Cutter's Trial Read online

  Praise for Deadly Odds

  “… Original and a first rate thriller.”

  —Phillip Margolin, New York Times bestselling author of Woman with a Gun

  “With Allen Wyler you get thrills and a dash of humor combined in a high-tech plot written by a guy who knows what he’s talking about. I love his books and Deadly Odds was the best one yet.”

  —Mike Lawson, award-winning author of the Joe DeMarco series

  Praise for Dead End Deal

  “A wild journey … cutting-edge science, greed, corruption, and political intrigue, you won’t be able to put it down.”

  —D.P. Lyle, award-winning author of Hot Lights, Cold Steel

  “… a medical thriller of the highest order.”

  —Jon Land, bestselling author of Strong at the Break

  “The gritty, graphic details of cutting-edge surgical procedures, capped with an exciting conclusion, should keep fans of the genre riveted.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Praise for Deadly Errors

  “… a fast-paced thriller that reawakens your scariest misgivings … an unsettling backstage tour through the labyrinth of … the American hospital.”

  —Darryl Poniscan, author of The Last Detail

  “… a wild and satisfying read.”

  —John J. Nance, author of Pandora’s Clock and Fire Flight

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel

  are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  CUTTER’S TRIAL

  Astor + Blue Editions

  Copyright © 2015 by Allen Wyler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, under the International and Pan-American Copyright

  Conventions. Published in the United States by:

  Astor + Blue Editions

  New York, NY 10036

  www.astorandblue.com

  Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

  WYLER, ALLEN. CUTTER’S TRIAL. —1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-941286-15-9 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-941286-16-6 (epdf)

  ISBN: 978-1-941286-15-9 (epub)

  1. Thriller—Medical—Fiction 2. Doctor on trial for mercy killing—Fiction 3. Legal—Fiction 4. Political—Fiction 5. Family drama—Fiction 6. Religion & Morality—Fiction 7. South I. Title

  Jacket Cover Design: Ervin Serrano

  This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.

  To Arthur Ward.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Allen Wyler

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Acknowlegements

  cutter’s trial

  A novel by

  allen wyler

  1

  “Isn’t it true, Doctor, that you murdered Meredith Costello?”

  And there it was: The Question. Time stopped, as if God pressed “pause” for Alex Cutter’s universe. Every courtroom detail suddenly became ultra sharp: the American and state flags to either side of the judge’s black robe, dirt coating the outside windows, the metallic, mold-tinged smell of air conditioning, the jurors’ eyes on him, the observers scattered throughout the viewing gallery. Alex’s breath caught. Two beats passed before time began creeping forward again.

  How did I ever get to this point?

  THE BEGINNING: 10 years earlier, 1981

  “You seriously going to stick around this place?” Gordon Malden, the other graduating resident, asked with bemused incredulity. Malden held a sweating longneck pale ale while choreographing his words with both hands, either ignoring or unaware of the beer flying out the spout. Speaking with his hands was a characteristic that made him particularly amusing to watch during teaching conferences. The more the professors boxed him into a corner, the more herky-jerky and wild his movements became, reminding Alex of an amateur puppet show.

  The private dining room of Parker’s, an upscale steakhouse, was filled with professors, the two graduating residents, and spouses, the group milling about as they enjoyed the cocktail hour.

  Alex felt defensive for having to explain his decision yet again. Besides, all the present faculty, with the exception of Baxter, had stayed on as faculty after residency. None of them showed any signs of Two Banjo country inbreeding. Still, the common wisdom held that the big boys leave while the babies stay close to the womb.

  “I am. I start tomorrow. Why?”

  Gordon glanced around, as if making sure no one eavesdropped. “The senior partner in my new group said to tell you if you’re interested, they’d love to have you come with me. We’d be a package.” He chuckled. “I told him how tight-assed you are in surgery, and he loved that. Said you’d make a great addition to the group. He’ll be ready to bail in about two years, meaning we’d bump up in seniority when it comes time to hire his replacement. And that made me think of Guyton. Timing would be just about right for his graduation. We could make a tight little group, the three of us, all like-minded partners.” Gordy took a long pull off the beer. “What do you think? Not too late to change your mind.”

  Alex was flattered, but private practice was out of the question. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m staying.” He took a sip of cabernet. Resident folklore had it that wine flowed at these dinners, turning conversation into drawn out speeches and sodden reminiscences. He intended to pace himself.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why stick around? I mean, isn’t it going to be a bit awkward?” Gordy checked the fluid level of his beer before draining the dregs.

  “Awkward?”

  Gordy set the empty on a serving tray. “You know … today you’re the boy, tomorrow you’re one of them. Just can’t see how the magical transformation’s going to work. You know damn well Ogden, Baxter, and Heart will always consider you their little scut jockey. You’ll be hanging onto the bottom rung of the feces ladder.” He glanced around for a waiter.

  Alex laughed. Not so much at the words as the comical way they were delivered, hands flying.

  Gordy signaled a drink w
aiter for another beer. “Why subject yourself to that kind of humiliation?”

  Alex had asked himself the same question numerous times since Dr. Waters—the departmental chair—first proposed he stay on as an assistant professor. “That’s easy. My research. You know Eberholt Foltz just moved to Utah?”

  “Hadn’t heard.”

  One and a half years of the residency was devoted to research under the mentorship of a faculty member. Gordy had done his with an anatomist on an electron microscope project. Alex had worked on developing the technique of using tissue culture to study brain tumor cells.

  “Waters gave me his lab. Karen Fitch will stay on, so I don’t have to start the search for a lab tech. She knows the lab and knows my work, so there’s no down time to get a new lab up and running, which is what would happen at a new place. I just submitted a grant to NIH. Waters said until I’m funded, the department will support me.”

  Gordon shook his head. “No offense, Alex, but how much will you make as an assistant professor?”

  Alex blushed. Assistant professors took home a fraction of what guys like Gordy would be pulling down as a junior partner in a practice. “I guarantee it’s not as much as you.” Something you know already. “But the department covers my malpractice, and they’ll contribute to my TIAA-CREF account,” Alex said, referring to the retirement plan a majority of universities used.

  Gordy raised both hands in surrender. “Fine, sounds like you’re committed. Just wanted to make sure you were aware of the offer. It’s a booming practice with lots of room to grow. Yeah, yeah, I know … Idaho is Idaho, but Boise is growing and we could build into the premier practice in the area. You could always come back to the coast for vacations.” He chugged the second beer, then set the empty on a nearby table. “Looks like people are picking their seats. Time to collect our wives before one of us gets stuck next to Baxter Rabbit.”

  Laughing, Alex went to find Lisa.

  The ring of cutlery against crystal brought the slightly intoxicated conversation down to a few dying whispers as everyone’s eyes went to the head of the table where Waters stood. Joyce, his tall, angular Smith College wife, sat on his left. Waters wore grey flannel slacks and a blue, double-breasted blazer with the Yale emblem proudly displayed on the breast pocket. Alex had seen him drag out that jacket only once before, and that, come to think of it, had also been a university event. Everyone’s attention now captured, Waters cleared his throat.

  “It’s with a curious mix of joy and sorrow that we convene these annual dinners in honor of our graduating residents. Speaking purely for the faculty—because I can’t speak for you two characters,” he glanced at Gordon and Alex, triggering the obligatory chuckle from the others, “—these dinners bring a deep sense of pride at seeing well-trained neurosurgeons take their place in the honored heritage of our specialty. At the same time, we experience tremendous sorrow that comes from parting between dear friends. A separation made more acute by having spent five years of tireless work in the intimacy of the surgical theater, sharing the emotional highs and lows inherent to practicing our art. It is with these conflicting emotions we honor Gordon Malden and Alex Cutter with a toast.” Waters raised his glass of cabernet as Baxter slurred, “Hear, hear!”

  Joyce, Waters’s wife, stood, raising her glass. “I propose a toast to Lisa and Joan, who, through it all, kept the home fires burning brightly in support of their husbands. I’m not sure our new graduates have a true understanding of the hardships we wives experience through the difficult residency years, the long hours spent alone. Here’s to the women who made these men what they are today.”

  Another toast.

  “Let’s hear from the newly anointed neurosurgeons,” Baxter shouted.

  Waters swept a palm toward Gordon before sitting down.

  Gordon stood, fresh bottle of beer in hand. “I’ll make this mercifully short. If any of you happen to find yourself in Boise, look me up. My door is always open. That is, assuming I can break away from my practice long enough to take you out for a beer. Looks like I’m going to be extremely busy there. Thank you everyone.” With a nod to Waters, he sat down.

  All eyes turned to Alex.

  Tentatively, Alex pushed up from his chair. He was completely unprepared, his mind scrambling for something appropriate to say as a niggling voice in the depths of his consciousness reprimanded him for being woefully unprepared. The room grew still, distant restaurant sounds filtering in from outside their private dining room. The warm glow of wine amplified the emotional impact of ending fifteen years of grueling competition. Four years of premed, struggling for grades and references good enough to garner med school admission. Four intense years of med school, working against even tougher competition for grades that could open the doors to a top internship, which in turn might allow entrance into one of the less-than-one-hundred residency spots nationally. He and Gordy had been the two candidates chosen from more than a hundred applicants that year. Finally, a grueling five-year residency. This nonstop treadmill of work would end abruptly in a few minutes, like hitting a brick wall at sixty miles per hour. He thought of how proud his mother would be, had she lived to witness this moment. Then, for lack of any words, and to prevent these intense emotions from swamping him, he raised his glass. “I want to thank all of you for the privilege of fulfilling my life’s dream. Here’s to you!”

  “Jesus, Alex, you didn’t prepare anything? No acceptance speech?” Lisa laughed, shaking her head in exaggerated dismay as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Didn’t you know it would be expected tonight?”

  Alex’s face burned, embarrassed yet again. “I thought I had prepared a few words,” he lied to save face. “But when I stood up in front of that group, I blanked.”

  She put her hand over his. “I’m sure they understand. They’ve all been through it before.”

  He braked the Audi at a red light and turned up the radio slightly in hopes of changing the subject. In the rearview mirror, the headlights of a car approached and stopped a few feet behind them.

  Lisa said, “You notice the way Baxter was sucking down that bottle of Château Margaux? I’m surprised Waters let him get away with that. That bottle must’ve set the department back a small fortune. Can’t imagine how much the dinner cost. Does Waters pay for those out of departmental funds? I mean, you guys don’t pony up for them out of your own pockets, do you?”

  That was one of the soon-to-be-revealed mysteries. He doubted he’d be charged for this evening’s dinner, but the absurdity of the thought caused him to laugh. “I have no idea. Guess I’ll find out next year.” A surge of pride hit from the mental image of sitting among the faculty at next year’s graduation dinner. He watched the second hand on the dashboard clock as it ticked from 11:59 to 12:00. “Hey, look. It’s after midnight. As of this moment I’m an assistant professor of neurosurgery.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I’m proud of you.”

  The light changed to green. “Hey, tomorrow’s our first day without either of us having to go to work. In fact, the whole weekend’s free.” Seemed too good to be true, and now that he thought about it, intimidating, like being a prisoner released from a fifteen-year sentence. “What should we do?”

  Lisa blew a long, slow breath through pursed lips, slumped back in the bucket seat, and remained silent several seconds as if soaking up the reality. “For starters, how about we sleep forty-eight hours nonstop. I need to get used to the phone not ringing at any hour of the night.”

  “Yeah, sleep would be good. Great idea.” This past year—his tour as chief resident—he pulled continuous call every hour of every day for the entire 365. Barbaric. Senseless. Six months at University Hospital followed by six months covering the “downtown service” of the VA and county hospitals. Coastal County housed the region’s Level 1 trauma center. But that was this residency’s structure. As chief resident, he backed up the junior residents taking first call, handling every problem that came in. If a major issue developed—suc
h as taking a patient to the OR—he cleared it with the attending physician on call. His judgment and performance would be subsequently critiqued by the professor the next day on rounds. Driving slowly down the street now, the exhausting year of constant stress and chronic sleep deprivation came crashing down on him.

  It’s over! Done with.

  Two more blocks and they’d be home. The thought of climbing into bed without having to worry about the phone ringing seemed too good to be true.

  2

  “Okay, I’ll take it from here,” Alex told the chief resident who just opened the dura—the tough protective membrane that adheres to the undersurface of the skull and protects the brain. The resident shot him a disapproving glare, triggering a momentary pang of guilt for taking over so soon, especially on a case so seemingly routine. Alex’s first urge was to apologize, to explain this was his first case as an attending physician, that as a resident he never appreciated the difference. Sure, residents work extremely hard. But working hard by putting in long, tiring hours was not close to the emotional stress that came from assuming total responsibility for the patient’s life: an enormous distinction that went unappreciated during his residency.

  Explain it to him? No. Best to move on, especially the way the brain appeared, swollen and angry.

  High-intensity surgical lights radiated heat, making Alex sweat, an occasional drop slithering from his armpits down his chest, soaking the elastic band of his Fruit of the Looms. The 2.5x power loupes he wore for magnification pressed against the bridge of his nose, producing two aching footprints. A second resident, the newbie, stood to the side watching them, not daring to say a word for fear of showing his inexperience.

  Alex glanced over the surgical drape to the anesthesiologist. “Give him twenty-five of mannitol,” he said. Given through the IV, the mannitol would suck water from the brain tissue, which would then be peed out by the kidneys. “Brain’s tighter than a tick.” He turned to the junior resident. “What does dura mean?”