Middle Ages, ex visitatione divina ."
I smiled at Dr. Riggs. He smiled back at me. The jury smiled at both of us. One big happy family.
I was nearly through but had one more little surprise for Dan Cefalo. A nail in the coffin. I handed Riggs Plaintiff's Exhibit Three, a composite of Philip Corrigan's medical history. "Dr. Riggs, did Philip Corrigan have any prior medical abnormalities?"
Charlie Riggs scanned the document but already knew the answer from our preparation sessions. "Yes, he was previously diagnosed by a cardiologist as having some degree of arteriosclerosis."
"And the effect of such a disease?"
"Weakening of the arteries, susceptibility to aneurysm. Men in their fifties or beyond commonly show signs of arterial disease. Blame the typical American diet of saturated fats, too much beef and butter. In that condition, Mr. Corrigan could have had an artery blow out at any time."
"At any time," I repeated, just in case they missed it.
"Yes, without a trauma, just watching TV, eating dinner, any time."
"Thank you, Doctor." I nodded toward the witness stand in deference to the wisdom that had filled the courtroom. Then I turned toward Dan Cefalo, and with the placid assurance of a man who has seen the future and owns a fine chunk of it, I gently advised him, "Your witness, Counselor."
Cefalo stood up and his suitcoat fell open, revealing a dark stain of red ink under his shirt pocket, the trail of an uncapped marking pen. Or a self-inflicted wound.
His cross-examination fell flat. He scored a meaningless point getting Riggs to admit that he was not an orthopedic surgeon and had never performed a laminectomy. "But I've done thousands of autopsies, and that's how you determine cause of death," Riggs quickly added.
"You testified that trauma could cause the rupture, did you not?" Cefalo asked.
"Yes, I can't tell you how many drivers I saw in the morgue in the days before seat belts. In a collision, the steering wheel can hit the chest and abdomen with such force as to rupture the aorta. That, of course, is trauma from the front."
"But a misguided rongeur could produce the kind of trauma to rupture the aorta?"
Hit me again, Cefalo seemed to plead.
"It could, but not in the front of the blood vessel when the surgeon is coming in from the back," Riggs said.
Cefalo wouldn't call it quits. "The thoracic surgeon was working under conditions of extreme emergency trying to do the repair, was he not?"
"I assume so," Riggs said.
"And in such conditions, he could have made a mistake as to the location of the rupture, could he not?"
Riggs smiled a gentle, fatherly smile. "Every piece of evidence ever adduced in a courtroom could be the product of a mistake. Your witnesses could all be wrong. Mr. Lassiter's witnesses could all be wrong. But it's all we've got, and there's nothing to indicate the rupture was anywhere but where the chest buster—excuse me, the thoracic surgeon—said, the anterior of die aorta."
Fine. Outstanding. I couldn't have said it better myself. Cefalo sat down without laying a glove on him. It was after one o'clock and we had not yet recessed for lunch. Judge Leonard was fidgeting.
"Noting the lateness of the hour, perhaps this is an opportune time to adjourn for the day," the judge said. Translation: There's a stakes race at Hialeah and I've got a tip from a jockey who hasn't paid alimony since his divorce fell into my division last year. "Hearing no objection, court stands adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning."
Roger Stanton was beaming. He didn't look like a man who wanted to lose. It had been a fine morning of lawyering, and I was feeling pretty full of myself. In the back of the courtroom I caught a glimpse of Susan Corrigan wearing a Super Bowl nylon jacket over a T-shirt. She eyed me as if I'd just spit in church.
I told Roger Stanton I'd treat him to stone crabs, home fries, and cold beer for lunch. Time for a mini-celebration. Time, too, for some questions I needed to
I smiled at Dr. Riggs. He smiled back at me. The jury smiled at both of us. One big happy family.
I was nearly through but had one more little surprise for Dan Cefalo. A nail in the coffin. I handed Riggs Plaintiff's Exhibit Three, a composite of Philip Corrigan's medical history. "Dr. Riggs, did Philip Corrigan have any prior medical abnormalities?"
Charlie Riggs scanned the document but already knew the answer from our preparation sessions. "Yes, he was previously diagnosed by a cardiologist as having some degree of arteriosclerosis."
"And the effect of such a disease?"
"Weakening of the arteries, susceptibility to aneurysm. Men in their fifties or beyond commonly show signs of arterial disease. Blame the typical American diet of saturated fats, too much beef and butter. In that condition, Mr. Corrigan could have had an artery blow out at any time."
"At any time," I repeated, just in case they missed it.
"Yes, without a trauma, just watching TV, eating dinner, any time."
"Thank you, Doctor." I nodded toward the witness stand in deference to the wisdom that had filled the courtroom. Then I turned toward Dan Cefalo, and with the placid assurance of a man who has seen the future and owns a fine chunk of it, I gently advised him, "Your witness, Counselor."
Cefalo stood up and his suitcoat fell open, revealing a dark stain of red ink under his shirt pocket, the trail of an uncapped marking pen. Or a self-inflicted wound.
His cross-examination fell flat. He scored a meaningless point getting Riggs to admit that he was not an orthopedic surgeon and had never performed a laminectomy. "But I've done thousands of autopsies, and that's how you determine cause of death," Riggs quickly added.
"You testified that trauma could cause the rupture, did you not?" Cefalo asked.
"Yes, I can't tell you how many drivers I saw in the morgue in the days before seat belts. In a collision, the steering wheel can hit the chest and abdomen with such force as to rupture the aorta. That, of course, is trauma from the front."
"But a misguided rongeur could produce the kind of trauma to rupture the aorta?"
Hit me again, Cefalo seemed to plead.
"It could, but not in the front of the blood vessel when the surgeon is coming in from the back," Riggs said.
Cefalo wouldn't call it quits. "The thoracic surgeon was working under conditions of extreme emergency trying to do the repair, was he not?"
"I assume so," Riggs said.
"And in such conditions, he could have made a mistake as to the location of the rupture, could he not?"
Riggs smiled a gentle, fatherly smile. "Every piece of evidence ever adduced in a courtroom could be the product of a mistake. Your witnesses could all be wrong. Mr. Lassiter's witnesses could all be wrong. But it's all we've got, and there's nothing to indicate the rupture was anywhere but where the chest buster—excuse me, the thoracic surgeon—said, the anterior of die aorta."
Fine. Outstanding. I couldn't have said it better myself. Cefalo sat down without laying a glove on him. It was after one o'clock and we had not yet recessed for lunch. Judge Leonard was fidgeting.
"Noting the lateness of the hour, perhaps this is an opportune time to adjourn for the day," the judge said. Translation: There's a stakes race at Hialeah and I've got a tip from a jockey who hasn't paid alimony since his divorce fell into my division last year. "Hearing no objection, court stands adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning."
Roger Stanton was beaming. He didn't look like a man who wanted to lose. It had been a fine morning of lawyering, and I was feeling pretty full of myself. In the back of the courtroom I caught a glimpse of Susan Corrigan wearing a Super Bowl nylon jacket over a T-shirt. She eyed me as if I'd just spit in church.
I told Roger Stanton I'd treat him to stone crabs, home fries, and cold beer for lunch. Time for a mini-celebration. Time, too, for some questions I needed to
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