Yuki stepped back from the sink, thinking, So what if Maureen O’Mara was a somewhat pampered bitch?

She still wanted her to win.

She wanted her to win big.

Chapter 105

Chapter 105

LAWRENCE KRAMER STRAIGHTENED his papers as the judge took the bench and the bailiff called the court to order.

He felt strong, and he was eager to begin, glad that he’d gone for his five-mile run that morning, using that uninterrupted oasis of time to review his closing once again.

He was ready.

If it hadn’t been for that ass, Garza, he would have no doubt about how the verdict would go. That jerk-off was going to lose his job over this. But it would be small consolation if they lost.

Kramer stood as the judge called his name. He buttoned his midnight-blue suit jacket and greeted the jury warmly, as if he’d known them for years.

“There’s a big difference between human error and malpractice,” Kramer said, setting the tone for his closing.

“Think about what it’s like inside an emergency room. People coming in off the street, the sick and wounded, victims of falls, car accidents, people who are traumatized and sometimes can’t even speak.

“Think about the speed in which lifesaving decisions must be made even though the doctors don’t know the patients, don’t have their medical history in hand, and don’t have time to do exhaustive tests.

“When a doctor has to move quickly to save a life, he often has to make a judgment call.

“This is what I mean.

“A sixty-five-year-old woman, like your mother or mine, comes into the ER with a transient ischemic attack. It’s a small stroke and an arrhythmic heartbeat at the same time, and if not treated, she could die.

“One doctor decides to treat the condition with a blood thinner to break up the blood clot.

“Another doctor might decide that what’s best for that patient is to put in a pacemaker right away.

“That’s a judgment call.

“And either way, the decision that doctor makes carries risk; the patient could die in surgery or the patient could die from medication —”

“Kramer! I’m talking to you. You son of a bitch. You scum. Trivializing my son’s death.”

A man a few rows back from the defense table was on his feet, yelling at the top of his voice. It was Stephen Friedlander, father of the boy who had died from an insulin shot meant for his discharged roommate.

Friedlander’s face was gray and mottled, his muscles rigid as he stabbed his finger repeatedly at Kramer.

“Fuck you,” he said to Kramer.

Then he spun toward the defense table, jabbed his finger at each of the three attorneys on Kramer’s team, two young men and a woman, their faces blank with shock. “Fuck you! Fuck you! And fuck you!”