Part 11 (2/2)

”Which side?”

”My left ... ?” The nurse narrowed her eyes. ”I meant my other other left.” left.”

”Take a seat,” she said.

I settled in the waiting room again and read two issues of People People nearly as old as I was before being called into an exam room. A nurse-younger, wearing pink scrubs-took my blood pressure and temperature. She wrote down my health history, while I mentally reviewed whether you could be brought up on criminal charges for falsifying your own medical records. nearly as old as I was before being called into an exam room. A nurse-younger, wearing pink scrubs-took my blood pressure and temperature. She wrote down my health history, while I mentally reviewed whether you could be brought up on criminal charges for falsifying your own medical records.

I was lying on the exam table, staring at a Where's Waldo? poster on the ceiling, when the doctor came in.

”Ms. Bloom?” he said.

Okay, I'm just going to come out and say it-he was stunning. He had black hair and eyes the color of the blueberries that grew in my parents' garden-almost purple in a certain light, and translucent the next moment. He could have sliced me wide open with his smile. He was wearing a white coat and a denim collared s.h.i.+rt with a tie that had Barbie dolls all over it.

He probably had a real live one of those at home, too-a 38-22-36 fiancee who had double-majored in law and medicine, or astrophysics and political science.

Our whole relations.h.i.+p was over, and I hadn't even said a word to him.

”You are are Ms. Bloom?” Ms. Bloom?”

How had I not noticed that British accent? ”Yes,” I said, wis.h.i.+ng I was anyone but but.

”I'm Dr. Gallagher,” he said, sitting down on a stool. ”Why don't you tell me what's been going on?”

”Well,” I began. ”Actually, I'm fine.”

”For the record, appendicitis rates as pretty ill.”

Ill. I loved that. I bet he said things like flat flat and and loo loo and and lift, lift, too. too.

”Let's just check you out,” he said. He stood and hooked his stethoscope into his ears, then settled it under my s.h.i.+rt. I couldn't remember the last time a guy had slipped his hand under my s.h.i.+rt. ”Just breathe,” he said.

Yeah, right.

”Really,” I said. ”I'm not sick.”

”If you could just lie back ... ?”

That was enough to bring me cras.h.i.+ng down to reality. Not only would he realize, the moment he palpated my stomach, that I didn't have appendicitis ... he'd also probably be able to tell that I had the two-donut combo at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast, when everyone knows they take three days-each-to digest.

”I don't have appendicitis,” I blurted out. ”I just told the nurse I did because I wanted to talk to a doctor for a few minutes-”

”All right,” he said gently. ”I'm just going to call in Dr. Tawasaka. I'm sure she'll talk to you all you like ...” He stuck his head out the door. ”Sue? Page psych ...”

Oh, excellent, now he thought I had a mental health problem. ”I don't need a psychiatrist,” I said. ”I'm an attorney and I need a medical consultation about a client.”

I hesitated, expecting him to call in security, but instead he sat down and folded his arms. ”Go on.”

”Do you know anything about heart transplants?”

”A bit. But I can tell you right now that if your client requires one, he'll have to register with UNOS and get in line like everyone else ...”

”He doesn't need a heart. He wants to donate donate one.” one.”

I watched his face transform as he realized that my client had to be the death row inmate. There just weren't a lot of prisoners in New Hamps.h.i.+re clamoring to be organ donors these days. ”He's going to be executed,” Dr. Gallagher said.

”Yes. By lethal injection.”

”Then he won't be able to donate his heart. A heart donor has to be brain-dead; lethal injection causes cardiac death. In other words, once your client's heart stops beating during that execution, it's not going to work in someone else.”

I knew this; Father Michael had told told me this, but I hadn't wanted to believe it. me this, but I hadn't wanted to believe it.

”You know what's interesting?” the doctor said. ”I believe it's pota.s.sium that's used in lethal injection-the chemical that stops the heart. That's the same chemical we use in cardioplegia solution, which is perfused into the donor heart just prior to sewing it into the patient. It keeps the heart arrested while it's not receiving a normal blood flow, until all the suturing's finished.” He looked up at me. ”I don't suppose the prison would agree to a surgical cardiectomy-a heart removal-as a method of execution?”

I shook my head. ”The execution has to happen within the walls of the prison.”

He shrugged. ”I cannot believe I'm saying this, but it's too bad that they don't use a firing squad anymore. A well-placed shot could leave an inmate a perfect organ donor. Even hanging would work, if one could hook up a respirator after brain death was confirmed.” He shuddered. ”Pardon me. I'm used to saving patients, not theoretically killing them.”

”I understand.”

”Then again, even if he could could donate his heart, chances are it would be too large for a child's body. Has anyone addressed that yet?” donate his heart, chances are it would be too large for a child's body. Has anyone addressed that yet?”

I shook my head, feeling even worse about Shay's odds.

The doctor glanced up. ”The bad news, I'm afraid, is that your client is out of luck.”

”Is there any good news?”

”Of course.” Dr. Gallagher grinned. ”You don't have appendicitis, Ms. Bloom.”

”Here's the thing,” I said to Oliver when I had gotten us enough Chinese takeout to feed a family of four (you could keep the leftovers, and Oliver really did like vegetable moo shu, even if my mother said that rabbits didn't eat real food). ”It's been sixty-nine years since anyone's been executed in the state of New Hamps.h.i.+re. We're a.s.suming that lethal injection is the only method, but that doesn't mean we're right.”

I picked up the carton of lo mein and spooled the noodles into my mouth. ”I know it's here somewhere,” I muttered as the rabbit hopped across another stack of legal texts scattered on the floor of the living room. I was not in the habit of reading the New Hamps.h.i.+re Criminal Code; going through the sections and subsections was like navigating through mola.s.ses. I'd turn back a page, and the spot I'd been reading a moment before would disappear in the run of text.

Death.

Death penalty.

Capital murder.

Injection, lethal. 630:5 (XXIII). When the penalty of death is imposed, the sentence shall be that the defendant is imprisoned in the state prison at Concord until the day appointed for his execution, which shall not be within one year from the day sentence is pa.s.sed.

Or in Shay's case, eleven years years.

The punishment of death shall be inflicted by continuous, intravenous administration of a lethal quant.i.ty of an ultra-short-acting barbiturate in combination with a chemical paralytic agent until death is p.r.o.nounced by a licensed physician according to accepted standards of medical practice.

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