Amnesia by G. H. Ephron Read Free Book Online

only way.”
    â€œCan’t we just get someone to give expert testimony on traumatic brain injury and memory, evaluate the medical reports and talk about how her injuries are so grave that she couldn’t remember … . ?”
    â€œYeah, right,” I scoffed. “Exciting stuff, memory theory. Guaranteed to anesthetize the jury. If you want a battle of the experts, then by all means get yourself a memory theorist. And don’t blame me when you’re disappointed because memory theory is full of qualifiers, maybes and buts standing in the way of the certainty you’re looking for.
    â€œBut get an expert on brain trauma and memory in there to talk to her. Test her. See what’s going on with her memory now , after the injury. Then you might uncover something that could save Stuart Jackson’s skin.”
    â€œYou know, there’s no precedent for it.”
    â€œThen here’s your chance. Create one.” I was breathing hard. Exhilarated. Like I’d just rowed across the finish line first.
    There was a pause. “I know of only one expert on brain trauma and memory who’s good enough to walk a jury through test results and theory without making Sylvia Jackson into a martyr. I need you, Peter.”
    This was where Chip had been headed all along. The trap was sprung — second time. I’d make an exceptionally stupid maze rat.

    â€œI’m not interested,” I said, but by now, my heart wasn’t in it. Chip didn’t say anything. “Really, I’m not interested,” I insisted, as if repetition could make a thing true.
    â€œPeter, tomorrow I’m going to petition the judge to let us evaluate Sylvia Jackson. If I get him to agree, then will you do it?”
    I swallowed. “We’ll see.”
    â€œI’ll take that as a maybe. I’ll get back to you as soon as we have an answer.”

5
    I WAS at the nurses’ station a couple of days later, getting ready for morning rounds when Kwan stopped to pour himself coffee. “You signing autographs?” he asked.
    â€œSure. Where do you want one?” I took a pen out of my pocket, uncapped it, and got ready to write on the sleeve of his Italian jacket.
    He opened a newspaper to a small article tucked well into the first section. “Jackson Defense to Call on Memory Expert.”
    I took the paper from him and sat down heavily. “Just what I need,” I muttered. Fortunately, the piece was short. Two inches of newsprint announced my being hired by the defense. By a small miracle, there was not one word in it about my wife’s murder.
    Until that moment, I’d been swept along in the good feeling of working again with Chip and Annie, distracted and energized by the intellectual challenge. Seeing it there in black and white made me queasy.
    Chip hadn’t actually come back to me and said, “So, what did you mean by ‘maybe’? Is it a yes or a no?” Instead, like a good advocate, when the judge agreed to an evaluation of Sylvia
Jackson, Chip just kept moving forward as if I’d said I’d do it. And I hadn’t contradicted him. In fact, I’d been grateful that he didn’t put me on the spot — I might not have been able to wrap my mouth around an outright yes. Sending out a press release was his way of sealing the deal.
    Surely I hadn’t been naive enough to think I’d get through the investigation, the high-profile murder trial without finding my name in the press. Avoidance. Denial. Perfectly good coping mechanisms — perfect temporarily. Now I’d crashed head-on into reality. Time to face the consequences. If Kwan knew, so would anyone who read the Boston Globe . It was just a matter of time before my mother read it or one of her friends called her with the news. Better she heard it from me first.
    I handed the paper back to Kwan. “Do me a favor, please don’t post this one.” A few years ago, they