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tiny his office was;
perhaps a quarter the size of a junior partner s at major law firms. His
salary, too, was about a third as much as he d have made in the private
sector, even accounting for government benefits attendant to his posi-tion.
The office reminded her of a principal reason why she d opted to marry Noah:
Brandon was smart, and such a great guy, but he still had no ambition.
She gazed across the chaos of Brandon s desk and stared di-rectly into the
dark brown eyes that had always drawn her to this earnest face. It was the
face of a man who d once loved her deeply, a friendly face, youthful for its
thirty-five years; the seldom encountered, unstressed face of a lawyer who d
never compromised principle for unearned rewards.
She answered without hesitation: I m sure of it, Brandon.
Sorry I have to ask you this, Jan, but have you and Noah filed a civil
lawsuit against Dr. Fiske?
Jan answered exactly as Noah had coached her: No.
Do you intend to?
We haven t decided. To tell the truth, I doubt he has much money. Which, I
fear, is why he killed him.
Noah smiled.
How so? Brandon asked.
Dad left him $200,000.
I see. Were they close friends?
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Supposedly.
Any other evidence that Dr. Fiske intended to kill your fa-ther; something
less, er, speculative?
An eyewitness saw him slip an empty syringe had to be morphine into his
pocket immediately after Dad s heart stopped beating.
Oh? Have you asked Dr. Fiske about the syringe?
His lawyer would never let him answer my questions.
How soon would your father have died without the morphine?
According to Fiske, he only had a few hours left. But I don t accept that.
Anybody else examine him?
My sister Maxine was there. She s a family doctor now. And the paramedics who
drove him to the hospital. And those three so-called cryonic technicians, but
that was after he was al-ready dead.
Cryonic?
Yeah. They froze his body. She shook her head. Nutty, huh? Can t imagine
how they conned him into signing up for that.
Brandon ignored the comment. And what do your sister and the paramedics say
about your father s condition?
At the time, they took Fiske s word for it. But Max only saw his charts she
never really examined
Dad and paramedics aren t qualified to offer a prognosis. Fiske is the only
one with enough medical background to understand what he saw, and who also
observed Dad s condition firsthand. Jan s tone was strident, as if reciting
unarguable fact. Again Noah smiled.
I see, Brandon said. Is it possible Dr. Fiske was merely helping
your father end his life? An assisted suicide? We see a lot of that.
That s probably what he ll say it was, if he admits to anything at all. But
there s only one way we ll ever know for sure.
Which is?
Jan glanced at Noah, who nodded only once this time. To perform an autopsy on
my father.
That would make sense, Brandon said. Does Dr. Fiske have an attorney?
I d bet Pat Webster s firm ends up handling his case, Noah said.
They re representing the Trust my father set up to fund cry-onic suspensions
for everyone in our family. Jan rolled her eyes. Fiske is the trustee.
Besides, Noah added, I doubt he knows any other attorneys except his
divorce lawyer.
I see, the ADA said. Well, I ll call Webster and let you know what
happens.
As soon as Jan and Noah left, Brandon placed a call to Patrick Webster s
office. Webster called back twenty minutes later.
What can I do for you, Mr. Butters?
Mr. Webster, are you representing Tobias Fiske?
Not formally. Does he need representation?
I d say so. A murder complaint has just been filed against him by Jan Smith.
That s ridiculous.
Possibly, but you understand I can t ignore such an allega-tion. I must also
tell you that Ms. Smith is a personal friend, so if you d prefer, I ll
reassign this case to another ADA.
I doubt that ll be necessary, Webster said. There was no sense making the
decision too early. He could always move to disqualify him later if he became
too big a pain in the ass. Let me call Dr. Fiske and get his side of the
story. Can I drop by your office this afternoon? Say, half past three?
Not a problem.
The two men had never met before, but Pat Webster had already grilled two of
his partners. Brandon
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Butters, he d learned, was fair, principled, smart, and too nice a guy for the
job; a man whose objective was justice, not glory. Webster knew that to deal
effectively with such a man, he would have to forget every-thing he d ever
learned about prosecutors. The thought both disturbed and inspired him.
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