Impact (51 page)

“How much brain tissue did Mr. Donahue actually lose?”

“Less than twenty grams.”

“What size?”

“Smaller than a marble.”

“Lost from the left side of the brain.”

“Yes.”

“There is of record a woman, age twenty, whose entire left frontal, occipital
and
temporal lobes were surgically removed, yet she remains able to walk and talk and hold a job outside the home. Is that not right?”

“I know of that case. To my knowledge, it is unique.”

“The reason such recoveries are possible is that the brain has been found to be blessed with a curious plasticity, has it not? After injury such as this, brain functions often migrate from the portion that no longer works to a portion that is not injured.”

“In
some
cases and with
some
functions. In most cases, no migration takes place. When it does, significant migration occurs only in younger persons.”

Chambers raised a skeptic's brow. “To a degree, some migration has
already
happened with regard to Mr. Donahue's motor functions, has it not?”

“It may be migration or it may be another phenomenon.”

“But there has been improvement.”

“Yes.”

“And nothing
approaching
half of Mr. Donahue's brain was damaged in the crash, was it?”

“No.”

“He has emerged from his coma?”

“Yes.”

“He's fully conscious?”

“Yes.”

“He is recovering his motor skills?”

“Some of them. Yes.”

“He can feed himself?”

“Yes.”

“He can sit in a chair without help?”

“Yes.”

“Three months ago he couldn't do any of that, could he?”

“No.”

“It's entirely possible, is it not, Dr. Ryan, that Mr. Donahue will recover the
entire
range of motor function, given time and a rigorous program of physical therapy?”

Ryan frowned. “Very little of the brain's recuperative powers can be said to be impossible, but I believe it highly unlikely that Mr. Donahue will achieve total motor recovery.”

Chambers licked his lips. “I believe I know some experts who will disagree with you, Doctor. Now, as for the retrograde amnesia, that is improving, is it not?”

“I'm afraid I see no sign of it.”

“The loss of memory of the past few years may be permanent?”

“Yes.”

“Do you regard that as a significant disability?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what Mr. Donahue will be deprived of because he is unable to remember the last three years of his life—can't remember who won the last World Series, for example.”

For the first time, the doctor seemed nonplussed. “The effects of memory loss are as much psychological as practical, Mr. Chambers. As I mentioned earlier, people without self-memory often become confused, listless, sleep-prone, unable to decide how they fit into the scheme of things. Studies show that a person with traumatic head injury, who has been in a coma for as long as Jack Donahue was, has only an eight percent chance of returning to his normal job.”

“His normal job; not
any
job.”

“Yes.”

“Other studies have shown that thirty percent of persons suffering prolonged coma progress to a point of moderate disability or complete recovery, isn't that true?”

“Which means most of them don't make it that far.”

“Have you administered intelligence tests to Mr. Donahue, Doctor?”

“Yes. Basic ones.”

“Do they indicate Mr. Donahue's IQ has drastically lessened because of the accident?”

“Not drastically, no.”

“So aside from memory problems, he remains an intelligent man?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Have you administered the Zung Self-Rating Depression Scale to Mr. Donahue, Doctor?”

“Yes. And the Beck Depression Inventory as well.”

“And?”

“He shows no significant depressive states.”

Chambers's smile was angelic. “Are you saying Mr. Donahue is a happy man?”

“He appears to be.”

“He's in no pain?”

“He says not.”

“He has never experienced a moment of pain since the accident occurred, isn't that right?”

“Yes. Subjectively.”

“Let's be clear, Doctor. Mr. Donahue is, but for physical disabilities that are diminishing all the time, a healthy, happy individual, is he not?”

Ryan's voice rose angrily. “That's putting it far too strongly. One who cannot retain a long-term memory cannot be called healthy. As for his mood, what I believe happened is, the crash stimulated production of the brain's natural opiates. The endorphins, as some of them are called, neuropeptides that exist naturally in the brain and work to increase pleasure or decrease unpleasantness.”

“Mr. Donahue is on a natural high, is that what you're saying?”

“It's much more complex than that.”

“You're not implying Mr. Donahue can't do
anything
, are you, Doctor?”

“No. He can perform tasks he remembers from before—typing, for instance. He can also learn simple skills—procedural learning, we call it—which means he can solve puzzles and perform basic tasks. But the kicker is he can never remember having
done
those things before. If he builds a toy house ten times, each time is the first for him. And each time, he's afraid he can't do it.”

“Are you saying it's impossible to train him to perform a job?”

“No. I
am
saying it would be very risky to—”

“In your direct testimony you mentioned some computer programs that aid cognitive functioning,” Chambers interrupted “Dramatic strides are being seen in this area, aren't there, Doctor?”

“There are success stories. Yes.”

“Mr. Donahue is only in the initial stages of cognitive retraining, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“There are many programs that he has yet to try. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“At this point you can't say these rehabilitative techniques will be ineffective, can you?”

“I can say they will not bring back the full range of his cognitive processes.”

Chambers paused. “There are new drugs on the market that stimulate memory, aren't there?”

“Yes. Vasopressin is one. There are others. They are experimental and have not been proven on persons suffering from head injuries such as Mr. Donahue's.”

“Have you
tried
any of them on Mr. Donahue?”

“Not yet.”

“Do you plan to?”

“Perhaps. I doubt there will be any effect.”

“But perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Recent experiments in Sweden indicate that a so-called nerve growth factor can reverse the shriveling of brain cells that results from age, do they not?”

“Those experiments are in the very early stages. I don't envision such medications being prescribed in this case.”

“But advances in brain science are rapid, are they not?”

“Some are; some aren't.”

Chambers turned toward the jury. “It seems as though you hope your patient
won't
recover, Doctor.”

Ryan pounded a fist on the fence that surrounded him as Chambers retreated to his table and took his seat. Tollison's objection was drowned in the hubbub. “No more of that, Mr. Chambers,” Judge Powell cautioned sternly.

Chambers only nodded, his lip curled cruelly. “I have no more questions for this man, Your Honor.”

For the first time since the case was set for trial and he went to Lake Tahoe to prepare for the ordeal, Keith Tollison has slept in his own bed. His homecoming has not been popular—Alec Hawthorne urged him to remain in the city to prepare to cross-examine the defense witnesses, and Laura Donahue rebuffed his suggestion that they get together at his hotel to rehearse her testimony. Only after he insisted to the point of tyranny that they review at least the portion that would accompany the videotape of her husband's treatment did she finally acquiesce. But because she refused to desert Jack for even a single night, Tollison had to return to Altoona.

As he drove through the sleeping town in the moonlight of the night before, it seemed a foreign land. Even his bed felt alien—sleep came sometime after four and departed again by six, vanquished by his rehash of the trial. Hounded by failings both real and imagined, his mind a tub of clumsy phrases, witless ripostes, missed opportunities, and inadvertent idiocies, he awoke sweating with the fear that all was lost.

Truth ultimately crystallizes over his Raisin Bran: The trial is off the track. As awful as it is to admit it, their strategy has been wrong—the focus can't be Laura; the focus must be Jack. Dr. Ryan's description of his patient's piteous ordeal has left the jury thirsting to see this man whose scalp has been shaved and skull sawed through and brain sliced like a peach by the neurosurgeon's knife.

Tollison swirls cool coffee in his mug as he plots his new tack. Assuming Jack does testify, what will he say? What
can
he say about what has become of him? The last time they spoke, his words ranged from trenchant comments to rambling nonsense. What does he know that will help? Not much, if the memory of the crash is lost. What does he know that could hurt? A lot, if only the memory of the crash is irretrievable. Teetering on a razor's edge, Tollison's task will be to let the jury see and hear his client, not to learn what's in his brain, but only what is out of it.

He looks at his watch. He is meeting Laura at ten. Jack will have just awakened, will be as lucid as he gets. Tollison is about to leave when the phone rings.

“Just checking to make sure you didn't pull a Judge Crater and keep driving,” Hawthorne jokes.

“It's that bad?”

“As a matter of fact, you're doing fine. Even Martha thinks so.”

“Where's she been, anyway?”

“Here and there. I just thought I'd tell you the game's still on the table as far as I can see, which means Laura will be the difference. Make sure you cover everything with her—not just what she'll say, but also what she won't.”

For some reason Tollison does not disclose the strategem he has just devised. “Check.”

“You came pretty close to opening the door to the marriage, you know.”

“I'm afraid I've left the door wide open.”

Hawthorne doesn't seem concerned. “It can go either way at this point. Powell's a bit of a prude, so he'll be inclined to keep out the sleaze. But you have to keep Laura on the straight and narrow.”

“Right.”

“How are you doing otherwise? I expected you to come by Martha's for a drink.”

“Liquor depresses me, and I was far enough down that road already. But don't worry—I'm awake, I'm sober, and I'm off to Laura's in two minutes.”

“When are you coming back to the city?”

Tollison hesitates under the realization that given his imminent departure from the script, he can no longer huddle with Alec at every stage of the proceedings, that from here on he must make his way the way he has made it in Altoona. “Monday morning, I guess.”

“Be better if you came in Sunday. We need to go over some things.”

“I'm exhausted, Alec—I need two more nights in my own bed. I'll be in early Monday. Did Martha get the jury instructions ready?”

“Yes, but you need to—”

“
I
know what I need, Alec.” Before his friend can digest his outburst, Tollison hurries on. “What's the deal on Chambers? Does he always try cases the same way, or does he take some chances?”

The response is wary. “What kind of chances?”

“Like resting his case without calling any witnesses.”

“Not in my experience; Hawley pretty much plays it by the book.” Hawthorne pauses. “You sound like you have something cute in mind.”

Tollison laughs as easily as he can. “Just looking for an edge, as you call it.”

Hawthorne becomes distant. “Do you want to discuss it?”

“I don't think so.”

“You're not the only one who has a stake in this, Keith,” Hawthorne observes quietly.

“I know that, Alec.”

“So what do you think you're doing?”

“The same thing you'd be doing in my shoes.”

“When I was in your shoes, I made mistakes I regretted for a long time.”

“Maybe that's the difference between us—regret's something I live with every day.”

Tollison hangs up and leaves the house before he can reverse the deed. In response to his ring at her bell, Laura answers the door. When she meets his eye she seems to recoil, as though she senses she has reason to be afraid of him.

In robe and slippers, she leads him to the living room. “Jack's still sleeping,” she says. “I'll wake him if he doesn't come around in a minute.”

“There's no hurry; I've got all day.”

A familiar look passes across her face, one that includes both affection and desire, but it passes quickly. “You look exhausted, Keith.”

“Battle fatigue.”

“How are we doing, do you think?”

So she does not regard him as an enemy after all. Not yet. “Good, but not great.”

“I thought Dr. Ryan was excellent.”

“He was. But I don't think the jury's ready to do what we want them to.”

“Which is what?”

“Give us a million dollars.”

She gasps and colors, as if she appreciates the scale of their undertaking for the first time. “I don't know if they
should
want to do that.”

“If they don't, it's possible that all you'll get, even if they find for us on liability, is the value of Jack's medical bills. When I take a third of that as my fee, you'll still be in hock to the hospital for two hundred thousand dollars. And they'll try to collect it from you—don't think they won't. Is that really the way you want this to end?”