blond man's eyes, and the whole thing would be a lock. He moved five feet closer. Then another five.
'Time's up,' the gunman said.
'Freeze,' Leo barked, his heart pounding mercilessly. 'Not one move. Not one fucking-'
The blond man turned his head just a fraction. But somehow Leo knew in that moment that there was no way he was going to give up without a fight. Leo's finger was tightening on the trigger when the gunman dove to one side, spinning in the air. Leo fired a moment before he saw a pop of flame from the hurtling shadow. He heard the firecracker snap of his adversary's gun almost on top of the man's screech of pain.
Gotcha! Leo thought. Gotcha!
The gunman had fallen heavily and was clutching his leg, writhing from one side to the other. His stuttering victim had scrambled away and was now on his feet, sprinting off. Probably some smalltime punk, Leo reasoned as the man disappeared into the darkness. The prize he wanted-the headlines and the departmental citation-was rolling about on the ground in front of him. Probably wanted, he thought. Maybe on the big list.
'Okay now, asshole. Stay right where you are and don't move. I'm the police!'
Leo barked out the words. But strangely, he didn't hear any sound. He felt suddenly dizzy… detached… nauseous… Only then did he become aware of the stinging on the right side of his neck, just beneath his ear. Awkwardly he reached up to touch the spot. Warm, sticky blood spewed over his hand and arm. The dizziness and nausea intensified. He sank to one knee. Then, ever so slowly, he toppled over onto his side.
The last sound Leo Durbansky heard was the enormous rumble of a thousand Brunswick bowling balls, thundering down a thousand alleys, spinning right into a thousand one-three pockets.
CHAPTER 22
August 29
Just after twelve noon, Sarah crossed through the Public Garden and headed onto the Boston Common toward the spot where she was to meet Matt. The day, which had dawned hot, was sultry now. Businessmen in short-sleeved dress shirts, their ties loosened, ate their lunches beneath broad shade trees, their suit coats carefully folded on the ground beside them. All across the field where Minutemen had once trained for the Revolution, pockets of mothers in shorts and tank tops chatted languidly, their children racing about them on the rich summer grass.
Sarah wished she could just stretch out and relax. She wished that she and Matt were meeting for a picnic of pesto turkey sandwiches from Nicole's and then a leisurely stroll along the Charles. Almost anything at all, in fact, would have been preferable to what lay ahead of her. At one o'clock, she and Matt would be in a room on the second floor of the Suffolk Superior Court Building, facing a medical malpractice tribunal.
Matt, who had served on three such tribunals over the past few years, had explained the process to her in some detail, including the option that she not attend at all. He emphasized that physicians being sued seldom chose to be present at this proceeding, especially when, as was the case today, the decision was likely to go against them. But with a flexible outpatient rotation at the hospital and an almost morbid need to experience her legal battle firsthand, there was no way she could stay away.
The tribunal system, begun in Indiana and eventually adopted by Massachusetts, was an attempt to do away with frivolous litigation against physicians. It was hoped that the screening procedure would one day lower the horrific insurance premiums that continued to drive many doctors out of clinical practice. The premiums and retroactive surcharges, totaling over $100,000 annually for some specialists, were a major cause of spiraling health care costs. And adequate coverage was mandatory in the state for licensure. Those physicians who wished to continue practicing in Massachusetts had no choice but to increase their patient load and order more and more 'defensive' laboratory tests.
The tribunal, made up of a judge, an attorney, and a physician of the same specialty as the defendant, was not set up to determine guilt or innocence, Matt explained. The only question to be answered today was: Assuming Lisa Grayson's allegations are true, has malpractice occurred? — or in legal terms: Do she and her attorneys have a prima facie case?
'The tribunals find in favor of the plaintiff much more often than not,' Matt had explained. 'But even in cases where they lose in tribunal, plaintiffs can proceed to trial if they are willing to post a bond-in Massachusetts it's six thousand dollars-to cover court costs and the defendant's legal fees. And even then, the judge can waive the bond if he doesn't believe the plaintiff can afford it. That's obviously not an issue with the Graysons.'
A scuffed, grass-stained baseball bounced off the lawn and rolled over the sidewalk, just in front of where Sarah was walking. She picked it up and threw it overhand to the teen who was chasing it. The youth, possibly Hispanic, gloved the toss with reflexive ease and smiled shyly at her from beneath a Red Sox cap.
'Not a bad arm for a girl, huh, Ricky?' she heard Matt call out.
He waved to her from across an expanse of grass and then left the group of boys he had been playing with and loped over. He had on sneakers, a Greenpeace T-shirt, and the trousers to his suit. As he spoke, he gestured with his well-worn mitt as if it were part of his hand.
'Ricky, thanks for the catch,' he said as he passed the youth. 'That fork-ball of yours is really starting to move. Hey, maybe I'll see you guys tomorrow.'
'He's cute,' Sarah said.
'He's a felon,' Matt replied. 'Just kidding… sort of. Those kids out there are a gang. Los Muchachos. A couple of years ago, the court assigned the defense of two of them to me. Nothing too serious, fortunately. Anyhow, I showed them some of my press clippings-only the good ones, of course-and we sort of got to be pals. Now the whole gang is playing ball, and a number of them are working with younger kids, Ricky, there, actually made his high school team. He's got some talent.'
'You made all that happen?'
'Hell, no. They made it happen. I just let them know there was nothing uncool about beating up on a baseball instead of someone's head. Next week will mark the end of Ricky's probation. I got a couple of box seat tickets to a Sox-Baltimore game. I originally got them for me and Harry-that's my son. But he had to go back home for some summer school. So I'm taking Ricky instead. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I've already told him. I'm not much good at surprises.'
'Where does Harry live?' Sarah asked.
A shadow of sadness darkened Matt's face. 'California,' he said.
His tone discouraged further questions on the subject. After a few uncomfortably silent moments, he smiled thinly and nodded toward the far side of the Common. 'My office is that way.'
Sarah was relieved to turn away from his pain and just walk.
Matt's work clothes were in his office, which was on the fifth floor of a converted brownstone. The three- room suite was not nearly as dismal or disorganized as he had painted it to be, Sarah pointed out.
'Everything's relative,' he said. 'Unfortunately, in this law business, with more attorneys around here than scrod, image counts. Sometime, just for the hell of it, I'll take you to visit Jeremy Mallon's place.'
'Spare me,' Sarah said.
He introduced her to his secretary, a pleasant, motherly woman named Ruth. Sarah could tell she was eager for conversation even before a word between them was spoken.
'Mr. Daniels is a wonderful man,' Ruth began, moments after Matt had gone into the inner office to change.
'He seems that way.'
'A good lawyer, too. And a great father. He says you're the most important client he's ever had. He always works hard, but I've never seen him put in hours like he has on your case.'
'That's reassuring.'
Sarah smiled a little uncomfortably and scanned the narrow coffee table for a magazine of any remote interest to her. She ended up with a dog-earred, four-month-old copy of Consumer Reports. The message she had hoped to deliver to Ruth went unreceived.
