Chapter 3

Although near-terror had dissolved his insides into an acidic pool of soup, Jesse faked an indifferent yawn in an attempt to remain inconspicuous among the apathetic spectators who filed into their seats in the courtroom. The trial had generated little publicity. There were no outraged, grieving relatives or especially sensational elements to pander to public sensibilities. It was just another sordid tale of greed.

In the crowd, there was a small class of legal students, notebooks in hand, a couple of jaded court reporters, and a sprinkling of miscellaneous individuals, some of whom looked as if they had merely chosen the air-conditioned room in preference to sitting at a hot street corner panhandling. Jesse shifted uneasily on the hard, wooden seat. Ever since Mark's trial for the murder of Gordon Ganza and Spring Dano, courtrooms had made him supremely uncomfortably. The adversarial system and its deliberate twisting of the truth riled his innate sense of fair play, and he longed for a more reliable way that justice could be guaranteed. The travesty of the verdict several years ago that had condemned an innocent man to death had eroded his confidence, and now the day's events in this room would determine his best friend's fate.

The entrance of the defendant provided a distraction from his morbid thoughts and a respite from tedium for the other occupants of the room. Michael Oliver had been denied bail and was dressed in a prison uniform. It may just have been Jesse's preconceived notion, but he thought Oliver looked remarkably smug for a man wearing handcuffs and facing a death sentence. He noticed the defendant cast a quick look into the audience and, following his line of sight, Jesse saw two men who'd seated themselves since he'd last surveyed the room. They were dressed neatly in ties and suits, but they carried themselves with an air of brutish physical assurance that Jesse had seen before in hitmen, and he was immediately certain that the couple were there to observe and report on Mark's performance.

Icy prickles of fear skittered up and down his spine, but the formerly amorphous dread now had a focus and, as he stared at the two men, the physical representation of the danger the Sloans faced, anger stirred and rose to match his anxiety. He hastily looked away before they noticed him glaring and, at that moment, the bailiff called, "Silence, all present will arise. The Judge of the Superior Court of Los Angeles County..."

Jesse rose to his feet automatically but tuned out the rest of the announcement, his mind running ahead to Mark's evidence. Mark was currently in a waiting room nearby since, in an effort to keep their testimony unprejudiced, no witnesses were allowed to observe the proceedings until they themselves had finished testifying. Jesse fervently hoped that the older man had received the phone call which would prove his son was still alive.

The two counsels were called up to the judge to argue some point regarding admission of evidence, and Jesse fidgeted with impatience, the delay wearing on already shredded nerves. Finally, to his relief, Mark was called to the witness stand. As the older doctor proceeded down the aisle, Jesse's chest tightened in a sudden premonition of disaster.

To his familiar eye, Mark looked terrible, the pallor of his face a match for the white of his hair, and his eyes were shadowed. Yet Jesse could still distinguish both the ravaging worry that hollowed out those blue eyes and the implacable resolve behind them. He wondered if organised crime had chosen well in their choice for a hostage or had made a disastrous blunder. They had probably decided that any parent would elect to lie rather than allow their child to be hurt, but did they really have any idea of the depth of connection between this father and son --the trust, understanding, warmth, reliance, and of course, the love, although that word seemed inadequate to encompass all that lay between them.

The Mob was attempting to victimise an old man, but Jesse knew the fierce determination and intelligence that was now pitted against them. However, Mark appeared exhausted. He stumbled slightly stepping into the witness box, catching himself and hauling himself in clumsily, but his voice was unwaveringly clear as he unflinchingly agreed to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache blossoming behind his eyes while his gut churned. The prosecutor was leading Mark through his relationship with the Olivers, establishing his credentials both as a professional and as a witness, but it was easy to see the toll even this mild interrogation was taking on his friend. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on Mark's face, and he paused to clear his throat several times.

Eventually, even the judge seemed to notice that something was amiss. Dr. Sloan, are you alright?

Mark smiled weakly, taking the opportunity to wipe his face. Perhaps a little indigestion. Could I possibly have some water?

Jesse didn't dare look directly at the two men behind him, but he could feel their intense interest in Mark's every movement, and his own tension soared correspondingly higher, his palms damp with perspiration. Even the law students seemed to sense a inchoate element of drama, and the rustling of their papers ceased allowing an expectant silence to fill the room.

Jesse leaned forward, quashing the almost irresistible impulse to jump up and stop the painful scene from continuing as the prosecutor took advantage of the heightened attention of the jury to press on to the most crucial testimony.

Dr. Sloan, could you please tell us about the events of October 17th?

Mark nodded, taking a couple of deep breaths before starting as if struggling to draw more oxygen into his lungs. I was in my office when I was paged. His voice sounded oddly garbled to Jesse's keen ears as if his tongue had suddenly grown too thick for accurate enunciation. In the emergency room, I found...

There was a pause, almost as if Mark had forgotten what he wanted to say, and Jesse unconsciously held his breath too, but then with a terrifying suddenness, Mark clutched his chest and collapsed, his face distorted in pain.

Jesse yelled, jumping to his feet. For a split second he froze, hoping for some sign of life, then he vaulted over the front seat, warding off the deputy who moved to stop him. I'm a doctor! Someone call 911!

He skidded to a stop beside the witness box. He could see Mark crumpled inside, but the space was too cramped to examine him in there.

Help me get him out, he panted, squeezing in behind Mark to lift him up. His friend's body was a dead weight, though Jesse refused to examine that concept too closely, but with the help of the deputy he succeeded in maneuvering Mark out onto the floor, where his blue lips and clammy skin informed Jesse of his condition even before questing fingers confirmed the truth.

There's no pulse! The horror of that moment eclipsed any previous trauma the young doctor had lived through, and the fine hairs rose on his arms, but Jesse's training and experience allowed him to bury the awareness of who he was working on in the familiarity of his proficient actions.

Quickly loosening Mark's collar and tie, he tilted his head back, pinched his nose and breathed twice, checking to see the corresponding rising of his patient's chest. There was no other response so he began compressions, counting automatically.

Is there an AED in the building? he demanded harshly, sweat slipping down his back, more from the emotional stress than the physical exertion.

A what? The deputy looked back at him blankly.

Automatic External Defribrilator! The fifteen compressions were complete and he moved back to the breathing.

Yes, there is. It was the Sheriff who answered and left the room at a run as his deputies tried to clear the courtroom.

I know CPR. I can help. One of the female law students offered tentatively, kneeling next to Mark's head.

Jesse gestured her over to perform the inhalations, not trusting his voice. Brain death and permanent death start to occur in just 4 to 6 minutes after someone experiences cardiac arrest. It sounded like Mark's voice in his head -- had he learned that in one of Mark's classes?

The chance of survival is reduced by 7 to 10 percent for each minute that passes after cardiac arrest. Channeling Mark wasn't helping to drown the gibbering panic that threatened to rise to the surface.

As he reached the count of 15, he pulled his car keys out of his pocket, throwing them at a young deputy. Red Mitsubishi in Lot 2A. There's a leather bag with medical supplies in the trunk. Get it, and for God's sake, run!

He only had time to see the young man disappear before it was his turn to pump again. Jesse's world had narrowed to the rhythmic compressions, no longer knowing or caring if the two Mob spies were observing his desperate efforts. Time contracted down to those hundred per minute intervals - push, push, push.

The AED appeared miraculously in his vision, an mechanical oasis of hope in a desert of human despair. He switched it on hurriedly, then, working ahead of the voice prompt, he ripped open Mark's shirt, exploding buttons in all directions. He attached the two pads and the connection in record time. Analysing, do not touch the patient.

He waved the student off and stood poised as the machine announced, Shock advised, please stand clear. Press the shock button now. But Jesse had already anticipated the mechanical voice, and Mark's body jerked convulsively as the electric current surged through him, then Jesse groped frantically for a pulse. A thready, uncertain beat whispered against his fingertips, and Mark's lungs inhaled for the first time of their own volition since his collapse.

That's it, come on, Mark, come on, Jesse coaxed urgently, but the faltering pulse failed to strengthen and steady and he looked away from Mark for the first time since he entered the courtroom. His surroundings appeared oddly alien to his eyes, as if he'd been transported there unknowingly. Where are those paramedics? he yelled angrily.

They're on their way. If this was intended to reassure, it failed miserably. Mark needed them here now. At that moment the doors burst open. From his sweaty, nearly puce, face, it was clear that the young deputy had taken Jesse's injunction to hurry seriously. Jesse's eyes fastened eagerly on the bag swinging wildly beside him.

His hands were trembling as he located the bottle and drew its contents into a syringe. Pausing only for a perfunctory wipe of Mark's arm, he plunged the needle into a vein.

He grabbed the stethoscope, placing it over Mark's heart. The skin on his back felt cold and hot at the same time, and he held his breath unconsciously as he focused all his senses over the triphammer of his own heart. Suddenly he heard it and also felt the firm, more established beat, pushing more solidly at his fingers. Air flooded into his lungs as if sucked there by the relief which surged through his system. The arrhythmic beat settled into a weak, but steady, cadence, and Jesse was still listening contentedly when the paramedics showed up.

Mark was loaded onto a gurney, wheeled out through the mob of curious faces waiting outside the courthouse and into the ambulance. Jesse clambered in beside him, grateful that he knew the medics and that they were willing to let him continue his treatment.

Once Mark was safely monitored and stabilised, Jesse sat down limply, the rebound of suppressed emotions impossible to deny. He buried his face in his hands, his fingertips tingling slightly as he bordered on hyperventilation while thoughts spun frenziedly through his mind. How had everything gone so badly wrong and how the hell was he going to explain this to Steve? On the heels of that concept came the numbing recollection that there was a good probability that he'd never get the chance to relate anything to his friend again, and if they lost Steve, he had the feeling that his work in saving Mark would be irrelevant.

Damn, damn, damn!