Tattooed Read Online Free

lines, Frances.
Her client’s gaze was pensive. “But Dr. Clarkson got into trouble for it a few years ago. That’s why I called Randall to advise me. But he told me he is in New York on a leave of absence… .”
“Yes,” Kate said, keeping her tone neutral. “He is working on a corporate merger in New York. But he has briefed me on the Clarkson case.”
The Clarkson case was legendary in Halifax. A prominent heart surgeon had been accused of injecting a fatal cocktail of drugs into a patient in extreme distress—who had no chance of surviving—to prematurely end her suffering. Detective Ethan Drake, Kate’s ex-fiancé, had been the primary homicide investigator on the case. The case hinged on the testimony of the victim’s son, who told the police—and the court—that Dr. Clarkson had assured him that his mother would not suffer any longer.
Dr. Clarkson bankrupted himself to pursue his defense, but he was convicted. It was the desire to help out his old friend that triggered Randall Barrett’s return to Halifax years before, that had yanked the raveling thread of his marriage and had led him to leave his Bay Street career and relocate to Halifax. He had masterminded (and funded) Clarkson’s appeal—Old Soccer Teammate Launches Appeal was the newspaper headline—calling into question the victim’s son’s testimony, specifically by alleging that Detective Ethan Drake had improperly influenced the teen.
“As you might remember from the news, Frances, Dr. Clarkson was convicted on charges of murder. He was unsuccessful on appeal. The court of appeal upheld the conviction 2-1.”
Neither Randall nor Ethan had forgiven one another.
“How can I prevent the same thing happening to my doctor?” Frances asked.
“Legally, the only thing you can do is to provide specific directions to your physician that you are not to be given any life-extending treatments.” Kate closed the folder. “I’m sorry, Frances. I wish I could be of more assistance.”
Frances laughed. Loudly.
Kate stared at her. Did she think I was joking?
“Sorry,” Frances said, sputtering. “ALS makes me laugh when I’m upset.” She swallowed. “It’s frustrating,” she added, as if reading Kate’s thoughts. “The way I talk—people think I’m drunk or crazy.” Her hand twitched.
After that outburst, Kate could understand why people might question whether Frances was mentally competent. And yet she knew it was rare for ALS to affect cognitive function. That was what made the disease so terrible. And terrifying for the afflicted. To know that one’s body would slowly lose its ability to function, until even breathing had to be provided by a machine, while the mind remained alert and excruciatingly aware of everything that had been lost.
Unlike the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease that could be lurking in her own cells. That disease robbed its victim of all cognitive function.
Stop it, Kate.
She hadn’t thought about it in months, had not allowed herself to dwell on it. Although it was hard not to be confronted with your own mortality when facing a client who clearly was losing that battle. And whose very reason for seeking legal counsel was to hasten her own death.
“You probably are wondering why I just didn’t kill myself while I could.” Frances gazed at Kate, dwarfed by the heavily padded frame of her wheelchair. Her eyes, still watery from her laughing episode, held a defiance that made Kate’s heart squeeze. Why should someone have to defend their decision to live? Or their decision to die?
“I wanted to live.” Frances’ words were soft.
Her client gazed down at her hands. Frances’ eyelids were translucent. Embryonic. The cycle of life nearing its end and returning to where it began.
“I so very badly want to live.”
Her gaze met Kate’s again. She did not try to hide her despair. Or her determination. “But not like this.”
“I’m sorry.” A sense of failure weighed Kate’s words. She wished, in a moment of