Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones Levine, Paul (best ereader for academics txt) 📖

"Objection, leading." Now I was doing it, because I knew where Abe was going.

"It's not leading," Socolow shot back. "I'm simply asking for an explanation as to when an injury is directly life threatening versus indirectly life threatening. A man doesn't have to be shot through the heart to die as a consequence of the bullet."

"Now he's leading!" My pitch was a notch higher than normal.

The judge motioned to us. "Come up here. Both of you."

Abe and I circled around the far side of the bench, away from the jury. "Now, Jake, there was nothing wrong with Abe's question. It wasn't leading, and you know it. He's got a right to have her explain the answer she gave you. But, Abe, don't be making speeches in front of the jury, at least not 'til closing argument. The objection is overruled, so get back where you belong."

We retreated to our places, and the judge told Dr. Quintana that she could answer the question.

"None of these injuries individually would likely have killed Mr. Bernhardt. Even together, they might not have killed a younger man or a man with a healthier heart. But the stress of the injuries nonetheless killed him by ultimately causing the spontaneous ventricular fibrillations."

"Nothing further," Abe said, having repaired the damage and then some.

I stood up again for recross. "Mr. Bernhardt had a seriously diseased heart, did he not?"

"He had atherosclerosis, yes. The medical examiner who did the autopsy would be better able to describe the extent of it."

"Can you state with total certainty that Harry Bernhardt wouldn't have died of a heart attack on the night of June sixteenth even if he hadn't been shot?"

The doctor gave me a puzzled look, and I said, "Let me rephrase that one without the double negative. In Harry Bernhardt's condition, he could have suffered a heart attack on June sixteenth or the day after that, or any other day, even without having been shot or undergoing surgery, true?"

"Yes, that's true. He was a candidate for a heart attack at any time."

"Nothing further."

Next came the nurse who had tended to Harry Bernhardt in the recovery room, and then a second nurse who had accompanied him to a private room inside the ICU. Sort of the equivalent of chain-of-custody evidence, as Harry got passed along from Tinker to Evans to Chance.

Harry Bernhardt's life signs were strong when Sylvia Gettis, RN, checked on him at eleven P.M. She'd pulled the graveyard shift and was at the nurses' station when the EKG monitor went off at 11:51 P.M. She raced twenty paces from her station to Harry's room, which was more like a suite for VIPs who were fortunate enough to find themselves in Intensive Care at the plush hospital instead of the county facility. Harry Bernhardt was thrashing in the bed, yelling, in obvious pain. The emergency team—an intern, a resident, an ER physician, an anesthesiologist, a respiratory therapist, and an EKG specialist—flew into the room.

They intubated Harry and forced oxygen into his lungs. They injected him with epinephrine, an adrenaline-like drug, and they started CPR. They checked his blood gases. In the rapid-fire shorthand of physicians, they shouted, debating possible causes of the ventricular fibrillation. Internal bleeding. A collapsed lung. An unseen bullet wound.

Harry's heart was on fire, the muscles contracting fiercely, the organ quivering, shaking itself to death. Then the heart slowed.

"Mr. Bernhardt coded," the nurse told the jury.

"Which means what, Ms. Gettis?" Abe Socolow prompted.

"He flatlined. His heart stopped."

They tried the paddles, jolting Harry's heart with 250 joules of current. Ka-boom. Ka-boom. Again and again. Nothing. He was pronounced dead thirty minutes later.

"Did you speak to Mr. Bernhardt before he died?" I asked on cross, realizing she wouldn't have spoken to him after he died.

"No. He was still groggy from the anesthesia."

"And when you responded to the Code Blue, did you speak to him then?"

"I'm sure I asked him questions. He was conscious but in considerable pain. He was not really coherent."

"So he didn't say anything to you?"

"Nothing except sounds, painful cries, that sort of thing."

"Did he have any visitors before the monitor sounded at eleven-fifty-one?"

"Dr. Quintana stopped by. A detective looked in, then left. I told him the patient was in no condition to give a statement. And of course, the family physician."

I was already sitting down, about to say, "Nothing further," when I realized what she had said.

"The family physician," I repeated.

"Yes. Dr. Schein."

How could I not know that?

I had taken discovery. I had a copy of the ICU log. No mention of Dr. Schein. Of course, he wasn't a treating physician or an investigating cop. Just what the hell was he, anyway?

"What was Dr. Schein doing there?" I asked evenly.

"I believe he said he was a longtime friend of the Bernhardts as well as their physician. As I recall, he said he was practically a member of the family, something like that."

Right. This family needed a shrink on retainer.

"When did he arrive?"

She thought about it a moment. "Just as I was getting back from my break, eleven-forty P.M."

"You're sure of the time?"

"I was carrying my coffee, and I remember the doctor commenting on the battery acid they serve in the cafeteria downstairs. I always take my break between eleven-twenty and eleven-forty, so that's when it was."

"Eleven-forty," I repeated. "Which was how long before the patient coded?"

She looked at her notes. "The monitor sounded at eleven-fifty-one P.M., so it'd be eleven minutes."

"How long did Dr. Schein stay?"

"I don't know. I was attending to paperwork and I didn't see him leave, but it would have to be sometime between eleven-forty and eleven-fifty-one, because he wasn't in the room when I got there."

I thought it over. Harry Bernhardt hadn't died of the gunshot wounds. He'd died of a heart attack. What had Lawrence Schein said to him, done to him, in those precious minutes? I didn't know, and I probably never would. But I could use the trial lawyer's best friend, scurrilous innuendo. In a murder