"He's supposed to be incredibly gullible."
"How lucky for you, then, that you're a defendant," Fisher says dryly. "Speaking of which ... I don't believe we're going to put you on the stand."
"I wouldn't expect you to, after two psychiatrists testify." But I am thinking, I cannot take the stand now, not knowing what I know.
Fisher stops walking and faces me. "Before you start telling me how you think your defense ought to be handled, Nina, I want to remind you you're looking at insanity from a prosecutor's perspective, and I-"
"You know, Fisher," I interrupt, glancing at my watch, "I can't really talk about this today."
"Is the coach turning into a pumpkin?"
"I'm sorry. I just can't." My eyes slide away from his.
"You can't put it off forever. Your trial will start in January, and I'll be gone over the holidays with my family."
"Let me get examined first," I bargain. "Then we can sit down."
Fisher nods. I think of O'Brien, of whether I can convince him of my insanity. I wonder if, by then, it will be an act.
For the first time in a decade, Quentin takes a long lunch. No one will notice at the DA's office; they barely tolerate his presence, and in his absence, probably dance on the top of his desk. He checks the directions he's downloaded from the computer and swings his car into the parking lot of the high school. Teens sausaged into North Face jackets give him cursory glances as he passes. Quentin walks right through the middle of a hackeysack game without breaking stride, and continues around the back of the school.
There is a shoddy football stadium, an equally shoddy track, and a basketball court. Gideon is doing an admirable job of guarding some pansy-ass center six inches shorter than him. Quentin puts his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and watches his son steal the ball and shoot an effortless three-pointer.
The last time his son had picked up the phone to get in touch, he'd been calling from jail, busted for possession. And although it cost Quentin plenty of snide comments about nepotism, he'd gotten Gideon's sentence transmuted to a rehab facility. That hadn't been good enough for Gideon, though, who'd wanted to be released scot-free. "You're no use as a father," he'd told Quentin. "I should have known you'd be no use as a lawyer, either."
Now, a year later, Gideon high-fives another player and then turns around to see Quentin watching.
"Shit, man," he mutters. "Time." The other kids fall to the sidelines, sucking on water bottles and shrugging off layers of clothes. Gideon approaches, arms crossed. "You come here to make me piss in some cup?"
Shrugging, Quentin says, "No, I came to see you. To talk."
"I got nothing to say to you."
"That's surprising," Quentin responds, "since I have sixteen years' worth."
"Then what's another day?" Gideon turns back toward the game. "I'm busy."
"I'm sorry."
The words make the boy pause. "Yeah, right," he murmurs. He storms back to the basketball court, grabbing the ball and spinning it in the air-to impress Quentin, maybe? "Let's go, let's go!" he calls, and the others rally around him. Quentin walks off. "Who was that, man?" he hears one of the boys ask Gideon. And Gideon's response, when he thinks Quentin is too far away to hear: "Some guy who needed directions."
From the window of the doctor's office at Dana-Farber, Patrick can see the ragtag edge of Boston.
Olivia Bessette, the oncologist listed on Father Szyszynski's medical reports, has turned out to be considerably younger than Patrick expected-not much older than Patrick himself. She sits with her hands folded, her curly hair pulled into a sensible bun, one rubber-soled white clog tapping lightly on the floor. "Leukemia only affects the blood cells," she explains, "and chronic myeloid leukemia tends to have an onset in patients in their forties and fifties-although I've had some cases with patients in their twenties."
Patrick wonders how you sit on the edge of a hospital bed and tell someone they are not going to live. It is not that different, he imagines, from knocking on a door in the middle of the night and informing a parent that his son has been killed in a drunk driving accident. "What happens to the blood cells?" he asks.
"Blood cells are all programmed to die, just like we are. They start out at a baby stage, then grow up to be a little more functional, and by the time they get spit out of the bone marrow they are adult cells. By then, white cells should be able to fight infection on your behalf, red blood cells should be able to carry oxygen, and platelets should be able to clot your blood. But if you have leukemia, your cells never mature . . . and they never die. So you wind up with a proliferation of white cells that don't work, and that overrun all your other cells."
Patrick is not really going against Nina's wishes, being here. All he's doing is clarifying what they know-not taking it a step farther. He secured this appointment on a ruse, pretending that he is working on behalf of the assistant attorney general. Mr. Brown, Patrick explained, has the burden of proof.
Which means they need to be a hundred percent sure that Father Szyszynski didn't drop dead of leukemia the moment that his assailant pulled out a gun. Could Dr. Bessette, his former oncologist, offer any opinions?
"What does a bone marrow transplant do?" Patrick asks.
"Wonders, if it works. There are six proteins on all of our cells, human leukocyte antigens, or HLA.
They help our bodies recognize you as you, and me as me. When you're looking for a bone marrow donor, you're hoping for all six of these proteins to match yours. In most cases, this means siblings, half-siblings, maybe a cousin-relatives seem to have the lowest instance of rejection."
