Part Forty
On the Thursday morning as Jo was in court, George decided to follow up on something they'd both been meaning to do for a while now. They were about as aware as they possibly could be of Kay Scarpetta's bad publicity, which was unfortunately a necessary part of dealing with such spineless, devious cretins as Brian Cantwell. But Kay was only one witness, a very important one, but still only one. Picking up the phone, George called their cardio thoracic expert.
"Tom, it's George Channing. Would it be convenient for me to come and see you this morning?" "I don't see why not," Tom said thoughtfully. "I'm in theatre till eleven-thirty, but any time after that would be fine." "I need to catch up with Zubin as well while I'm there," George explained. "Though it would probably be better if I could see you separately." "This is all very cloak and dagger," Tom said amusedly. "I'm on a mission to seek out any bad publicity about either of you, that the prosecution could make use of," She told him seriously. "So perhaps you might like to cast your thoughts deep into your past before I arrive." "My bad publicity can be summed up in four words," Tom replied honestly. "But I'll wait to tell you about it till you get here. Come to St. Mary's Darwin Ward, fifth floor."
Later on that morning, George traversed the long, endless corridors of the hospital with a certain amount of interest. Whenever she usually met up with witnesses, it was in plush offices in the smarter districts of London. But this felt more real somehow, as though the people she was working with this time round, actually meant something to society, rather than simply making enough money to employ the likes of her. She lost count of the many signs and entrances she passed, eventually coming to one gesturing her to a lift. When she emerged into the hustle and bustle of Darwin ward, she made her way to where Tom was arguing with someone she didn't know, his scrubs liberally spattered with blood. Catching sight of her out of the corner of his eye, Tom gave her a lopsided smile. "Welcome to the delightful world of cardio thoracics," He said, breaking off from his discussion with Will Curtis without a backward glance. "You look like you've been busy," George told him dryly. "It's been one of those days," Tom said ruefully. "Will you give me a minute to get out of these scrubs, and then I'll be with you." Telling Lisa to show George to his office, Tom turned on his heel and swiftly departed.
When he returned not long after, he was carrying two mugs of coffee, which he placed down on a corner of his cluttered desk. "Two hours of very messy surgery, all because of someone who thought he was practicing for the grand prix, so the scheduled list gets pushed back even further than usual. Still, the patient appears to be holding his own so far, so I must be doing something right." "What lured you into cardio thoracics in the first place?" George asked with a smile, as Tom sank down into the chair behind his desk, and took a grateful swig of the coffee. "They say that all cardio thoracic surgeons have about as much arrogance as your average silk," He said, watching her as she sat opposite him. "Just as fighting in court allows you to show off your strengths, that is, I suppose, what heart surgery does for most of us. There isn't much that beats that utterly hedonistic buzz of piecing the main source of all human life back together. Christian Barnard really knew what he was doing when he performed the first heart transplant, because he knew that the ability to put life back into another human being would only ever grab the attention of the very best that the medical profession has to offer." "You might remember some of that, for when we get you on the stand," George told him quietly, slightly in awe of the extent of his drive to succeed. "That will impress the jury far more than any bluster from the prosecution." "You want to hear Zubin when he gets into his stride," Tom told her with a smile. "He's just as bad, only he usually focuses on what it does for him to be able to take someone's pain away. He doesn't teach as much as he does for nothing. You should go to one of his lectures, you might learn something."
"What I really came to talk about," George said after a short silence. "Is anything that the prosecution might find very interesting about you." "I'm a recovering alcoholic," Tom told her, without the merest sign of shame or self-consciousness attached to it. "Oh, right, I see," George replied, almost successfully hiding her surprise. "Not something you'd expect to hear from a heart surgeon, I assume," Tom said with a wry smile at her slight discomfort. "Perhaps not," She admitted sheepishly. "But we all have our skeletons, Tom." "Hmm, perhaps we do," He replied thoughtfully, scrutinising every inch of her face, and wondering just what lay behind that mask she usually wore. "How long have you been on the wagon?" She asked him, wanting to avoid his penetrating gaze, but finding it incredibly difficult to do so. "Nearly three years," Tom said almost proudly. "Well done," George said with a smile, thinking that this certainly wasn't any small achievement. "How public is people's awareness of this?" "It's not something I try to hide," He told her matter-of-factly. "They all know I spent a little while at a drying out clinic, and a couple of them know that there was a time, when I couldn't go into theatre without a nip of scotch to keep me going. Drinking on duty, it's incredibly stupid, and extremely frowned upon for obvious reasons. But, I stopped drinking, got myself sorted out, so they let me come back to the only thing I've ever really wanted to do." "Then there's really very little the prosecution can make of it," George said firmly. "They can try, and they probably will, but it won't amount to anything. Juries are funny things, they often have far more time for someone who can show that they've mended their ways, rather than someone who's lived a life entirely on the moral high ground." "Oh, and what about the judge?" Tom asked in slight amusement. "Believe me," George said with a light laugh. "Neither of the judges involved in this case, have any room whatsoever, to talk of morally suspect behaviour." "Why two judges?" Tom asked, his curiosity again peaked by the slight anomalies of this case. "They both know Barbara," George told him succinctly. "So, one will be overseeing the trial, and the other will sit as a winger."
A little while later, Tom led the way back downstairs, and towards the intensive care unit. "You could get lost in this place if you're not careful," He told her. "Did you tell him why I was coming?" George asked, as they passed through the hive of activity that was AAU. "Yes," Tom replied, glancing over his shoulder at her. "And he didn't look all that happy about it. I wonder what he's got to hide." They eventually found Zubin in the ward office, scribbling notes on a pad with one hand, and holding the receiver of the phone in the other, firing off orders and recommendations as rapidly as possible. When he looked up and saw them, he gave George a quick nod of recognition before finishing his phone call. "Sorry about that," He said, replacing the receiver. "But it's like Bedlam in here this morning." "Are you sure this is convenient?" George asked, not wanting to intrude on his work. "As long as it doesn't take long, it's fine," He told her, removing a pile of folders off a chair so she could sit down. "I'll leave you to it," Tom said, tactfully retreating and closing the door behind him. "Did Tom explain why I wanted to see the two of you?" George asked, thinking this as good a place as any to begin. "Yes, but I wouldn't mind also hearing it from you," Zubin said a little testily. "Knowing Kay Scarpetta as well as you do," She began carefully. "I'll assume that you are perfectly aware of most of the suspect publicity that surrounds her on a fairly regular basis." "Yes," Zubin said regretfully. "Journalists have a lot to answer for." "Quite," George agreed with him. "But Kay isn't our only witness. If I or Jo were prosecuting this case, or any case, we would look into the past and backgrounds of every witness we were to cross-examine. We will be doing this with Connie Beauchamp as well as anyone else they decide to use. I need to know, if there is anything, anything at all that the prosecution could use against you when they get you on the stand." There was a long, very tense silence. Zubin looked at anything in the little room but her, clearly wanting to maintain his cover for as long as possible. "I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't absolutely necessary," George assured him, seeing just how difficult he was finding this. "And I can assure you, it won't be anything I haven't heard before." Hoping this was really true, she simply waited, giving him as much time as he needed to formulate an answer. "I used to occasionally visit a prostitute," He said eventually, refusing to look at her. "Okay," George replied, having wondered by his reticence whether it was something like this. "So, are we talking one regular prostitute, or several different ones?" "One regular woman," Zubin told her shame facedly. "And does this woman have a name?" George probed delicately. "Why is that relevant?" Zubin asked, feeling that this had gone far enough. "Because I would like to avoid her being snapped up by the other side," George told him succinctly. "Digging up a prostitute to tell him stories about you, is precisely the type of thing Brian Cantwell would do as a matter of course." "And just how do you propose to find her?" Zubin asked belligerently. "Because I don't even know where she is now." "You leave that to me," George told him, already having an idea about this. "Though just out of interest, why did you stop seeing her?" "She turned up here as a patient, after a train crash. You could say that it made things somewhat awkward." "Yes, I can see that," George said kindly. "Well, unless you have anything else to tell me, I can leave you to your patients."
As George drove away from the hospital, she couldn't help thinking that they really had picked a bunch of problems for witnesses. Oh well, she mused to herself, that was the name of the game these days. Professor Khan, a visitor of prostitutes though, that certainly wasn't something she'd expected. That brought her very neatly to the problem of how to track down this woman. Zubin had said that her name was Caroline Dewer, not that this meant anything to George. Who knew about how to find anybody anywhere? It had to be Yvonne. Scrolling down to Yvonne's number on her mobile, George phoned her as she sat at the traffic lights. "Yvonne, it's George," She said when Yvonne answered. "How's it going?" Yvonne asked, sounding pleased to hear from her. "Interesting," George told her evasively. "There's something I'd like you to do for me if possible. Are you busy?" "No, come on over. You're just in time for lunch."
When George drew up outside Yvonne's house, her eyebrows soared. Yvonne lived a matter of a couple of streets away from her, but her house looked to be about twice the size. When she rang the doorbell, she heard a muffled bark. When Yvonne opened the door, she was accompanied by Trigger. "Come in," She said with a smile. "What's his name?" George asked, holding out a hand for Trigger to sniff. "Trigger," Yvonne replied fondly. "Charlie always had a thing for calling his dogs after the tools of his trade." "Oh, god," George said with half a laugh, as the pieces slotted into place. "He's lovely." She scratched the dog behind the ears, and he leant his head against her thigh in utter contentment. "I wouldn't have placed you for a dog lover," Yvonne said in slight amazement. "My father's had dogs for as long as I can remember," George told her, following her into the kitchen. "Though he's usually preferred lurchers, or anything else he could take hunting or shooting with him." They ate cold chicken and salad, and Yvonne poured them some strong espresso coffee. "So what is it you want me to do?" Yvonne asked, crunching on a piece of celery. "I need you to find me a prostitute," George told her, and only then realised how this sounded. "You can't be that hard up for it," Yvonne said with a laugh. "No," George replied with a smile. "She's a previous acquaintance of one of our witnesses, and I need to make sure that she isn't going to leak anything dodgy about him to the other side. I'm asking you, because you have methods for finding people at your disposal, that would find me out of a job, not to mention disbarred." "Are you asking me to break the law in order to find her?" Yvonne asked evenly. "I would far rather you didn't," George said honestly. "But we do need this woman found. If this were anyone else, I wouldn't bother, but she is precisely the kind of person our prosecuting counsel would go looking for." "Do we have a name?" Yvonne asked, feeling that old tug of curiosity to get into something new. "Caroline Dewer," George told her. "And her client was Professor Zubin Khan. I'm told that he stopped seeing her, after she turned up as one of his patients at St. Mary's after a train crash. Professor Khan being the type of person he is, I wouldn't have thought..." George stopped, not entirely sure how to phrase what she wanted to say. "...That she was just any old scrubber off the street," Yvonne finished for her. "Something like that," George agreed. "He's very, fastidious, I suppose is the right word, and he wouldn't want to lower his standards more than necessary." "I'll ask the Julies to start with," Yvonne replied, sounding business-like. "It's always possible they can give me a lead to one of their old friends."
When they'd both finished eating, they lit up cigarettes. Sitting down by George's chair, Trigger gazed up at her sorrowfully. "He looks at most people like that," Yvonne said fondly, thinking of when this dog had met John and Mimi. George laid a hand on his enormous shaggy head, gently kneading him behind the ears. "He's getting old though, poor sod." "I bet he missed Lauren when she was in prison," George observed, remembering how her father's dogs had always been delighted to see her when she'd returned from a term away at school. "Yeah, he did. He always somehow knew when I'd been to see her." "How's she getting on?" "Fine," Yvonne said with a proud smile. "She's one of the few people for whom I can safely say prison actually worked."