Dr. Strack touched her face while she considered her words. She was wearing a wedding ring with a diamond chip the size of a bread crumb, the kind of ring that said 'I married my high school sweetheart when we had next to nothing but big love.' It made Tommy feel a little better about her.
"Probably quite a bit," she said. "The quicker the autopsy was done, the easier it would be to rule out postmortem redistribution. And of course, analysis of the stomach contents gets more difficult, because the gastric juices continue to erode what's there. It'd be harder to find a pill, or to identify the phenelzine or even what she ate, including products that contain tyramine. But again, a pathologist could give you a better answer."
Brand cut in. "Okay, but if somebody fed her a lot of cheese and then gave her a couple of pills, and then let the body cool for a day-that would make the phenelzine poisoning harder to establish reliably."
"Theoretically," said Dr. Strack, in character.
Tommy ran the whole thing back in his mind. "And we missed this initially because-?"
"Because MAO inhibitors aren't covered on a routine tox screen."
"And which of the pills in her medicine cabinet, at least the ones with a known toxicity-which of them aren't covered on a routine tox screen?" Brand asked.
Dr. Strack checked her file. "This is the only one. The sedatives, the antianxiety drugs, the antidepressants. They're all regularly screened. With her medical history, the phenelzine wouldn't stand out. If you didn't have toxic levels of anything else, you wouldn't expect it with that, either."
Molto asked some more questions, but the little doctor was gone in a minute.
"Fuckin little squirrel," Brand said as soon as he had closed the door behind her.
"Better to know now," Molto told him. "Did you check the transcript in Harnason?"
Brand nodded. Tooley had talked about phenelzine, among dozens of compounds, when he'd crossed Dr. Strack at trial. Mel had been attempting to show that not even an experienced toxicologist knew which drugs were included on the regular screening, let alone poor Harnason. Tooley's cross-examination, including his mention of phenelzine, had been summarized in the Statement of Facts in Harnason's brief to the court of appeals. So Rusty knew. They'd have no trouble proving that.
Tommy had felt his adrenaline rising throughout the conversation, and now he sat back in the PA's big chair with the aim of calming himself and thinking more carefully.
"This is great stuff, Jimmy," he finally said, "but no matter who our toxicologist is, we'll never prove the cause of death."
Brand argued the case. A girlfriend. Visiting Prima Dana. Asking Harnason what it felt like to poison somebody. Letting the body cool a day so the phenelzine and everything else would rot in her gut.
"You can't make him for murder, Jim, without proving beyond a reasonable doubt that she was killed intentionally." This was the problem he'd predicted to Brand from the outset. If you assume somebody as smart and experienced as Rusty Sabich did a thing like this, then you had to realize he'd make himself bulletproof. The reality that Sabich might have killed Barbara and would beat it anyway took Tommy down like a stone.
Brand wasn't ready to quit.
"I want to put a subpoena and a ninety-day letter on the pharmacy. See if Rusty connects to the phenelzine at all."
Tommy waved a hand, giving Jimmy carte blanche.
"We're this close." Brand's thumb and index finger were nearly touching.
The acting PA just shook his head and smiled at him sadly.
CHAPTER 13
Anna, September 2, 2008
All my life, I've seemed to have a talent for catastrophic blunders, errors that have set me back years at a time. I started at least two careers-in advertising and then, after my MBA, in marketing-that never suited me, and I've always fallen for the wrong guys. When I was twenty-two, I married a man who just really wasn't very interesting-we stayed together all of seventy-two days-and I've made worse mistakes than that, especially a couple of wild affairs with married guys where the tragic outcome was as clear as if somebody had written me the message that appeared in Daniel's cave.
Like everybody else, I'm inclined to blame my failings on my parents, a father who skipped at the age of six and hasn't been much more than a Christmas card since and a mom who, while loving, often seemed to expect me to raise her. I was eight years old and setting an alarm so I could get her up to go to work. Somehow I grew up inclined to think that anything she might not approve of was worth a second look.
But what I'm about to do is staggering even measured against my own history. After hanging up with Rusty, I look at the phone in my hand and wonder how dangerous and crazy I really am.
One of my law school profs liked to say that most of the world's troubles start with real estate, which is certainly true here. Last June, I decided to buy a condo. I loved the idea of finally having something of my own, but from the instant I signed the contract, the globe seemed to descend into economic panic. Within a week, my roommate, who had agreed to take over the lease on my current apartment, got laid off and decided to move in instead with his boyfriend. At work there were suddenly whispers about falling revenues and axing associates and even partners. I could see myself at Christmas, with no job but suddenly getting all kinds of experience in court, because I would be defending myself in foreclosure, eviction, and bankruptcy proceedings.
Right after the Fourth of July, I sent out an e-mail blast and posted my apartment for sublease everywhere I could think of, including, with the help of a young partner's wife, on the internal website of the state supreme court. My place is less than two blocks from the court and would be perfect for an incoming law clerk. I got back this e-mail the same afternoon:
FROM: NatchReally1@clearcast.net
TO: AnnaC402@gmail.com
Sent: Wednesday, 7/9/08 12:09 pm
Subject: Re: My Apartment
Hey Anna-
I saw your post. Very cool to know you are doing well. I can't even imagine owning a condo, frankly. A galaxy far far away.
Anyway, how much of a pain would it be if I took a quick peek at your place next weekend? I have been living with three of my friends in a house in Keh-wahnee, but the show is over in September, since two of them are getting married. I still have not decided what I am doing when my clerkship ends-I know, I'm about eight months late-but I am still considering an offer from a firm, and if I do that, I can probably afford my own apartment. I haven't really looked, but seeing a familiar name made me think I should. If I love your place, that could help me decide on a job. I know that is totally backward, but I've gotten nowhere trying to make decisions like a normal person. And even if I don't take it, I can rave about it to the new clerks who are still looking.
Let me know if you'll have time.Nat Sabich
I had some second thoughts about this, but desperation has its own logic and I couldn't figure out a good excuse to tell him no. He came through the door at eleven the next Sunday morning in jeans and a T-shirt, a good three to four inches taller than his dad, lean and shockingly beautiful, with the scads of black hair and Aegean blue eyes and a cute little flavor saver under his lip. He cruised through, telling me how great the place was, even though I knew he'd be saying that if there were bats hanging from the ceiling, and finally had a cup of coffee with me out on my little balcony, where I was able to show him how to lean the right way to get a great view of the Center City and the river.
'Sweet,' he declared, and took off his shoes and wiggled his bare toes on the rail.
I have always liked Nat, who I got to know when he visited his dad. He's so gorgeous, you sometimes feel half-afraid to look at him for fear your jaw will drop, but he's too awkward and self-conscious ever to be called cool. He's guileless in an appealing way. You meet so few people who actually seem sincere instead of acting the part.