“Yes. Ms. Cabot died instantly when she was shot.”
“One more question,” Yuki said, sounding as if it were an afterthought. “Did you do a tox screen on Ms. Cabot’s blood?”
“Yes. A few days after the autopsy.”
“And what were your findings?”
“Sara Cabot had methamphetamine in her system.”
“She was high?”
“We don’t use high as a medical term, but yes, she had .23 milligrams of methamphetamine per liter in her blood. And in that sense, it’s high.”
“And what are the effects of methamphetamine?” Yuki asked Claire.
“Methamphetamine is a powerful central nervous system stimulant that produces a wide range of effects. The upside is a pleasurable rush, but long-term users suffer many of the downside effects, including paranoia and suicidal and homicidal thoughts.”
“How about homicidal actions?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Dr. Washburn. I’m finished with this witness, Your Honor.”
Chapter 89
I WAS ELATED WHEN Claire stepped down, but not for long.
I heard Mason Broyles call Dr. Robert Goldman, and when the brown-haired, mustachioed man in a light blue suit had been sworn in, he began to testify about the terrible injuries Sam had received at the ugly end of my gun.
Using a chart similar to the one Claire had used, Dr. Goldman pointed out that my first bullet had gone through Sam’s abdominal cavity, lodging in his thoracic vertebra number eight, where it still remained.
“That bullet paralyzed Sam from the waist down,” said the doctor, patting his mustache. “The second bullet entered at the base of his neck, passing through cervical vertebra number three, paralyzing everything below his neck.”
“Doctor,” Broyles asked. “Will Sam Cabot ever walk again?”
“No.”
“Will he ever be able to have sex?”
“No.”
“Will he ever be able to breathe on his own or have the full enjoyment of his life?”
“No.”
“He’s in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“Your witness,” Broyles said to Yuki as he returned to his chair.
“No questions of this witness,” said Yuki.
“Plaintiff calls Sam Cabot,” said Broyles.
I sent an anxious look to Yuki before we both turned to face the rear of the courtroom. Doors swung open, and a young female attendant entered pushing a wheelchair, a shiny chrome Jenkinson Supreme, the Cadillac of its class.
Sam Cabot looked frail and shrunken in his little-boy’s sport coat and tie, nothing like the vicious freak who’d murdered a couple of people for kicks before gunning Jacobi down. Except for the venomous look in his eyes, I wouldn’t have recognized him.