Natural Causes (20 page)

“Mr. Daniels, I’m Sarah Baldwin,” she said, extending her hand, which felt lost in his.

“Matt,” he said. “Matt’ll do fine.”

She introduced the five to him, but blanked out on Arnold Hayden’s name.

“Well, I’d like to apologize again, and thank you all for coming out on such a night,” Daniels began, after Hayden had somewhat irritably filled in Sarah’s blank. “Our adversary in this case is a lawyer named Jeremy Mallon. I decided to set up this meeting after I spoke with him earlier today. As you’ll hear, he certainly seems intent on moving things along.”

No comment at all on his opponent. Sarah noted the MCB men exchanging glances and had no trouble reading their thoughts. In malpractice circles, according to what she had been told by Glenn Paris, Mallon was something of a legend.

“Mr. Daniels, do you know who Jeremy Mallon is?” asked Arnold Hayden.

Uh-oh
, Sarah thought.
Here we go
.

“Well, actually sir, I don’t.”

“Well, Mr. Daniels,” the attorney went on, clearing his throat, “I—um—I think before we begin, it might help us some if we knew a little of your background in the area of medical malpractice. The hospital hasn’t been sued yet, but there’s every reason to believe we will be if it looks like Sarah’s going to lose—and not just by the Graysons, but by the families of those other women as
well. Even worse, we stand to take a pounding in the press. So I hope you won’t think it presumptuous of me to ask.”

“Not at all, Mr. Hayden,” Daniels said evenly. “Why, you hardly seem like the presumptuous type. Let’s see, the answer to your question is: I’ve only defended one doctor for malpractice. He was a dentist, actually. A woman claimed her headaches were caused by his pulling out an extra molar and messing up her bite. For what it’s worth, we did go to trial, and I did win the case.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Hayden said not kindly. “Do you have any idea how the MMPO came to choose you for this case?”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve kind of wondered some about that myself, although I’m very pleased they did. I’ve been on their roll of available attorneys for a couple of years now, and this is the first time they’ve sent me a case.”

“Well, that’s great, just great!” Paris erupted. “Mr. Daniels, I don’t mean to sound rude, but you must understand that there is a great deal at stake here. Your adversary, as you call Jeremy Mallon, is totally dedicated to bringing this hospital to its knees. And he is damn good at what he does, which in the main is to sue doctors. Don’t you think we ought to call the MMPO and have them assign some other firm to the case?”

Sarah studied Daniels as he thought over the question. If he was disturbed by the two-pronged attack from Hayden and now Paris, it did not show in his face, which at that moment reminded her of Fess Parker as Davy Crockett, debating whether or not to stay on and defend the Alamo. His expression was severe enough, but there was a spark in his azure eyes—a defiance—that Sarah felt certain only she was appreciating.

“Well,” he said finally, “for any number of reasons, I’d sure hate to see that happen. But since you’ve brought it up, I guess we ought to consider it.”

“Good,” Paris said.

“However,” Matt went on, “there are a couple of points I’d like to make. For one, Dr. Baldwin here is my client. Whether I stay or go is really up to her. For another, since speaking with her the other day, I’ve done some reading and some talking to people. Mallon or no Mallon, I think I can do a good job representing her.”

“How can you say that, with almost no experience in this area?” Hayden demanded.

“Because the law’s the law, Mr. Hayden. And I’m still just naive enough to equate the legal process with getting at the truth. And getting at the truth is something I always liked doing.”

Glenn Paris turned to Sarah. “Sarah, it is our opinion that you can get better counsel and a better defense from someone more, how should I say, experienced than Mr. Daniels here. But he is right. You are his client. And it is for you to decide.”

Sarah looked over at Daniels, who held her gaze coolly.
Bring on Santa Ana, Mr. Travis. I ain’t plannin’ on goin’ nowhere
.

“Well, Mr. Paris,” she said, “provided my job isn’t on the line over this, I guess I feel that if Mr. Daniels handles himself in court the way he has here, I’m in pretty good hands. Mr. Daniels—Matt—I’m sure that if you needed to involve Mr. Hayden or any of the other MCB lawyers, you’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

“Anytime.”

“In that case, Mr. Paris,” Sarah said, “I’m comfortable being represented by this man.”

“Good Lord,” Eli Blankenship suddenly exclaimed, “I think I just figured out who our Mr. Daniels is. Let’s see if I get this right, Matt. Bottom of the ninth, no outs, bases loaded, three and nothing on the Toronto batter—”

“Yes, yes,” Matt said, a bit impatiently, “that
was
me. Thank you for remembering. But that’s ancient history now.”

“Remembering what?” Sarah asked.

“Nine pitches, nine strikes, three outs, ball game over,” Blankenship went on. “One of the greatest short relief performances ever. I thought the name sounded familiar when I first heard it.”

“I’m sure the ‘Matt’ part threw you off,” Daniels said more kindly. “Not many remember that I actually had a real first name.”

“Hey, do I get clued in here? I
am
the defendant.”

“I’m afraid I’m in the dark, too,” Paris chimed in.

“Black Cat Daniels,” Blankenship explained. “Ten years as a relief pitcher for the Red Sox.”

“Actually twelve,” Daniels said. “Now, if you all wouldn’t mind getting back to the business at—”

“Why Black Cat?” Paris asked.

Daniels sighed.

“Dr. Baldwin—Sarah—I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I would imagine that what you’re going through is not pleasant, and is probably more than a little scary for you. Having to sit there while my qualifications get called into question, and now all this baseball talk, certainly can’t be helping.”

“I’m fine, actually,” Sarah said. “Besides, I want to know, too.”

“Okay. Mr. Paris, my nickname came from my having a fair number of superstitions back when I played the game.”

“Always stepped on first base coming into a game,” Blankenship said. “Never sat down in the bullpen. Never pitched without a piece of red ribbon tied around his belt.”

“Blue,” Matt corrected. “You know your baseball.”

“Yes, of course, it was blue. Are you still like that? Superstitious, I mean.”

“I—um—still have an interest in ritual and luck if that’s what you’re asking. But trust me, Dr. Blankenship, it doesn’t get in the way. When I’m in the courtroom, I keep that ribbon tied on my belt in the back where my suit coat hides it. Now, I think maybe we
ought to get down to business. As Mr. Paris so eloquently put it, we have a lot at stake here. And unfortunately, it seems that our esteemed adversary has gotten a bit of a jump on us.”

“What do you mean?” Paris asked.

Daniels took some notes from his briefcase. “Sarah, the man who provides you with your herbs and roots, his name is Mr. Kwong?”

“That’s right. Kwong Tian-Wen.”

“Well, this afternoon Mr. Mallon obtained an
ex parte
discovery order to seal off Mr. Kwong’s shop. At eight tomorrow morning he’ll be there with a chemist, someone from the sheriff’s office, and God only knows who else. He plans to get samples from the place and follow chain-of-evidence procedures to have those samples analyzed.”

“Can’t you do something about that?” Paris asked.

“I’ll defer to Mr. Hayden to answer that question, sir.”

“Not at this point, Glenn,” Hayden said. “It’s just a case of being outmaneuvered. Dr. Baldwin, do you have any idea how Mallon could have gotten the name of this man so quickly?”

“A couple of possibilities come to mind,” she said.

“And?” Paris asked.

“I think I ought to do some checking before throwing out any names. Besides, I have implicit faith in Mr. Kwong. He is one of the very best at what he does. The sooner Mallon gets this thing done, the sooner he’ll learn that he doesn’t have a case.”

“I think someone from the hospital should be there,” Daniels said. “We’ll be meeting tomorrow morning at this address.” He slid the court order over to Hayden.

“Can’t do it,” the lawyer said. “I’ll be in court.”

“Eli, how about you?” Paris asked. “You’d be a perfect representative.”

“I think I can be there,” Blankenship said.

“Perfect. Extra dessert for you, Eli. We must hope
Sarah is right about all this, Daniels. But do you see what we mean about Mallon? He has handled dozens—probably hundreds—of malpractice cases. He’s got a huge staff, and he won’t leave any stone unturned.”

“He doesn’t seem like someone you can just hook and reel in,” Daniels acknowledged. “I’ll give you that.”

“Perhaps,” Hayden offered, “you can involve your partners in this case. Do either Mr. Hannigan or Mr. Goldstein have any expertise in this arena?”

Damn
, Sarah thought.
Are they ever going to let up?

“Actually,” Daniels said, “I’m glad you mentioned that.”

“Then they
do
have some malpractice experience,” Hayden said. “That’s excellent. Collaboration is the key in this business.”

“Well, sir, not exactly. You see, Billy Hannigan never did like being a lawyer, but his wife wouldn’t let him quit. Then last year, after she ran away with another attorney, he just took off. Last I heard he was working as a disc jockey on a radio station in Lake Placid.”

“And Goldstein?”

Daniels rubbed at his chin and then sighed.

“Well,” he said, “the truth is, Goldstein was someone Billy made up. Before I joined him, he was in solo practice, but he called his firm Hannigan and Goldstein. Something about Billy’s wanting to attract Jewish clients. I just got around to having new stationery printed up with only my name, but I keep forgetting to have our little yellow pages ad changed.”

“This is highly irregular,” Hayden blustered.
“Highly
irregular.”

“Sarah,” Paris said, “I think this deception allows you to reconsider your decision.”

“Mr. Paris, deception seems a bit strong a word,” she countered. “Clearly, there’s been no attempt to hide the truth. I think we’ll do just fine with Mr. Daniels, even without Mr. Goldstein.”

“Much appreciated,” Matt Daniels said. “Now, if we’re all in the same corner, I think we ought to start putting together our case. Tomorrow morning at eight, round one begins. So let’s have at it.”

“Highly irregular,” Sarah heard someone mutter.

E
XCEPT FOR THE NIGHT CLERK
, R
OSA
S
UAREZ WAS
alone in the medical record room. It was nearing ten-thirty and she had not eaten since noon. Her back and neck ached from hunching over her work table. But in some ways, the discomfort was pleasurable. It had been over two years since she had put in these kinds of hours on a project, two years since she felt challenged.

The initial phase of her investigation would be done tonight, and both Alberto and her department head were anxiously awaiting her return to Atlanta. Neither stood to be very pleased with what she had to tell them. As yet she had no explanation for the bizarre DIC cases. However, two things were clear. From a purely statistical standpoint, there was virtually no possibility that the three cases were coincidental. And almost as certainly, unless the underlying cause of the tragedies was determined and dealt with, there would be more.

There were several integrations and many combinations she needed to run through the data banks at the CDC, and some preliminary culture results to be checked. Then, in all likelihood, it would be back to
Boston. To date, she had unearthed dozens of demographic and physical commonalities among the three stricken women—some quite possibly significant, some too obscure to take seriously. Their blood types were all A positive and their primary residences within three miles of the hospital. All had been associated as patients with the Medical Center of Boston for at least four years, and each had been pregnant once before. On the more obscure side of the ledger, all were born in April, although in different years; all were firstborn; and none had been educated past high school. In addition, all were right-handed and brown-eyed.

There were still more data to be gathered, but by far the most persistently troublesome aspect of her research to this point was the prenatal supplements given each woman by Sarah Baldwin. A botanist at the Smithsonian and a friend on the faculty of Emory University had provided some preliminary data on the nine components. But much more detailed biochemical information was needed. Rosa’s instincts were telling her that although the components of the mix might serve as some sort of cofactor in a lethal biological reaction, they were, in and of themselves, harmless. But the tools of her trade were numbers and probabilities, not instincts.

“Excuse me, Ramona,” she called out to the night clerk whose desk was on the other side of a broad bank of files. “I just want to be sure there are no more records in the group we’re working on.”

“Seven years of women who delivered here and required transfusions during or after their deliveries—you’ve gotten them all. Mrs. Suarez, do you know that since you came to MCB you’ve spent more time down here than the whole medical staff combined?”

“I’ll bet I have. Well, this will be my last night for a while. Tomorrow I’m heading back to—”

Rosa stopped in midsentence and stared down at the chart in front of her. It belonged to Alethea Worthington, the second of the DIC cases. She had dissected the
record word by word, just as she had the records of Constanza Hidalgo and Lisa Summer. What caught her eye at this moment, though, wasn’t something
on
the page, but
between
it and the previous one. She picked up the chart and stared at it from several angles.

“Mrs. Suarez, is everything all right?” the clerk called out.

“Oh. Yes. Everything’s fine, dear. Ramona, would you happen to have a pocket knife or a nail file?”