"Policy limits. Five million."

"Not much of a policy."

"It's all Northwest Physician Reserve would insure him for. After they settled, they dropped him from the policy."

"So good old Hudd rushes in and picks him up."

"Who else would?" It was rhetorical. Both lawyers knew the answer.

"Jesus."

Morgana stared straight ahead. Her hands gripped and loosened on the steering wheel. Her jaw worked as she contemplated.

Morgana turned and faced her associate. "So do we still have the original records?"

"I've got the original records. Just like we agreed when you came back to work here."

"Jesus."

"You want me to dump them?"

"No, no, you did fine," Morgana said, although she couldn't explain her hesitancy. Normally she would have insisted Manny destroyed all originals. Not this time, though she couldn't say why.

"This is one messed up kid. I don't like this at all."

"But the firm would know if we turned the originals over to the mom's lawyer."

"How would they know?"

"For openers I'd probably get hit for fifty million by the jury. That would be a huge flag that something seriously went wrong."

"So what do I do with the real records? That is a pretty dense cloud of smoking gun."

"Let's just hold them in reserve and see how this thing goes. We'll prepare for trial like the original records don't exist."

"I don't like that, dude. If you change your mind on down the road and give them up, maybe you've committed a crime by then. Maybe you lose your license to practice law."

"Knowing Dr. Payne they've probably got him nailed even without the records. It's a miracle any insurance company will still insure him."

"That's the thing. He's left the practice just because of that. Nobody will sell him malpractice insurance. Even Hudd caved on him."

"Serves the bastard right."

"It does."

"So let's go hear about the baby he destroyed. Ready?"

"Ready."

A BLACK AND white marble tile floor demarcated the waiting area, and at the far end a staircase to the second floor could be seen, back-dropped by six vertical windows, the upper three with lattice inserts. Beneath the staircase waited a wingback couch, flanked by end tables, fronted by a coffee table and surrounded by a flurry of wingback chairs.

Off the elevator stepped Dr. Phillip Payne, who cast an anxious look at the reception desk then averted his eyes as he approached. Busted.

The receptionist looked up and smiled at the doctor. "Good morning. Who are you here to see?"

"Phillip Payne, M.D. Here for Miss Bridgman."

"One moment, I'll buzz."

Moments later he was escorted into Morgana's office and the inquiry began.

"Just so I have this straight. Your wife threw your beeper in the hot tub?"

"That's right."

"And that's why we've got this brain-damaged baby on our hands?"

Manny rolled his eyes and said, "Somebody get the checkbook. This baby's going to get his needs met."

Morgana ignored her associate. "Let me ask this, Doc. The nurse's notes indicate you were scrubbing for C-section well within the thirty-minute window for decision to incision."

Manny added, "That's not what the real records say, of course."

The doctor looked puzzled. "What do the real records say?"

"That you're fifteen minutes late."

Morgana said, "We're going by the new records they gave us from the hospital, Doc. We're covering your ass on this one."

Manny shrugged. "Well, according to those records he made it with ten minutes to spare."

"Is that right, Doc?"

"I believe that's accurate."

"So your version has it that you made it to the hospital inside the thirty-minute window, correct?"

"Correct. Not my version, the truth."

"Then this baby shouldn't be suing us. Why is he suing us?"

"Pardon?"

"Doc, you tell me. Why do we have a bad baby on our hands?"

"There could be many reasons for an injured baby. Disease, maybe. Poor prenatal care, mother's drug or alcohol use, lack of proper nutrients-"

Many scoffed. "Why don't you just pick one. What's the theme of our case? Wrong vitamins? We've got a bad baby because mom took prenatal E instead of A?"

"Let him finish. What else, Doc?"

"The thirty-minute decision to incision requirement is an arbitrary number."

A frown settled on Manny's face. "As in, someone pulled it out of thin air?"

"Studies have shown that babies in trouble during delivery can withstand thirty minutes of compromised oxygen supply without lasting injury."

"So maybe Chase Staples is the exception? Maybe he couldn't take the full thirty minutes of oxygen deprivation?"

"That's what I'm suggesting."

Manny glowered at him. "Because that sounds better than the truth, which is just that you were too damn late to do the kid any good."

"Manny, shut the hell up. This is hard enough without your commentary. Now, let's hear this. Doc, the medical industry selected the thirty-minute window based on what?"

The doctor sniffed. He had been treated with rudeness. "Based on several studies."

Morgana asked, "So pretty much the whole obstetrics community believes that thirty minutes without full oxygen is survivable without brain injury?"

"The vast majority of obstetrical physicians believe so."

"So if the hospital's policy of thirty minutes decision to incision was based on those studies, the hospital met the standard of care?"

"The hospital met the standard of care in the industry. And so did I."

Manny looked skeptical. "Except we know you didn't because we know from the real records that you were thirty minutes plus fifteen. You were late, late, late and now some little kid is never going to know how to spell his name, which is F-U-C-K-E-D."

"Can we get someone else to help on my case?" said Dr. Payne, the frustration and fear driving him deeper in his chair.

Manny smiled broadly. "You're stuck with me."

"Manny will work his butt off for you when the time comes. Cases get won because of Manny's meticulous, relentless study and research."

"But I don't trust you, Manny."

"That's probably the smartest thing you've said today. You shouldn't trust me."

Morgana was impeded in her effort to frame this correctly and it was showing in the deep lines cutting across her face. "Knock it the hell off, both of you. We've got our defense. The injury occurred because this particular baby was an exception to the general rule of thirty minutes."

The doctor looked at her closely. "Do I lose?"

"You do not. You win because the standard of care was thirty minutes and that was met. Nurse's notes say you were there at Decision plus twenty-one. Plenty of time to save the kid."

"Thank God."

Manny shook his head and waved his hand. "Did someone just cut one? It reeks like bullshit in here."

33.

All gold shields and darting looks, they entered his waiting room at eight o'clock Monday morning. Special-Agent-in-Charge Pauline Pepper and partner George Washington.

Agent Pepper was all business, and that morning, wearing a silk Anne Klein six-button belted pants suit with Glock 19 stuffed in a shoulder holster, she looked it, all business, that is. Washington was a black man from Yale, undergraduate in accounting, law degree from Georgetown. It only fit, he told everyone, George Washington at Georgetown. The humor was lost, of course, on the FBI, especially his senior partner Pauline Pepper. George Washington sported the mandatory FBI pinstripe. He was wearing Gucci eyeglasses with photo-lenses yet dark when Thaddeus received the page from the receptionist and found the agents impatient and refusing to sit. He asked their business. "Our business is you," said Pauline Pepper. She was unsmiling and grim. "We need to talk. Or we can just run you over to Metropolitan Correctional Center and book you. Your choice."

"What would you be booking me for?"

"How about a federal murder rap? Two down, four to go? Ring a bell?"

He shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about. But come on in. Enlighten me."

They followed him into his office. It was a corner office, view of Lake Michigan, blue sky, sailboats swooping across distant water, seagulls riding the thermals. And it was large, barely filled even by two couches, facing-Oval Office style-with silk-upholstered wingback chairs and marble coffee table the size of a Chevrolet Impala. His own desk was teak with a glass top. Arranged in a neat U were three computer screens, a Mac computer, two telephones, and a scanner. Law books were nowhere to be seen. The walls were covered with French Impressionists, most of which were originals. Thaddeus spent his days and many of his nights in that office, and cost was uncurbed when interior designs were drawn.

The agents took the couch facing the door and Thaddeus slumped on the facing.

"Get you anything?" he asked.

"We're good," said Washington.

Pepper nodded, yes, they were good.

"So what brings you here?"

"Two killings," said Washington.

"Look, let's cut right to the chase," said Pepper. "You obtained the names and backgrounds of two recent murder victims. We know you're the perp."

Thaddeus held out his wrists. "So, cuff me and take me away. I'm right here."

The agents traded a look.

Thaddeus nodded. "You can't because you don't have jackshit on me. You don't have opportunity, you aren't even sure you have motive, are you? Oh, that's right, motive is never required for federal crimes. But the FBI lives on motive. So all you need is some evidence."

"We're not here to arrest you. We're here to tell you that your little evade and avoid games have run their course. You're in our sights. You're interfering with a federal investigation and I'm about to go speak to the U.S. Attorney about charging you with something easy, something like obstruction of justice, just to get a bracelet on your ankle. Then you won't fucking sneak off."