The Bone Bed

court’s precious time. Yes, I said
wasted
,” he stuns me by saying. “Time
wasted
not just by you but also by Mr. Steward, because he doesn’t fool me when he malingers with a witness to buy you time to get here because you’re too busy or too important to obey an order of this court.”
    “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I hadn’t thought of it as my intentionally defying anything. I’ve been consumed with . . .”
    “Dr. Scarpetta, you were subpoenaed by the defense to testify in this courtroom at two p.m. today, right?”
    “Yes, Your Honor.” I can’t believe he’s doing this while the jury is seated.
    “You’re a doctor and a lawyer, are you not?”
    “Yes, Your Honor.” He should have asked the jury to leave before he started ripping into me.
    “I assume you know what the term
subpoena
means.”
    “I do, Your Honor.”
    “Please tell the court what your understanding of a subpoena is.”
    “It’s a writ by a government agency, Your Honor, that has the authority to compel someone to testify under a penalty for failure to do so.”
    “A court order.”
    “Yes, Your Honor,” I answer in disbelief I don’t show.
    He’s going to make an example out of me, and I can feel Jill Donoghue’s stare and can only imagine her immense satisfaction as she watches one of the most eminent judges in Boston dismantle me one piece at a time in front of the jury, in front of her client, Channing Lott.
    “And you violated that court order because you put your work ahead of the court’s, didn’t you?” the judge asks in the same demanding tone.
    “I guess that’s right, Your Honor. I apologize.” I meet his cold blue gaze from our impossible distance.
    “Well, you’re going to have to do more than apologize, Dr. Scarpetta. I’m going to fine you in an amount that will cover the hourly costs of everyone whose time you’ve wasted for the past hour and fifteen minutes. Actually, an hour and a half, if we include the time it’s taking for me to handle this unnecessary and unfortunate matter. And more time will be added, because now we’re going to run late, run past five and into the night. I’m going to guesstimate what you’ve cost the court is twenty-five hundred dollars. Now please take the witness stand so we can move forward.”
    The courtroom is deathly still as I climb wooden steps and settle into a black leather chair, and the clerk asks me to raise my right hand. I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as Jill Donoghue waits patiently at a lectern with a laptop and microphone in the midst of a vast space filled with wooden tables and Windsor benches, and so many flat video screens I’m reminded of a satellite’s silvery solar panels.
    I glance at the prosecution, three of them seated side by side and flipping through notes or writing them, and I can tell by the dazed expression on Dan Steward’s face he wasn’t expecting the blistering admonishment I just got. He’s rapidly calculating the damage that’s been done.

seventeen
    RARELY AM I CALLED BY THE DEFENSE. IT’S ALMOST NEVER necessary or even helpful to “the bad guys,” as Marino unfairly calls attorneys who represent people indicted for murder.
    If I’m a prosecution witness, and typically I am, the opposing counsel will question me anyway, while enjoying the advantage of stipulating that I’m an expert before the jury hears the laundry list of qualifications that might prove it. In fact, Jill Donoghue’s modus operandi in every encounter I’ve had with her is to shut me up before I can so much as say where I went to medical school or if I did while addressing me as
Mrs. Scarpetta
and
ma’am,
to encourage those deciding her client’s fate not to take me seriously.
    I don’t know what to expect right now, except I worry that Dan Steward won’t be helpful. After the scolding he just witnessed, he’s not likely to tamper with Judge Conry, whose presence I feel like a towering thunderhead, dark and ready to erupt again, the courtroom electrically charged the way the air is after lightning strikes.
    I don’t understand why he is so angry with me, as if what I did was personal and intentional, a slight or injury I can’t fathom. I’ve been late to court before, not often, but it happens, and judges aren’t nice about it. But I’ve never been threatened or reprimanded, much less fined. I’ve never been dressed down in front of a jury. Something is terribly off, and I can’t think of a