“Right pupil four millimeters, sluggish. Left pupil two millimeters, pinpoint. Bilateral horizontal nystagmus. Diaphoretic. SBP is under seventy.”
Carter’s gray eyes—hooded, rimmed with the red veins of a man who had not slept since crossing the Atlantic seventy-two hours ago—snapped up toward the bench.
“Judge Hanley. She is in acute neurogenic shock with central respiratory depression. If you don’t clear this courtroom and get a Level-One surgical transport crew through that security perimeter in six minutes… you are going to watch this woman suffer a fatal brainstem herniation on your carpet.”
“Now look here, Colonel!” Daniel Whitaker stepped around his counsel table, his hands plunged deep into the pockets of his four-thousand-dollar bespoke charcoal suit, his silk tie swinging loose. His face was flushed with the arrogant, patrician fury of a thirty-four-year-old regional vice president whose morning tee-time had been delayed by a train crossing:
“I am an executive vice president at Sterling-Vance Bio-Pharma! My father is on the board of trustees of this hospital network! I know what my wife looks like when she has an anxiety attack! She takes half a milligram of Xanax and lies down! Get your hands off her before I have the bailiff remove you for contempt!”
