Page 19

NINETEEN

Ten days later

I TELL ROB JACOBSON he can announce that I’m defending him again, the night before I leave for Genève Aéroport.

“I kept our secret until now,” he said.

“Just like a big boy.”

I don’t leave the Meier Clinic with a clean bill of health, even if I do leave with my hair. But all of my markers keep improving, if imperceptibly, right up until my last day. Dr. Ludwig has been in constant contact with Sam Wylie and Dr. Mike Gellis, my stateside oncologist, and they’re on the same page with the protocols going forward, including what Dr. Sam calls the kick-ass Meier meds I get sent home with, like they belong in the kind of goody bag you get when you leave a fancy party.

Dr. Ludwig walks me to the car. Before I shut the door, I ask him what he honestly thinks my prospects are, both short-term and—hopefully—long-term.

He takes more time to answer than, frankly, I would have preferred.

“Put it this way,” he says. “They are being better than when you were showing up here.”

And nods.

I tell him to stop being so emotional, which gets an honest- to-God smile out of him. “Basically, I am hoping, Ms. Smith, that maybe you are being too stubborn to die.”

Jacobson waits until I’m in the air and then fires Howie Friedlander. By then Jimmy has posted a picture on our new Instagram account of Jacobson and me standing on the courthouse steps in Riverhead after his acquittal.

The caption is simple and to the point:

SHE’S BACK.

When I get through customs and pull my carry-on into the baggage-claim area, I see a TV reporter and her cameraman standing next to my ride, Dr. Ben Kalinsky.

“Is it true, Jane?” the reporter asks. “You’re taking the case?”

I’m just glad she’s not asking why I was in Europe.

“It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to say this,” I tell her. “But see you in court.”

She must know that means in a couple of hours I’m going straight from JFK to Rob Jacobson’s bail hearing, if the LIE doesn’t screw us between here and Mineola.

Yeah, I am so back. I hug Ben and kiss him and he pulls my bag toward where he’s managed to park his car right out front.

When we’re inside his new Range Rover, I look over at the huge sign for Terminal 7.

Suddenly fixed on the word, not the number.

Terminal.

“What are you staring at?” Ben asks.

“Nothing,” I say.