Michael Palmer - The Society

“Okay, then, here’s the situation. I’m recommending to the executive committee that you be suspended from the staff immediately until this matter can be resolved. I actually have the authority to do this myself, but I want their support.”

“Why don’t you just ask me to take a week’s leave or something? I promise I won’t work until I get clearance from the executive committee. Besides, don’t suspensions have to be reported to the Board of Registration?”

“Any change in privileges gets reported. Will, you should use the time off to check yourself into a treatment center someplace. Get in touch with the physician-health people at the medical society and have them recommend a good one.”

Will sensed himself about to blow. Fists balled, he forced his hands upward until the broad restraints cut into his wrists.

“I didn’t take anything,” he said through nearly clenched teeth. “I have never taken anything, and I’m not going to any goddamn treatment center.”

“Suit yourself,” Silverman said, his stubby fingers wrapped around the bed rail. “You’re going to have a day after you’re discharged from here to get your strength back, then twenty-four hours to wrap up your dictations and any other business here. After that, until you’re convicted or cleared of drug charges, I don’t want you near this hospital. I’m sorry, Will. I had hoped you’d be more forthcoming.” He turned and strode to the doorway, then turned back. “Our PR people are together right now working on damage control, but there’s no way we can keep this from becoming a media circus as soon as the press gets word of what happened. And believe me, they will hear about it. I’d suggest you notify Maxine so she can prepare your children. I would also give your malpractice carrier a call so they can keep on top of things.”

Silverman left, and a few minutes later Anne Hajjar came in and removed Will’s restraints.

“Dr. Millstein will be up in a little while,” she said.

“I want to sign out.”

“Please wait and speak with him.”

“It won’t matter. He can discharge me or I’ll sign out AMA. I didn’t take any drugs and I want out of here.”

“Dr. Grant, please. Just don’t do anything crazy until Ken gets here. We have a security guard right outside.”

“I won’t cause any trouble. Anne, you’ve known me for years. Do you think I’m someone who would take drugs and then go into the operating room to do a complicated case?”

“I only know what I hear,” she said. “I hope it turns out you didn’t, but I admit it sounds like you did. By the way, your wife called from the lobby. She’s on her way up.”

It’s ex-wife , Will wanted to say, but didn’t bother.

Maxine, stylishly dressed as always, today in a floral print silk blouse, navy blazer, and gray slacks, knocked on the doorway and nodded gravely to the nurse as they passed.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Physically I’m fine. How’d you know I was here?”

“Gordon called and told me, then a few minutes after that, Karen Millstein called.”

“I could win the Nobel Prize and news wouldn’t travel any faster.”

“In case you don’t know it, you didn’t win the Nobel Prize.”

“I didn’t take any drugs, either.”

“Gordon said it was in your blood and urine.”

“I didn’t take any drugs.”

Will wondered how many times he would say the phrase over the hours, days, and weeks ahead.

“I thought you’d been acting strange lately.”

“You came to tell me I’ve been acting strange?”

“I came to see if you’re all right.”

“I’m not all right. I didn’t take any fentanyl and nobody believes that.”

“You passed out in the operating room and then stopped breathing and then had the drug in your blood and urine. What are people supposed to think?”

“I didn’t take any drugs. Sid Silverman was just here. I’m about to be suspended from the staff.”

“What else could they do?”

“He says the media is going to be all over this. We’ve got to try our best to protect the kids. Maybe you should go away for a week until the firestorm blows past.”

“Maybe we will. Listen, Will, Mark and I talked and decided that until this business is resolved, I’m going to limit your visitation with the twins-no visits for the next week, then once a week in the playroom or yard at our place, three hours maximum, supervised. That is, provided your psychiatrist says it’s safe.”

“I don’t see a psychiatrist.”

“You will now.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t do that.”

“Can and will. Don’t make me go to court for a restraining order. Besides, if our situations were reversed, you know you’d do the same thing.”

Will sank back and stared at the ceiling. This wasn’t the time or place to battle Maxine, especially when he was totally outgunned. He lived for his medical practice and time with his children. Now, in a matter of just a few hours, he had lost both.

Who? Why? How?

For the first time, the questions took center stage in his mind.

Was the managed-care killer somehow involved? If so, to what end? He was supposed to be the ally of the movement. Why would they want to destroy him?

“Will? Are you listening to me? I asked if you thought you might be sued for this.”

“How should I know?” he replied, still staring overhead. “If I’m sued, I’m sued. That’s why I have malpractice.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Maxine said, “but if you’re sued for this, you don’t have malpractice. Have you forgotten?”

The clause! In fact, he had forgotten. In an effort to stem the bleeding from malpractice premiums that were going through the roof, Fredrickston Surgical Associates had decided to switch their coverage to PSF-Physicians Security Fund-a small physician-owned company based in Indiana. Among several clauses designed to keep premiums down was one omitting coverage for any incident involving the use of alcohol or other mind-altering drugs. It was not surprising that Maxine knew the details of his malpractice insurance better than he did. She was a businesswoman, and an avaricious one at that. If he were wiped out by a claim, which as of this moment seemed exceedingly possible, her finances would take a significant hit.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just can’t get worked up about that right now.”

“But it’s true.”

“Yes, I suspect it’s true.”

“Damn you, Will. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

Wolf Hollow Condominiums was a well-maintained, middle-class development situated a few miles outside the city. Will’s unit, a two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath town house, was in the block farthest from the clubhouse and outdoor pool, thus bringing its cost down from absolutely prohibitive for him to merely unaffordable. Still, the kids enjoyed the pool and the game room, and had actually made some friends there. It would be hard to one day have to tell them that the place had become the property of Kurt Goshtigian or his heirs.

It was nearly eight when Will arrived home, having signed out against medical advice. Ken Millstein simply refused to authorize an early discharge for someone who had spent a large portion of the day on a vent due to a massive drug overdose and respiratory arrest. If nothing else, he insisted on a psych evaluation to determine whether or not Will was a danger to himself or anyone else. Ultimately, Will relented, and a colorless shrink named Yvonne Sands took more than an hour to determine that he was, in fact, mentally able to go home. Still, Millstein made him sign the AMA papers.

As Sid Silverman had predicted, the executive committee voted unanimously to suspend him from the hospital staff until his situation could be resolved. It seemed like only a matter of time before the Board of Registration suspended him, as well. Was there any way his disability insurance would pay anything without insisting he admit that he was an addict? Maybe he could claim a severe, paralytic depression and simply crawl into bed for a year or two. At the moment, such a diagnosis would not be stretching the truth very far. Will pulled into his parking space, grateful that no reporters or cameramen were lurking about, but he knew it was just a matter of time before they descended on 10-108 Wolf Hollow Drive, hungering for any ort of information about him and his life.