“You sure? That’s what you saw when he came after you?” She pushes me.
“I am vaguely sure.”
“It would be helpful if you are more than vaguely sure,” she responds.
“I saw the tip of it. Like a big black beak. When he raised it to hit me. Yes, I’m sure. He had a chipping hammer.” I become defiant. “That’s exactly what he had.”
“They took Chandonne’s blood in the E.R.,” Berger informs me. “Negative for drugs and alcohol.”
She is testing me. She already knew Chandonne was negative for drags and alcohol, yet she withheld that detail long
enough to hear my impressions. She wants to see if I can be objective when talking about my own case. She wants to see if I can stick to the facts. I hear Marino down the hall. He walks in with three steaming foam cups and sets them on the table, sliding a black coffee my way. “I don’t know what you take, but you got cream,” he rudely tells Berger. “And yours truly takes it fully loaded with cream and sugar because I sure as hell wouldn’t want to do anything that might deprive me of my nourishment.”
“How seriously messed up would someone be if he got formalin in his eyes?” Berger says to me.
“Depends on how quickly the person rinsed,” I objectively answer, as if her inquiry is theoretical and not an allusion to my maiming another human being.
“Must hurt like living hell. An acid, right? I’ve seen what it does to tissueturns it into rubber,” she comments.
“Not literally.”
“Of course not literally,” she agrees with a trace of a smile that suggests I ought to lighten up a little, as if that is possible.
“If you suspend tissue in formalin for a long period of time, or inject itin embalming, for example,” I explain, “then yes, it fixes tissue, preserves it indefinitely.”
But Berger has little interest in the science of formalin. I am not even sure how interested she is in the extent of any permanent damage the chemical may have caused Chan-donne. I have the sensation she is more focused on how I feel about causing him pain and possible disability. She does not ask me. She just looks at me. I am beginning to feel the weight of those looks. Her eyes are like experienced palpating hands feeling for any anomaly or tenderness.
“We got any idea who he’s going to get for a lawyer?” Marino reminds us he is present.
Berger sips her coffee. “The six-million-dollar question.”
“So you don’t got a clue,” Marino says with suspicion.
“Oh, I have a clue. It will be someone you definitely won’t like.”
“Huh,” he retorts. “That’s easy to predict. I’ve never met a
defense attorney I liked.”
“At least it will be my problem,” she says. “Not yours.” She puts him in his place again.
I bristle at this, too. “Look,” I tell her, “trying him in New York isn’t something that makes me happy.”
“I understand how you feel.”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Well, I’ve talked to your friend Mr. Righterenough to tell you exactly how it would go if you put Monsieur Chan-donne on trial here in Virginia.” She is cool now, the expert, just a little sardonic. “The court would nol-pros the imperson-ating-an-officer charge and reduce attempted murder to entering a dwelling with intent to commit murder.” She pauses, looking for my reaction. “He never actually touched you. That’s the problem.”
“Actually, it would have been more of a problem if he had,” I answer, refusing to show that she is really beginning to piss me off.
“He may have raised that hammer to strike you, but he never did.” Her eyes are steady on mine. “For which we’re all grateful.”
“You know what they say, your rights are honored only in the breach.” I lift my coffee.
“Righter would have filed a motion to have all of the charges combined into one trial, Dr. Scarpetta. And then what would have been your role? Expert witness? Fact witness? Or victim? The conflict is glaringly apparent. Either you testify as the medical examiner and the attack on you is completely left out, or you’re simply a victim who survived and someone else testifies to your record. Or worse”she pauses for effect”Righter stipulates your reports. He seems to have a habit of that, from what I understand.”