Vera Bundle’s face didn’t change. It remained rigid with fear. Her trembling hand reached out as though hypnotized and took the glass of poisoned Madeira from the doctor. She didn’t seem to have any control over her appendages. Both arms were shaking, as were her legs. The hand that took the glass shook so much that the liquid contents splashed on Vera’s skirt, the dour doctor’s skirt, and on the floor. It wasn’t done on purpose. Vera had simply lost control of her body functions. Dr. Wax-Dupee watched a gray stain spread across Vera’s skirt and onto the seat cushion between Vera’s legs. There was also a terribly unpleasant smell onstage. The atrocious stink drifted toward the audience.

Vera looked at the doctor and asked through her tears, “Why are you letting them do this to me? Why are you letting me die? You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Isn’t your behavior against some medical code? Aren’t you supposed to heal, not murder? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Isn’t it against the law to punish an innocent, God-fearing, good Christian human being? Don’t let me die. Please, don’t let me die.”

More annoyed than impressed by Vera Bundle’s diatribe, Dr. Wax-Dupee refilled Vera’s goblet from a nearby decanter. This time the doctor held the glass for Vera as though she were an invalid and force-fed her the Madeira, practically pouring it down the woman’s throat. Vera gulped and gulped until the glass was empty. Dr. Wax-Dupee removed the empty goblet and placed it on the nearby table. Dr. Lizabeth Wax-Dupee’s expression and slight sneer expressed triumph, as if she had just accomplished something very special.

Vera cried openly now.

Several members of the audience walked out of the studio.

Vera tried to say something nobody heard. She was already too weak to speak.

Dr. Wax-Dupee smiled as warmly as she could at Vera, which wasn’t very warm, but didn’t say a word. Dr. Wax-Dupee was a dark complected woman with a pointed nose that jutted out over an incipient mustache. In profile, her mouth and chinless chin angled sharply downward. Sort of to the southeast. She was apparently devoid of both a chin and feelings. The doctor placed a handkerchief over her nose and walked swiftly offstage.

The doctor’s husband, Clifford Dupee, the retired chief operating officer of global computer products, had joined the producer and his lawyer, Sigmond Levy, and the show’s staff in the control room. They all settled in to watch Vera Bundle die.

The audience chanting of “Let Vera go” had dwindled to a sparse voice here and there, and then nothing. The chanting was over. The audience couldn’t help themselves. They had become tranquilized by the bizarre event taking place in front of their eyes. They too watched, waiting for Vera Bundle to die.

Vera began to twitch.