Due Justice

Chapter 22

Tampa, Florida

Thursday 10:00 p.m.

January 21, 1999

My conversation with Kate left me with a lot to think about. Finding Carly before she got hurt and solving the relationship problems she had with Kate shouldn’t have been my mission.

But somehow it was.

The connection between Carly, Dr. Morgan’s murder, Grover and Johnson had to be related to the breast implant cases; nothing else made sense.

Hathaway had said to follow the money, so I tried piecing the puzzle together with the money in mind.

Carly said Dr. Morgan had been conducting research and believed he’d found the scientific explanation for the occurrence of symptoms in some women with breast implants.  Something like that would have to be worth a lot of money on the legitimate market, not just to the interested parties to the litigation.

The most obvious place to start looking for Dr. Morgan’s theories were the two places that had already been searched, his home and Carly’s, but only if you knew the two of them had been talking about it.

Who knew that besides Carly?

Grover? Probably. Who else?

No names popped into my head. Changed course.

Those failed searches had been excessive. Whatever the guy hoped to find must be either a paper document or computer data. Otherwise, each search was way too through.

And whatever he was searching for hadn’t been found.

He’d kill Carly, but until he found what he wanted. I hoped.

I needed a fresh approach.

Spent the evening pouring over the court file in the Jones v. General Medics case. Complaint, answer and other papers yielded nothing. Expert deposition transcripts were dry as flour.

One surprise: Dr. Morgan was listed as a witness for Grover’s side.

Scoured the file, but Dr. Morgan’s deposition transcript wasn’t there. We don’t lose things once they’re placed in our court files. So where was it?

There were several notices scheduling his testimony, but no proof that the deposition had taken place or the transcript filed. Odd.

Dr. Morgan had been named as an expert early in the case. The notices for his deposition were repeatedly filed as the case continued plodding forward on the docket. Decidedly odd. Too much paper for too little result.

The last notice scheduled his deposition two days before he died. Odder still.

“Okay, Willa,” I said aloud. “Think this through.”

My grandmother taught me that talking to oneself was not a sign of insanity, as long as we don’t answer. So I guess I’m insane.

I replied, “Only two choices, right? Either Morgan testified two days before he died and explained his theories, in which case why kill him? Or, he was never deposed. And, in that case, how did Grover explain the failure to produce him? Why didn’t O’Connell filed a motion to strike his name from the list if he couldn’t be produced for deposition?”

This time, I had no answers. Just questions. As well as a sore back and tired eyes.

I stood and stretched like Harry and Bess do every time they get up. Tried the downward dog, which I’ve never been as good at as they are, but it gets the kinks out. They do a whole-body-shake afterward, but there I draw the line.

Needed to move.

Trotted to the courthouse library to get the kinks out of my legs.

Using the online computer services so kindly supported by our tax dollars, I pulled up all of the newspaper articles relating to breast implants in the past five years. The computer listed 1,765 articles. Too many to read quickly.

Narrowed the date range. Articles published after the largest manufacturer’s bankruptcy and before Dr. Morgan died. 432. Still, too many to read closely.

Excluded articles about the bankruptcy. Risky. Produced 142 articles. Better.

Reprinted in the local papers were stories from The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post and the major wire services. Printed the list.

After eliminating the duplicates, sixty-eight recent newspaper articles remained.

Sent all of them to the printer, leaned back, propped my feet on the desk, and read each one as they rolled slow and hot off the laser.

Some articles simply weren’t helpful. They covered individual cases or ongoing medical studies. I scanned them quickly and moved them to one side.

None dealt with MedPro. Somewhat surprising since it was a small but significant player in the local and national market.

Only a few concerned Dr. Morgan and his death. Three were obituaries.

I rubbed the back of my neck and looked at my watch. It was 11:30. No wonder I was exhausted. I signed off the computer, gathered my research, returned to chambers and called my husband.

“Yes, I’m sure I haven’t been abducted by aliens,” I responded to his testy question. He disconnected. “Unfortunately,” I whispered into the empty air.

Less than fifteen minutes later, home, dogs greeted, husband placated.

George handed me a Sapphire and tonic with a twist. He brought a small Glen Fiddich and joined me in the den.

I sprawled out, feet up, held the frosty glass against my forehead while I relayed the day’s events. George paced. Harry and Bess were unconcerned.

He didn’t approve of my plan.

Nor had I expected he would.

We argued a while.

George thought it was Ben Hathaway’s job to catch killers, not mine.

Ordinarily, I agreed. I’m liberal enough to believe that some innocent people are wrongfully convicted, although the odds are overwhelmingly against it.

This was Carly, though. I had to be certain Hathaway caught the right killer.

George said Hathaway could handle it; I wasn’t willing to take the risk.

Minds were not changed by increasing the argument’s heat.

“I give up,” George said, throwing both hands in the air for emphasis. Harry and Bess followed him into the bedroom. Before he closed the door, he said, “Don’t stay up all night.”

“Love you,” I replied, but I doubt he heard.

Mixed another drink; pulled the newspaper articles out again and set to work.

By 3:00 a.m., I had sorted, diagramed, and thoroughly digested each. Made pages of notes on a fresh yellow pad. Compared them to my other facts.

So what?

Gin, effort, exhaustion, and the late hour pulled my eyelids toward closure. I pinched both eyes open and held them open by thumb and forefinger above and below. Eyeballs dry. Gritty.

Ran the facts through my head while staring at my tiny notes. Tried to find connections. Failed. Again. Again. Again.

“The hell with it,” I said. Time to give up. I was getting nowhere. Again.

Trudged wearily to bed. Tossed and turned and thought about what I’d read. Bedside clock glowed brilliantly; 5:30 a.m. before my brain simply shut down.