Authors: Barbara Delinsky
two
ON HIS WAY IN FROM SPRINGFIELD, J.D. WAS
stopped for speeding. The cop said he was going eighty-five, and in other circumstances he would have argued. He was a lawyer. He knew the score. Radar guns were unreliable as hell. If he could talk the cop down to seventy-five, an appeal of the ticket would do the rest. This time, though, he simply passed over his license and registration and said, "I was in the middle of negotiations when I got a call that my son was hit by a car. They say he's unconscious, but that's all I know. He's thirteen."
"Thirteen?" The officer frowned. "That's rough." "My wife and best friend are at the hospital. I've been trying to reach them, but they're somewhere between the emergency room and intensive care. I can't even get a doctor on the line. They won't take my calls."
"Be grateful, if they're working on your son." "But I can't get any news," J.D. complained. "It's the not knowing that's so bad. I'm imagining the worst. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about driving." The officer handed back his license and registration. "You have a better excuse than most. I won't hold you up giving you a ticket, but watch it, will you? Especially if you're using that phone. It won't do your son any good if you kill yourself on the turnpike." J.D. kept his speed down to seventy-five the rest of the way. When he wasn't badgering the hospital to put him through to someone in the know, he was talking with his secretary, with Vicki Cornell about Sam's case, with the public relations person he often used. Dunn v. Hanover was a milestone. The publicity would be great for the firm. His father would be eating crow, and what satisfaction there was in that. John Stewart had fought against taking Sam into the firm. He had thought Sam lacked the connections, and the social standing, to have much of a practice. But J.D. had been willing to take the chance. For one thing, Sam had distinguished himself in the district attorney's office. For another, he had the drive to succeed. For still another, he was married to Annie, who was Teke's best friend. Mostly, though, J.D. had wanted Sam in the firm because they were best friends themselves. Sam kept him human, social, and loose.
J.D. was grateful that Sam was at the hospital with Teke. He trusted his judgment. If there were decisions to be made, Sam would guide Teke to the best one. And she would need guiding. Her wits were probably scattered all over the place by now. She didn't have the poise in a pinch that J.D. did. She didn't have the breeding for that. She was strictly small-town, backwoods that way.
It wouldn't occur to her to call him in his car with news to ease his worry.
As it happened, there was precious little news to ease anyone's worry. J.D. arrived at the hospital to find that Michael's outer injuries had been treated,
that he was hooked up to a respirator, that the doctors were doing tests, but that the results were inconclusive. No one knew much of anything, which bothered J.D. no end.
"No prognosis?" he asked Teke, who was standing alone at Michael's window, looking shaken and meek.
"It's too early."
"Doctors always have prognoses," he argued.
"Not with head injuries."
"Is there brain damage?"
"They don't know yet."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. They just say they don't."
He knew she was upset, but hell, so was he. Michael was his son, too. She should have been on top of the doctors. But Teke wasn't forceful that way. She was a good cook, a good housekeeper, a good shopper. She presented herself well and staged impressive dinner parties. She made unusual Halloween costumes, could tutor the kids, coach Little League, run school auctions that raised thousands of dollars for arts programs. At times of personal crisis, though, she fell apart.
Annie was good for her at those times. Annie steadied her, set her back on track.
Intent on sending Annie to her now, J.D. strode down the hall to the waiting room. But Annie was occupied with Jonathan and Leigh. So J.D. gestured Sam into the hall. "What do we know about the man who hit him?"
Sam was subdued. "I just talked with the police. He's a carpenter. He's from out of state and currently unemployed, but his license and registration are in order. He's not being charged." J.D. was incredulous. "But he hit my son."
"Actually," Sam corrected, "Michael hit him." J.D. didn't buy it for a minute. "The guy must have been going too fast."
"Twenty-five, according to the expert who saw the skid marks."
"Then his brakes were faulty."
Sam shook his head. "Not from what the police say."
"What do the local guys know," J.D. muttered. "Their specialty is citing drivers for parking too far from the curb. I'll hire an independent investigator. Your man Mundy. He'll find evidence against an unemployed carpenter."
"Not if there isn't any." Sam looked pained. "Look, J.D." I know you want to find someone to blame. It's the most natural thing in the world. But that guy wasn't it. He was driving within the speed limit. Michael came out of nowhere, hit the front panel of the truck, flew into the air, and bounced off the hood onto the street, and all that time, the guy was slamming on his brakes. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't stoned. He was just there when Michael ran out."
"Are you suggesting it was Michael's fault?"
Sam pushed a hand through his hair and frowned at the floor. With a sigh he faced J.D. again. "All I'm saying is that going after the driver is a waste of energy. The accident happened. There may be dozens of reasons why, but they don't matter. What matters is making sure that Michael has the best possible care. I got Bill Gardner to head the case. He's chief of the department."
"But is he here?" J.D. demanded. "Department chiefs are sometimes too involved in the seminar circuit to give their patients adequate time."
Sam tossed his chin toward Michael's room. A doctor was just emerging.
"That's Bill."
J.D. made straight for him, introduced himself, and launched into his questions. Unfortunately he didn't
learn much more than Teke had. Bill Gardner was a nice enough man, but he could offer little of a concrete nature. As he listened, J.D. took a date book from his jacket's inner pocket to note what Gardner did say, including the names of the doctors on his team. Then he looked in at Michael, who was still surrounded by medical personnel.
"How often can we see him?"
"Whenever you want. I've signed a no limit order. It may help for him to hear familiar voices."
"Then he does hear?"
"Possibly. We don't know for sure."
The vagueness irked J.D. He wanted answers. "When does consciousness most often return in cases like this?"
"Any time."
"Or no time. Is he in a coma?"
Bill Gardner didn't blink. "Technically, yes. I hesitate to use that word around your wife, though. She's frightened enough already." That was Teke's problem. J.D. didn't have the time for hand holding, much less the inclination. Annie would help her. "What can be done to bring Michael around?"
"Not much right now. We have him stabilized. He's breathing. He's getting fluids. We've minimized any pain he might feel. Now we wait."
"For complications?" J.D. asked.
"Or improvement."
"What complications might there be?"
The doctor didn't hesitate. "Pressure on the brain from bleeding. Fluid buildup in the lungs. A blood clot traveling through the system. One of the reasons we're monitoring him so closely is to detect any of those."
"Do you detect brain activity?"
"He's definitely with us, if that's what you're wondering. As for how much of him is, we won't know
that for a while." He looked past J.D. and nodded. "I have a phone call. Will you excuse me?" He was gone before J.D. could ask what "a while" meant, and how long the doctor would be at the hospital, and, when he left, where he could be reached.
Then the rest of the medical personnel filed out of Michael's room, and J.D. felt a swift chill. "Is he all right?"
"He's holding his own," was the answer.
J.D. stared at the pale figure on the bed. He entered the room, feeling unsure and, in that, more unsettled than ever. He and Michael didn't always agree on things, but they had a sound relationship. He normally knew how to act.
The problem was that the Michael lying on the bed didn't seem like his Michael at all. This one was unmoving as his Michael seldom was. This one was colorless, save for a purpling bruise on the side of his face. This one was quiet.
Teke came up on the far side of the bed. Grasping the rail for support, she looked down at Michael.
J.D. felt a stab of anger. Teke was in charge of the kids. She was supposed to keep them from harm. "How did this happen?" he asked in a harsh whisper.
She raised one shoulder and shook her head.
"What was he doing home in the middle of the day?" Her voice wobbled. "He wanted money for a concert."
"So you gave it to him, then let him run into a truck?" She waved a shaky hand.
J.D. wasn't sure what that meant. "You didn't give it to him? He raced back out because you said no and he was angry?"
"I never spoke with him."
"Why not?"
She rubbed Michael's arm.
"He came into the house, Teke. Why didn't you speak to him?"
"He ran back out before I ever saw him."
"Did he change his mind about asking?"
She touched Michael's face. Her voice was higher than normal, and shaky. "Hi, baby. Can you hear me? Can you hear me, Michael? It's Mommy."
J.D. was furious. Someone had to take responsibility for his son being hurt. "They shouldn't have let him leave school."
"They didn't know," Teke said softly. "He stole out with the twins."
"What does our tax money go for, if not to have the schools look out for our children?"
"It was lunchtime."
"Is that supposed to excuse it?"
"The kids mill around during lunch. It's impossible to keep tabs on them all."
"Someone must have seen him run off."
She sighed. "It's not a prison, J.D. There aren't guards posted in watchtowers."
"Of course there aren't," he said, resentful of her sarcasm, "but this is a clear-cut case of negligence. That school was responsible for our child during the time we left him there."
"He broke the rules," she cried. In the next breath she lowered her voice and stroked Michael's cheek. "He's a good boy. If he left school, it was because he felt it was important."
"So now he lies in a hospital bed breathing through a machine."
"Shhhh."
"Doesn't it make you angry?" J.D. asked in frustration.
"I just want Michael to get better," she whispered tearfully. "I think we should concentrate on that."
J.D. studied Michael's face. He wanted the boy to get better, too, but he couldn't be as passive as Teke. Or as forgiving. Accidents didn't happen for no reason. He wanted the driver of the truck punished. And the school.
"J.D.?" Teke prompted in a guarded tone. He glanced up to see her looking past him and turned to find his parents on the far side of the window.
The sight of them made his stomach jump. It had been doing that for forty-one years and was one of those givens, like heartburn from pizza. Forgetting his anger, he joined them in the hall. "I thought you were in New York," he said to his father.
"I took an earlier flight home," John Stewart informed him. "My secretary had the good sense to call. You should have."
"I just got here myself."
"How is he?" Lucy asked. She was impeccably composed and groomed, remarkable given the circumstances --then again not remarkable at all. Her morning activity, seven days a week, was putting herself together for her afternoon and evening activities. By the time she left the house at noon, whether to lunch with a friend, attend meetings of the ladies' committee, or fetch her husband from the airport for a trip to the hospital, she was eminently presentable.
J.D. related what the doctor had said.
"Bill Gardner?" John Stewart asked. He was an inch taller than J.D. and ten pounds heavier, imposing even before one heard his robust voice. "He's not the best man. The best man is Henry Finch. He's at the Mayo Clinic."
J.D. dared state the obvious, albeit in a conversational tone.
"Michael's here, not in Minnesota."
"Fly Finch in."
"That may alienate Gardner."
"But he doesn't know anything. You just said that."
"It's too early to know much."
"Call Henry Finch." It was an order. "Talk with him. His presence as a consultant will keep Gardner on his toes."
Lacking the will to argue, J.D. took out his date book and jotted down the name. He had barely returned it to his pocket when his father said, "Any lawsuits here?"
"Too early, Dad."
"It's never too early to make sure evidence isn't destroyed. Sam ought to know that. I understand he was there when it happened. Why wasn't he at the office?"
"He had driven home to tell Annie about winning the Dunn case. Did you hear?"
"I heard."
"Not bad, huh?" J.D. asked, allowing himself a small smile.
"Not bad."
J.D. would have liked more enthusiasm. Victories over his father were few and far between. But John Stewart wasn't the humble type. He was stern, efficient, and intimidating. That was another reason J.D. liked having Sam in the firm. Sam was a buffer. He could stand up to John Stewart as J.D. couldn't. He could play devil's advocate without worrying that he had insulted John Stewart or let him down or, worse, embarrassed him.
The senior Maxwell glanced from his watch to the nurse's station to Michael. "Why is Theodora the only one in there?" Theodora. John Stewart and Lucy always called her that. It sounded more proper. More upper-crust. It was ironic, J.D. mused, given the spineless way she was acting now.
"The others are in the waiting room," he said.
"Where is Michael's nurse?"
"She's at the central station. The machines monitor his vital functions and relay the information there. That's the whole purpose of intensive care."
"You need a private nurse."
"Not in intensive care, Dad." J.D. felt the distinct urge to flee. It, too, was a familiar feeling where his parents were concerned. "I have to call the office. You go on in and see Michael. I'll be back soon." He left before his father could order him to rent a portable phone. By the time he returned, his parents were gone. Feeling instantly stronger, he went to the foot of Michael's bed. From what he could see, the boy hadn't moved. Nor had Teke. Leigh and Jon were there, Leigh talking softly to Michael.