"No!" Tony shouted. He grabbed Franco's arm from behind and pulled it down.

"Get the hell out of here!" Tony growled to Jack, holding back the enraged Franco like a handler with a mad dog. "If you screw up my case in any way, you'll be history. There's not going to be an autopsy."

Jack backed up until he bumped into the Hyundai. He didn't want to take his eyes off Franco, who was still not standing completely upright and still had the gun in his hand. Jack's legs felt rubbery from the adrenaline coursing around in his bloodstream.

Once in the car, he quickly started it. As he looked back at Tony and his sidekick, he caught sight of Jordan and Charlene standing in the doorway.

"You ain't seen the last of me," Franco yelled through Jack's open passenger-side window as Jack drove away.

For more than a quarter of an hour, Jack drove in a circuitous route through residential areas, taking turns haphazardly but not wanting to stop. He did not want anyone following him or finding him, particularly a large, black Cadillac. He knew he'd been stupid at the end of his visit to the Stanhope mansion. It had been a brief resurgence of the risk-taking, defiant personality that had emerged after the depression the plane crash and the loss of his family had caused. As he came down from the adrenaline rush, he felt weak. Totally lost but within sight of several street signs, he pulled over to the side of the road in the shade of a gigantic oak tree to get his bearings.

As he'd been driving, Jack had toyed with the idea of driving out to the airport, washing his hands of the whole affair, and flying back to New York. The burning skin on the left side of his face was an argument in favor, as was the fact that the possibility of doing an autopsy to help his sister and brother-in-law was now defunct. The other compelling argument was that his wedding was approaching at warp speed.

Yet Jack couldn't do it. Sneaking out of town was a cowardly thing to do. He picked up the Hertz map and tried to guess which main thoroughfare he should try to find and in which direction it would be. It wasn't easy, because the street he was on wasn't on the map. It was either too small or beyond the map's range. The problem was he didn't know which was the case.

Just as he was about to start driving again blindly to find a main street, his cell phone came to life. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out. He didn't recognize the number. He answered the call and said hello.

"Dr. Stapleton, this is Jordan Stanhope. Are you okay?"

"There have been happier times in my life, but basically I'm okay." Jack was taken aback by the call.

"I wanted to apologize for the way Mr. Fasano and his associate treated you at my home."

"Thank you," Jack said. He thought of other, more clever retorts, but he held his tongue.

"I saw you being slapped. I was impressed by your response."

"You shouldn't have been. It was an embarrassingly dim-witted thing to do, especially considering the man was armed."

"I felt he had it coming."

"I doubt he shares your opinion. That was my least favorite part of my visit."

"I've come to realize just how boorish Mr. Fasano is. It's embarrassing."

It's not too late to call off the hounds, Jack thought but did not say.

"I'm also questioning his tactics and his blithe disregard for finding the truth."

"Welcome to the legal profession," Jack said. "Unfortunately, in civil procedures, the goal is dispute resolution, not finding the truth."

"Well, I'm not going to be a party to it. I'll sign the exhumation permit."

By the time Jack got back to the Bowman residence, it was too late to consider going for exercise. He'd also missed dinner with the girls, who had retired to their respective rooms and were studying for their imminent final exams. Apparently, his presence was already commonplace because none of them came down to say hello. To make up for the girls, Alexis had been effusively welcoming but had immediately noticed the redness, bruising, and swelling on the left side of his face.

"What in heaven's name happened?" she had questioned with concern.

Jack had brushed her off, saying it was nothing, but offered to explain it later after he'd cleaned up. He'd changed the subject by asking for Craig. Alexis had told him merely that he was in the great room without elaborating.

Jack had jumped into the shower to wash away the day and now, as he got out, he wiped the mist from the bathroom mirror to look at his face. After the hot water, the redness was even more intense than it had been before. What he had not noticed was a small, bright crimson flame-shaped hemorrhage on the white, scleral part of his eye. Leaning closer to the mirror, he saw a few tiny subcutaneous hemorrhages over the lateral aspect of his cheekbone. There was no doubt that Franco had packed a wallop. Jack couldn't help but wonder how Franco looked, because Jack's palm was still tender from the impact, suggesting he'd hit him equally hard.

After a change of clothes, Jack tossed his laundry into the basket in the laundry room, per Alexis's instructions.

"How about some supper?" Alexis offered. She was standing in the kitchen area.

"That would be terrific," Jack said. "I'm starved. I never had time for lunch."

"We all had steaks from the grill, roasted potatoes, steamed asparagus, and salad. How does that sound?"

"Like a dream," Jack said.

During this exchange, Craig hadn't said a word. He was sitting forty feet away on the sofa in the great room, in exactly the same place he'd been that morning, but without the newspaper. He was dressed in the same clothes he'd had on during the day although the shirt was now wrinkled and its top collar button open and his tie loosened. Like a statue, he was staring at the flat-screen television, completely motionless. Jack wouldn't have thought anything abnormal except that the TV wasn't on. On the coffee table in front of him stood a half-empty bottle of scotch and an old-fashioned glass brimming with the amber fluid.

"What's he doing?" Jack asked, lowering his voice.

"What does it look like he's doing?" Alexis responded. "He's vegetating. He's depressed."

"How did the rest of the day go in court?"

"I'd have to say pretty much the same as the part you watched. That's why he's depressed. The plaintiff's first expert witness out of three testified. It was Dr. William Tardoff, who is chief of cardiology at the Newton Memorial Hospital."

"What kind of witness was he?"

"Unfortunately very credible, and he didn't talk down to the jurors. He was able to make it crystal clear why the first hour, even the first minutes, are so important for a heart-attack victim. After a number of attempted objections from Randolph, he was able to get it into the record that it was his opinion that Patience Stanhope's chances of survival had significantly decreased because of Craig's delay in confirming his diagnosis and getting her to the treatment facility – namely, the hospital."

"Sounds rather damning, especially coming from a department head in Craig's own hospital."

"Craig has reason to be depressed. Criticism from anyone is hard for a doctor to take, since they put themselves on the pedestal, but coming from a respected colleague is a quantum leap worse."

"Was Randolph able to reduce Dr. Tardoff's impact on cross-examination?"

"I'm sure, at least to an extent, but it's like he's always playing catch-up."

"It's the rule for the plaintiff to present his case first. Defense will have its time."

"The system doesn't seem fair, but it's not like we have an alternative."