They liked him. That was half the battle.
“The jury had to determine whether death was ex visitatione divina, by the visitation of God, or whether man had a hand in it. Even if death was accidental, there was still a sort of criminal penalty. For example, if a cart ran over someone and killed him, the owner had to pay the Crown the equivalent value of the cart. That got to be quite a problem when steamships and trains began doing the killing.”
The jurors nodded, flattered that this wise old man would take the time to give them a history lesson. “Still later, coroners began recording how many deaths were caused by particular diseases. Sometimes I spend my evenings with a glass of brandy and a collection of the Coroner’s Rolls from the 1200s. You’d be surprised how much we can learn. At any rate, Counselor, the job of the coroner, or medical examiner, is to determine cause of death. Our credo is ‘to speak for the dead, to protect the living.’”
“And how does a coroner determine cause of death?” I asked.
Charlie Riggs pushed his glasses back up his nose with a chubby thumb. “By physical and medical examination, various testing devices, gas chromatography, electron microscopes, the study of toxicology, pharmacology, radiology, pathology. Much is learned in the autopsy, of course.”
“May we assume you have determined the cause of death in a number of cases?”
“Thousands. For over twenty years, I performed five hundred or more autopsies a year and supervised many more.”
“Can you tell us about some of your methods, some of your memorable cases?”
A hand smacked the plaintiff’s table and Dan Cefalo was on his feet, one pantleg sticking into the top of his right sock, the other pantleg dragging below the heel of the left shoe where the threads had unraveled from the cuff. “Objection,” he said wearily. “This retired gentleman’s life story is irrelevant here.”
Taking a shot at Riggs’s age. I hoped the two older jurors were listening. “Your Honor, I’m entitled to qualify Dr. Riggs as an expert.”
Cefalo was ready for that. He didn’t want to hear any more than he had to from Charlie Riggs. “We’ll stipulate that Dr. Riggs was the medical examiner for a long time, that he’s done plenty of autopsies, and that he’s qualified to express an opinion on cause of death.”
That should have been enough, but I still wanted Riggs to tell his stories. When you have a great witness, keep him up there. Let the jury absorb his presence.
“Objection overruled,” Judge Leonard said. Good, my turn to win one.
“Dr. Riggs, you were about to tell us of your cases and methods of medical examination of the cause of death.”
So Charlie Riggs unfolded his memories. There was the aging playboy who lived at Turnberry Isle, found dead of a single bullet wound to the forehead. Or so it seemed. The autopsy showed no bullet in the skull, no exit wound, just a round hole right between the eyes, as if from a small caliber shell.
“The police were stumped for a murder weapon,” Charlie Riggs said. “Sometimes it’s best to consider everyday items. I searched the grounds and, in a dumpster near the marina, I found a woman’s red shoe with blood on the metal spiked heel. The blood type matched the playboy’s, the heel matched the wound, and the owner of a French shoe shop at Mayfair identified the woman who bought the six- hundred-dollar shoes two weeks earlier. The woman confessed to doing him in. A lover’s spat, she didn’t want to kill him, just brain him.”
Then there was the mystery of the burned woman. She was sitting there, fully clothed, on her sofa, burned to death. Her clothes were not even singed. There was no smoke or evidence of fire in the apartment. The woman’s boyfriend had found the body. He said she came home drunk, took a shower, and next thing he knew, she was sitting on the sofa dead.
“I took a pair of tweezers and probed the bathtub drain,” Charlie Riggs told the jury. He paused. Several jurors exhaled in unison.
“It was just a hunch. Up came pieces of skin, and I knew the answer.”
Charlie Riggs smiled a knowing smile and stroked his beard, everybody’s favorite professor.
“Both had come home drunk, and she passed out. The boyfriend tried to revive her in the bathtub, but sailing three sheets to the wind, he turned on the hot water and left her there. The scalding water burned her to death. When the boyfriend sobered up, he panicked, so he dried her off, dressed her, put her on the sofa, and called the police.”
The jury sat entranced. There’s nothing like tales of death, well told. Riggs testified about matching tire treads to the marks on a hit-and-run victim’s back, of fitting a defendant’s teeth to bite marks on a rape-murder victim, of finding teeth in a drain under a house, the only proof of the corpus delicti, the body of a man dissolved in sulfuric acid by his roommate.
The litany of crime had its purpose, to shock the jury with deeds of true miscreants, to deliver a subtle message that the justice system should prosecute murderers, not decent surgeons, even if they might make mistakes. Errare humanum est. If that’s what it was, an honest error.
I hadn’t told Charlie Riggs about the conversation with Susan Corrigan. What would I tell him, that a dead man’s daughter, poisoned with grief and hate, thinks my client is a murderer? She had no physical evidence, no proof, no nothing, except the allegation that Roger Salisbury and Melanie Corrigan were getting it on. I would talk to Salisbury about it, but not now.
While Charlie Riggs testified, I watched Roger. He kept shooting sideways glances at Melanie Corrigan’s perfect profile. She watched the witness, oblivious to the attention. She was wearing a simple cotton dress that, to me, looked about two sizes too large, but I supposed was in style. A wide belt gathered it at the waist and it ended demurely below the knee. It was one of those deceiving things women wear, so simple it disguises the name of an Italian designer and a megabucks price tag.
I tried to read the look in Roger Salisbury’s eyes but could not. Was there a chance that it was true? Not just that he might have been diddling his patient’s wife. I didn’t care about that. But that he might have killed Corrigan. That it was all a plot, that the malpractice trial was just a cover, or better yet, a way to pick up another million. If that’s what it was, there’d be plenty of chances for Salisbury to tank it. He was scheduled to testify after Riggs.
I continued my direct examination: “Now Dr. Riggs, have you had an opportunity to examine the medical records compiled by the physicians and the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“And based on the records, and your years of experience, do you have an opinion to a reasonable degree of medical probability what caused the death of Philip Corrigan?”
“I do.”
The courtroom was silent except for the omnipresent hum of the air conditioning. Everyone knew the next question.
“And what was the cause of death?”
“A ruptured aorta. Internal bleeding, which in turn caused a lowering of blood pressure. In layman’s terms, the heart, which is the pump in a closed circulatory system, didn’t have enough fluid to pump, so it stopped.”
“And what, sir, caused the aorta to rupture?”
“There is no way to answer that with absolute certainty. We can only exclude certain things.”
“Such as?” Keep the questions short, let the doctor carry the ball.
“Well, Dr. Salisbury here certainly didn’t do it with the rongeur. If he had, the rupture would be on the posterior side of the aorta. But as reported by the surgeon who tried the emergency repair of the aorta, the rupture is on the anterior side, the front. Naturally a surgeon making an incision in a man’s back, working around the spine, is not going to puncture the front of the aorta, the part that faces the abdomen.”
Dan Cefalo turned ashen. There aren’t many surprises in trials anymore. Pretrial discovery eliminates most of that. But Charlie Riggs gave his deposition before studying the report of the second surgery, the chaotic attempt to close the bursting aorta a dozen hours after the laminectomy. When he read the report, bells went off. Nobody else had paid any attention to where the rupture was, only that it existed.
For the next fifteen minutes, it went on like that, Charles W. Riggs, M.D., witness emeritus, showing the jury his plastic model of the spine with the blood vessels attached like strings of licorice. The report of the thoracic surgeon who tried unsuccessfully to save Conigan’s life came into evidence, and the jurors kept looking at Dr. Riggs and nodding.
It was time to slam the door. “If Dr. Salisbury did not puncture the aorta with the rongeur, could not have, as
