and part-time divorce photographer, leapt from her closet in time to shoot some grainy black-and-whites of the executive slipping out of his boxers.
'Kidnap him?' she asked, feigning indignation and arching her eyebrows, striped brown and orange like a Bengal tiger. 'Do you think that's the only way I could get a man to buy me a drink?'
'You bagged Watkins in some bar?'
'How crude,' she protested. 'Last night, by utter coincidence, me and Margarita-the girl, not the drink-cruise into the lounge at the Sonesta Beach. And who do we run into but this nice older man with white hair and a silly seersucker suit. He's drinking vodka gimlets but leaving out the lime juice and telling us what a great doctor he is, and Margarita says she's got this back problem, and he says, come up to the room and he'll do a quick exam, so off we go, and meanwhile Harv orders three bottles of Finlandia from room service.'
'Harv?'
'That's what he asked us to call him.'
'Not very professional,' I said.
'Neither was his treatment of Margarita. Unless all ortho-pods do pelvic exams. Not that Margarita cared. I'm not saying she's dumb, but she thinks the Silicon Valley is the space between her tits.'
I closed my eyes and massaged my forehead. 'Cindy, I can't wait to get a summons from the Florida Bar. It's just like stashing a witness.'
'What? To have a drink with a nice man?'
We were interrupted by the banging of the courtroom door. In lurched Dr. Harvey Watkins, collar turned up on a seersucker suitcoat that looked like it had just cleaned all the windshields in the Baja road race. His tie was at half mast, his shirt unbuttoned nearly to the waist. He leaned back against the door as if the courthouse were plowing through rough seas. His hair was plastered against his scalp.
Bluish veins popped through his pink skin. Dan Cefalo was a step behind, trying to steady his witness. Watkins angrily shook the hand off his elbow. As bad as the doctor looked, he was doing better than Cefalo, who had turned an unhealthy gray.
At that moment the bailiff burst through the rear door, shouting, 'All rise! Court of the Eleventh Judicial Circuit in and for Dade County Florida is now in session!' Everyone in the courtroom obeyed, except Dr. Harvey Watkins, who sagged heavily into one of the church pews, his legs jammed at odd angles into the aisle, his ankles bare of socks.
'Bailiff, bring in the jury, and Mr. Cefalo, call your witness.' Judge Leonard wasn't going to waste any time. He might miss someone brushing the mane of Creme Fraiche or taking Personal Flag's rectal temperature.
Cefalo was about to hyperventilate. 'Your Honor, may we have one moment?'
'A moment! You've just had ninety minutes for lunch. Now, do you have rebuttal testimony or not? If not, we'll recess and you can both close in the morning.'
In a trial you must make immediate decisions. Object or not, ask a question when you don't know the answer or not, move for mistrial or let it go. Dan Cefalo had to decide whether to put on Wallbanger Watkins without even a chance to shave the white stubble from his chin or determine if the good-and drunk-doctor remembered his name. If he didn't call him, Cefalo would close the book on the case without rebutting Charlie Riggs's testimony that Salisbury couldn't have nicked the front of the aorta. Either way, a roll of the dice.
Cefalo took a deep breath and said, 'At this time, the plaintiff re-calls Dr. Harvey Watkins.'
Watkins tugged his necktie toward his Adam's apple, jutted his patrician chin forward, and, with the excessive dignity that the intoxicated muster in time of great need, walked almost steadily to the witness stand. He would have made it, too, had he noticed the six-inch step. He toppled forward into the walnut railing, which bounced him sideways until he fell, facedown, into the lap of the court reporter, a young black woman who didn't know if she should record the event on her stenograph.
'Beggar pardon,' Watkins mumbled, and Cefalo leapt forward to help him.
A moment later the doctor was safely seated, gripping the rail of the witness stand and staring blankly out to sea. His shirttail hung over his belt and his tie was askew. He made Dan Cefalo look like the cover of GQ.
'Dr. Watkins, you are still under oath,' Cefalo began.
'Oath?' Watkins ran a tongue over dry lips. Finally a light came on. 'Of course. Years ago, I took the hick- ocratic oath. That is, of course, the hick…'A case of the hiccups was now distracting him and the clerk brought a glass of water. Watkins nodded a formal thank you.
Cefalo plunged ahead. 'Dr. Watkins, you testified that, based on the medical records in this case, you could determine to a reasonable degree of medical certainty that Dr. Salisbury punctured the aorta with the rongeur, is that correct?'
'Objection! Leading and an inaccurate summary of the testimony.' I didn't need to win that one, just to figure out what the next ruling would be.
'Overruled,' Judge Leonard 9aid. He started packing, dropping a cap and sunglasses into a briefcase.
'Is that correct?' Cefalo repeated.
Watkins nodded. Either he was saying yes, or he was falling asleep.
'Doctor, you must speak audibly for the court reporter to record your answer.'
Watkins again nodded silently.
Cefalo pushed forward. 'Now, to speed this up, let me tell you that another witness has testified that the rupture in the aorta was on its anterior side, in the front, and that a surgeon entering from the back could not have made the rupture there.'
'Zat so?' Watkins asked, eyebrows arched in surprise.
'My question, Doctor, is whether it is possible for a surgeon performing a laminectomy to perforate the front of the aorta?'
Watkins stared into space.
Sweat broke out on Cefalo's forehead. 'You may remember our discussing this yesterday morning…'
I was on my feet. 'Objection! Leading. Your Honor, really, there is certain latitude, but this is too much.'
'Sustained. Move it along, Mr. Cefalo.'
Cefalo tried again. 'The fact that the perforation was in front. What, if anything, does that tell you?'
Watkins mumbled something, his eyes half closed. The jurors were shooting each other sideways glances. Get a load of this. Somewhere a trillion miles away, some intergalactic god of luck was shining on Roger Salisbury.
'Doctor?'
'Squooshy,' Dr. Watkins said.
'Squooshy?' Cefalo asked, his eyes widening.
A momentary brightness came to Dr. Watkins's face. 'It's all squooshy in there. You might think it's like all these pretty pictures in the books, the vascular system here, the muscles there, the bones over there. Hah! Phooey!' The phooey shot a wad of expectorant toward the court reporter.
'It's all squooshed up. And it moves. The son-of-a-bitch keeps breathing while you're cutting him up. It's all squooshing around and moving. Front, back, in between. Who the fuck can tell the difference?'
Even Judge Leonard heard that. He aimed a murderous look at Dan Cefalo, who hastily advised that Dr. Watkins was now my witness. I didn't want him. The judge banged his gavel louder than usual and crisply ordered us adjourned. Then he shot off the bench, his maroon robes flying behind him.
Roger Salisbury was pumping my hand as if we'd already won. I told him to wait until tomorrow. You can never tell with juries. He said he felt like celebrating, maybe carousing, how about our finding a couple chicas. I didn't ask if they were both for him, just declined, saying I had to gather my thoughts for tomorrow. Then I asked him a question.
'What about it? If you go in from the back, could you tear the aorta in front?'
He smiled. 'Our witness said no.'
'Right. And Watkins said everything's squooshy. What do you say?'
He smiled again. 'I say they're both right. Riggs is right in what he does. When a body is dead, it's inert. If you did a laminectomy on a corpse, you probably couldn't hit the front of the aorta with the rongeur. But Watkins was right that with a living, breathing body, there's movement. It's a mess in there, things can happen. If you pushed the rongeur too far, it's possible that on the way back, it could nick the front of the aorta. It's possible.'
