Blood Money (12 page)

The case seemed like a no-brainer based on the evidence he had. The doctor’s social obligation that evening, his haste, the operating room nurse who would reluctantly testify to that, as well as to the sloppy closure of the incision. But his instincts told him to watch out. He had seen Manin on CNN, talking about a new surgical technique that would save thousands of lives and spare patients weeks of pain. He had seen him both in front of the cameras and live, testifying for another doctor in a medical malpractice case. Manin had been clear, convincing, unwavering, polite, and extremely handsome. He had everything going for
him—looks, image, sincerity, and poise. Much like Nick himself, the doctor would be formidable, despite the mountain of adverse evidence. As Joe used to say, “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. And watch out for the saints. Don’t let the jury feel sorry for them. Don’t martyr them. Let them hang themselves. Always be polite and courteous, but deadly accurate with your questions—the ones you already know the answers to because there is only one answer. Always give them room to dig themselves in deeper when they try to evade the inevitable. And smile…always smile while you’re questioning.”

Nick was sweating by the time he reached the twenty-eighth floor offices where Asher, Smith, Brown and Finley, a preeminent medical malpractice defense firm, was located. The firm took up the entire floor—twenty thousand square feet of pure hell for the plaintiff’s bar. Insurance defense was all the firm did, and they were damned good at it. Nick straightened his black cashmere topcoat, then checked his red-striped rep tie in the large, mirror-like brass plaque on the dark walnut door. He was satisfied with the way he looked.
Now let’s see if I sound that good
, he thought.

A pretty blond sat at the serpentine rosewood reception desk. Her skin was white and smooth, with fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The lines deepened as her smile framed perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. Her hair was cut chin length and fell straight like golden fringe around her perfect features.

Pretty as a cameo
, Nick thought admiring her refined WASP features.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. Smile, smile—an obvious part of her job.

“Nick Ceratto.” He handed her his card. “I’m here for a deposition.”

“Yes, I know.” Smile, smile. “I have your name here, sir. Just leave your coat with me and go straight down the short hall to conference room three. The court reporter is already setting up. I’ll tell Mr. Asher that you’re here.” Smile, smile.

John Asher?
he thought as he made his way to room three. It was supposed to be Mark Finley. Asher was much tougher. Nick remembered Joe and Asher going head to head in a cancer misdiagnosis case. Joe had actually been worried. Asher’s socalled expert, Professor James Connelly, M.D. (a paid defense whore as Joe had called him), had sandbagged Joe by testifying that the plaintiff’s form of cancer was so deadly and fast spreading that it didn’t matter that the defendant had missed it. Even if the defendant doctor had diagnosed it six months earlier, when he should have, it wouldn’t have made any difference in the outcome. The cancer had already metastasized. The plaintiff had suffered with malignant melanoma for two years and had to watch his body slowly rot away.

It had been the classic
So What?
defense. So what if the doctor didn’t order a biopsy? The plaintiff was a dead man anyhow. So no harm done. Joe had objected and argued against admitting Asher’s expert’s damaging testimony since it hadn’t been disclosed before the trial as the rules required.

After two days of briefing and oral argument in the judge’s chambers—outside the hearing of the jury—Judge Josephine Hanks ruled in Joe’s favor and sustained his objection. The damaging evidence was stricken, and the jury was instructed to ignore the professor’s testimony. It could have killed the case. But the jury found in favor of Joe’s client, the plaintiff’s widow, in the amount of ten million dollars.

Watch your back.
Those had been Joe’s famous words about Asher. And no doubt the feeling was mutual as far as Asher was concerned. Now Nick wondered what Asher had in store for him. Whatever it was, he would be prepared to deal with it.

Asher stood just inside the conference room with his back to the glass door. Nick watched from the hall as the defense attorney rhythmically moved his hands giving last-minute instructions to his client, who stood facing him. Asher’s words were inaudible but Nick knew the drill: “Don’t volunteer any information. Don’t
answer a question you don’t fully understand. Don’t be afraid to say, ‘I don’t understand your question, Counselor.’ And if you do understand but think the answer you’ll have to give might be damaging, hesitate, so I can object and throw him off. You can weasel, you can waffle, but for Christ’s sake, don’t lie. Unless I tell you to. You’ll know when.”

Asher turned, opened the door, and let Nick into the brightly lit room—fully equipped with audio and video equipment. Pots of freshly brewed coffee and bottles of mineral water, cups monogrammed with the firm’s logo, cream, and sugar were already laid out on the federal style sideboard at the far end of the room. Every professional courtesy and accommodation appeared to be available—except the truth.

Asher was tall and thin. His face was sharp featured and heavily lined from years on the tennis courts. He was dressed in a charcoal three-button suit, spread-collar shirt with a red and blue rep, silk tie, and black wing-tip shoes. He could have been a middle-aged model for Brooks Brothers. Instead he was a prick for the insurance companies, especially Pro-Med.His crystal blue eyes gleamed against his even tan —not too dark a tan, and definitely not peeling.His teeth were whiter than white as he smiled, stretching over the conference table to shake hands. Nick shook Asher’s hand but didn’t smile.

Asher always looked as though he had just returned from vacation, always poised, charming and relaxed, confident as ever. At least he appeared that way. His client, in contrast, looked tense and tired. Manin had bags and circles under his eyes. He apparently had not had much sleep in the past week. His dark brown eyes were dull, his brow was furrowed, and his skin looked pale. His handshake was clammy, Nick noted. The doctor’s navy blue suit hung on his slightly stooped shoulders. He looked as though he had lost fifteen pounds and hadn’t had the suit altered. Why bother? He would probably lose another fifteen before the trial was over. This was not the Doctor Victor Manin that Nick remembered. It was all too clear that he needed a haircut, a week’s sleep, and a good meal. Although he looked bad, Nick knew that the doctor would evoke
the jury’s sympathy, and that was not good. That was Asher’s only card, and so far he was playing it perfectly. He obviously had not told his client to clean up and dress up.

Nick would have to play his hand just as perfectly and plan his strategy accordingly. What strategy would he use, what script? What would erase the powerful emotion of sympathy that Manin would evoke? What would cancel out Asher’s skillful portrayal of his client as the victim? The poor, bankrupt, downtrodden, unjustly accused doctor. Instead Nick had a dead cop—who
couldn’t
be put on the stand, who
couldn’t
testify.

The doctor would be primed. He would tell the jury, “I’m sorry. I did the best I could. But, I’m not God.” It would be a perfect script.

In his mind, Nick heard Asher arguing that medicine is not an exact science, and that the good doctor did everything he possibly could to save Sean Riley’s life. He even stayed at the hospital to perform the surgery when he could have as easily left for his social engagement. He cared for his patients as he would members of his own family. And he took a special interest in cops because they risked their lives every day for us. Because cops were heroes, and Doctor Manin respected them and appreciated their sacrifices—especially since Manin’s father had been a cop. Sean Riley’s death was an act of God. God wanted Sean, and God took him. Doctor Manin was not more powerful than God that night, and no mortal should expect him to be…

“Mr. Ceratto,” the court reporter said, breaking Nick’s reverie. “Shall I swear the witness in?”

“Yes, go ahead.” Nick opened his notebook to his carefully prepared
hit list
: not a list of questions as one might suppose, but a carefully prepared list of facts—dates, times, actions, and reasons that he had to get the doctor to unequivocally admit to. Otherwise the doctor could give vague and ambiguous answers to openended questions. This was the only way that Nick could get the ammunition to effectively cross-examine the doctor at trial, and if possible destroy him on the stand.

“Doctor Manin, my name is Nick Ceratto, and I represent the Estate of Sean Riley. I’m going to ask you a series of questions about your involvement with Sean Riley on the night he died. Doctor, have you ever been deposed before? You’re shaking your head, no. Then let me give you some instructions. If I ask you a question and you don’t understand it, please tell me so I can rephrase in such a way that you will understand it. Is that clear? Second, if you answer my question, I will assume that you understood it and that your answer is full and complete. Finally…”

The phone rang. The ringer had been set on low so that it wouldn’t startle anyone. It was only to be used to enlist the aid of a judge in settling a dispute between lawyers about the propriety of a question during a deposition or some other matter of great importance. Otherwise the staff had strict instructions to never interrupt a deposition.

Asher moved to the credenza and picked up the receiver after the first ring, holding up a hand to stop the proceeding. The court reporter instantly removed her hands from the small keyboard of her machine. Nick stopped mid-sentence and turned to hear what could be so important.

“Yes? Fine. I’ll tell Mr. Ceratto. No, I have no objection. Just tell her to have a seat. There’s a woman, a clerk of yours, who’s here to sit in on the deposition.”

Nick looked curiously at Asher but said nothing.
Clerk? What clerk
, he thought.

“She said her name is Maria Elena. She apologizes for being late. I certainly don’t have an objection to her sitting in. I’m sure you’d accommodate one of our clerks in a similar situation,” Asher smiled.

“Thank you,” Nick responded, thinking,
What the fuck is she doing here?

Maria Elena entered room three, accompanied by the receptionist. The difference between the two was glaring. Maria wore a navy pinstripe suit. The double-breasted jacket was cut low enough to reveal just the right amount of skin with a tad of
cleavage. The hem of her skirt was just above the knee. She wore nude colored stockings and black leather pumps with a three-inch spike heel. She carried a black leather Prada briefcase. Her golden brown hair fell softly about her shoulders and slightly over her left eye. She wore thin, wire-rim glasses.

The receptionist wore a long, gray wool skirt, a white cotton blouse buttoned high at the neck, and flat shoes—black skimmers with grosgrain bows. She was pretty as a cameo alright– seated at her desk, but in full view, it was clear that she was stuck in the nineteen fifties, an image that fit perfectly with this firm. She smiled innocently, blushing slightly as she motioned Maria toward an empty seat next to Nick.

Asher rose to his feet, took Maria’s hand, and smiled deeply, introducing himself before Nick had the opportunity. He held her hand a little longer than usual, the handshake continuing a few seconds after the introduction. Maria returned the smile and did not withdraw her hand. She liked his firm, warm grip; his smile; his tan.

“A pleasure,” she said. “My name is Maria Elena.” She purposely omitted her last name. “Thank you for allowing me to stay.”

“What law school are you going to, Ms…?” He hesitated, wondering why his firm never received applicants such as this.

“Nardo. I went to the University of Rome,” she answered without missing a beat. She lied well and was relaxed while doing it.

“Ah, that explains your charming accent. Well, if you need anything, please let me or a member of my staff know.”

“Thank you, I will.” She sat down in the tufted armchair and poured herself a glass of water from a carafe on the table. She crossed her legs and opened her briefcase, taking out a yellow legal pad and a Tiffany T-ball pen.

Nick watched her, trying to regain his train of thought, recall what his first question was to be, thinking that he just might put her on a plane and send her back to Italy the very first chance he got. She was a distraction, and that could be bad for him—as a matter of fact, deadly. “Where were we?” he asked the court reporter.

She pulled the folded tape from the box at the front of the stenotype machine and read from the strange mechanical shorthand symbols. “Second, if you answer my question, I will assume that you understood it and that your answer is full and complete.”

Dr. Manin nodded in agreement and for the next seven hours maintained his innocence.

Mike Rosa felt like a new man. It was Saturday morning. The late January air, warmed by the sun, was cold but forgiving; and the scent of a beautiful day filled his nostrils as he was hurled rhythmically forward on the wintery trail on Khalil, his Arabian horse. His breath commingled and condensed in a haze with Khalil’s. The powerful hooves pounded on the hard packed earth, echoing the staccato of another set of hooves close behind. A neigh of protest shrilled across the quiet, frozen woods as Maria Elena pulled back on the reins of Jamilia, Rosa’s other white Arabian, slowing the horse to a trot. Mike was amazed at Maria’s riding skills. She was strong, graceful, and fearless, just like her mount.