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“No.”
“All right, Ron, your colonoscopy’s over. Oh, just one other thing, could you draw a diagram of where you were in the intersection when the accident happened?”
“Draw?” He exhaled a brief laugh. “I’m no artist. My daughter should do it for you.”
“Ha. In our house, it’s my son. Just do the best you can.” He handed Pulaski a sheet of paper and pen, and a file folder to set the paper on; the desk was too cluttered to write.
He gave it a shot and handed it back.
Pulaski was silent, eyes on the picture of Garner and his family. They remained there a long time.
“Ron?”
Apparently Garner had asked him something.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said, ‘That’s it.’”
He rose. “I guess we’re going to get sued.”
“Oh, yeah, big-time. But we’ve got insurance. And good lawyers. Speaking of which, whatever the board does, you gotta lawyer up too. You’ll be named in the suit personally.”
Pulaski didn’t respond. He was picturing himself as a defendant in court.
His tone sympathetic, Garner said, “We’ve got psychologists on call. I’d recommend talking to one.”
“I don’t really need that. I already have somebody.”
“Really? Who?”
“My wife.”
41.
AMELIA SACHS ASKEDurgently, “Aren’t you going to slap her?”
“What?”
Sachs nodded to the bloody, damp and wrinkled little form lying in a blue square of cloth in the doctor’s hands.
“You know, slap her on the butt? Make her breathe?”
“Oh. We don’t do that anymore. Not for years.”
Dr. Gomez suctioned some gunk from the nose and mouth and rubbed the infant with the cloth. Yes, she seemed to be breathing fine and was crying softly.
Glancing at Sachs: “Have to get the cord. I need your help.”
Right. Has to be cut. That much she knew. Sachs pulled from her back pocket the sleek Italian switchblade she always carried. Hit the button. It snapped open.
The doctor stared.
Sachs said, “We can sterilize it.”
The woman frowned. “I just meant could you hold her while I clamp?”
Oh.
