by Robin Cook
“Miss Rattner,” Randolph said in his refined voice. “How would you describe your choice of apparel at the office?”
Leona laughed uncertainly. “Normal, I guess. Why?”
“Would you label your usual attire conservative or modest?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Did Marlene Richardt, who is the de facto office manager, ever suggest your attire was inappropriate?”
For a moment, Leona looked like the fox caught in the henhouse. Her eyes darted from Tony to the judge and then back to Randolph.
“She said something to that effect.”
“How many times?”
“How should I know? A number of times.”
“Did she use terms like ‘sexy’ or ‘provocative’?”
“I suppose.”
“Miss Rattner, you testified that Dr. Bowman was giving you ‘the eye’ about a year ago.”
“That’s correct.”
“Do you think it might have had anything to do with your choice of apparel?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“You testified that at first it made you embarrassed, because he was married.”
“That’s true.”
“But a year ago, Dr. Bowman was officially separated from his wife. There were strains in his marriage that were being addressed. Wasn’t that common knowledge in the office?”
“Maybe it was.”
“Could it be that you were giving Dr. Bowman the eye rather than vice versa?”
“Maybe subconsciously. He’s a good-looking guy.”
“Did it ever go through your mind that Dr. Bowman might be susceptible to provocative clothing, considering he was living alone?”
“I never thought about it.”
“Miss Rattner, you testified that on September eighth, 2005, you were living in Dr. Bowman’s Boston apartment.”
“I was.”
“How did that happen? Did Dr. Bowman invite you to move in?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did your moving in ever come up in a conversation so that the benefits and the disadvantages could be discussed?”
“Not really.”
“The reality was that you decided to move in on your own accord. Is that correct?”
“Well, I was staying there every night. Why pay rent on two apartments?”
“You did not answer the question. You moved into Dr. Bowman’s apartment without discussing it with him. Is that correct?”
“It’s not like he complained,” Leona snapped. “He was getting it every night.”
“The question is whether you moved in on your own accord.”
“Yeah, I moved in on my own accord,” Leona spat. “And he loved it.”
“We shall see when Dr. Bowman testifies,” Randolph said, consulting his notes. “Miss Rattner, on the evening of September eighth, 2005, when the call came in from Mr. Jordan Stanhope about his wife, Patience, did Dr. Bowman ever say anything about the Newton Memorial Hospital?”
“No, he did not.”
“He didn’t say it would be better to go to the Stanhope residence than the hospital, because the Stanhope residence was closer to Symphony Hall.”
“Nope. He didn’t say anything about the hospital.”
“When you and Dr. Bowman arrived at the Stanhope residence, did you remain in the car?”
“No. Dr. Bowman wanted me to come inside and help him.”
“I understand you were carrying the portable cardiogram.”
“That’s right.”
“And when you got to Mrs. Stanhope’s bedroom, what happened?”
“Dr. Bowman started to work on Mrs. Stanhope.”
“Did he act concerned at that point?”
“He sure did. He had Mr. Stanhope call an ambulance right away.”
“I understand he had you breathe for the patient while he did what he had to do.”
“That’s right. He showed me how to do it.”
“Was Dr. Bowman concerned about the patient’s condition?”
“Very concerned. The patient was very blue, and her pupils were big and unreactive.”
“I understand the ambulance came quickly to take Mrs. Stanhope to the hospital. How did you and Dr. Bowman get to the hospital?”
“I drove his car. Dr. Bowman went with the ambulance.”
“Why did he go in the ambulance?”
“He said if she has trouble, he wants to be there.”
“You did not see him again until much later, after Mrs. Stanhope had died. Is that correct?”
“It is. It was in the emergency room. He was all blood-spattered.”
“Was he discouraged because his patient had died?”
“He was pretty down.”
“So Dr. Bowman made a strenuous effort to save his patient.”
“Yes.”
“And he was despondent when all his efforts were unsuccessful.”
“I guess I’d say he was depressed, but he didn’t dwell on it. In fact, we ended up having a pretty damned good Friday night back at the apartment.”
“Miss Rattner, allow me to ask you a personal question. You strike me as a high-spirited young woman. Have you ever said things you didn’t really mean when you’ve been angry, maybe exaggerate your feelings?”
“Everybody does,” Leona said with a shallow laugh.
“On the night Dr. Bowman was served with the lawsuit, did he become upset?”
“Very upset. I’d never seen him so upset.”
“And angry?”
“Very angry.”
“Under such circumstances, do you believe there was a chance when he, quote, ‘ran off at the mouth’ and voiced inappropriate comments about Patience Stanhope that he was merely blustering, especially considering the strenuous effort he’d made to resuscitate her on the fateful evening, and the weekly house calls he’d made during the year leading up to her death?”
Randolph paused, waiting for Leona to answer.
“The witness will answer the question,” Judge Davidson said after a period of silence.
“Was that a question?” Leona said with apparent befuddlement. “I didn’t get it.”
“Repeat the question,” Judge Davidson said.
“What I’m suggesting is that Dr. Bowman’s comments about Patience Stanhope on the evening he was served were a reflection of his agitation, whereas his true feelings about the patient were accurately demonstrated by his dedicated commitment to attend to her at her home on a weekly basis for almost a year and his strenuous efforts to resuscitate her the night she passed away. I’m asking, Miss Rattner, if this sounds plausible to you.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.”
“I believe I will do that,” Randolph said. “But I first want to ask you if you are still living in Dr. Bowman’s rented apartment in Boston.”
Jack leaned over toward Alexis and whispered, “Randolph is getting away with some questions and statements that should have raised objections from Tony Fasano. Fasano has always been quick on the trigger before. I wonder what’s going on.”
“Maybe it has something to do with that hushed conversation the judge had with the lawyers earlier in Leona’s testimony. There’s always a bit of give-and-take for fairness.”
“That’s a good point,” Jack agreed. “Whatever the reason, Randolph’s making the best of it.” Jack listened while Randolph cleverly began questioning Leona about her feelings since the malpractice suit began and Craig moved back with his family. Jack knew exactly what Randolph was doing; he was setting the stage for a “spurned lover” defense, where the previous testimony would be rendered suspect as having been motivated by spite.
Jack leaned back toward Alexis and whispered, “Let me ask you a question, and be truthful. Would you mind if I slipped out? I’d like to get in some basketball for exercise. But if you want me to stay, I will. I have a sense the worst is over. From here on, she’ll just be making herself look bad.”
&nb
sp; “Please!” Alexis said sincerely. “Go get some exercise! I appreciate your having been here, but I’m fine now. Go and enjoy yourself. The judge is going to wind things up here momentarily. He always does around four.”
“You are certain you’re okay,” Jack asked.
“Absolutely,” Alexis insisted. “I’ll eat early with the girls, but there’ll be something for you to eat later. Take your time, but be careful, Craig always gets hurt when he plays. You have your key?”
“I’ve got the key,” Jack said. He reached around his sister for a quick hug.
Jack got to his feet, and by excusing himself to those people sitting in his row, he worked his way to the aisle. When he arrived, he glanced over at Franco’s typical location. Jack was surprised. The man wasn’t in his accustomed seat. Although Jack did not stop, he searched among the spectators for the hoodlum’s familiar silhouette. When Jack got to the door, he turned around and quickly scanned the spectators again. No Franco.
Using his back to press down the door’s lever, Jack backed out of the courtroom. Not seeing Franco in his usual place gave him pause. The thought of running into the man in some difficult location with limited egress, such as the underground parking garage, passed through his mind. Although several years previously he wouldn’t have given the issue a second thought, now that he was getting married in two days, he wasn’t quite so nonchalant. With someone else to think about besides himself, he needed to be careful, and being careful meant being prepared. The idea of getting some pepper spray had occurred to him the previous day, but he’d failed to act on it. He decided to change that.
The third-floor elevator lobby was full of people. The doors to one of the four courtrooms were propped open, and people were being disgorged. A trial was in recess. There were clumps of people chatting; others hurried to the elevators, trying to determine which of the eight elevators would come next.
Jack joined the group and found himself looking around warily and wondering if he’d run into Franco. Jack doubted there would be any problem in the courthouse building. It was outside that he was concerned about.
At the security checkpoint at the entrance, Jack stopped to ask one of the uniformed guards if he knew of a nearby hardware store. He was told there was one down on Charles Street, which Jack was told was the main drag of neighboring Beacon Hill.
Jack was assured he’d have no trouble finding the street, especially since it also bisected the park, meaning it was the street Jack had used to get into the car park where his rent-a-car was waiting. Armed with that information and the advice that he should wander westward, down through the maze of Beacon Hill, Jack left the courthouse.
Again, Jack scanned for signs of Franco, but he was nowhere to be seen, and Jack chuckled at his paranoia. Having been told the general direction was opposite the courthouse’s entrance, Jack made his way around the courthouse building. The streets were narrow and twisty, hardly the grid he’d become accustomed to in New York. Following his nose, Jack found himself on Derne Street, which mysteriously became Myrtle. The buildings for the most part were modest, narrow four-story brick town houses. To his surprise, he suddenly came upon a charming toddler playground awash with kids and moms. He passed aptly named Beacon Hill Plumbing with a friendly chocolate Labrador doing a poor job of guarding the entrance. As Jack crested the hill and began a slow descent, he asked a passerby if he was going in the right direction for Charles Street. He was told he was but advised to take a left at the next corner where there was a small convenience store, and then a quick right onto Pinkney Street.
As the street became progressively steeper, he realized that Beacon Hill was not just a name but a real hill. The houses became larger and more elegant, although still understated. On his left he passed a sun-filled square with a stout wrought-iron fence circling a line of hundred-year-old elms and a patch of green grass. A few blocks on, he came to Charles Street.
In comparison with the side streets he’d been following, Charles Street was a major boulevard. Even with parallel parking on either side, there was still room for three lanes of traffic. Lining the street on either side were a wide variety of small shops. After stopping one of the many pedestrians and asking for a hardware store, Jack was directed to Charles Street Supply.
When he walked into the store, he silently questioned if purchasing the pepper spray was necessary. Away from the courthouse and Craig’s lawsuit, Franco’s threat seemed a distant possibility. But he had come that far, so he bought the pepper spray from the square-jawed, friendly proprietor, whose name coincidentally was Jack. Jack had learned this fact by chance when another employee had called out the owner’s name.
Turning down the offer of a small bag, Jack slipped the pepper spray into his right jacket pocket. As long as he made the effort to buy the narrow canister, he wanted to keep it handy. Thus armed, Jack strolled the rest of the way along Charles Street to the Boston Common and retrieved his Hyundai.
While in the dim, dank, deserted underground garage, Jack was glad he had the pepper spray. It was in just such a circumstance that he would not like to confront Franco. But once in his car and on his way to the tollbooth he again laughed at his paranoia and wondered if it was misplaced guilt. In retrospect, Jack knew he should not have kneed the man in Stanhope’s driveway, although there was a lingering thought that had he not done so, the situation could have quickly gotten out of hand, especially with Franco’s apparent lack of impulse control and penchant for violence.
As Jack pulled out of the murky depths of the garage and into the bright sunshine, he made a conscious decision to stop thinking about Franco. Instead, he pulled to the side of the road and consulted Alexis’s city map. As he did so, he felt his pulse quicken with the thought of a good pickup basketball game.
What he was searching for was Memorial Drive, and he quickly found it running alongside the Charles River Basin. Unfortunately, it was in Cambridge on the opposite side of the river. Judging from his Boston driving experience, he guessed that getting there might be somewhat of a struggle, since there were few bridges. His concerns were well founded as he was hampered by a confusing interplay of no left turns, one-way streets, the spottiness of street signs, and the overly aggressive Boston drivers.
Despite the handicaps, Jack eventually managed to get on Memorial Drive and then quickly found the outdoor basketball courts Warren’s friend David Thomas had described. Jack parked on a small side street, got out, and raised the trunk of his car. Pushing aside the autopsy supplies he’d gotten from Latasha, he got out his basketball gear and looked around for a place to change. Not finding any, he climbed back into the car and, like a contortionist, managed to get out of his clothes and into his shorts without offending any of the multitudes of bicyclists, in-line skaters, and joggers along the banks of the Charles River.
After making sure the car was locked, Jack jogged back to the basketball courts. There were about fifteen men, ranging in age from about twenty up. At forty-six, Jack assumed he’d be the senior player. The game had yet to begin. Everybody was shooting or showboating, with a bit of playground trash talk being exchanged by the court’s regulars.
Being wise to the complicated playground etiquette from his many years of experience in a similar environment in New York, Jack acted nonchalant. He began by merely rebounding and passing the balls out to those people who’d made their practice shots. Only later did Jack begin shooting, and as he expected, his accuracy caught the attention of a number of players, although nothing was said. After fifteen minutes, feeling loose, Jack casually asked for David Thomas. The person he’d asked didn’t answer, he merely pointed.
Jack approached the man. He’d been one of the more vociferous of the trash talkers. As Jack had surmised, he was African-American, mid- to late thirties, slightly taller than Jack, and heavier. He had a full beard. In fact, he had more hair on his face than on the crown of his head. But the most distinguishing characteristic was the twinkle of his eye; the man was quick to laugh. It was evi
dent he enjoyed life.
When Jack approached and introduced himself, David unabashedly threw his arms around Jack, hugged him, and then pumped Jack’s hand.
“Any friend of Warren Wilson is a friend of mine,” David said enthusiastically. “And Warren says you’re a playmaker. Hey, you’re running with me, okay?”
“Sure!” Jack said.
“Hey, Aesop!” David called out to another player. “It’s not your night, man. You ain’t running with us. Jack is!” David gave Jack a thump on the back and then added as an aside, “That boy always has a story. That’s why we call him Aesop!”
The play turned out to be terrific: as good as Jack had experienced in New York. Very quickly, Jack realized he’d been lucky to be included on David’s pickup team. Although the games were all close, David’s team continually triumphed, which meant that for Jack the play was continuous. For more than two hours, he, David, and the three others David had selected for the evening’s run did not lose. By the time it was over, Jack was exhausted. At the sidelines, he looked at his watch. It was well after seven.
“You going to come by tomorrow night?” David asked as Jack gathered up his things.
“Can’t say,” Jack said.
“We’ll be here.”
“Thanks for letting me run with you.”
“Hey, man. You earned it.”
Jack walked out of the chain-link-fenced court on slightly rubbery legs. Although he’d been drenched with sweat at the end of the play, it was already gone from the dry, warm breeze wafting in off the river. Jack walked slowly. The exercise had done him a world of good. For several hours, he’d not thought of anything besides the immediate requirements of the game, but now reality was setting in. He was not looking forward to his conversation with Laurie. Tomorrow was Thursday, and he didn’t even know what time he’d be able to start the autopsy, much less when it would be over and when he’d be able to fly back to New York. He knew she was going to be understandably upset, and he wasn’t sure what he should say.
Jack got to his little cream-colored car, unlocked the door, and started to open it. To his surprise, a hand came over his shoulder and slammed it shut. Jack twisted around and found himself looking into Franco’s deep-set eyes and not-too-pretty face. The first thing that flashed through his mind was that the damn ten-dollar-forty-nine-cent pepper spray was inside his jacket pocket inside the car.
