Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(11)

“Then how do we prove he caused the deaths recklessly or otherwise, if he didn’t touch Grace or the baby?”

“The whole point is that he acted recklessly by drinking and not responding to the pages when he was the doctor on call that night. When a uterine rupture occurs, the medical literature says they have between ten and thirty minutes to get the baby out and attend to the mother. If he hadn’t been drunk, he would have been there and would have been able to take care of her. Instead, he got there late and he was drunk. They had to wait for another doc to show up, and by that time, it was too late.”

“And he hires a defense expert who comes into court, a highly paid medical whore, to testify it was something entirely different that killed Grace and the baby. They’ll say the birthing center or the OB-GYN group should have a backup doctor on call and immediately available. We get into a war of experts, the jury goes to sleep, and we’re dead in the water. Who made the call that Fraturra couldn’t do the surgery?”

“What? You mean when he finally showed up?”

“Right. Which doctor or medical administrator gave the order that Dr. Fraturra was too intoxicated to operate on Grace and the baby?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I know I told him right there in Grace’s room that there was no way he was touching Grace. He was shit-faced, Stephen. He smelled like a distillery, his eyes were red and bloodshot, his speech was slurred. The guy was too drunk to be driving a car, let alone cutting open a human being and performing surgery in a life-and-death situation.”

“Was he stumbling? How long did you talk to him? Did you know it was a life-and-death situation at the time?”

“I’ve been around enough drunks in my life to know the difference between somebody who’s had a couple of beers and somebody who’s half in the bag. And, no, I didn’t know it was life or death at the time, but that wouldn’t have mattered. No way was that drunk touching Grace.”

“So maybe you killed her,” he said.

He was stone-faced when he said it. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He must have sensed something from the look on my face, because he held up his hands.

“Take it easy,” he said. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate. That’s what the defense is going to say, Darren, and you know it. They’ll say he was fine and you interfered. They’ll blame it on you. Think about it, Darren. What do you really want here?”

“I read the preliminary autopsy report, Stephen. My daughter suffocated. Grace bled to death from hemorrhage. All of it was preventable if only he hadn’t abdicated his responsibilities as a doctor that night and decided to go get drunk. You can prove this case. And as far as what I want . . . I want the scales evened.”

“You want justice.”

“Call it what you like.”

His intercom buzzed, and he picked up the phone on his desk, muttered a few words, and put it back down.

“Used up my allotted time?” I said. “Important meeting to go to?”

“I’m sorry, Darren. I can’t bring a criminal prosecution under these circumstances.”

“And you won’t even authorize an investigation?”

He shook his head and stood.

“It’d be a waste of time. It was good to see you again. My deepest sympathies for your loss.”

I stayed in the chair and smiled at him.

“Turns out Grace was right,” I said through clenched teeth. I wanted to tear his precious chandelier down and strangle him with the shiny strands of fake crystal beads.

“Leave, Darren.”

“Fuck you. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me you’re going to do the right thing and go after the man who killed my Grace and my baby.”

“I mean it, Darren. I know you’re upset, but if you don’t get up and walk out the door right now, I’ll have you arrested.”

“For what? Exercising my constitutional right to free speech? The right that allows me to tell the elected district attorney general he’s a gutless piece of shit?”

I stood slowly as he reached for his phone.

“Fraturra could have prevented two deaths just by doing his job,” I said.

“Sue him, Darren. Get a good medical malpractice lawyer and sue him.”

I looked at him and said very slowly, “You could prevent one by doing yours.” There was no mistaking what I meant.

I turned to walk out of the office when he said, “What was that? Was that some kind of cryptic threat to kill Dr. Fraturra, Darren?”

I stopped and turned back to face him. The statement was so obvious, the question so idiotic. My psyche was in slow-burn mode, and I knew where it would lead. Fraturra wouldn’t last long, and the way I was feeling, Morris might just join him.

“You have no balls. Grace had you pegged.”





CHAPTER 7

The Portal was one of those risky ventures for entrepreneurs. You hire a high-dollar chef, build out a first-class bar and restaurant in an expensive space surrounded by even more expensive spaces, you call your bartenders “mixologists” and stock the bar with expensive wine and spirits, you charge extravagant prices, you cater to young professionals—many with expense accounts—and hope people come. If they do, you clean up. If they don’t, well, it’s off to bankruptcy court.