Natural Causes (35 page)

Arnold Hayden had been with them from the outset of the day. Sarah was pleasantly surprised to realize that her initial impression of the man as being far more legal form than substance was way off base. He had a practical and theoretical acumen that Matt clearly found useful, and a calming manner that helped keep her inside her skin. Now, in combat, his presence and bearing
seemed to add credibility and force to Matt’s examination.

There was also the matter of Hayden’s helping out should Matt’s compromised objectivity become manifest in any way. Unwilling to give up either Sarah or her case, Matt had asked for his assistance with that in mind. And although he had not spelled out to Hayden the extent of his and Sarah’s evolving relationship, she suspected the hospital attorney had some idea.

“Okay, now, Mr. Ettinger,” Matt said, “getting back to the issue at hand. Would you mind telling us your definition of what a healer is?”

For almost an hour and a half, Matt asked, rephrased, and asked again questions designed more to fill in blanks and set tone than to get at any major legal point. The strategy he, Sarah, and Hayden had agreed upon was to try to get Peter to acknowledge that Sarah’s method of prescribing and dispensing herbs was, in fact, no different from his own. Once made, the point would essentially transform Peter into an expert witness
for them
. They would then begin to dissect the connection between Ettinger, the Xanadu Ayurvedic Weight Loss System, and Pramod Singh.

“When I get to that point,” Matt said, “I’m just going to wing it.” He dangled his Egyptian amulet. “I mean, what chance does he have against two thousand years of black magic?”

At the ninety-minute mark, they took a break, during which Mallon had one of his secretaries serve coffee.

“Hey, Matt, maybe you should switch cups with Jeremy,” Sarah whispered. “There’s no telling what he might have put in yours.”

“Nonsense,” Matt drawled. “He’s about as intimidated by me as a hungry mountain lion would be by the Easter bunny. The last thing he’d want to do at this point is to bump me off. I’m too much fun to play with. But right about now I’m going to start tightening the screws on his expert. The measure of how effective I am
will be how loudly and how often Mallon objects to my questions. Arnold, do you have any suggestions?”

“None, really,” Hayden said. “Except that I think it’s time to pin down some things about this Dr. Singh. So far, I’m impressed by the way you’ve handled matters.”

“Thanks. That’s kind of you to say—especially considering that I haven’t done any damage whatsoever.”

“What you’ve been throwing are body blows,” the older lawyer replied. “No one really pays much attention to them, but they set up the head shots. You’re doing just fine.” He patted Matt encouragingly on the shoulder as the session resumed.

“Okay, Mr. Ettinger,” Matt began, “I’d like to spend some time talking about this Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System of yours.”

“Why?” Mallon asked.

“You’re the one who brought this man in as an expert,” Matt said. “I’m just trying to document his qualifications.”

“Peter, I don’t see where this line of questioning is relevant. If you don’t care to answer the questions, I don’t see any reason why you should.”

“Offhand I can think of two reasons, Mr. Ettinger,” Matt said with calm force. “First of all, if you refuse, I promise you that I’ll be in front of a judge before this day is done, bringing a motion to compel you to answer. And second”—he looked first at Sarah and then at Mallon, before deliberately leveling his gaze again on Peter—
“second
, I have good reason to believe—hell no,
I have proof
—that just as Lisa Grayson took Sarah Baldwin’s herbal preparation before her ill-fated delivery, so did she take your Herbal Weight Loss product as well!”

“But—”

“I said
proof.”

“Wait!” Mallon snapped. “Peter, hold it. Don’t respond. Mr. Daniels, I don’t intend to bite at that worm. But since what you are alleging is news to me, I would
like to speak with Mr. Ettinger in private before we continue.”

“Take your time,” Matt said.

Arnold Hayden turned his face away from Mallon and brought his fist up to the side of his jaw. Matt’s timing and delivery had been perfect. His first head shot had landed squarely.

Sarah watched as her former lover unfolded his reedy six-and-a-half-foot frame. He glanced over at her, his expression pinched and angry. For a moment, it seemed as if he was about to make an obscene gesture.

Grow up
, she mouthed.

She was gratefully uncertain of his reply.

“Okay,” Mallon said upon their return. “Not only do I approve of Mr. Ettinger’s answering this line of questions, I encourage it.” His expression was smug, his manner once again self-assured—too self-assured.

Sarah strained to understand why.

“Mr. Ettinger, how did you first meet Pramod Singh?” Matt went on.

“We had done a series of seminars together some years ago when he was on the staff of the Medical Center of Boston. He told me about a set of ancient Ayurvedic dietary rules and herbs that he had been using on his patients for weight loss with remarkable success.”

“Was Lisa Summer one of those patients?”

“I don’t know.”

“Constanza Hidalgo?”

“I don’t—”

“Stop, Peter!” Mallon snapped. “Mr. Daniels, stick to the issue and the patient at hand.”

“Mr. Ettinger, did Pramod Singh want to market his product to the general public?”

“He did.”

“With you as the spokesman—the figurehead?”

“Among other things.”

“And so you two Ayurvedic entrepreneurs struck up a deal of some sort?”

“Object to the antagonistic form of the question,” Mallon cut in. “Don’t answer it, Peter.”

“Mr. Ettinger, exactly what is in this product of yours?”

“A number of herbs, plants, and roots. Twelve to be exact. Dr. Singh obtains them in India and elsewhere in the Far East, and ships them to me. We have a production facility where the naturally occurring substances are combined with a protein powder to form a combination balanced nutritional replacement and appetite suppressant.”

“But you have no
scientific verification
of the product’s composition, do you?”

Ettinger glanced over at Jeremy Mallon. When he turned back to Matt, he was grinning confidently.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “unlike Dr. Baldwin’s preparation, we have absolute scientific verification—FDA analysis
and
approval of the product. I demanded those before ever allowing the Xanadu name to be used, and we insist upon retesting on an ongoing basis.”

Another head shot. But this time, from the plaintiff’s side of the table. Matt fussed with his notes. Sarah could feel him struggling to maintain composure as he searched carefully for the next question.

“This production and packaging facility,” he asked finally, “is it out there on the grounds of the Xanadu Community?”

“It is.”

“Shipping, too?”

“In a separate building, but yes. Shipping is done at Xanadu also.”

“Mr. Ettinger, just how much money are you two raking in off this powder?”

“Objection!” Mallon cried out. “Peter, don’t answer. Mr. Daniels, the form and content of that question are amateurish—in the baseball terms you might better understand, strictly bush league. Until now I have made a number of allowances for the fact that, aside from a
misplaced molar or whatever, this is your first malpractice case. But I draw the line at questions like this.”

Crimson rushed to Matt’s cheeks. Beneath the table, Sarah patted him gently on the thigh.

“Easy does it,” she whispered.

Matt calmed himself with a slow, deep breath. “Mr. Ettinger, go over briefly what happens at this production plant of yours.”

“It’s quite simple, really,” Ettinger said, as if he were speaking to a third grader. “The raw plants and roots come in, get thoroughly washed, inspected, and sterilized by heat or U.V. light. Next they’re ground or pulverized, proportioned out according to the ancient Ayurvedic menu we’re using, and combined with the commercially prepared protein base. Finally, the mixture is sterilized again and packaged.”

“And then just like that it’s shipped?”

“The final, shipped product includes four months’ worth of powder, a manual on Ayurveda and Ayurvedic dietary principles, and a supply of vitamins.”

“Vitamins?”

Matt visibly perked up at the word.

“Yes.”

“Herbal vitamins? Like Dr. Baldwin’s?”

Again Peter grinned smugly.

“Hardly.” His delivery was pure vinegar. “Dr. Baldwin’s supplements are, well, Dr. Baldwin’s. Ours are pure vitamins—standard, FDA-approved multivitamins, manufactured for us by Huron Pharmaceuticals.”

Matt’s eagerness deflated.

“Pills?” he asked.

“Actually, they’re gelatin capsules. One is dissolved in each daily weight loss shake.”

Jeremy Mallon feigned a yawn.

“Mr. Daniels, please,” he said. “Your fishing expedition has run aground, and you know it. Mr. Ettinger has been much more patient with you than need be. Certainly
more tolerant than I would have been in his position.”

“Mr. Ettinger, are you and Dr. Singh partners?” Matt asked, ignoring Mallon’s protest.

“We are.”

“How would I go about locating this man, this Ayurvedic Herbal partner of yours?”

“Enough!” Mallon barked.

“That’s okay,” Ettinger said. “The truth is, Pramod spends most of his time in India now. And mostly he’s traveling. I reach him through an American Express office in New Delhi. If you want that address, I’ll be happy to have my secretary send it to you.”

“Now, enough,” Mallon said. “Find another line of questioning, or it’s over and out.”

“Actually, I’m done. But I have something to say to both you and Mr. Ettinger. Strictly off the record.”

“Evelyn, we’re finished. Thank you.” Mallon chatted in whispers with his associate until the stenographer had cleared out. “Okay, go ahead,” he said then.

“Even though we haven’t mentioned them, and I intend to see that they are not part of this case, we all know with certainty that two other women beside Lisa Grayson have had this DIC.”

“So?”

“I said before that we had proof that Lisa Grayson was treated by Dr. Singh some years ago with what I assume was the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System. Well, we also have proof that the other two DIC cases lost large amounts of weight with him as well.”

“What!” Ettinger exclaimed.

Anticipating Matt’s revelation, Sarah had her attention fixed on the man across the table from her. His surprise seemed genuine. However, she reminded herself, she had misread Peter Ettinger before.

“Easy, Peter,” Mallon said. “This man’s been playing losing cards all morning. I see this as just a bluff to rattle us.”

“It’s no bluff,” Sarah said.

“I want to see your so-called proof,” Mallon said.

“And we want to see a blood sample from Lisa Grayson,” Sarah countered angrily.

“That’s it, we’re done,” Mallon declared.

He threw his papers into his briefcase and as much as pulled Peter Ettinger to his feet and toward the door.

“This is no game,” Matt said. “This is people’s lives. Don’t you care?”

“Fuck you,” replied Mallon.

“Peter,” Sarah tried, “this is very important. Remember, Annalee took your powder, too.”

“But she didn’t take those bogus herbs of yours. You just stay away from her and she’ll do just fine.”

His vitriol nearly brought her hurtling over the table and into his face.

“Peter?” she said sweetly instead.

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

A
UTUMN ON
L
ONG
I
SLAND WAS PROFOUNDLY BEAUTIFUL
. Dressed in an aqua running suit, Lisa Grayson loped through a tunnel of shimmering foliage, up the mile-long hill of Kennesaw Road, and onto the flat, gravelly stretch that led back to Stony Hill. She was perspiring, but not excessively so—especially considering that when she reached home, she would have completed her first half-marathon ever.
Fantastic!
she thought. Thirteen miles by a woman who not too long ago considered a brisk walk to the corner convenience store to be her physical limit.

“Too darn much.… Too darn much.…”

She sang the words nursery-rhyme style, in sync with her strides. The Boston Marathon was in mid-April, and she might well be ready. Her physical therapist knew the organizers of the race. If Lisa could do the twenty-six plus miles in anything under four and a half hours, he would see to it that the documented marathon time necessary to receive an official entry and number was waived.

“See how she runs.… See how she runs.…”

Some sweat dripped from her forehead into her eyes.
Slowing just a little, Lisa reached her right hand into her jacket pocket.

Fist
, she thought intently.
Fist
.

The Otto Boch myo-electric hand was truly incredible, but it had no sensory input. She had to rely on other messages to tell her the prosthesis was doing what she wanted it to. First she sensed the now-familiar tension around her elbow. The electrodes had been implanted there, in what remained of her forearm flexor muscles. Next she felt the firmness of the closed fist, pressing against her side from within the jacket pocket.

“Come on, fake hand,” she said, panting in cadence. “Do your stuff.”

She pulled her arm free of the pocket and sensed without looking that the lifelike fingers were clutching her balled-up handkerchief.

“Way to go, hand,” she said, mopping her brow without breaking stride. “Way to go.”

Over the two months since receiving the limb, she had made remarkable progress. In time, she had been promised by the physical therapist and the prostheticist, she would be able to pick up a cigarette ash without having it crumble. She would also be able to latch onto an object and dare anyone—
anyone
—to pull it away from her.
The Bionic Woman!
There were limits, to be sure. She had chosen the less obtrusive “cosmetic” skin over the more functional and more easily maintained metal pincers. In general though, the hand far exceeded her projections of what being an amputee would be like. And focusing on learning to use it had done worlds for her depression.