Jean sat in the back of the courtroom listening to the evidence mount against her husband—alcoholism, loss of nerve, problems with the credentialing committee, eagerness to return to the operating room even at the expense of a child. Paul sat beside his cadre of attorneys, stoic.
Once he glanced her way, but it was not the look of a husband seeking solace from a loving wife: it was a look of concern for her well-being. The knowledge, coming upon Jean with such conviction in the crowded courtroom, devastated her. She'd never wanted to be pitied. She'd never wanted to be weak, someone to be cared for and watched after and chained to.
She got her handkerchief out of her purse and pressed it to her trembling lips. How selfish, to cry for herself and not for her husband.
Sitting beside her, Maggie leaned over to whisper, "Are you all right?"
Even her best friend, who was burdened with guilt and worry over Beth Ann, still worried about her. Jean felt as if the shame of her weakness were stamped on her forehead in black Greek letters, the mark of a coward.
"I'm fine." She smiled to show that she meant it.
Blake, whose turn to be crucified had not yet come, sat beside his lawyers, looking pompous and self-satisfied.. Watching him, Jean was astonished that she'd ever thought him attractive in the first place, and appalled that she'd let him back into her life. She shuddered to think of the times she'd called begging him to come.
When this was all over, she had a lot of soul searching to do.
o0o
Sitting beside Jeffy's bed, Susan read news of the trial. Fear for Paul gripped her so hard she felt the blood drain from her face.
"Can you sing me a song, Mommy?" Jeffy, much improved, was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, picking at his breakfast.
She folded the paper and took her station beside the tray. "I can, but first let's see how much my big boy can eat. Dr. Freelander says you can go home as soon as you're stronger."
"Will Aunt Jo be there?"
"She'll be there. And so will Grandma."
"Can I go home tomorrow?"
"Yes, sweetheart, tomorrow."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
Silently she prayed that it was a promise she could keep.
o0o
Dr. Scott Matthew came in late and switched on the television while he heated a can of soup. His kitchen was small and ultra-modern, exactly right for one man.
He hummed while the soup heated. Coming to Atlanta had been the right decision. Although he sometimes missed the ocean, he certainly didn't miss Blake Medical Center. Whithead Memorial in Atlanta had a far larger cardiology department, and with the larger staff there seemed to be fewer professional squabbles.
The news broadcast came on as he sat at the table with his soup and crackers. The top news story was a medical malpractice suit. Scott was only half listening when he heard the familiar names—Blake Medical Center, Dr. Paul Tyler, Mark Baxter.
His spoon clanked to the table, and he leaned toward the television, rapt. The reporter had been thorough: Paul's prominence in the field of cardiovascular surgery plus his recent alcoholism coupled with the lawsuit made juicy copy. Even the death of Paul's son was noted for the entertainment of the late night television viewers.
The evidence against him was stacked. The verdict seemed certain. Only a miracle could save him.
"Is Dr. Paul Tyler fresh out of miracles?" On that closing statement, the reporter smirked for the camera.
Scott left his soup getting cold on the table and reached for the telephone. Paul might be out of miracles, but he was not.