Natural Causes (39 page)

Annalee pushed herself up and threw her arms around Sarah’s neck.

“I knew I did the right thing in coming to you,” she said. “I knew it.”

Sarah called the hospital operator and put in a page for Randall Snyder. Then she called admissions and asked to have someone sent up to the obstetrics unit. Finally she took a fetoscope from a hook on the door and listened to Annalee’s belly.

“The baby’s doing great,” she said after half a minute or so. “Just great.”

“That’s wonderful. I can feel it kicking. Listen, Sarah, please don’t call Peter.”

“Hey, kid, I work for you. That means you give the orders. You may want to find a way to call and let him know you’re okay, though. You don’t have to say where you are. I know he really loves you a lot. It’s me he can’t stand.”

“Well, that’s his problem. You know, while you were on the phone, I was looking at you and thinking about the incredible things you can do. And I was remembering what you were like when you first came to live with us.”

“And?”

“Let’s just say you’ve come a long way, baby. A hell of a long way.”

Sarah hugged the woman once again. Save for her moderately prominent abdomen and engorged breasts, there was virtually no bulge on her body—no loose skin; no fat whatsoever.

“You’re a member of the Long Way Club, too, Annalee,” she said, taking pains to mask her concern. “One more thing. When did you take that weight loss powder of Peter’s, and for how long?”

“About four years ago, and for about three months. Dr. Singh had already tested the powder someplace on a number of people. But before Peter would allow himself to be associated with it, he arranged for ten or twelve people he knew to take it. Altogether, we lost about a half a ton. Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, no. I was just wondering. Nothing’s wrong with it. Nothing at all.”

“Well, I hope not,” Annalee said. “Because according to the last figures I saw, since they began marketing the powder about seven months ago, a few hundred thousand people have done exactly the same thing.”

“I know,” Sarah said, flashing on a stainless steel surgical pan and the dusky, severed arm of a young woman. “I know.”

M
ATT ARRIVED AT HIS OFFICE AT
7:15
A.M. FEELING
the sort of nervous energy he had once associated with game day. Earlier in the morning, he had run three miles—part of the fitness regimen he had instituted after being so badly outclassed by Sarah in Chinatown. He had also read several sections of the
Globe
and the sports section in the
Herald
, and spent fifteen minutes of intense practice on Nintendo baseball—the impressively realistic game at which he was determined, at least once in his lifetime, to beat Harry.

After four arduous, confusing months, pieces in the bewildering puzzle of
Grayson
v.
Baldwin
were beginning to come together. Rosa Suarez and a virologist from the CDC had identified the genetically altered virus circulating in Lisa Grayson’s bloodstream and had traced it to a company across the river in Cambridge. The virus, labeled CRV113 by the BIO-Vir Corporation, had been developed to enhance the clotting of blood and the healing of wounds. Later that morning, Rosa and Ken Mulholland would be meeting with the director of the lab. The BIO-Vir bug still might prove to
be a red herring in terms of Lisa Grayson’s DIC. But given the purpose of its creation, that possibility seemed remote.

And with any luck, before the hour was out, yet another piece of the jigsaw would be set in place. Matt had done what homework he had time for and had rehearsed the scenario in his mind. Now it was showtime. Unless he was way off base, Roger Phelps had two Achilles’ heels—arrogance and greed. The trick was to expose one or both of them without alerting the man. Failing to accomplish that, there was always Plan B—the frontal assault approach he had used with such mastery against Tommy Sze-to. His groin ached at the memory. He was reaching nervously for his glove and ball when, with a soft knock, Phelps entered the outer office.

“Daniels?”

“In here, Roger. Come on in.”

The claims adjuster, wearing a three-piece suit, tapped playfully on Matt’s office door and then entered. Despite his dandyish appearance, Matt knew he was calculating and intelligent—a man to be dealt with carefully. Matt offered him coffee and then motioned him to the seat across the desk from his.

“So,” Phelps said, settling in, “it’s a change of heart we’ve had, is it?”

“Dr. Baldwin’s getting cold feet about going to court.”

“You can call her Sarah. I’ve heard rumors that the two of you know each other on—um—shall we say a first-name basis.”

“Now, Roger, what in the hell am I supposed to say in response to that remark?”

“Nothing. She’s very attractive—in a tomboy sort of way. I really wouldn’t blame you if you were carrying on with her.”

Right away an assertion of power and control
, Matt thought.
The man is good. Damn good
.

“To tell you the truth, Roger, the thought
has
crossed
my mind. But believe me, nothing’s going to happen on that front until this case is resolved.”

“Smart. Is that perhaps a reason you want to settle?”

“Perhaps. I told you that I honestly think we can win.”

“Well, obviously we’re not as sure of that as you are. A pretty young girl with a dead baby and a stump for an arm makes a damn persuasive argument to a jury. And when juries decide for plaintiffs, they tend to decide big.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad. So, then, what’s your pitch?”

“On behalf of my client, I’m prepared to agree to your offer of a settlement with no admission of guilt. But I’m a bit concerned about my reputation in this whole business.
Grayson versus Baldwin
has been a high-visibility case. If I go to trial and win, I’m probably set for business for years to come—if not from the MMPO, then either from the other malpractice carrier or even from plaintiffs. Goodness knows there’s a pile more money to be made from suing doctors than from defending them.”

“So?”

“So, I’d like some guarantee of referrals from you. Perhaps a retainer of some sort.”

“Mr. Daniels, you know we don’t do that.”

“There’s always a first time. Believe me, for the right amount, I can be as good or as bad as you want me to be.”

Matt could see that his remark, delivered more or less offhandedly, struck a nerve. Phelps paled visibly, but then just as quickly regained his composure.

“I think you’d best stop right there,” he said.

Matt pushed back from behind his desk and rubbed wearily at his eyes.

“Roger, please. I need your help,” he said. “I’m nervous as hell talking to you like this, but I’m in financial trouble—pretty deep financial trouble.”

“I thought you were a big baseball star.”

“Never that big, believe me. A few years ago, I got talked into this can’t-miss real estate deal and, well, it missed. You know how it is. Right now I’m staying afloat, but just barely. So like I said, I really need your help.”

“Sorry. No can do. No retainer. But I will keep you in mind as cases come in.”

Matt could see the suspicion in the man’s eyes. He was not going to be at all easy to trip up.

“You know,” Matt said, “there’s this question I’ve been asking myself over and over.
‘Why did Roger Phelps hire me for this case in the first place?’
Especially when I was being opposed by Jeremy Mallon, the Michael Jordan of malpractice litigation.
‘Why?’
Finally, when the answer just wouldn’t come, but the question just wouldn’t go away, I started doing some checking. Did you know that Jeremy Mallon goes to trial more than any other malpractice lawyer in Boston? It’s like the man doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘settle.’ ”

“But he’s settling here,” Phelps said.

“You know what else I learned?” Matt went on as if the statement hadn’t been made. He was hoping that if he kept talking fast enough, and with enough authority, Phelps would fail to consider that he might be winging it. “I learned that not one of the lawyers opposing Mallon in those trials had much more experience in malpractice cases than I did. Lambs to the lion—every one of us.
Now
do you see what I mean about being as bad as you want me to be? Roger, I don’t need a cut of the jury awards or anything like that. I’m not greedy. A retainer will do just fine. Some guarantee that this business will continue rolling my way.”

“Daniels, I don’t take kindly to this sort of innuendo. Besides, what you’re saying is utter nonsense. Like I said before, Mallon is settling in this very case.”

“That’s because he’s
going to lose,”
Matt responded
with icy calm. “He knows it, and you know it. Roger, get it through your head. I’m not out to crucify you. I want to work with you. I
need
to work with you.”

Phelps eyed him for a time, clearly weighing all the variables, and then said, “Go to hell.”

Damn you
, Matt thought. He was getting closer by the moment to Plan B. He stood, slipped on his glove, and began gently flipping the scuffed ball into its pocket.

“The proof is out there, Roger,” he said. “Any board of bar overseers with half a brain will be able to add one and one together and come up with you.” He began snapping the ball with more force. “How much of a cut of the jury awards does Mallon kick back to you? Fifteen percent?”

“Daniels, you’re crazy.”

“Twenty? Twenty-five? Mallon knew about the dentist, Rog—my one other malpractice case. I mentioned it to a couple of the people at the hospital, but they hate Mallon with a passion. There’s no way they would have told him. It was you, Rog. Mallon needed another patsy to win a big jury settlement against, and you fed him me.”

Matt turned his back on the claims adjuster. He was totally improvising now, but it really didn’t matter.

“You have no damn proof of that. Not a bit of—”

Matt whirled and, without so much as a flicker of hesitation, gunned the ball at Phelps’s head. There was no time at all for the man to react. The pitch tore past him, perhaps two inches from his ear, and shattered the protective glass on a huge print of the Boston skyline at night. The ball was already bouncing back toward Matt by the time Phelps threw himself onto the carpet.

“Jesus!” he screamed. “You really are crazy!”

“But fortunately, I am also very accurate.”

Matt scooped up the rolling hardball with his bare hand and whipped it sidearm at the chair Phelps had just vacated. The cherrywood back of the chair exploded like balsa.

“Now tell me, Roger. What does Mallon pay you?”

Phelps tried to get to his feet, but Matt easily pushed him back onto the floor. He picked up the ball once again and backed across the office. The claims adjuster was cowering against the desk.

“I’m very accurate with this, Rog,” he said. “Only one point nine walks per nine innings pitched. But I promise you, I’m going to keep at it until I miss—or I run out of furniture. You’ve tried to make me just another one of the patsies. But unfortunately for you, it didn’t work this time. Now I want in. I want to be part of this little scam you and Mallon are running.”

“Go to hell!” Phelps shouted again.

“Okay. I think I’m going to do this one off a full windup. We relief pitchers never get to use full windups very much. I need the practice. And I don’t need that paperweight right there by your head.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Here we go.… It’s a tie game, fans. Bottom of the ninth. The bases are loaded, there are two outs. Here’s Daniels’s windup …”

“Wait. Don’t!”

“Stay right there, Rog,” Matt said, freezing his arms with the glove and ball at shoulder height. “Just talk.”

“Okay, okay. You’re right. Mallon and I have an agreement. He lets me know when he gets a good case, and I assign a … um …”

“Go ahead. Say it, Rog. A loser.”

“An
inexperienced attorney
to oppose him.”

“And then you refuse to settle and insist on going for a jury award. Oh, you are beautiful, Rog. Just beautiful. Has Mallon ever lost one of those cases?”

“Never.”

“Until now. How much do you get?”

“That’s none of your business. Now let me up.”

“The tension’s so thick, baseball fans, you can cut it with a knife,” Matt said, adopting his announcer’s voice again. “A walk means a run.… A hit batsman means
a run.… The runners are leading off.… Daniels is going into the windup—”

“A third of Mallon’s forty percent,” Phelps said quickly.

Matt lowered his glove. “That can add up.”

Phelps scrambled to his feet, carefully brushing slivers of wood and glass from his suit.

“Listen,” he said, still hyperventilating, “you want in, you’ll have in. Just give me a few days to work out the details.”

Matt slipped his hand from his glove. “Do I have your word on that?”

“Yeah, yeah. You have my word. You are really crazy, do you know that?”

“I want to hear from you within the week, Rog.”

“Just be cool about this.”

“I will. I will.”

Phelps backed toward the door.

“I mean it,” he said. “Just be cool.”

“Roger, why don’t you think about starting me off with a little portion of this settlement? You’re offering two hundred K. Chances are Mallon will represent the other two families and get the same settlement. How about I get half of your third of Mallon’s forty percent? That would be … let’s see … forty thousand. Not bad math for a dumb jock, eh?”

“Okay, okay. After all three cases are settled. Just let me the hell out of here.”

“Go ahead,” Matt said simply.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I trust that if you say we’ve got a deal, we’ve got a deal.” Matt waited until Phelps had opened the office door, then added, “Of course, I will have to charge you an additional two dollars and ninety-eight cents for your souvenir copy of the tape.”

Smiling broadly, he opened his suit coat. The miniature tape recorder was strapped to his belt—right next to a rabbit’s foot and a small, blue ribbon.