Monday late night, June 14, North Stamford

Jake

I cover Jess’s hand with mine and thank her for coming.

It’s almost midnight and we’re back at home, sitting around the kitchen table; in a few minutes, the second-to-worst day in my life will be over. Unfortunately, tomorrow promises to be no better. As predicted by Doctor Roberts, I have an early date with Greenwich PD. In what must be a new record, Roland Clark has already served me with his intent to sue. And just to rub salt in my wounds, Nina Greenbeck called a few hours ago to let me know I’ve been suspended from the practice, pending results of the ME’s investigation.

"You must be exhausted," I say, fighting off a yawn.

Jess shakes her head. “Actually, I’m pretty wired. We still have tons of work to do.”

She glances down at her notes, eyes sparking with indignation. “I’ll tell you one thing, Jake. Those bastards aren’t going to get away with this.”

“But the criminal investigation –”

“Is total bullshit. The husband’s just trying to intimidate you, but listen to me…” Her eyes lock with mine. “You’ve done nothing wrong. That’s the bottom line.  No amount of fancy legal footwork can change that fact. Of course, Slick Al and those Pulsar assholes would love to pin this all on you, but that’s not going to happen. Remember, it’s their drug that killed your patient.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

She gives me a knowing look. “Trust me, when the press runs with this story, they’ll be going after the big, evil drug company. Oh, Pulsar will try to spin it a different way, but they don’t stand a chance. I mean, think about it: Which headline carries more drama? ‘Doctor’s mistake kills patient’ or ‘Hot new cosmetic drug kills patient?’ If you were a New York Post editor, what would you run with?”

Jess’s smile widens as she considers the possibilities. “Just let them try to pin this on you. We’ll cry ‘Cover up!’ and sink the whole damn company.”

I remember our first conversation, when I said I’d hate to be up against Jess in front of a jury.  I think of all the important cases she’s litigated over the past decade, of her well-earned reputation for being a hard-nosed crusader for the environment. It’s a side of Jess she’s chosen to leave at the workplace, but I’m catching a full glimpse of it now.

She almost seems to be enjoying this.

We spend the next half hour rehashing Jean Clark’s treatment, with Jess interrupting from time to time to clarify certain details.

“So you’re sure Erin prepared the Replacidin vial?” she asks after reviewing her notes. “You said the solution was pre-mixed before you entered the room. Is that usual?”

I shrug. “She does that sometimes, to save time.”

“But have you asked her if she mixed it this time?”

“I left her a message tonight, but she hasn’t returned my call.”

“And you trust her? I mean, has she ever done anything you’d consider suspicious or…” Jess frowns, fishing for the right word. “Unstable?”

“Erin? No way. She’s as reliable as they come. An incredible nurse.” I think of how well she performed this morning, assisting me every step of the way. “Really, I’d trust her with my life.”

“But how well do you know her? Didn’t she just join Greenbeck Derm a month ago?”

I shake my head, realizing where she’s going. Nursing, like law enforcement, is a noble profession that sometimes attracts crazies. Just a few months ago, a pediatric nurse in Boston was hailed as a hero for resuscitating one of her patients… until further investigation revealed she’d caused the crisis by injecting the kid with the paralytic drug succinylcholine.

“There’s no chance she caused this. I could see it in her eyes, Jess. She was every bit as terrified as me.”

“Okay then,” Jess concedes, rubbing her eyes. “So then what does that leave us with? Essentially, there are three possibilities. The most likely scenario is that Jean Clark died from natural causes, triggered by the procedure.”

“You mean anaphylaxis or an MI.”

“If by that you mean an allergic reaction or heart attack…” Jess flashes me a tired smile, reminding me of how much she loves medical jargon. “Then right. Then there’s possibility two: the drug itself killed her. And possibility three?”

I take her cue. “The Replacidin was contaminated.”

“Exactly. That’s the most far-fetched scenario, but it’s also the scariest.”

I shake my head. “But no one had any motive to kill Jean Clark.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I wince, picturing Roy Caulder’s creepy smile. Over the past few hours, I’ve convinced myself that he couldn’t have been involved in my patient’s death, that the idea he tampered with her study drug was just too far-fetched. Now, I’m torn over whether or not I should mention Caulder to Jess.

She leans forward in her chair, sensing my troubled thoughts. “Tell me. Now’s not the time to hold back any details.”

“Well…” I exhale slowly. “I did have an uncomfortable encounter with a patient a few minutes before seeing Mrs. Clark.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“His name’s Roy Caulder. He’s a high-power investment banker who came in to get Botox for excessive sweating. Real pushy, aggressive type. He pretty much forced his way onto my schedule.”

“So?”

“I don’t think he was… happy with me.”

Understatement of the year.

Jess shrugs. “I know I asked for every detail, Jake, but I don’t see how this one is relevant.”

 “It’s hard to explain,” I admit, thinking: Of course you wouldn’t. Not without me telling you I slept with his wife. “It’s just that he was still there in the waiting room, more than half an hour after his procedure. Why didn’t he go back to work? And you should’ve seen the way he watched as the paramedics ran the code. He had this expression on his face… like he was enjoying the show.”

Jess eyes me skeptically. “So let me get this straight: You’re suggesting that a patient tampered with your study drug. That he introduced some sort of toxin, just to settle a grudge with you?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but maybe if I told those detectives –”

“No way.” Jess cuts me off firmly. “Really bad idea. Cops view all witnesses as suspects until proven otherwise. If you throw out a wild story like that, they’ll only assume you’re trying to hide something.”

“But what if Caulder really did poison my patient?”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

I can feel her weighing the possibility, even as she slowly shakes her head. “Listen, Jake, he sounds like a jerk. I’ll give you that. But where’s the motive? Why would a successful businessman kill a total stranger?”

“Maybe,” I suggest softly, “he saw this as a way to get even with me.”

“Even for what?”

“I –” I stammer, feeling my cheeks flush. “I don’t know. Some perceived insult? This guy’s psychotic. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something crazy.”

“Yeah, but you’re talking about pre-meditated murder. I could see him filing a frivolous lawsuit, but poisoning someone he doesn’t even know?” Jess frowns. “It’s just not plausible.”

Not without a strong enough motive, I think, before asking where that leaves us.

Jess scans her notes. “You’ll go to the meeting with those Greenwich cops tomorrow, but not alone. Until we can retain someone who specializes in malpractice defense, I’ll have to fill in. That is…” She smiles cutely. “If you’ll take me. My rates are pretty reasonable.”

“But do you have the time for this?”

“For now?” She shrugs. “I’ll make the time. Tomorrow morning, I’ll touch base with Dad to fill him in on the details. Together with his partners, we’ll pull together the kind of legal team that will keep Chuck Schlager up at night.”

“You know him?” I ask in surprise.

Jess laughs. “You mean as in Clark and Schlager, the ‘cockroach twins’ of personal injury law? Sure. You can’t ride the New York City subway without seeing their ads. No need to worry about them, though. Slick Al was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“They probably won’t waste much time going after you. Pulsar’s a way juicier target.”

She grins, so innocent in her optimism that it tears at my heart, and I can’t help but wonder how she’ll be feeling one short week from now.

Hours later, I awaken next to Jess for the first time in months. Nestled beneath the sheets, I brush my foot against hers. Tentatively. Expecting her to pull away. Surprised when instead, she curls up against me, like a kitten seeking warmth. It’s such a familiar early morning gesture that I wonder if she’s still half-asleep, simply acting out of habit.

But then she murmurs, “I really missed this.”

The words sound sleepy and wistful, as if spoken in a dream, but that doesn’t lessen their meaning.

“Yeah. Me too.” I reach out to take her hand, still not quite sure whether or not this moment is real. “Thanks for coming back. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”

“But what about…” My voice catches as I remember her words from a few days ago. The steely delivery. The harsh finality of her message. “What about Boston? I thought you said –”

She cuts me off by squeezing my hand. “I know what I said, Jake.”

“But did you mean it?”

“Some of it.” She exhales slowly into the pillow. “Yes. It’s true we might not make it.”

“But there’s still a chance?”

“With us?” Jess turns to face me, hair spilling over her eyes so I can’t read her expression, but I imagine it to be hopeful, the same look I saw so many years ago when she was an undergrad stepping out of that library elevator. “There’s always going to be a chance.”

She says this with such a childlike note of confidence that I’m gripped by the urge to tell her everything, to purge my soul. But then what?

I picture her initial shocked expression. Eyes constricted with pain, then widening with anger and disgust as the full extent of my betrayal sets in.  I flinch, remembering how it felt to be on the receiving end of that kind of bitter revelation.

It was just after New Years’ and we were lying in bed, much as we are now, except Jess was sharing her late night confession. How she’d had a few celebratory drinks with a work colleague, then gone back to his apartment to discuss the settlement terms of their case.  I can almost hear her recounting the story in between sobs, describing how their conversation had drifted to more personal topics as the evening turned into night. How his hand eventually found its way onto her crossed leg, then under the hem of her dress. How she didn’t pull away from his groping fingers and lips at first, how she even went along until it became clear where things were headed.

But then she stopped.

And I didn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “For everything.” So softly that Jess either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to react. Instead, she lets me wrap my arms around her and we stay together like that, holding each other in silence, neither one of us yet prepared to face the daylight now streaming through the bedroom window.

*

“Well –” Jess nudges my arm. “All things considered, I’d say that went pretty well.”

We’re walking through the sunny atrium of the Greenwich Public Safety Complex, finished with our meeting with Detectives Mackey and Popov less than an hour after arriving. As Jess had predicted, the cops seemed more interested in pumping me for free medical advice than conducting any criminal investigation. As Mackey put it as soon as we entered his office: “The way we see it, there’s no crime here. We’re just gonna let the ME do her job.”

“A good start,” I agree, thinking it helped that Charles Schlager hadn’t been invited. “So where does that leave us?”

“For now?” She stops at the curb to glance at her Movado. “You should put in a call to the ME. From your description, she sounds like a fair player. Hopefully, she’ll have some encouraging news by now.”

“And you? What about work?”

She pats her laptop. “Show me a Starbucks with WiFi and I’ll be set.”

“Yeah, but what about Em? Shouldn’t you get back before she starts to worry?”

Jess agrees this is probably the best idea, but then surprises me by asking if I want to join them.

“Just to get away from here,” she suggests. “For a couple of days at least.”

“But aren’t I supposed to stay in the state?” I motion over my shoulder. “In case the cops come looking for me.”

“I don’t see why. We gave them your contact info. It’s not like you’re a fugitive, and besides…” She smiles before telling me the one thing I needed to hear more than anything else in the world: “The kids really miss you.”

As we approach the parking garage, hand in hand, Jess pauses in front of a newsstand. Something has caught her attention.

“What’s up?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she turns to me with a proud grin and hands me a copy of today’s Post, front page blaring:

EXPERIMENTAL BEAUTY DRUG KILLS GREENWICH WOMAN

Almost exactly the headline she’d predicted.

I skim through the first few paragraphs, noting in amazement that my name doesn’t even appear until the middle of the article, right after Greenbeck’s. I’m like a footnote.

As I continue reading, Jess picks up the Wall Street Journal.

“So,” she says with a sly grin. “Care to guess what happened to Pulsar’s stock in after-hours trading last night?”

“It’s already down?”

Her grin widens. “More like tanked. I’d say Pulsar’s bubble just burst, big time.”

After Jess has driven away, I check my cell, cursing when I see I have over a hundred new messages. Apparently, someone in the office leaked my number to the press. I’ll have to wade through all these calls to see if there’s anything from Doctor Roberts or Erin.

But there’s one saved message I don’t need to find, because I remember it, word for word. I replay Kristy’s message in my mind, the one she must have left late last night.

I need to see you.

Perhaps she wants to share some information about her husband. Maybe she knows something.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I dial her number.

*****

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