Harmful Intent (7 page)

“Immediately,” Randolph said.

“And I'm on bail until the appeal is heard?”

“Most likely,” Randolph said evasively.

“Thank God for small favors,” Jeffrey said.

Randolph then explained the presentencing investigation and what Jeffrey might expect from the penalty proceedings. He didn't want to see Jeffrey any more demoralized than he already was, so he was careful to emphasize the more promising aspects of the appeal. But Jeffrey's spirits remained low.-

“I have to admit I don't have a lot of faith left in this legal system,” Jeffrey said.

“You've got to think positively,” Carol said.

Jeffrey looked at his wife and began to appreciate how angry he was. Carol telling him he should think positively under the circumstances was eminently annoying. Suddenly Jeffrey realized he was angry at the system, angry at fate, angry at Carol, even angry at his attorney. At least anger was probably healthier than being depressed.

“All is in order,” Mosconi said as he slipped in the door. He was waving an official-looking document. “If you would?” he said, motioning for the court officer to unhandcuff Jeffrey.

Jeffrey rubbed his wrists with relief when they were free from the shackles. What he wanted most was to get out of the courthouse. He stood up.

“I'm sure I don't have to remind you about the $45,000,” Mosconi said. “Just remember, I'm putting my ass on the line for you.”

“I appreciate it,” Jeffrey said, trying to sound thankful.

They left the holding room together although Michael Mosconi hurried off in the opposite direction when they got to the hall.

Jeffrey had never been so consciously appreciative of the fresh, ocean-scented air as when he stepped from the courthouse onto the brick-paved plaza. It was a bright, midspring afternoon with puffy little white clouds scudding across a faraway blue sky. The sun was warm but the air crisp. It was amazing how the threat of prison had sharpened Jeffrey's perceptions.

Randolph took his leave on the wide plaza in front of the garishly modern Boston City Hall. “I'm sorry it turned out like this. I tried my best.”

“I know,” Jeffrey said. “I also know I was a lousy client and made it extra hard for you.”

“We'll get right on the appeal. I'll be talking with you in the morning. Good-bye, Carol.”

Carol waved, then she and Jeffrey watched Randolph stride off toward State Street, where he and his partners occupied an entire floor of one of the newer Boston office towers. “I don't know whether to love him or hate him,” Jeffrey said. “I don't even know if he did a good job or not, especially since I got convicted.”

“I personally don't think he was forceful enough,” Carol said. She started toward the parking garage.

“Aren't you going back to work?” Jeffrey called after her. Carol worked for an investment banking firm located in the financial area. That was in the opposite direction.

“I took the day off,” she said over her shoulder. She stopped when she saw that Jeffrey wasn't walking after her. “I didn't know how long rendering the verdict would take. Come on, you can give me a ride to my car.”

Jeffrey caught up to her and they walked together, skirting City Hall. “How are you going to raise $45,000 in twenty-four hours?” Carol asked, tossing her head in her characteristic way. She had fine, straight, dirty-blond hair that she wore in a fashion that caused it to constantly blow in her face.

Jeffrey felt his irritation surface again. Finances had been one of the trouble points in their marriage. Carol liked to spend money, Jeffrey liked to save it. When they'd married, Jeffrey's salary was larger by far, so it was Jeffrey's salary Carol made it her business to spend. When Carol's salary began to climb, it all went into her investment portfolio while Jeffrey's salary was still used to pay all the expenses. Carol's rationale had been
that if she didn't work, then they would be using Jeffrey's salary for all the expenses anyway.

Jeffrey didn't answer Carol's question immediately. He realized that in this instance his anger was misdirected. He wasn't angry with her. All their old financial disputes were water under the bridge, and wondering where $45,000 in cash was to come from was a legitimate concern. What angered him was the legal system and the lawyers who ran it. How could lawyers like the district attorney or the plaintiff attorney live with themselves when they lied so much? From the depositions Jeffrey knew they did not believe their own prosecution ploys. Each of Jeffrey's trials had been an amoral process in which the opposing attorneys had allowed ends to justify dishonest means.

Jeffrey got in behind the wheel of his car. He took a deep breath to control his anger, then turned to Carol. “I plan to increase the mortgage on the Marblehead house. In fact, we should stop at the bank on the way home.”

“With the lien we just signed, I don't think the bank will up the mortgage,” Carol said. She was something of an authority on the subject; this was her area of expertise.

“That's why I want to go right now,” Jeffrey said. He started the car and drove out of the garage. “No one will be the wiser. It will take a day or two before that lien finds its way into their computers.”

“Do you think you ought to do that?”

“Do you have any other ideas of how I can raise $45,000 by tomorrow afternoon?” Jeffrey asked.

“I guess not.”

Jeffrey knew she had that kind of money in her investment portfolio, but he'd be damned if he'd ask her for it.

“See you at the bank,” Carol said as she got out in front of the garage where her car was parked.

As Jeffrey drove north over the Tobin Bridge, exhaustion settled over him. It seemed that he had to make a conscious effort to breathe. He began to wonder why he was bothering with all this rigmarole. It wasn't worth it. Especially now that he was sure to lose his medical license. Other than medicine, in fact other than anesthesia, he didn't know much about anything. Except for a menial job like bagging at a grocery store, he couldn't think of anything else he was qualified to do. He was a convicted, worthless forty-two-year-old, an unemployable middle-aged nothing.

When Jeffrey arrived at the bank, he parked but didn't get
out of the car. He slumped forward and let his forehead rest on the steering wheel. Maybe he should just forget everything, go home, and sleep.

When the passenger-side door opened, Jeffrey didn't even bother to look up.

“Are you all right?” Carol asked.

“I'm a little depressed,” Jeffrey said.

“Well, that's understandable,” Carol said. “But before you get too immobile, let's get this bank stuff out of the way.”

“You're so understanding,” Jeffrey said irritably.

“One of us has to be practical,” Carol said. “And I don't want to see you going to jail. If you don't get that money in your checking account, that's where you'll end up.”

“I have a terrible premonition that that's where I'm going to end up no matter what I do.” With supreme effort, he got out of the car. He faced Carol over the roof of the car. “The one thing I find interesting,” he added, “is that I'm going to prison and you're going to L.A., but I don't know who's worse off.”

“Very funny,” Carol said, relieved that he was at least making a joke, even if she failed to find it amusing.

Dudley Farnsworth was the manager of the Marblehead branch of Jeffrey's bank. Years before, he'd happened to be the junior bank officer in the Boston branch of the bank that had handled Jeffrey's first real estate purchase. Jeffrey had been a resident in anesthesia at the time. Fourteen years previously, Jeffrey had bought a Cambridge three-decker and Dudley had arranged the financing.

Dudley saw them as soon as he could, taking them back to his private office and seating them in leather chairs facing his desk.

“What can I do for you?” Dudley said pleasantly. He was Jeffrey's age but looked older with his silver-white hair.

“We'd like to increase the mortgage on our house,” Jeffrey said.

“I'm sure that won't be a problem,” Dudley said. He went to a file drawer and pulled out a folder. “What kind of money are you looking for?”

“Forty-five thousand dollars,” Jeffrey said.

Dudley sat down and opened the folder. “No problem,” he said, looking at the figures. “You could take even more if you wish.”

“Forty-five thousand will be enough,” Jeffrey said. “But I need it by tomorrow.”

“Ouch!” Dudley said. “That's going to be tough.”

“Perhaps you could arrange a home equity loan,” Carol suggested. “Then when the mortgage comes through, you can use that to pay off the loan.”

Dudley nodded with eyebrows arched. “That's an idea. But I tell you what, let's go ahead and fill out the forms for the mortgage. I'll see what I can do. If the mortgage doesn't come through, then I'll take Carol's suggestion. Can you come in tomorrow morning?”

“If I can get out of bed,” Jeffrey said with a sigh.

Dudley shot a glance at Jeffrey. He intuited that something was wrong, but he was too much of a gentleman to inquire.

After the bank business was concluded, Jeffrey and Carol walked out to their cars.

“Why don't I stop at the store and get something good for dinner?” Carol suggested. “What would you like tonight? How about your favorite: grilled veal chops.”

“I'm not hungry,” Jeffrey said.

“Maybe you're not hungry now, but you will be later.”

“I doubt it,” Jeffrey said.

“I know you and you'll be hungry. I'm going to stop at the grocery for food for tonight. So what'll it be?”

“Get whatever you want,” Jeffrey said. He climbed into his car. “With the way I feel, I can't imagine I'm going to want to eat.”

When Jeffrey reached home, he pulled into the garage, then went directly to his room. He and Carol had been occupying separate rooms for the past year. It had been Carol's idea, but Jeffrey surprised himself by warming to the idea right away. That had been one of the first clear signs that their marriage was not all it should be.

Jeffrey closed the door behind him and locked it. His eyes wandered to his books and periodicals carefully shelved according to height. He wasn't going to need them for a while. He walked over to the bookcase and pulled out Bromage's
Epidural Analgesia
and threw it against the wall. It poked a small hole in the plaster, then crashed to the floor. The gesture didn't make him feel any better. In fact it made him feel guilty, and the effort exhausted him even more. He picked up the book, smoothed out a few of the bent pages, then slipped it back into its designated spot. By habit, he lined the spine up with the other volumes.

Sitting down heavily in the wing chair by the window, Jeffrey vacantly stared out at the dogwood, whose wilting spring
blossoms were past their prime. He was gripped by overwhelming sadness. He knew he had to shake this self-pity if he was to accomplish anything. He heard Carol's car pull up, then the door slam. A few minutes later there was a quiet knock at his door. He ignored it, thinking she'd guess he was asleep. He wanted to be alone.

Jeffrey struggled with his deepening sense of guilt. Perhaps that was the worst part of having been convicted. By undermining his confidence, he again worried that maybe he had erred in administering the anesthesia that fateful day. Maybe he had used the wrong concentration. Maybe Patty Owen's death was his fault.

Hours slipped by as Jeffrey's preoccupied mind wrestled with a growing sense of his worthlessness. Everything that he'd ever done seemed stupid and pointless. He'd failed at everything from being an anesthesiologist to being a husband. He couldn't think of one thing that he'd succeeded at. He'd even failed at making the basketball team in junior high school.

When the sun sagged down in the western sky and touched the horizon, Jeffrey had the sense it was setting on his life. He thought that few people could realize the tremendous toll malpractice litigation took on a practicing physician's emotional and professional life, especially when there was no malpractice involved. Even if Jeffrey had won the case, he knew that his life would have been changed forever. The fact that he lost was that much more devastating. And it had nothing to do with money.

Jeffrey watched the sky change from warm reds to cold purple and silver, while the light ebbed and the day died. As he sat there in the gathering gloom, he suddenly had an idea. It wasn't entirely true that he was helpless. There was something he could do to affect his destiny. With the first sense of purpose in weeks, Jeffrey pushed himself out of the wing chair and went to the closet. From it he pulled his large black doctor's bag and put it on the bureau.

From the doctor's bag he retrieved two small bottles of Ringer's Lactate intravenous fluid as well as two infusion kits and one small scalp needle. Then he took out two vials, one of succinylcholine, the other of morphine. Using a syringe, he drew up 75 mg of the succinylcholine and squirted it into one of the Ringer's Lactate bottles. Then he drew up 75 mg of morphine, a walloping dose.

One of the benefits of being an anesthesiologist was that Jeffrey knew the most efficient way to commit suicide. Other
doctors didn't, though they tended to be more successful in their attempts than the general public. Some shot themselves, a messy method which, surprisingly enough, was not always effective. Others took overdoses, another method that often didn't yield the desired result. Too often the would-be suicides were caught in time to have their stomachs pumped. Other times the drugs injected were enough to bring on a coma but not death. Jeffrey shuddered at the haphazard consequences.

Jeffrey felt his depression lift slightly as he worked. It was heartening to have a goal. He took the painting that hung over the head of the bed down to use the hook to hang both IV bottles. He then sat down on the side of the bed and started the IV on the back of his left hand with the bottle containing only the Ringer's Lactate solution. He piggy-backed the bottle containing the succinylcholine onto the other, with only the thin blue stopcock separating him from its lethal contents.