“And your patients, you would actually have them prepared for these types of results, right?”
“That’s right.”
“They wouldn’t be shocked to see something like this, because they really hadn’t intended to have reconstruction and implants put in, correct?”
“Yes, correct.”
“Thank you,” she says and tactfully places the board against the edge of her counsel table so the jury can still see it. She turns away from Dr. Summerland and walks back behind her table and reaches over the low wall again, grabbing another foam board. She walks it to me, I glance at it and nod my head, and she heads back to Summerland.
“Now, Dr. Summerland, you performed a breast-reduction surgery on my client, Jenna LaPietra. Correct?”
“Yes, I did,” he says confidently.
“And as we discussed, you’re not a plastic surgeon, are you?”
“No, I’m not.” Another cocky grin.
“You don’t have any advanced training like plastic surgeons do, say, in the contouring or shaping of tissue, do you?”
“No,” he says, his smile sliding just a tad.
“You know what my client does for a living?”
He nods but doesn’t answer. She doesn’t press him but instead asks, “You know she’s a topless dancer?”
“That’s right,” he says and actually sneers a little.
“Let me show you what I’ve marked as Plaintiff’s exhibit number two.”
Leary turns the board so Summerland and the jury get a simultaneous look at the huge color blowup of Jenna’s chest. Summerland isn’t affected by it. He’s seen this picture before, so his face remains bland.
The jury, however, is horrified. They wince and grimace, and one woman covers her mouth and turns her head away. Dr. Summerland still doesn’t understand how horrible the results are.
“Now, Dr. Summerland,” Leary says politely, “what is this a picture of?”
“That would be your client’s chest postsurgery,” he says calmly.
“And is it just me,” she asks sarcastically as she points to the other board that’s resting against the table, “or do these results look a lot like those of the mastectomy photo we just showed the jury?”
Now he gets it. I see understanding filter in.
He starts stumbling. “Well, actually, you can see I left a lot of breast tissue in Miss LaPietra’s case. She didn’t want them totally removed, you see—”
“And yet, the results look eerily similar, don’t they?” she prompts, but doesn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, she attacks. “I mean, look here at the craters left in Jenna’s breasts. Same as on the mastectomy photo. And the scar contractions pulling the skin? Same as well, right?”
“Yes,” he says angrily. “Those do look similar, but there are a lot of differences if you want to—”
“Dr. Summerland,” Leary snaps at him, and his eyes widen in surprise, “can you honestly look those jurors in the face and tell them that these are acceptable results for a topless dancer? Well, for any woman, really, who wants to keep her breasts?”
I look over at the jury and they’re all glaring at him, daring him to say Jenna’s results were acceptable.
Leary will go on to grill Dr. Summerland for another three hours and twenty minutes, but this moment will mark the beginning of Dr. Summerland’s breakdown into the worst testimony in the history of forever. He takes her attack so personally that he starts arguing with her. The judge has to reprimand him four times, even once calling a recess to dress him down in private.
By the time Leary gets done with Dr. Summerland, I have to restrain myself from not standing up, putting my fingers in my mouth, and giving a wolf whistle, followed by a slow clap of respect. By the time Dr. Summerland gets off the witness stand on shaky legs, I know every single juror hates the man with an undying passion.
I just hope they hold on to that feeling, because we still have days and days of trial to get through. This trial will go on for at least two weeks, maybe more. It’s a lot of time for them to forget what an utter douche my client is. I hope they remember how badly he fucked up and don’t focus instead on the testimony they’ll end up hearing last.
Because my witnesses will say that Jenna LaPietra was a paid prostitute.
CHAPTER 21
LEARY
“Thank you, Dr. Calloway,” I say politely as I sit back in my chair. “I have no further questions.”
Judge Henry looks over to Reeve. “Any re-cross, Mr. Holloway?”
“No, Your Honor,” he says with a polite smile. I didn’t expect he would. Dr. Calloway is my expert witness, a general surgeon from Duke. During my direction examination of him, he told the jury in no uncertain terms that Dr. Summerland had no business whatsoever in attempting a breast reduction. He told the jury that general surgeons are not qualified to do that type of surgery. He told the jury this after he made it clear that he taught a course in advanced medical ethics for general surgeons at Duke, and that Dr. Summerland actually took that course a few years ago as part of his continuing-education requirements. I tried hard not to look at Dr. Summerland when Dr. Calloway actually pointed at him from the stand and said, “Dr. Summerland should remember that we specifically discussed the boundaries that general surgeons are not to cross.”
It was freakin’ glorious.
As expected, Reeve’s cross-examination of Dr. Calloway was short. He did his best to poke holes in his firm stance, even getting Dr. Calloway to admit there was no law or rule against what Dr. Summerland did. It was an effective cross, as much as he could expect against this type of expert, but he knew not to push more when Judge Henry asked him if he had any further questions.
The judge releases Dr. Calloway, who gives a polite smile to the jurors as he steps off the witness stand. I start to stand up to call my next witness, Dr. Franklinton, who’s a plastic surgeon at Duke. His testimony is going to focus on how complex a breast-reduction surgery is, and how it’s imperative to gently and delicately remove the tissue, paying fine attention to sensitive shaping of the remaining breast. I expect it will highlight just how inept Dr. Summerland was when he butchered Jenna.
“Your Honor,” Reeve says as he stands up and I turn to look at him in surprise, “may we take a small break before the next witness?”
Judge Henry looks at me. “That’s fine with me.”
“Then we’ll take a ten-minute recess,” Judge Henry says, and rises from his seat to probably take a potty break of his own. The bailiff escorts out the jury members, who look grateful for the slight reprieve in testimony.
Reeve doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he huddles at his table with Dr. Summerland, Tom Collier, and two of the other insurance representatives. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter. I’m flipping through my notes to make sure I’m up to speed on everything I want to get out of Dr. Franklinton when he takes the stand.
I get so immersed in my work, I jump in shock when Reeve taps me on my shoulder. I look up at him, immediately covering up my notes with my hand. It’s not that I don’t trust Reeve—it’s just a habit I’ve developed in the courtroom. And to prove how much I do trust him, I remove my hand just as quickly.
He gives me a tight look and says, “If you have a moment, I need to talk to you and Judge Henry privately in his chambers.”