to map out a course of action. The most important thing seemed to me to get the client’s son better care. That meant I needed sophisticated medical as well as first-class legal help. I started with Freeman Carter. He had been in court all day and wanted to get away; he had tickets to the opera and wasn’t going to miss the curtain on my account. I gave him a thirty-second rundown and told him I wanted a court order ASAP so we could move Chad—I hoped to Beth Israel, Lotty’s hospital.
“I’ll get a doctor over to Cermak tomorrow morning if you can organize the legal side.”
“Are you being Donna Quixote,” Freeman asked, “or do you really have evidence that the wrong person is in custody? From everything I’ve read, this was a PTSD vet who lost control. Not that it matters, you understand. I’m used to the odd alignment you make between the law and facts.”
“Vishneski is a PTSD vet, but I’m beginning to think he was framed. I’ll tell you why when you have more time.”
“And is this on your tab, or can your client pay?”
Freeman’s bill is one of the things that keeps me from ever getting ahead of the game financially. But the alignment between the law and me is such that I need the best defense lawyer in town. Even though my outstanding balance right now was close to sixty thousand, I assured Freeman that if the client couldn’t pay him, I’d take care of it. I hung up knowing that the phone consult itself had just added a hundred dollars to my bill.
I called Lotty, who was also going to the opera, but who gave me a little more attention.
“Eve Rafael is a very fine surgeon, new to our practice, but she has a lot of experience with head trauma and coma. I’ll see if she’s free. But the billing is going to be complicated, you know. And it would help if I could tell her what your young friend had ingested.”
“I won’t know that for a few days, but Chad’s been at Cermak since Saturday morning. I hope it’s not too late for a world-class neurosurgeon to rescue his brain.”
“Medicine, Victoria—not a science, not an art, somewhere in between. How badly Chad Vishneski wants to recover will also play a role in this. But I’ll talk to Eve on my way to the opera.”
“As long as someone else is driving, Lotty!”
Lotty’s driving, on a sunny day and with no one else on the road, was still a fine test of anyone’s nerve endings. In the snow, with a cell phone in her ear, I wouldn’t want my life to depend on her.
“You worry too much about trivialities, Victoria: that will shorten your life as much as fried food.”
As she hung up on that crisp note, I realized I should have talked to the client first before making all these arrangements for his son. Fortunately, when I reached John Vishneski, he was so grateful for my arrangements that he didn’t question my protocol. I gave him Freeman’s number.
“Call him first thing in the morning. He’s going to get a court order to allow him to move your son, and either Dr. Herschel or Dr. Rafael will be on hand to oversee his care.”
“I have to be at a jobsite at seven,” Vishneski said.
“It’ll be best if you let someone else take care of that. You told me yesterday that Chad depended on you to look after him, and this is one place where you can do that. Even if he’s unconscious, your voice in his ear will reassure him.”
He agreed after a moment of rambling talk—how he’d have to talk to someone named Derek, how Mona needed to know—should he call her or would I? Before we hung up, I told him I was sending him a form to sign that would give his and his ex-wife’s consent to my talking to Chad’s doctors, and he agreed to that as well.
As a courtesy, I called Terry Finchley to let him know what I was doing. Like most sensible people, he’d gone home for the day, so I left a detailed message with the officer who answered his phone. By now, I was too hungry to think clearly: I hadn’t eaten since grabbing a sandwich in the Loop at two, and it was after eight now. I drove back downtown, to the south Loop, and went into the Golden Glow, Sal Barthele’s bar in the