Authors: James Patterson
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Suspense, #antique
The 5th Horseman (7 page)
Tracchio stood, whirled around, put his hands on the back of his chair. His reddened face radiated exasperation. “You know, I don’t even understand what the hell you’re beefing about. You’ve got it easy. How would you like my job?”
I stared at him dully as he began ticking off departments on his sausage fingers: “I’ve got Homicide, Robbery, Narcotics, Anticrime, and Special Victims. I got the mayor and I got the governor, and if you think that’s like getting the red-carpet treatment on Oscar night—”
“I think you’re making my point for me, Chief.”
“Look, why don’t you do yourself and everyone else a big favor and suck it up, Lieutenant. Request denied. Now we’re done.”
I felt like a little kid as I picked myself up and left Tracchio’s office. I was humiliated and mad enough to quit — but I was too smart to do it. Everything the man had said was right. But I was right, too.
Recruit and train?
Learn to supervise?
None of that had anything to do with why I’d become a cop.
I wanted to be back on the streets of San Francisco.
Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman
Chapter 28
CINDY THOMAS SAT on the back bench of courtroom 4A of the Civic Center Courthouse, squeezed between a reporter from the Modesto Bee and a stringer for the LA Times. She felt keyed-up, focused, and very, very possessive. This was her town, her story.
Her laptop was warm on her knees, and Cindy tapped at the keyboard, making notes as Maureen O’Mara’s first witness was sworn in.
“Good morning, Mr. Friedlander,” O’Mara said. The lawyer’s long auburn hair glowed against the flat blue wool of her suit. She wore a white blouse with a plain collar and a simple gold watch on the wrist of her ring-free left hand.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how old are you?” O’Mara asked her witness.
“I’m forty-four.”
Cindy was surprised. With his creased face and graying hair, she would have put Stephen Friedlander’s age at closer to sixty.
“Can you tell the Court about the night of July twenty-fifth?” O’Mara asked.
“Yes,” Friedlander said. He cleared his throat. “My son, Josh, had a grand mal seizure.”
“And how old was Josh?”
“He was seventeen. He would have been eighteen this month.”
“And when you got to the hospital, did you see your son?”
“Yes. He was still in the emergency room. Dr. Dennis Garza brought me to see him.”
“Was Josh conscious?”
Friedlander shook his head. “No.”
This prompted O’Mara to ask him to speak up for the court reporter.
“No,” he said, much louder this time. “But Dr. Garza had examined him. He told me that Josh would be back at school in a day or two, that he’d be as good as new.”
“Did you see Josh after that visit to the emergency room?” O’Mara asked.
“Yes, I saw him the next day,” Friedlander said, a smile flitting briefly across his face. “He and his girlfriend were joking with the fellow in the other bed, and I was struck by that because there was kind of a party atmosphere in the room. The other boy’s name was David Lewis.”
O’Mara smiled, too, then assumed a more sober expression when she spoke again.
“And how was Josh when you got to see him the next morning?”
“They let me see my son’s body the next morning,” Friedlander said, his voice breaking. He reached forward, clasping the rail of the witness box with his hands, the chair legs scraping the floor.
He turned his hopelessly sad and questioning eyes to the jury, and then to the judge. Tears sheeted down his furrowed cheeks.
“He was gone just like that. His body was cold to my touch. My good boy was dead.”
O’Mara put her hand on her witness’s arm to steady him. It was a moving gesture and seemed quite genuine.
“Do you need to take a moment?” she asked Friedlander, handing him a box of tissues.
“I’m all right,” he said. He cleared his throat again, dabbed at his eyes. Then he sipped from the water glass.
“I’m fine.”
O’Mara nodded, then asked him, “Were you given an explanation for Josh’s sudden death?”
“They said that his blood sugar bottomed out, and I wanted to know why. Dr. Garza said that he was mystified,” the witness said, stiffening his lips around the word, trying to control the quiver in his voice.
“I was mystified, too,” Friedlander continued. “Josh had been stabilized the day before. He’d eaten a couple of meals. Went to the bathroom without help. Then, overnight, right there in the hospital, he went into a coma and died! It made no sense.”
“Did the hospital do an autopsy on Josh?” O’Mara asked.
“I demanded it,” Friedlander said. “The whole thing was fishy—”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Kramer bellowed from his seat. “We all sympathize with the witness, but please instruct him to simply answer the questions.”
The judge nodded, then addressed the witness. “Mr. Friedlander, just tell us what happened, please.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”
O’Mara smiled encouragingly at her witness. “Mr. Friedlander, were you ever given the results of the autopsy?”
“Eventually, I was.”
“And what were you told?” Maureen asked.
Friedlander exploded, his face turning the brightest red. “They said that Josh’s blood was loaded with insulin! I was told that it was injected into his IV bag sometime during the night. That Josh got that insulin by mistake. And that’s what killed him. A mistake by the hospital.”
O’Mara stole a look at the stricken faces of the jurors before asking, “I’m sorry to have to ask, Mr. Friedlander, but how did you feel when you learned about that mistake?”
“How did I feel?” Friedlander asked. “I felt like my heart had been cut out of my chest with a spoon. . . .”
“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Friedlander.”
“Josh was our only child. . . . We never expected to be in the world without him. . . . The pain never stops. . . .”
“Thank you, Mr. Friedlander. I’m sorry to have put you through this. You did just fine. Your witness,” O’Mara said, and motioned to Kramer.
The witness snatched several tissues from the box in front of him. He held them up to his face as hoarse sobs racked his body.
Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman
Chapter 29
LAWRENCE KRAMER STOOD and slowly buttoned his jacket, giving the witness a moment to pull himself together, thinking that the man’s son was in the ground, for God’s sake. Now all he had to do was neutralize his awful testimony — without antagonizing the jury — and, if possible, turn Stephen Friedlander into a witness for the defense.
Kramer walked to the witness box and greeted Mr. Friedlander in a kindly manner, almost as if he knew the man, as if he were a friend of the family.
“Mr. Friedlander,” Kramer said, “let me first express my condolences on the tragic loss of your son.”
“Thank you.”
“I want to clear up a few things, but I promise to keep this as short as I possibly can. Now, you mentioned that you met David Lewis, the young man who was sharing your son’s room when you visited Josh on July twenty-sixth.”
“Yes. I met him the one time. He was a very nice boy.”
“Did you know that David has diabetes?”
“I think I knew that. Yes.”
“Mr. Friedlander, do you know the number of the bed your son occupied in his hospital room?”
Friedlander had been leaning forward in his chair, but now he sat back.
“Number? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, the hospital refers to the bed closest to the window as ‘bed one,’ and the bed closest to the door is ‘bed two.’ Do you remember which bed Josh occupied?”
“Okay. He would have been in bed one. He was by the window.”
“Do you know why hospital beds are numbered?” Kramer asked.
“I don’t have any idea,” said the witness, his tone edgy, getting irritated.
“The beds are numbered because the nurses dispense medication according to the room and bed number,” Kramer explained. He went on. “By the way, do you recall if you ordered a special television package for Josh?”
“No, he was only supposed to be there for the one day. What’s your point?”
“My point,” Kramer said, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. “My point is that David Lewis checked out of the hospital after lunch on the day you saw him there.
“Your son, Josh, expired in bed number two that night. Josh was in David’s bed when he died, Mr. Friedlander.”
“What are you saying?” Friedlander asked, his eyebrows flying up, his mouth twisting with anger. “What the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“Let me say this in a different way,” Kramer said, showing the jurors with his body language and his phrasing, I’m doing my job. But I mean this man no harm.
“Do you know why your son was found in bed number two?”
“No idea.”
“Well, it was because of the TV. Josh got out of his bed by the window, pulled his mobile IV pole over to bed number two so he could watch the movie channels — let’s see. . . .” Kramer referred to his notes.
“He ordered a movie on Showtime.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I am aware of that,” Kramer said, his voice compassionate, even fatherly, thinking, knowing, that the witness wasn’t getting it. He still didn’t have a clue what had happened to his son and why he had died.
“Mr. Friedlander, you have to understand. Josh did get David Lewis’s insulin by mistake. The paperwork on David Lewis’s discharge hadn’t yet caught up with the nurse’s orders. That can happen in a hospital the size of Municipal. But let me ask you this. Wouldn’t any fair-minded person understand how the nurse didn’t catch this error?
“David and Josh were about the same age. The nurse brought insulin for the sleeping patient in bed number two and injected it into the IV bag beside that bed. If Josh had stayed in his own bed . . .”
Kramer turned as an anguished howl rose from the gallery. A middle-aged woman stood, dark clothing hanging from her frail body, wailing, “Noo,” as she clutched at her face.
Friedlander reached out a hand to her from the witness box: “Eleanor! Eleanor, don’t listen to this. He’s lying! It wasn’t Joshie’s fault. . . .”
Lawrence Kramer ignored the roar of voices in the courtroom, the repeated crack of the gavel. He dipped his head respectfully.
“We’re very sorry, Mr. Friedlander,” he said. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman
Chapter 30
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER 8:00 P.M. as I grunted my way up Potrero Hill on the return leg of my nightly run.
I obsessed as I ran, the long blur of the investigation repeating itself in my mind — seeing the cops in my office all day, running their cases, me advising, giving orders, treading paper, going after warrants, settling disputes, hating the stress of the whole sorry business.
On most nights, the rhythmic slapping of my rubber soles on pavement had a calming effect, but it wasn’t happening tonight.
And for this I blamed Chief Tracchio.
His lecture, or whatever it was, had gotten to me.
As I pushed forward into a cold wall of wind, I second-guessed every decision I’d made so far on the Caddy Girl case, worried that I was letting everyone down, including myself.
Martha was oblivious to my problems. She loped blithely ahead of me, often doubling back to bark at my feet, which is what border collies are born to do.
I panted, “Cut it out, Boo,” but I couldn’t stop my dog from dogging me. I was a lagging lamb, and she was my shepherd.
Twenty minutes later, I was home sweet home, showered, and smelling of chamomile shampoo.
I stepped into my favorite blue flannel pj’s, put the Reverend Al Green on the CD player, and cracked open a beer. I took a long, frosty slug from the amber bottle of Anchor Steam. Yum.
My favorite one-pot pasta meal was simmering on the stove, and I was starting to feel seminormal for the first time that day when the doorbell rang.
Damn.
I shouted, “Whoo-izit?” into the intercom, and a friendly voice shouted back.
“Lindseeee, it’s meeeeeee. May I please come up?”
I buzzed Yuki in, and as she made the climb, I set the table for two and took out glasses for the beer.
A minute later, Yuki blew into my apartment huffing and blowing like a small storm.
“Ooh, I like that,” I said, examining her platinum-streaked forelock. It had been magenta a few days ago.
“That’s two yes votes,” she said, throwing herself into an armchair. “My mom said, ‘That hair make you look like air hostess.’” Yuki laughed. “Hey, that’s her one unrealized dream. So, what smells so good, Lindsay?”
“It’s pot-au-feu, Boxer-style,” I said. “Don’t argue. I’ve made plenty for two.”
“Argue? You obviously don’t know how carefully I timed this impromptu drop-in.”
I laughed; we clinked glass mugs and said, “Cheers, dears” in unison. And then I dished up the meal. I almost told Yuki what had been bothering me, but I couldn’t find a trace of funk to whine about.
Over Edy’s heavenly chocolate chip ice cream and brewed decaf, Yuki brought me up to date on her mother’s condition.
“Her doctors were concerned because she’s really young to get a TIA,” Yuki told me. “But now she’s passed a whole battery of tests, and they’ve moved her out of the ICU into a private room!”
“So when are you bringing her home?”
“Tomorrow morning. Right after her personal savior, Dr. Pierce, checks her out. Then I’m going to take her for a weeklong cruise on this monster ship, the Pacific Princess.
“I know, I know, it sounds corny,” Yuki said, hands in constant motion as she talked, “but a floating hotel with a casino and a spa is just what the doctor ordered. And frankly, I need the time off, too.”
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