I was fourteen at the time and just starting to get interested in boys.”
Justine ’ s mind drifted back a decade in time.
“She could ’ ve just pulled rank, but she knew that wouldn ’ t solve the problem. So she took me off to Florida for a vacation right in the middle of the semester. She didn ’ t try to make me talk about it. She just let me wander off on my own and swim. I could tell that she wanted me to open up, and I really did want to. But I just couldn ’ t.”
A tear appeared in the corner of Justine ’ s left eye. Rick squirmed with embarrassment at this uncharacteristic sign of weakness. He tried not to stare, fearful that she would close up again. After a momentary pause, Justine continued.
“Then... just a couple of days before we were due to leave, we saw a young couple strolling on the beach in the late afternoon with their baby. The baby ’ s father was tossing the baby into the air and catching it. Then he started swinging it towards the sea as if he was going to throw it in. The baby was chortling away quite happily at its father ’ s antics.
“We were watching from a fair distance and it was such a pleasure to watch. Then my mother said to me: “Such trust it has in its father. Why can ’ t you have that kind of trust in me?”
“Well that just did it. I mean I just broke down and cried on her shoulder. I explained my problems, at least as well as I could. I didn ’ t really understand them myself. But she seemed to understand. Anyway it wasn ’ t plain sailing after that, but between us we managed to get things straightened out.”
The tears were streaming down Justine ’ s cheeks.
“It sounds like she was very special to you.”
She wiped away the tears with an angry gesture.
“Let ’ s get going,” she said, rising. It ’ s almost two thirty.”
He watched her walk away, a question mark hanging over him, his mind racing to find the key to the mystery, the formula to unravel the Gordian knot.
She was soft then, he thought to himself. Her family tragedies had hardened her. But what had finally set her off?
Chapter 10
She was fifty six years old. But neither her white hair nor her gaunt body could give her a look of frailty. She held an inner strength which in some indefinable way projected itself to those around her. Watching her as she walked towards the witness stand without so much as a side-glance, Justine could see, in the self-confidence of her gait, an efficient, competent professional who knew her job.
“Please state your name and occupation,” said Abrams, as he approached her.
“My name is Miriam Liebowitz and I am a forensic pathologist with the Manhattan Coroner ’ s office.”
The spectators, for whom science was little more than an esoteric activity of elite fraternities, were looking at her in awe. But the jury, which Justine had empanelled with painstaking precision, watched her only with a kind of respectful appreciation.
“Would you tell the jury please your qualifications.”
“I studied at Princeton and Stanford. I practiced medicine at City General for five years and at Saint Matthew ’ s for three. I worked as a Medical Examiner in the Atlantic City Coroner ’ s office for seven years where I rose to the rank of Deputy Chief Medical Examiner. Then I moved to New York with my husband, where I ’ ve been working as a Medical Examiner for the last eleven years.”
Abrams continued to establish Liebowitz ’ s qualifications by eliciting testimony about her previous cases and then moved to the nuts and bolts of this case.
“Were you called upon to perform an autopsy on the night of September the seventh of last year?”
“I was.”
“And what identification did the body carry?”
“A tag on the big toe of the left foot bearing the letter M and the number 3-8-7-5-9-4.”
“What does the M stand for?”
“Male.”
“Your Honour,” Abrams voice intoned heavily, “The People had intended to call the deceased ’ s mother
Justine ’ s mind drifted back a decade in time.
“She could ’ ve just pulled rank, but she knew that wouldn ’ t solve the problem. So she took me off to Florida for a vacation right in the middle of the semester. She didn ’ t try to make me talk about it. She just let me wander off on my own and swim. I could tell that she wanted me to open up, and I really did want to. But I just couldn ’ t.”
A tear appeared in the corner of Justine ’ s left eye. Rick squirmed with embarrassment at this uncharacteristic sign of weakness. He tried not to stare, fearful that she would close up again. After a momentary pause, Justine continued.
“Then... just a couple of days before we were due to leave, we saw a young couple strolling on the beach in the late afternoon with their baby. The baby ’ s father was tossing the baby into the air and catching it. Then he started swinging it towards the sea as if he was going to throw it in. The baby was chortling away quite happily at its father ’ s antics.
“We were watching from a fair distance and it was such a pleasure to watch. Then my mother said to me: “Such trust it has in its father. Why can ’ t you have that kind of trust in me?”
“Well that just did it. I mean I just broke down and cried on her shoulder. I explained my problems, at least as well as I could. I didn ’ t really understand them myself. But she seemed to understand. Anyway it wasn ’ t plain sailing after that, but between us we managed to get things straightened out.”
The tears were streaming down Justine ’ s cheeks.
“It sounds like she was very special to you.”
She wiped away the tears with an angry gesture.
“Let ’ s get going,” she said, rising. It ’ s almost two thirty.”
He watched her walk away, a question mark hanging over him, his mind racing to find the key to the mystery, the formula to unravel the Gordian knot.
She was soft then, he thought to himself. Her family tragedies had hardened her. But what had finally set her off?
Chapter 10
She was fifty six years old. But neither her white hair nor her gaunt body could give her a look of frailty. She held an inner strength which in some indefinable way projected itself to those around her. Watching her as she walked towards the witness stand without so much as a side-glance, Justine could see, in the self-confidence of her gait, an efficient, competent professional who knew her job.
“Please state your name and occupation,” said Abrams, as he approached her.
“My name is Miriam Liebowitz and I am a forensic pathologist with the Manhattan Coroner ’ s office.”
The spectators, for whom science was little more than an esoteric activity of elite fraternities, were looking at her in awe. But the jury, which Justine had empanelled with painstaking precision, watched her only with a kind of respectful appreciation.
“Would you tell the jury please your qualifications.”
“I studied at Princeton and Stanford. I practiced medicine at City General for five years and at Saint Matthew ’ s for three. I worked as a Medical Examiner in the Atlantic City Coroner ’ s office for seven years where I rose to the rank of Deputy Chief Medical Examiner. Then I moved to New York with my husband, where I ’ ve been working as a Medical Examiner for the last eleven years.”
Abrams continued to establish Liebowitz ’ s qualifications by eliciting testimony about her previous cases and then moved to the nuts and bolts of this case.
“Were you called upon to perform an autopsy on the night of September the seventh of last year?”
“I was.”
“And what identification did the body carry?”
“A tag on the big toe of the left foot bearing the letter M and the number 3-8-7-5-9-4.”
“What does the M stand for?”
“Male.”
“Your Honour,” Abrams voice intoned heavily, “The People had intended to call the deceased ’ s mother
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