The judge glared at Randolph for a beat to suggest he didn't like or need to be reminded of preliminary motions. Looking down, he touched his index finger to his tongue before searching through the pages in his hands. The way he moved suggested he was vexed, as if Randolph 's comment had awakened the renowned disdain he had for lawyers in general. He cleared his throat before saying, "Motions for dismissal denied. It is also the court's feeling that none of the proposed witnesses or evidence is either too graphic or too complex for the jury's ability to consider it. Consequently, all motions in limine denied." He raised his eyes and again glowered at Randolph as if saying "Take that," before switching his gaze to the court officer. "Bring in the venire! We have work to do." He was also known as a judge who liked to move things along.

As if on cue, an expectant murmur arose again from the spectators beyond the bar. But they didn't have long to converse. The clerk rapidly pulled sixteen names from the jury hopper, and the court officer went to fetch the people selected from the jury pool. Within minutes, the sixteen were escorted into the room and sworn to begin the voir dire. The assemblage was visibly disparate, and almost equally divided between the sexes. Although the majority was Caucasian, other minorities were represented. Approximately three-quarters were dressed appropriately and respectfully, with half of them businessmen or businesswomen. The rest were attired in a mixture of T-shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, sandals, and hip-hop clothes, some of which had to be continuously hiked up to keep them from falling off. A few of the experienced venirepersons had brought reading material, mostly newspapers and magazines, although one late-middle-aged woman had a hardcover book. Some were awed by the surroundings, others brazenly dismissive, as the group filed into the jury box area and took their seats.

Judge Davidson gave a short introduction, during which he thanked the prospective jurors for their service and told them how important it was, since they were to be finders of fact. He briefly described the selection process despite knowing they had already been apprised of the same in the jury room. He then began asking a series of questions to determine suitability, with the hope of weeding out those jurors with particular bias that might prejudice them against either the plaintiff or the defendant. The goal was, he insisted, that justice be served.

"Justice, my ass!" Craig Bowman said to himself. He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. He had not been aware of how tense he'd been. He lifted his hands, which had been coiled into fists in his lap, and placed them on the table, leaning forward on his forearms. He opened his fingers and fully extended them, feeling more than hearing snapping from his complaining joints. He was dressed in one of his most conservative gray suits, white shirt, and tie, all on specific orders of his attorney, Randolph Bingham, seated to his immediate right.

Also on specific orders from his attorney, Craig kept his facial expression neutral, as difficult as that was in such a humiliating circumstance. He had been instructed to act dignified, respectful (whatever that meant), and humble. He was to guard against appearing arrogant and angry. Not appearing angry was the difficult part, since he was furious at the whole affair. He was also instructed to engage the jurors, to look them in the eyes, to consider them as acquaintances and friends. Craig laughed derisively to himself as his eyes scanned the prospective jurors. The idea that they were his peers was a sad joke. His eyes stopped on a waif-like female with blond, stringy hair that was all but hiding her pale pixie face. She was dressed in an oversized Patriots sweatshirt, the arms of which were so long that only the tips of her fingers were visible as she continuously parted her hair in front of her face, pulling it to the sides in order to see.

Craig sighed. The last eight months had been pure hell. When he'd been served with the summons the previous autumn, he'd guessed the affair was going to be bad, but it had been worse than he'd ever imagined. First there had been the interrogatories poking into every recess of his life. As bad as the interrogatories were, the depositions were worse.

Leaning forward, Craig looked over at the plaintiff's table and eyed Tony Fasano. Craig had disliked a few people in his life, but he had never hated anyone as much as he'd come to hate Tony Fasano. Even the way Tony looked and dressed, in his trendy gray suits, black shirts, black ties, and clunky gold jewelry added to his loathing. To Craig, Tony Fasano, appearing like a sleazy mafioso understudy, was the tawdry stereotype of the modern-day personal-injury, ambulance-chasing lawyer out to make a buck over someone else's misfortune by squeezing millions out of rich, reluctant insurance companies. To Craig's disgust, Tony even had a website bragging as much, and the fact that he might ruin a doctor's life in the process made no difference in the world.

Craig's eyes switched to Randolph 's aristocratic profile as the man concentrated on the voir dire proceeding. Randolph had a slightly hooked, high-bridged nose not too dissimilar to Tony's, but the effect was altogether different. Whereas Tony looked at you from beneath his dark, bushy eyebrows, his nose directed downward partially covering a cruel smirk on his lips, Randolph held his nose straight out in front, maybe slightly elevated, and regarded those around him with what could be considered by some to be mild disdain. And in contrast to Tony's full lips, which he wetted frequently with his tongue as he talked, Randolph 's mouth was a thin, precise line, nearly lipless, and when he talked, a tongue was all but invisible. In short, Randolph was the epitome of the seasoned and restrained Boston Brahmin, while Tony was the youthful and exuberant playground entertainer and bully. At first Craig had been pleased with the contrast, but now, looking at the prospective jurors, he couldn't help but wonder if Tony's persona would make more of a connection and have more influence. This new concern added to Craig's unease.

And there was plenty of reason for unease. Randolph 's reassurances notwithstanding, the case was not going well. Of particular note, it had been in essence already found for the plaintiff by the statutory Massachusetts tribunal, which had ruled after hearing testimony that there was sufficient, properly substantiated evidence of possible negligence to allow the case to go to trial. As a corollary to this finding, there was no need for the claimant, Jordan Stanhope, to post a bond.

The day that Craig had learned this news was the blackest for him of the whole pre-trial period, and unbeknownst to anyone, he had for the first time in his life considered the idea of suicide. Of course, Randolph had offered the same pabulum that Craig had been given initially; namely, that he should not take the minor defeat personally. Yet how could he not take the finding personally, since it had been rendered by a judge, a lawyer, and a physician colleague? These were not high-school dropouts or stultified blue-collar laborers; they were professionals, and the fact that they thought he had committed malpractice, meaning he had rendered care that was substandard, was a mortal blow to Craig's sense of honor and personal integrity. He had literally devoted his entire life to becoming the best doctor he could be, and he had succeeded, as evidenced by stellar grades in medical school, by stellar evaluations during the course of his residency at one of the most coveted institutions in the country, and even by the offer to become part of his current practice from a celebrated and widely renowned clinician. Yet these professionals were calling him a tortfeasor. In a very real sense, the entire image of his self-worth and self-esteem had been undermined and was now on the line.