New Tricks by David Rosenfelt Page A

unconscious. The head nurse
     is there, and she tells me that they put patients like Laurie through a regimen of stimuli four times a day, things like pressing
     a sharp item onto her feet, legs, and arms. For the first time since she’s been there, she has had a slight reaction.
    “Talk to her,” the nurse says. “Take her hand and talk to her. If she’s going to respond to verbal stimuli, it will most likely
     be a voice she knows.”
    I take Laurie’s left hand. It feels warm but lifeless, and I have to fight off a need to cry. That’s been happening to me
     a lot lately, if I’m not careful I could forfeit my membership in Macho Men International.
    “Laurie, it’s me, Andy. Laurie can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”
    She doesn’t squeeze my hand, doesn’t react at all. I try it again, and again there’s nothing. I squeeze her hand, gently,
     as if I’m showing her how to do it.
    Nothing.
    I talk to her until about four thirty. I talk about Findlay, and Paterson, and movies, and baseball, and politics, and anything
     else I can think of. I keep asking her to squeeze my hand, and she keeps refusing.
    I doze off until about a quarter to six, then wake up and start the process again. I’ve given a lot of closing arguments,
     and tried to convince a lot of juries, but I’ve never wanted to get through to anyone as much as I want to get through to
     Laurie right now.
    “Laurie, squeeze my hand. Please. It’s me, Andy. I love you, and I want you to squeeze my hand.”
    And she does. At least I think she does; it’s slight and almost imperceptible, so slight that I almost can’t tell if it’s
     me squeezing or her. So I try it again, and this time I know for sure.
    Laurie can hear me.
    I run out in the hall yelling to the nurses, and three of them come running. I get Laurie to repeat her performance for them,
     and they confirm for me that it’s real. And that it’s a damn good sign.
    They send me out so that they can run some tests, and I head back to the room, my feet barely touching the floor. For the
     first time since this began, I’m feeling some optimism.
    I take a shower, dress, and check back with the nurses. Laurie is still upstairs, so I go back to my room. Kevin has arrived
     and is of course thrilled to hear about Laurie’s progress.
    “That is fantastic,” he says. “Beyond fantastic.”
    “She’s a fighter,” I say.
    Kevin brings me up to date on his meeting with Steven Timmerman. Steven is understanding and sympathetic to a point; he expressed
     his concern for Laurie and me, and will accept whatever decision I reach. He just wants it to be fast. He wants his trial
     to take place as quickly as possible. It’s a reasonable position for him to take.
    Dr. Norville comes in for the daily update on Laurie’s condition. I basically understand about every fifth word he says, but
     the gist of it is that the brain scans they performed do not show damage, but that I shouldn’t take too much encouragement
     from that, because they are notoriously unreliable at this early stage.
    He is pleased by her responses to the stimuli, but again cautions me in doctor-talk not to read too much into it. Laurie is
     not out of the woods, and won’t be until she wakes up. Ever willing to grasp on to straws with both hands, I like the fact
     that he doesn’t say “if ” she wakes up.
    Kevin, whose favorite place in the entire world is a hospital, seizes upon the occasion to ask Dr. Norville about his own
     “unresponsive congestion.”
    “How long have you been experiencing it?” Norville asks.
    “About three weeks,” says Kevin.
    “Do you have an internist?”
    “Of course,” says Kevin, slightly miffed. You name the type of doctor, and Kevin has one.
    “You might want to see him,” Dr. Norville says, and extricates himself from the conversation and the room.
    Kevin is obviously not pleased with the interaction. “Does he really think it’s possible I haven’t