The Oath Read online

  The Oath

  John Lescroart

  A SIGNET BOOK

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

  Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads,

  Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin

  Putnam Inc. Previously published in a Dutton edition.

  ISBN: 1-4295-2621-1

  Copyright Š The Lescroart Corporation, 2002

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales isentirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  "A particularly strong plot."

  —Los Angeles Times

  "Topical and full of intrigue."

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  THE OATH

  When HMO excutive Tim Markham is hit by a car during a morning jog through his exclusive San Francisco neighborhood, he has the bad luck to be transported to one of his own hospitals and winds up dead in his ICU bed. But in spite of the rumors about his company's substandard care, this death appears to be a case of malice, not of malpractice—especially after Markham's entire family is gunned down in their home.

  Lt. Abe Glitsky has strong suspicions about a doctor with opportunity, means, and motives to spare. But working up a case against Eric Kensing might not be easy, especially when Glitsky has to rely on two bumbling rookies to gather the evidence. When defense attorney Dismas Hardy takes Kensing on as a client, both Glitsky and Hardy have to worry not only about losing the case, but about losing a best friend as well. And as the investigation leads to something bigger than they expected, they may both be in danger of losing their lives .

  "Skillfully researched and executed . The reliably excellent Lescroart carries on, delivering yet another winner."

  —Publishers Weekly

  "[A] master yarn spinner a stellar novel."

  —Booklist

  "Hardy and Glitsky are like good wine, improving with time."

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  "Lescroart skillfully balances his story, blending the action of the plot with the satisfying details of Hardy's and Glitsky's personal lives. The minutiae of marriages, children, and domestic routines not only round out the characters but provide a smart counterpoint to the cops-and-lawyer stuff. And unlike so many other authors, Lescroart handles social commentary with a deft touch."

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  PRAISE FOR JOHN LESCROART'S PREVIOUS NOVELS

  The Hearing

  "A spine-tingling legal thriller."

  —Larry King, USA Today

  "Highly entertaining."

  Chicago Tribune

  "Excellent stuff."

  —The San Jose Mercury News

  Nothing But the Truth

  "The novel's pacing is reminiscent of classic Ross MacDonald, where a week's worth of events is condensed into a few hours .[A] winning thriller."

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  "Riveting one of Lescroart's best tales yet."

  —Chicago Tribune

  "A rousing courtroom showdown."

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  The Mercy Rule

  "A thought-provoking and important novel . Well written, well plotted, well done."

  —Nelson DeMille

  "Readers of The 13th Juror will already be off reading this book, not this review. Join them."

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  Guilt

  "Begin Guilt over a weekend . If you start during the workweek, you will be up very, very late, and your pleasure will be tainted with, well, guilt."

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  "A well-paced legal thriller one of the best in this flourishing genre to come along in a while."

  —The Washington Post Book World

  A Certain Justice

  "Lescroart swings for the fences with a West Coast take on The Bonfire of the Vanities . A richly satisfying thriller."

  —Kirkus Reviews

  "A gifted writer with a distinctive voice. I read him with great pleasure."

  —Richard North Patterson

  The 13th Juror

  "Fast paced sustains interest to the very end."

  —The Wall Street Journal

  Hard Evidence

  "A hefty, engrossing legal thriller compulsively readable, a dense and involving saga of big-city crime and punishment."

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  Praise for John Lescroart

  "Raymond Chandler once wrote that the test of a first-rate murder mystery is whether you would keep reading it if the last chapter—and the revelation of whodunit—were missing. In the matter of John Lescroart, I would keep reading any of his books, even without that last chapter."

  —Fort Worth Star-Telegram

  ALSO BY JOHN LESCROART

  The Hearing

  Nothing But the Truth

  The Mercy Rule

  Guilt

  A Certain Justice

  The 13th Juror

  Hard Evidence

  The Vig

  Dead Irish

  Rasputin's Revenge

  Son of Holmes

  Sunburn

  This one's to Pete Dietrich,

  Bob Zaro,

  and, as always, to Lisa—

  Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  At the beginning of this effort, my knowledge of medicine and the medical establishment was limited, to say the least. I'd especially like to thank Marcy St. John, senior counsel with Blue Shield of California, and Pat Fry, chief operating officer of Sutter Health, for the insights and information that helped somewhat bridge this gap in my education and knowledge. Also, thanks to two nurses for their help: my sister Pat Barile, and Cheri Van Hoover.

  In the legal realm, as always I depend most heavily on the expertise of my great friend and collaborator Alfred F. Giannini of the San Francisco District Attorney's office. Inspector Joe Toomey of the San Francisco Police Department has also been most generous with his time and expertise.

  My day-to-day life is enhanced considerably by the competency and wonderful personality of my phenomenal assistant, Anita Boone. She is a treasure to work with and a joy to know.

  No less heartfelt thanks—for a variety of other reasons—go to Tom Hedtke; Poppy Gilman; Carolyn Giannini; Jesse Tepper, president and founder of the San Francisco Littl
e League; Peter J. Diedrich; and Dee Scocos. Richard Herman is a terrific author himself—go read him—and he supplied an important epiphany.

  The names of three characters in this novel were supplied by the winners in charitable auctions; I would like to acknowledge the generous contributions of Margie Krystofiak to Serra High School of San Mateo, California; Frank Husic to Imagine; and Catherine Treinen to Cal-State Fullerton.

  I am deeply indebted to all the people at Dutton for their tremendous support and commitment; in particular, I would like to single out Glenn Timony, Lisa Johnson, Kathleen Matthews-Schmidt, Susan Schwartz, and Kim Hadney for their yeoman efforts. Carole Baron has been and continues to be a terrific publisher, cheerleader, and friend; our regular discussions on book and other matters are a source of great pleasure, and have helped to sharply focus and improve the narrative of this novel. Mitch Hoffman is a great guy and superb editor; the book's final shape owes much to his suggestions and good taste.

  Barney Karpfinger remains the best agent an author could ever have, and a true friend as well. His artistic encouragement, level head, business acumen, and sense of humor are each as important as they are rare. Barney, you're a true mensch, and I can't thank you enough for everything.

  Closer to home, perennial best man Don Matheson just keeps those good times coming; and Frank Seidl remains the king of wine and laughter. Finally, my two children, Justine and Jack, continue to enrich my life on a daily basis. My borrowings of their concerns and life events continue to inform and hopefully enrich these novels and my life, both of which would be empty without them.

  I will follow that method of treatment which

  I consider for the benefit of my patients, and

  abstain from whatever is deleterious and mischievous.

  I will give no deadly medicine to anyone if asked,

  nor suggest any such counsel

  The Hippocratic Oath

  For the love of money is the root

  of all evils.

  1 Timothy 6:10

  PART ONE

  Her stupid, old American car wasn't working again. So now Luz Lopez was sitting on the bus with her sick son, Ramiro, dozing beside her. This time of day, midmorning, the streetcar wasn't crowded, and she was glad of that. Ramiro, small for eleven years old, had room to curl up with his head on her lap. She stroked his cheek gently with the back of her hand. He opened his eyes and smiled at her weakly.

  His skin was warm to her touch, but not really burning. She was more concerned about the cut on his lip than the sore throat. There was something about the look of it that bothered her. He'd banged it on some playground bars on Monday and today, Thursday, it was swollen, puffy, yellowish at the edges. But when the sore throat had come on yesterday, Ramiro had complained not about the cut lip, but the throat. Luz knew her boy wouldn't make a fuss unless there was real pain. He was up half the night with gargling and Tylenol. But this morning, he told her it wasn't any better.

  She had to take the day off so he could see a doctor. Time off was always a risk. Though she'd been halfway to her business degree when she'd left home, now she worked as a maid at the Osaka Hotel in Japantown, and they were strict about attendance. Even if the reason was good, Luz knew that every day she missed work counted against her. The clinic said they could see him before noon—a miracle—so maybe she could get his prescription and have Ramiro back at school by lunchtime; then she could still put in a half day back at the Osaka.

  She had lived in San Francisco for over ten years now, though she would never call the place home. After the opponents of land reform in El Salvador had killed her father, a newspaper publisher, and then her brother Alberto, a doctor who had never cared about politics, she had fled north with her baby inside her. It had taken her husband, Jose´, almost three years to follow her here, and then last year La Migra had sent him back. Now, unable to find work back home, he lived with her mother.

  She shifted on her seat on her way to the Judah Clinic, which was not on Judah Street at all, but two blocks before Judah began, where the same street was called Parnassus. Why did they not call it the Parnassus Clinic, then? She shook her head, these small things keeping her mind from what it wanted to settle on, which was the health of her son.

  And of course the money. Always money.

  Ramiro's tiny hand lay like a dead bird in hers as they walked from the streetcar stop to the clinic, a converted two-story Victorian house. When she opened the front door, she abandoned all hope that they'd get to her quickly. Folding chairs lined the walls of the waiting room. More were scattered randomly in the open space in the middle, and every seat was taken. On the floor itself, a half dozen kids played with ancient plastic blocks, or little metal cars and trucks that didn't have all the wheels on them.

  Behind the reception window, four women sat at computer terminals. Luz waited, then cleared her throat. One of the women looked up. "Be just a minute," she said, and went back to whatever she was doing. There was a bell on the counter, with instructions to ring it for service, but the computer woman already had told Luz she'd just be a minute (although now it had been more like five), and Luz didn't want to risk getting anyone mad at her. They would just go more slowly. But she was angry, and sorely tempted.

  At last the woman sighed and came to the window. She fixed Luz with an expression of perfect boredom and held out her hand. "Health card, please." She entered some information into her computer, didn't look up. "Ten dollars," she said. After she'd taken it and put it in a drawer, the woman continued. "Your son's primary care doctor is Dr. Whitson, but he's unavailable today. Do you have another preference?"

  Luz wanted to ask why Dr. Whitson was unavailable, but knew that there would be no point in complaining. If Dr. Whitson wasn't here, he wasn't here. Asking about him wouldn't bring him back. "No." She smiled, trying to establish some connection. "Sooner would be better, though."

  The woman consulted her computer screen, punched a few more keys. "Dr. Jadra can see Ramiro in twenty-five minutes. Just have a seat and we'll call you."

  The words just popped out. "But there are no seats."

  The woman flicked a look to the waiting room over Luz's shoulder. "One'll turn up any second." She looked past her. "Next."

  * * *

  While Ramiro dozed fitfully, Luz picked up a copy of the latest edition of San Francisco magazine. There were many of them in the room, all with the same cover photo of a strong Anglo businessman's face. Luz read English well and soon realized the reason for the multiple copies. The story was about the director of Parnassus Health—her insurance company. The man's name was Tim Markham. He had a pretty wife, three nice-looking children, and a dog. He lived in a big house in Seacliff and in all the pictures they took, he was smiling.

  Luz cast a glance around the waiting room. No one was smiling here.

  She stared at the face for another minute, then looked down at her sick boy, then up at the wall clock. She went back to Mr. Markham's smiling face, then read some more. Things were good in his life. His company was experiencing some growing pains, yes, but Markham was on top of them. And in the meantime, his patients continued to receive excellent medical care, and that was the most important thing. That was what he really cared about. It was his lifelong passion.

  Finally, finally, a nurse called Ramiro's name. Luz folded the magazine over and put it in her purse. Then they walked down a long hallway to a tiny windowless room with a paper-covered examining table, a sink and counter, a small bookcase and shelves. Posters of California mountain and beach scenes, perhaps once vibrantly colored, now hung faded and peeling from the walls.

  Ramiro laid himself down on the table and told his mom he was cold, so she covered him with her coat. Luz sat in an orange plastic molded chair, took out her magazine, and waited again.

  At 12:22, Jadra knocked once on the door, then opened it and came in. Small and precise, completely bald, the doctor introduced himself as he perused the chart. "Busy day today," he said by way of apology. "I ho
pe you haven't had to wait too long."

  Luz put on a pleasant expression. "Not too bad."

  "We're a little shorthanded today. Twenty doctors and something like eight have this virus going around." He shook his head wearily. "And you're Ramiro?"