Read Online Three To Get Deadly by Paul Levine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Levine
Tags: Fiction / Thrillers
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knew more than the jurors—a travel agent, two housewives, a student, two retired businessmen—ever would. The impression I wanted to create was simple: Who are we to judge this man?
"I removed the disc material, the nucleus pulposus." Roger Stanton pointed to a chart we blew up to poster size. "In a herniated disc, it's like toothpaste that's been squeezed out of the tube. It's pushed out of the disc space and there's no putting it back."
Good imagery. It should have been. We practiced it for months.
"Then what did you do?" I asked.
"I removed the degenerative disc material with the rongeur."
"Was there anything unusual up to this point?"
"Nothing up to then or later," he said evenly. "The procedure was without incident."
"What were the patient's vital signs?"
"All normal. Blood pressure, pulse rate, breathing."
The anesthesiologist would confirm this when we read his deposition to the jury.
"You heard Dr. Watkins's testimony about the rongeur?"
"I did."
"Did anything unusual happen with the rongeur?"
"No, it never went through the disc space, certainly not around to the front of the aorta. In all respects the patient tolerated the surgery normally."
"When was the last time you saw Philip Corrigan?"
"I checked him in the recovery room and once later in his private room."
"And his condition?"
"Normal. No evidence of a mass in his abdomen, normal blood pressure, hemoglobin, and hematocrit. No sign of hemorrhage or aortic aneurysm."
I kept him up there a few minutes longer to say how surprised he was the next morning when he learned that Corrigan's aorta ruptured during the night. And, sounding sincere, he expressed regret at the death of his patient. I nodded gravely with my own look of sincerity, a look that took three years of law school, a dozen years of practice, and a couple Jimmy Stewart movies to perfect. Then I sat down, and Dan Cefalo stood up.
Cefalo was in a box. He had deposed everyone in the OR, and they all corroborated Stanton's testimony concerning Corrigan's vital signs. The aneurysm had not happened simultaneously with the surgery. Cefalo needed to convince the jury that Stanton nicked the front of the aorta, causing it to rupture ten hours later. No use asking Stanton whether that happened. He'd get a big fat no. He needed Watkins back for rebuttal testimony. But that would come later. Now, the jurors watched Cefalo, waiting to see if he could counter-punch.
Cefalo looked even worse than usual today. All the courthouse regulars knew that his trial wardrobe was a hoax, the result of a case he tried upstate years ago. In the wilds of Okeechobee County he had worn a sharkskin suit when defending a man accused of stealing fruit from an orange grove, a felony akin to cattle rustling in the Old West. The prosecutor was a good old boy and in closing argument told the jury that they could listen to him or they could listen to that Mia-muh lawyer in the shiny suit. They listened to the good old boy.
Dan Cefalo learned his lesson. He stripped off the Rolex and the pinky ring and left the silk ties at home. He wore a selection of suits that the Salvation Army couldn't give away. As he won bigger verdicts, his clothes became more decrepit.
Today, though, it wasn't the clothing. Cefalo was pale and nervous. He came to court with a jagged square of toilet paper sticking to his chin. A spot of blood shone through. Hands shaky this morning, my man? He kept huddling with a young lawyer and two paralegals from his office. I picked up only three words of their conversation. "He here yet?" Cefalo asked. The young lawyer shook his head.
Cefalo started his cross-examination by asking whether it might be possible to pierce the aorta and not be aware of it.
"Not likely," Stanton replied. "You watch how far you insert the rongeur and when you meet resistance, you stop."
I sneaked a look at Melanie Corrigan, who sat with legs demurely crossed at the ankles. She wore a simple black linen dress, probably to
"I removed the disc material, the nucleus pulposus." Roger Stanton pointed to a chart we blew up to poster size. "In a herniated disc, it's like toothpaste that's been squeezed out of the tube. It's pushed out of the disc space and there's no putting it back."
Good imagery. It should have been. We practiced it for months.
"Then what did you do?" I asked.
"I removed the degenerative disc material with the rongeur."
"Was there anything unusual up to this point?"
"Nothing up to then or later," he said evenly. "The procedure was without incident."
"What were the patient's vital signs?"
"All normal. Blood pressure, pulse rate, breathing."
The anesthesiologist would confirm this when we read his deposition to the jury.
"You heard Dr. Watkins's testimony about the rongeur?"
"I did."
"Did anything unusual happen with the rongeur?"
"No, it never went through the disc space, certainly not around to the front of the aorta. In all respects the patient tolerated the surgery normally."
"When was the last time you saw Philip Corrigan?"
"I checked him in the recovery room and once later in his private room."
"And his condition?"
"Normal. No evidence of a mass in his abdomen, normal blood pressure, hemoglobin, and hematocrit. No sign of hemorrhage or aortic aneurysm."
I kept him up there a few minutes longer to say how surprised he was the next morning when he learned that Corrigan's aorta ruptured during the night. And, sounding sincere, he expressed regret at the death of his patient. I nodded gravely with my own look of sincerity, a look that took three years of law school, a dozen years of practice, and a couple Jimmy Stewart movies to perfect. Then I sat down, and Dan Cefalo stood up.
Cefalo was in a box. He had deposed everyone in the OR, and they all corroborated Stanton's testimony concerning Corrigan's vital signs. The aneurysm had not happened simultaneously with the surgery. Cefalo needed to convince the jury that Stanton nicked the front of the aorta, causing it to rupture ten hours later. No use asking Stanton whether that happened. He'd get a big fat no. He needed Watkins back for rebuttal testimony. But that would come later. Now, the jurors watched Cefalo, waiting to see if he could counter-punch.
Cefalo looked even worse than usual today. All the courthouse regulars knew that his trial wardrobe was a hoax, the result of a case he tried upstate years ago. In the wilds of Okeechobee County he had worn a sharkskin suit when defending a man accused of stealing fruit from an orange grove, a felony akin to cattle rustling in the Old West. The prosecutor was a good old boy and in closing argument told the jury that they could listen to him or they could listen to that Mia-muh lawyer in the shiny suit. They listened to the good old boy.
Dan Cefalo learned his lesson. He stripped off the Rolex and the pinky ring and left the silk ties at home. He wore a selection of suits that the Salvation Army couldn't give away. As he won bigger verdicts, his clothes became more decrepit.
Today, though, it wasn't the clothing. Cefalo was pale and nervous. He came to court with a jagged square of toilet paper sticking to his chin. A spot of blood shone through. Hands shaky this morning, my man? He kept huddling with a young lawyer and two paralegals from his office. I picked up only three words of their conversation. "He here yet?" Cefalo asked. The young lawyer shook his head.
Cefalo started his cross-examination by asking whether it might be possible to pierce the aorta and not be aware of it.
"Not likely," Stanton replied. "You watch how far you insert the rongeur and when you meet resistance, you stop."
I sneaked a look at Melanie Corrigan, who sat with legs demurely crossed at the ankles. She wore a simple black linen dress, probably to
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