Crisis by Robin Cook Page A

defendant. The goal was, he insisted, that justice be served.
    "Justice, my ass!" Craig Bowman said to himself. He took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. He had not been aware of how tense he'd been. He lifted his hands, which had been coiled into fists in his lap, and placed them on the table, leaning forward on his forearms. He opened his fingers and fully extended them, feeling more than hearing snapping from his complaining joints. He was dressed in one of his most conservative gray suits, white shirt, and tie, all on specific orders of his attorney, Randolph Bingham, seated to his immediate right.
    Also on specific orders from his attorney, Craig kept his facial expression neutral, as difficult as that was in such a humiliating circumstance. He had been instructed to act dignified, respectful (whatever that meant), and humble. He was to guard against appearing arrogant and angry. Not appearing angry was the difficult part, since he was furious at the whole affair. He was also instructed to engage the jurors, to look them in the eyes, to consider them as acquaintances and friends. Craig laughed derisively to himself as his eyes scanned the prospective jurors. The idea that they were his peers was a sad joke. His eyes stopped on a waif-like female with blond, stringy hair that was all but hiding her pale pixie face. She was dressed in an oversized Patriots sweatshirt, the arms of which were so long that only the tips of her fingers were visible as she continuously parted her hair in front of her face, pulling it to the sides in order to see.
    Craig sighed. The last eight months had been pure hell. When he'd been served with the summons the previous autumn, he'd guessed the affair was going to be bad, but it had been worse than he'd ever imagined. First there had been the interrogatories poking into every recess of his life. As bad as the interrogatories were, the depositions were worse.
    Leaning forward, Craig looked over at the plaintiff's table and eyed Tony Fasano. Craig had disliked a few people in his life, but he had never hated anyone as much as he'd come to hate Tony Fasano. Even the way Tony looked and dressed, in his trendy gray suits, black shirts, black ties, and clunky gold jewelry added to his loathing. To Craig, Tony Fasano, appearing like a sleazy mafioso understudy, was the tawdry stereotype of the modern-day personal-injury, ambulance-chasing lawyer out to make a buck over someone else's misfortune by squeezing millions out of rich, reluctant insurance companies. To Craig's disgust, Tony even had a website bragging as much, and the fact that he might ruin a doctor's life in the process made no difference in the world.
    Craig's eyes switched to Randolph's aristocratic profile as the man concentrated on the voir dire proceeding. Randolph had a slightly hooked, high-bridged nose not too dissimilar to Tony's, but the effect was altogether different. Whereas Tony looked at you from beneath his dark, bushy eyebrows, his nose directed downward partially covering a cruel smirk on his lips, Randolph held his nose straight out in front, maybe slightly elevated, and regarded those around him with what could be considered by some to be mild disdain. And in contrast to Tony's full lips, which he wetted frequently with his tongue as he talked, Randolph's mouth was a thin, precise line, nearly lipless, and when he talked, a tongue was all but invisible. In short, Randolph was the epitome of the seasoned and restrained Boston Brahmin, while Tony was the youthful and exuberant playground entertainer and bully. At first Craig had been pleased with the contrast, but now, looking at the prospective jurors, he couldn't help but wonder if Tony's persona would make more of a connection and have more influence. This new concern added to Craig's unease.
    And there was plenty of reason for unease. Randolph's reassurances notwithstanding, the case was not going well. Of particular note, it had been in essence already found for