Read Online Mr. Justice by Scott Douglas Gerber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Douglas Gerber
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McDonald, but he also shared his Uncle Earl’s desire to see the professor’s nomination to the Supreme Court go down in flames. Unfortunately, killing Kelsi was part of the plan to ensure it did.
CHAPTER 25
The doctors and nurses rushed around the emergency room as if someone’s life depended on them. It did.
“Charge the paddles to two hundred!”
“Stat!”
“Clear!”
Dr. Morris Tanenbaum, the president’s personal physician and the man trying to bring order to the chaos, applied the paddles to Professor Peter McDonald’s chest in an effort to shock McDonald’s heart back into rhythm. It didn’t work.
“Charge to three hundred!” Nothing. No response. Still flat-line. “Four hundred!”
Perspiration dripped from underneath the doctor’s surgical mask. The thought of losing any patient was nerve-wracking enough, but this patient was the president’s choice for a seat on the most powerful court in the world.
Finally, a heartbeat. Finally, the monitor resembled a mountain range rather than a desert floor.
A spurt of applause filled the room. Everyone knew what was at stake.
Dr. Tanenbaum handed the paddles to the head nurse, pitched his soiled mask and gloves into the wastebasket in the corner, and headed for the waiting area to brief the president’s chief of staff. “Good job,” he said to the ER team as he exited the room.
Jim Westfall was popping a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth when the doctor arrived to update him.
Dr. Tanenbaum said, “I’m glad you’re staying off the cancer sticks, Jim.”
Cigarettes were every doctor’s taboo. They were like going all in against the house at an Atlantic City casino.
Westfall said, “I’m trying, Doc. I’m trying. But I must be chewing two packs of this stuff a day.” He held up the pack of nicotine gum. Only one stick remained.
“Better two packs of gum than two packs of cigarettes.”
The president’s chief of staff and the president’s personal physician were both busy men. The former got straight to the point. “How’s Professor McDonald? Is he going to pull through?”
Dr. Tanenbaum traced a long finger across his balding pate. “It’s too early to tell. He went into cardiac arrest a few minutes ago, but we were able to get his heart back into a proper rhythm.”
“Cardiac arrest! He was shot, not fat!”
“A lot of things can cause a heart attack, Jim. You’re right. He was shot. But the gunshot put his system into shock, and that put too much stress on his heart. The result, unfortunately, was cardiac arrest. It’s not uncommon.”
Westfall popped the final piece of nicotine gum into his mouth. His jaw was as tight as a slingshot. “What’s the prognosis? What should I tell the president?”
Doctors didn’t like to be put on the spot, and Dr. Morris Tanenbaum was no different from any of the others. However, the person asking the question through his right-hand man, Jim Westfall, was very different: he was the president of the United States.
Dr. Tanenbaum said, “The prognosis isn’t good, I’m sorry to say. The gunshot wound was bad enough, but a heart attack is always dangerous. On the plus side, Professor McDonald is a relatively young man, and he kept— keeps , sorry—himself in good shape. He looks more like thirty-five than forty-five.”
“So you’re saying that the president should find another nominee?” Westfall was devastated at the prospect. McDonald was the perfect nominee—until he got shot, that is.
“It’s not my place to say that, obviously. But as a doctor, and as a friend to the president, it is my place to say that this particular nominee might not be alive to serve.”
CHAPTER 26
The nurse studied the monitors above Peter McDonald’s bed. She entered the data onto the patient’s chart. She returned to her chair in the corner of the room.
Normally, the nurse would have left to check on her other patients. But McDonald wasn’t a normal patient; he was
CHAPTER 25
The doctors and nurses rushed around the emergency room as if someone’s life depended on them. It did.
“Charge the paddles to two hundred!”
“Stat!”
“Clear!”
Dr. Morris Tanenbaum, the president’s personal physician and the man trying to bring order to the chaos, applied the paddles to Professor Peter McDonald’s chest in an effort to shock McDonald’s heart back into rhythm. It didn’t work.
“Charge to three hundred!” Nothing. No response. Still flat-line. “Four hundred!”
Perspiration dripped from underneath the doctor’s surgical mask. The thought of losing any patient was nerve-wracking enough, but this patient was the president’s choice for a seat on the most powerful court in the world.
Finally, a heartbeat. Finally, the monitor resembled a mountain range rather than a desert floor.
A spurt of applause filled the room. Everyone knew what was at stake.
Dr. Tanenbaum handed the paddles to the head nurse, pitched his soiled mask and gloves into the wastebasket in the corner, and headed for the waiting area to brief the president’s chief of staff. “Good job,” he said to the ER team as he exited the room.
Jim Westfall was popping a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth when the doctor arrived to update him.
Dr. Tanenbaum said, “I’m glad you’re staying off the cancer sticks, Jim.”
Cigarettes were every doctor’s taboo. They were like going all in against the house at an Atlantic City casino.
Westfall said, “I’m trying, Doc. I’m trying. But I must be chewing two packs of this stuff a day.” He held up the pack of nicotine gum. Only one stick remained.
“Better two packs of gum than two packs of cigarettes.”
The president’s chief of staff and the president’s personal physician were both busy men. The former got straight to the point. “How’s Professor McDonald? Is he going to pull through?”
Dr. Tanenbaum traced a long finger across his balding pate. “It’s too early to tell. He went into cardiac arrest a few minutes ago, but we were able to get his heart back into a proper rhythm.”
“Cardiac arrest! He was shot, not fat!”
“A lot of things can cause a heart attack, Jim. You’re right. He was shot. But the gunshot put his system into shock, and that put too much stress on his heart. The result, unfortunately, was cardiac arrest. It’s not uncommon.”
Westfall popped the final piece of nicotine gum into his mouth. His jaw was as tight as a slingshot. “What’s the prognosis? What should I tell the president?”
Doctors didn’t like to be put on the spot, and Dr. Morris Tanenbaum was no different from any of the others. However, the person asking the question through his right-hand man, Jim Westfall, was very different: he was the president of the United States.
Dr. Tanenbaum said, “The prognosis isn’t good, I’m sorry to say. The gunshot wound was bad enough, but a heart attack is always dangerous. On the plus side, Professor McDonald is a relatively young man, and he kept— keeps , sorry—himself in good shape. He looks more like thirty-five than forty-five.”
“So you’re saying that the president should find another nominee?” Westfall was devastated at the prospect. McDonald was the perfect nominee—until he got shot, that is.
“It’s not my place to say that, obviously. But as a doctor, and as a friend to the president, it is my place to say that this particular nominee might not be alive to serve.”
CHAPTER 26
The nurse studied the monitors above Peter McDonald’s bed. She entered the data onto the patient’s chart. She returned to her chair in the corner of the room.
Normally, the nurse would have left to check on her other patients. But McDonald wasn’t a normal patient; he was
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