had Stapleton it would have been allowed,’ Mike hissed indignantly as he resumed his seat. Constance Stapleton would have been able to present a sworn statement that the quote was made by Dr. Marsh to her. Then it would have been her word against his. I fumed at the galling intricacies of the law.
A couple weeks after the trial, I paid a visit to the UWEC campus library in search of more information on Dr. Marsh. I uncovered an article from the June 8, 1994 Health section of The New York Times. The title of the article: “A Dangerous Form of Strep Stirs Concern in Resurgence”. The subtitle: “Early recognition can save life and limb”. I tried not to grind my teeth or pound the table with the side of the myos as I studied the diagram which was presented with Dr. Marsh as its source.
It was an artistic table consisting of three columns. The first listed the days since the bacteria was theoretically contracted. The top cell was labeled Day 1 and as you travelled down the columns they counted up to Day 4. Beside this was a column titled ‘Possible Signs’. In this second column, was a short list of the signs and symptoms an infected individual might experience corresponding to each day. What started as flu symptoms on Day 1 progressed to a fever of over 103 degrees Fahrenheit, severe drop in blood pressure, and blue discoloration of the lips and nail beds on Day 4. Across the rows for Days 1 through 3, in the third column, was an arrow proclaiming them the, “Window of opportunity for penicillin” – exactly what Mike had tried to argue in court and Marsh had denied having ever stated.
Marsh’s involvement in the article didn’t stop there, either. Later it was written that, “The severe group A strep emits some of the most powerful fever-producing substances known, Dr. Marsh said. If an adult has a fever of 102 degrees or higher, ‘by all means, have a culture taken,’ Dr. Marsh said.” My temperature, as recorded in Dr. Peter
s’s notes from my initial visit to the ER, was 102.8 degrees Fahrenheit.
But it was too little too late. Marsh had been let off the hook for his contradictory claims and I had long since progressed past Day 4 where it was written in column three of his diagram to “continue antibiotics, intravenous fluids, and electrolytes, and remove dead flesh and possibly amputate”. My hands and feet were gone and I wasn’t going to get them back, nor could I fund a manhunt of a lawsuit against the beguiling Dr. Marsh. All I could do was settle for letting bygones be bygones and hope that no other family would ever have to endure what mine had.
~~~
Marie
I remember going into your room while you were still in the coma; seeing machines hooked up. I hadn't seen you much before this. I think that summer was the most time I spent with you and you were asleep for all of it.
I remember going in and realizing that your hands looked wrong. And every day they were a little different color, a little worse. And I remember when they were trying to decide what to do about it. It killed every single person to know there was only one choice. But everyone kept hoping and kept spirits up and it came down to knowing that it was better to have you alive, of course. Everyone was worried you'd be upset. How could you not be?
19
My Guilt
Dr. Dennis Stevens was a far more honest man, in my opinion. He was the Chief of Infectious Diseases at the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Boise, Idaho and a consultant to the Center for Disease Control on Group A Streptococcus. He was also our expert witness. But I tried not to let that sway my opinion of the man with puffy but bright blue eyes and a disproportionate amount of hair on the sides of his head when contrasted by the barrenness of his crown.
Dr. Stevens offered a timeframe that was more favorable to our theory, citing the ‘window of opportunity’ that Dr. Marsh had brazenly denied. During his cross-examination, Mr. Wentworth blew past questioning Stevens’ information in favor of questioning the man himself.
‘Dr. Stevens,’ Wentworth said with his beanstalk body angled towards the jury and his head downcast, a furrow in his brow as if he didn’t already know the answer to the question he was about to ask, ‘how many times, approximately, have you been paid by a plaintiff to sit as an expert witness?’
I scowled. Low blow, Wentworth. Low blow.
‘Was it more than ten, twenty times?’ Wentworth asked coyly when Dr. Stevens sat stupefied for one silent second too long.
‘I guess between ten and twenty,’ Stevens grudgingly acceded. I glanced at the jury. Surely they weren’t going to let that small facet of this man’s credentials sway their opinion.
Utter dejection swelled over me as I watched the twelve people who would determine the outcome of this case shift in their seats; wide eyes searching for the person in whom to trust. They’re listening to this lunacy, I thought and turned pleading eyes to Mike.
During his rebuttal, Mike cited that this was not the first time Dr. Marsh had sat as a witness, either, but the damage was already done. Dr. Marsh’s testimony had been taken and the jury’s opinions of him cast in stone. It was beginning to become a trend in this trial, having too little too late. The buoyant confidence I had clung to regarding the eventual outcome was losing air with each missed opportunity.
~~~
Tom was called next. He approached the witness box with his eyes up but I thought I could detect a sag to his shoulders and shortness in his stride. I wondered if those slight changes were just reluctance at taking the stand, or had they occurred before? Had Tom always moved like that or was it a result of the crime for which we were prosecuting Dr. Peters?
Watching Tom take his turn in the hot seat, I found myself longing for it all to end. What had seemed like such a valiant quest had suddenly become petty and self-centered. What right did I have to drag the people I cared about through the calamitous past? They had already given me everything they could, indomitably holding fast to my life when even I could not, and there was no denying the visible toll it had taken on them. I had wanted this for them. The trial was supposed to justify what they had underwent, but now it seemed to only be prolonging the experience of it.
Let them go, I pleaded in silent surrender. Just let them all go and let’s forget this trial ever began. I turned my head to look somewhere other than the box where my friend was being held captive and my eyes fell on my older brother Jeff. His eyes, usually so jovial under the arched brows, were fixated on Tom, his face devoid of any expression.
When I turned back to Tom, all I could see was Jeff: Jeff’s reluctant resolve when I cornered him, hungry for stories from my time in the coma; Jeff receding under my gentle but determined prodding when I sequestered him until he gave me what I was after. I looked up at my friend on the stand and saw in his posture all the torment I had inadvertently inflicted upon them all.
I had thought compiling my family’s recollections was simply a means for me to find answers. There was a month of my life I couldn’t account for and I was finally at a point in my recovery when I was ready to hear its story. It hadn’t occurred to me that perhaps my family wasn’t ready to divulge it. Until now. So obvious, looking back – the relived pain I had caused them – yet I had plowed relentlessly on, oblivious to the barely-healed wounds I was reopening.
~~~
Jeff
(Brother)
Mom called to tell me that you were sick and that Don had taken you to the emergency room. I assumed you had the flu or food poisoning and went to bed that night not thinking much of it.
When she called back the next morning, her tone was very serious. She said that you were extremely sick and "might not make it." I left Seattle that afternoon and drove from O'Hare to Janesville not knowing what to expect.
Walking into the hospital room, I was stunned. Every type of medical machine – not the kind you've seen in person, the kind you see on television – was packed into the room. Devices humming and clicking, screens and monitors everywhere. What the hell?!?
Then there you were, in the middle of all the machines. I could barely see you.
Mom took me over to you and showed me your hands. They were black/purple like the worst kind of bruise. All the way up to the wrists. The advancing purple line and the oxygen levels on one of the machines soon became the two things we watched, analyzing and speculating. That and your eyes. Would you open them at some point? Any flicker of consciousness? At that point, there was none.
Mom took me to one of the doctors who tried to explain. There were far more questions than answers and for some reason, it seemed possible that the purple line on your wrists might go back down, like the color returning to someone's face after they'd fainted. I don't think the doctor actually said that. We just collectively grabbed onto the notion.
~~~
In a kind, sympathetic voice, Mike asked Tom how I had changed after the illness.
‘Different,’ he replied, eyes glancing to the side in search of words to elaborate. ‘Less outgoing.’
The defense came at it a different way. Mark Winchell, who seemed to have recovered from his prior episode with my mom, opened with, ‘It was unfortunate what happened to your friend, but he has handled the changes quite well.’
Tom stared at him.
After a pause, Winchell quickly amended his statement to force a response. ‘Isn’t it true,’ Winchell asked, ‘that your friend has been doing quite well in adapting and has in fact gained full independence?’
Tom didn’t follow the lead. ‘Scott, he replied, , placing disdainful emphasis on his use of my name where Winchell had failed to do so, ‘had to work very hard to solve many problems and he did, but he should not have been placed in a situation to need to do so.’
In a flat tone he went on to inform the court that, ‘Using those hands is quite difficult. I tried to get a better idea of what Scott goes through by wearing stiff mittens for a while. . . Try it. It’s not easy.’
Stiff mittens? This was news to me. I wa
s momentarily astounded by the fact that not only had Tom cared enough to try on my perspective, but he had actually found a reasonable way to test it. Then I remembered who I was thinking about: Tom was one of the best friends and most intuitive people I had ever known. Of course he, of all people, would take the time to try something like that.
I wondered if I’d ever adapt to the extent my illness had altered not only myself, but those around me as well. Would I ever learn what lengths the people I love had gone to in an effort to help me? Tom had worn mittens. My mom had stood nose-to-nose with doctors who would have relegated my room to other patients more likely to survive. Brian had played soccer for his Junior and Senior year of high school because, at fourteen, sitting outside his uncle’s hospital room, he had said a prayer that if I didn’t die he would play soccer. He had taken up my fallen torch and kept running it downfield. And Jeff had adopted the eschewed role of ‘crisis manager. ’
~~~
Jeff
So, the vigil began, mainly Nancy, Denny [our oldest brother], Val [Denny’s wife] and I with a rotating cast of others. Staring at you and the machines, speculating and telling stories. At some point, I "invented" the job of crisis manager and took on the task of answering the phone, giving updates to family and friends who were calling as the news spread. Totally helpless.
Nancy, Val and I were in the room when you first had a little bit of eye movement and seemed to regain a little bit of consciousness. It was pretty sporadic after that and you certainly didn't "come to" but it was an improvement. It gave us a hope which we really needed. The downside was that the purple line wasn't going backwards, it was advancing. We spent hours watching your eyes and the purple line for any sign.
~~~
I spent the rest of the day circling these thoughts. Images I’d fabricated to envision the time I was in the coma kept my mind off the trial. I leaned back against the leather chair and spent the afternoon daydreaming that I was with my sister Nancy as she held my dying hand and spoke to me as if I could hear because she had felt my spark. I spent it with Brian as he watched the adults in his life slowly crumble and weep. I followed him as he trailed behind my sister Lisa’s husband, Steve, as he headed outside. And when Steve started to cry and Brian looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes, I was there to place my hand on Brian’s shoulder. I stood with him even after Steve had wiped the tears from his eyes and gone back inside, leaving Brian insecure, afraid, and confused in the courtyard.
