Crisis

by Robin Cook

  “Very well, but first we will take a lunch recess.” He smartly smacked the gavel. “Court’s adjourned until one thirty. Jurors are instructed not to discuss the case with anyone or among themselves.”

  “All rise,” the court officer called out like a town crier as the judge got to his feet.

  3

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Monday, June 5, 2006

  12:05 p.m.

  Although most everyone else began to file out of the courtroom’s gallery, Alexis Stapleton Bowman did not move. She was watching her husband, who’d sunk back into his chair like a deflated balloon the moment the paneled door to the judge’s chamber closed. Randolph was leaning over him and speaking in a hushed tone. He had a hand on Craig’s shoulder. Randolph’s paralegal, Mark Cavendish, was standing on the other side of Craig, gathering up papers, a laptop, and other odds and ends, and slipping them into an open briefcase. Alexis had the impression Randolph was trying to talk Craig into something, and she debated whether to intervene or wait. For the moment, she decided that it was best to wait. Instead, she watched the plaintiff, Jordan Stanhope, come through the gate in the bar. His face was neutral, his demeanor aloof, his dress conservative and expensive. Alexis watched as he wordlessly found a young woman who matched his behavior and attire like two peas in a pod.

  As a hospital-based psychologist, Alexis had been to numerous trials, testifying in various capacities although mostly as an expert witness. From her experience, she knew that they were anxious affairs for everyone, particularly for doctors being sued for malpractice, and especially for her husband, whom she knew was in a markedly vulnerable state. Craig’s trial was the culmination of an especially difficult two years, and a lot was riding on the outcome. Thanks to her training and her ability to be objective, even about personal affairs, she knew Craig’s vulnerabilities as well as his strengths. Unfortunately, in the current crisis she was aware that vulnerability trumped the strengths such that if he did not prevail in this very public questioning of his abilities as a doctor, she doubted he’d be able to pull together his life, which had splintered even prior to the lawsuit with a rather typical midlife crisis. Craig was first and foremost a doctor. His patients came first. She’d known that fact from the beginning of their relationship and had accepted it, even admired it, for she knew that being a doctor, particularly a good doctor, was in her estimation—and she had a lot of firsthand knowledge from working in a major hospital—one of the toughest, most demanding, and unrelenting jobs in the world.

  The problem was that there was a good chance, at least on the first go-round, as Randolph had confided to her, that the case could be lost despite there having been no malpractice. In her heart of hearts, Alexis was sure of that from hearing the story and because she knew that Craig always put his patients first, even in those situations where it involved some inconvenience and even if it was three o’clock in the morning. In this instance, it was the double whammy of the malpractice claim and the midlife adjustment disorder that complicated the situation. The fact that they did occur together did not surprise Alexis. She hadn’t seen many physicians in her practice, because seeking help, particularly psychological help, was generally not in the physician’s nature. They were givers of care, not recipients. In this regard, Craig was a prime example. She had strongly suggested he seek therapy, especially considering his reaction to Leona’s deposition and to the deposition of the plaintiff’s experts, and she could have easily arranged it, but he had steadfastly refused. He’d even reacted angrily when she made the suggestion again a week later, when it was apparent he was becoming progressively more depressed.

  As Alexis was continuing to debate whether to approach Craig and Randolph or stay where she was, she became aware of another person who’d stayed behind in the gallery after the mass exodus. What caught her attention were his clothes, which were almost identical to the plaintiff’s attorney’s in style, color, and cut. The similarity of dress as well as their equivalently bricklike habitus and dark hair gave them the superficial appearance of twins as long as they weren’t together, because the man in the spectator area was at least one and a half times the size of Tony Fasano. He also differed by being less swarthy, and in contrast to Tony’s baby-bottom facial skin, he had the regrettable sequela of severe teenage acne. The residual scarring on his cheekbones was deep enough to appear like that of a burn.

  At that moment, Tony Fasano broke off his conversation with his assistant, grabbed his ostrich briefcase, and stormed through the gate into the gallery on his way out of the courtroom. It was obvious he was chagrined about the error regarding the tribunal ruling. Alexis wondered why he was overreacting, since his opening statement from her viewpoint had been regrettably effective and was undoubtedly the reason Craig was brooding. Tony’s assistant sheepishly followed her boss. Without even a sideward glance or the slightest hesitation in his step, Tony called out, “Franco,” while gesturing for the man dressed like himself to follow. Franco obediently did so. A moment later, they all had disappeared through the heavy double doors to the hall, which clanged shut with jarring finality.

  Alexis glanced back toward her husband. He’d not moved, but Randolph was now looking in her direction. When he caught her eye, he waved for her to come join them. With an explicit invitation, she was happy to oblige. When she got there, Craig’s face looked as downtrodden as she’d assumed from his posture.

  “You must talk to him!” Randolph ordered, venturing from his studied, patrician self-possession with a hint of exasperation. “He cannot continue to behave in this despondent, defeated manner. In my experience, juries have special antennae. I’m convinced they can sense a litigant’s mind-set and decide the case accordingly.”

  “Are you saying the jury could decide against Craig purely because he’s depressed?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You have to tell him to buck up! If he continues to comport himself in this negative fashion, there is the risk they will assume he’s guilty of the alleged malpractice. I’m not suggesting they won’t listen to the testimony or consider the evidence, but they’ll do so only with the thought of possibly negating their initial impression. Such behavior turns a neutral jury into a prejudicial one and switches the burden of proof from the plaintiff, where it should be, to us, the defense.”

  Alexis looked down at Craig, who was now massaging his temples while cradling his head in his hands, elbows on the table. His eyes were closed. He was breathing through an open, slack mouth. Getting him to buck up was a tall order. He’d been in and out of depression for most of the eight-month pretrial period. The only reason he’d acted “up” at all that morning and in the days immediately leading to the trial was the prospect of getting the trial over with. Now that the trial had started, it was obvious that the reality of the possible outcome had set in. Being depressed was not an unreasonable response.

  “Why don’t we all go to lunch, and we can talk,” Alexis suggested.

  “Mr. Cavendish and I will have to skip lunch,” Randolph said. “I need to plan my opening statement.”

  “You haven’t planned it before now?” Alexis questioned with obvious surprise.

  “Of course I’d planned it,” Randolph said testily. “But thanks to Judge Davidson allowing Mr. Fasano such discretion in his opening statement, I must alter mine.”

  “I was surprised by the plaintiff’s opening statement,” Alexis admitted.

  “And indeed you should have been. It was nothing more than an attempt at character assassination or guilt by association, since they obviously have no evidence of actual medical negligence. The only good part is that Judge Davidson is already providing us with grounds for an appeal if needed, especially with Mr. Fasano’s cheap trick of introducing the tribunal’s finding.”

  “You don’t think that was an honest mistake?”

  “Hardly,” Randolph scoffed. “I’ve had some of his cases researched. He’s a plaintiff’s attorney of the most despicable variety. The man
has no conscience, not that I expect one in his chosen field of specialty.”

  Alexis wasn’t so certain. Having watched the attorney harangue his associate, if it were a charade, it was on Oscar level.

  “I’m supposed to buck up, and you’re already talking about an appeal?” Craig sighed, speaking for the first time since Alexis had arrived.

  “One must prepare for all eventualities,” Randolph said.

  “Why don’t you run along and do your preparation,” Alexis said to Randolph. “Dr. Bowman and I will talk.”

  “Excellent!” Randolph said crisply. He was relieved to be freed. He motioned to his assistant to leave. “We’ll see you back here in a timely fashion. Judge Davidson is, among his other less desirable traits, at least prompt, and he expects others to be likewise.”

  Alexis watched Randolph and Mark make their way through the courtroom and disappear out into the hallway before looking back down at Craig. He was watching her gloomily. She took Randolph’s seat. “How about you and I have some lunch?” she said.

  “The last thing in the world I’d like to do at this moment is eat.”

  “Then let’s go outside. Let’s get out of this magisterial environment.”

  Craig didn’t answer, but he did stand. Alexis led the way out of the bar area, through the spectator section, and out into the hallway and to the elevator lobby. There were small groups of people milling about, with some locked in furtive conversation. The courthouse oozed an aura of contention from every nook and cranny. Craig and Alexis didn’t talk as they took the elevator down and walked out into a bright, sunny day. Spring had finally come to Boston. In sharp contrast to the oppressive, seedy courthouse interior, there was hope and promise in the air.

  After crossing a small, bricked courtyard wedged between the courthouse and one of Boston Government Center’s crescent-shaped buildings, Craig and Alexis descended a short flight of stairs. Crossing the busy four lanes of Cambridge Street took some effort, but they were soon able to stroll out onto the expansive esplanade fronting Boston City Hall. The square was crowded with people fleeing their confining offices for a little sun and fresh air. There were a few fruit stalls doing brisk business.

  Without any particular destination, the couple found themselves near the entrance to the Boston T. They sat on a granite parapet, angled to face each other.

  “There’s no way I can tell you to buck up,” Alexis said. “You’re only going to buck up if you want to buck up.”

  “As if I didn’t know that already.”

  “But I can listen. Maybe you should just tell me how you feel.”

  “Oh, whoop-de-do! Always the therapist ready to help the mentally ill. Tell me how you feel!” Craig echoed mockingly. “How gallant!”

  “Let’s not be hostile, Craig. I believe in you. I’m on your side in this legal affair.”

  Craig stared off for a moment, watching two kids winging a Frisbee back and forth. He sighed, then looked back at Alexis. “I’m sorry. I know you are on my side, letting me come back like a dog with his tail between his legs and pretty much no questions asked. I appreciate it. Really, I do.”

  “You’re the best doctor I know, and I know a lot of doctors. I also have some insight into what you are going through, which ironically has something to do with your being such a superb physician. It makes you more vulnerable. But that aside, you and I have some issues. That’s obvious, and there will be questions. But not now. There will be time for dealing with our relationship, but we have to get you through this ugly affair first.”

  “Thank you,” Craig said simply and sincerely. Then his lower jaw began to tremble. Fighting off tears, he rubbed his eyes with the balls of his fingers. It took a few moments, but when he felt he had himself under control, he looked back at Alexis. His eyes were watery and red. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “The problem is this ugly affair keeps getting worse. I’m afraid I’m going to lose the case. Hell, when I think back on my social behavior back then when this happened, I’m embarrassed. And knowing that it’s all going to come out publicly is a disgrace for both of us and a dishonor for you.”

  “Is the airing of your social behavior a big point of what’s depressing you?”

  “It’s a part, but not the biggest part. The biggest humiliation is going to be the jury telling the world I practice substandard medicine. If that happens, I’m not sure I’ll be able to practice anymore. I’m having a hard time as it is. I’m seeing everybody as another litigant, and every patient encounter as a possible malpractice case. It’s a nightmare.”

  “I think it’s understandable.”

  “If I can’t practice medicine, what else can I do? I don’t know anything else. All I ever wanted to be is a doctor.”

  “You could do your research full-time. You’ve always had a conflict between research and clinical medicine.”

  “I suppose that’s an idea. But I’m afraid I might lose my passion for medicine in general.”

  “So it’s pretty clear you have to do everything in your power to win. Randolph says you have to pull yourself together.”

  “Oh, Randolph, good grief!” Craig complained. He looked off in the middle distance. “I don’t know about him. Having seen Mr. Fasano’s performance this morning, I don’t think Randolph is the right lawyer. He’s going to connect with that jury like oil and water, whereas Fasano already has them eating out of his hands.”

  “If you feel that way, can you request another attorney from the insurance company?”

  “I don’t know. I guess.”

  “But the question would be, Is it wise at this late juncture?”

  “Who knows?” Craig questioned wistfully. “Who knows?”

  “Well, let’s deal with what we have. Let’s hear Randolph’s opening statement. In the meantime, we have to think of a way to spruce you up appearance-wise.”

  “That’s easier said than done. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Just telling you to buck up is not going to work, but what about concentrating on your innocence? Think about that for the moment. You were presented with the seriousness of Patience Stanhope’s condition; you did everything humanly possible. You even rode in the ambulance so you could be there if she arrested. My God, Craig! Concentrate on that and your dedication to medicine in general and project it. Fill the whole damn courtroom! How could you be more responsible? What do you say?”

  Craig chuckled dubiously in the face of Alexis’s sudden enthusiasm. “Let me make sure I understand. You’re talking about me focusing on my innocence and broadcasting it to the jury?”

  “You heard Randolph. He’s had a lot of experience with juries, and he’s convinced they have special senses about people’s mind-set. I say you try to connect with them. God knows it can’t hurt.”

  Craig exhaled forcibly. He was hardly confident but didn’t have the energy to fight Alexis’s zeal. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll try it.”

  “Good. And another thing. Try to tap into your physician’s ability to compartmentalize. I’ve seen you do it time and time again in your practice. While you’re thinking about how grand a doctor you are and how you gave your professional best with Patience Stanhope, don’t think of anything else. Be focused.”

  Craig merely nodded and broke off eye contact with Alexis.

  “You’re not convinced, are you?”

  Craig shook his head. He gazed up at the boxy, postmodern Boston City Hall building that dominated the esplanade like a crusader castle. Its brooding, distressed bulkiness seemed to him like a metaphor for the bureaucratic morass that ensnared him. It took effort to pull his eyes away and look back at his wife. “The worst thing about this mess is that I feel so helpless. I’m totally dependent on my assigned insurance company attorney. Every other hurdle in my life called for more effort on my part, and it was always the additional effort that saved the day. Now it seems like the more effort I make, the deeper I sink.”

  “Concentrating on your innocence like I’m suggesting takes
effort. Compartmentalizing takes effort also.” Alexis thought it ironic that what Craig was voicing was exactly how people in general felt about illness and their dependency on doctors.

  Craig nodded. “I don’t mind making an effort. I said I’ll try to connect with the jury. I just wish there was something else. Something more tangible.”

  “Well, there is one other thing that passed through my mind.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “I’ve thought about calling my brother, Jack, and seeing if he would come up from New York and help.”

  “Oh, that would be helpful,” Craig said sarcastically. “He won’t come. You guys haven’t been close over the years, and, besides, he never liked me.”

  “Jack has had understandable difficulty with us being blessed with three wonderful daughters when he tragically lost both of his. It’s painful for him.”

  “Maybe, but it doesn’t explain his dislike of me.”

  “Why do you say that? Did he ever say he didn’t like you?”

  Craig looked at Alexis for a beat. He’d cornered himself and couldn’t think of a way out. Jack Stapleton had never said anything specific; it was just a feeling Craig had had.

  “I’m sorry you think Jack doesn’t like you. The reality is, he admires you, and he told me so specifically.”

  “Really?” Craig was taken aback, convinced that Jack’s assessment was the opposite.

  “Yes, Jack did say you were the kind of student in medical school and residency that he avoided. You are one of those people who read all the suggested reading, somehow knew all the trivial facts, and could quote at length from the latest issue of The New England Journal of Medicine. He admitted that awe did breed a certain contempt, but it was actually inwardly directed, meaning he wished he could have dedicated himself as much as you did.”

  “That’s very flattering. It really is. I had no idea! But I wonder if he feels the same after my midlife crisis. And even if he were to come, what possible help could he provide? In fact, crying on his shoulder might make me feel worse than I do now, if that’s possible.”