The 5th Horseman - James Patterson [21]
O’Mara stole a look at the stricken faces of the jurors before asking, “I’m sorry to have to ask, Mr. Friedlander, but how did you feel when you learned about that mistake?”
“How did I feel?” Friedlander asked. “I felt like my heart had been cut out of my chest with a spoon. . . .”
“I understand. Thank you, Mr. Friedlander.”
“Josh was our only child. . . . We never expected to be in the world without him. . . . The pain never stops. . . .”
“Thank you, Mr. Friedlander. I’m sorry to have put you through this. You did just fine. Your witness,” O’Mara said, and motioned to Kramer.
The witness snatched several tissues from the box in front of him. He held them up to his face as hoarse sobs racked his body.
Chapter 29
LAWRENCE KRAMER STOOD and slowly buttoned his jacket, giving the witness a moment to pull himself together, thinking that the man’s son was in the ground, for God’s sake. Now all he had to do was neutralize his awful testimony—without antagonizing the jury—and, if possible, turn Stephen Friedlander into a witness for the defense.
Kramer walked to the witness box and greeted Mr. Friedlander in a kindly manner, almost as if he knew the man, as if he were a friend of the family.
“Mr. Friedlander,” Kramer said, “let me first express my condolences on the tragic loss of your son.”
“Thank you.”
“I want to clear up a few things, but I promise to keep this as short as I possibly can. Now, you mentioned that you met David Lewis, the young man who was sharing your son’s room when you visited Josh on July twenty-sixth.”
“Yes. I met him the one time. He was a very nice boy.”
“Did you know that David has diabetes?”
“I think I knew that. Yes.”
“Mr. Friedlander, do you know the number of the bed your son occupied in his hospital room?”
Friedlander had been leaning forward in his chair, but now he sat back.
“Number? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, the hospital refers to the bed closest to the window as ‘bed one,’ and the bed closest to the door is ‘bed two.’ Do you remember which bed Josh occupied?”
“Okay. He would have been in bed one. He was by the window.”
“Do you know why hospital beds are numbered?” Kramer asked.
“I don’t have any idea,” said the witness, his tone edgy, getting irritated.
“The beds are numbered because the nurses dispense medication according to the room and bed number,” Kramer explained. He went on. “By the way, do you recall if you ordered a special television package for Josh?”
“No, he was only supposed to be there for the one day. What’s your point?”
“My point,” Kramer said, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. “My point is that David Lewis checked out of the hospital after lunch on the day you saw him there.
“Your son, Josh, expired in bed number two that night. Josh was in David’s bed when he died, Mr. Friedlander.”
“What are you saying?” Friedlander asked, his eyebrows flying up, his mouth twisting with anger. “What the hell are you trying to tell me?”
“Let me say this in a different way,” Kramer said, showing the jurors with his body language and his phrasing, I’m doing my job. But I mean this man no harm.
“Do you know why your son was found in bed number two?”
“No idea.”
“Well, it was because of the TV. Josh got out of his bed by the window, pulled his mobile IV pole over to bed number two so he could watch the movie channels—let’s see. . . .” Kramer referred to his notes.
“He ordered a movie on Showtime.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I am aware of that,” Kramer said, his voice compassionate, even fatherly, thinking, knowing, that the witness wasn’t getting it. He still didn’t have a clue what had happened to his son and why he had died.
“Mr. Friedlander, you have to understand. Josh did get David Lewis’s insulin by mistake. The paperwork on David Lewis’s discharge hadn’t yet caught up with the nurse’s orders. That can happen