Michael Palmer - The Society

“I suppose I could do that.”

“One last thing. I would really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone we have this arrangement.”

“I wondered about that, given that I’m still a suspect.”

“To Brasco you are, but I’ve pretty much decided to believe you-at least for the moment.”

As Patty spoke the words, the reality of what she was doing hit.

Unprofessional, amateurish, and downright dangerous, her father would say. You don’t go into a man’s home without another officer nearby, if not right in the room with you-especially when that man is a suspect in your murder investigation. Jesus, girl, what were you thinking?

“I. . I’ve got to go,” she said, standing abruptly. “Here are forms for the wiretaps. Sign them in front of a notary and get them to me at the address on my card. I’ll let myself out.”

“Wait, you don’t have to go. Stay for just a little while. Maybe we could brainstorm.”

Somewhere in the midst of Will’s second sentence, she closed the door behind her.

Patty knew that in addition to her own vulnerability and feelings of isolation, she had just blatantly gone against policy and procedure because of the admiration and attraction that were building inside her for Will. Angry with herself and more than a little embarrassed, she hurried to the Camaro. She was unlocking her door when a photographer stepped out from between two parked cars and snapped off three quick shots.

“Hey!” a female reporter called from somewhere behind the man. “How about an interview?”

“Go screw yourself!” Patty shouted back.

The stench of burning rubber filled the car as she screeched out of Wolf Hollow Parking Lot 10.

Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

With the abruptness of a racing car hitting a wall, every aspect of time had changed for Will. Just six days ago, hours had passed like minutes. With surgical consults to visit, notes to dictate, patients to see, cases to do in the OR, exercise to squeeze in, and evenings and weekends with the kids to arrange for, to say nothing of the mundane aspects of running his life and continuing his work at the Open Hearth, he had wistfully prayed for just an extra couple of hours each day, just an extra day or two each month. Now, the days that had followed the unfathomable events at Fredrickston Hospital had seemed interminable.

It was ten in the morning when the phone rang for the first time that day. After waking at six, Will had scrambled a trio of eggs and served them to himself with a toasted bagel and some OJ. He had rinsed what few dishes there were, put them in the washer, and failed on his third attempt to get into a Michael Crichton novel, usually a sure thing for him. Finally, he had taken a tube of caulk to the bathroom off the kitchen to tack down a small block of tiles that had been loose for at least a year. It was a good bet that Michelangelo didn’t work more meticulously on the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

Over the past six days, caller ID and the bathroom window overlooking the parking lot and front stoop had become his staunchest allies. Initially, the reporters had been merciless in their attempts to get at him. Only in the past two days had their calls and visits begun to die away. Now, expecting yet another BLOCKED on the display, he checked the ID on the phone in the kitchen. AUGUST MICELLI, 617-483-5300. Will snatched up the receiver.

“This is Dr. Grant.”

“Dr. Grant, this is Gladys from Attorney Micelli’s office speaking. I know your appointment isn’t for three more weeks, and this is short notice, but we’ve had a cancellation for noon today, and Mr. Micelli thought you might want to come in.”

“I can be there,” Will said, hearing a small jet of enthusiasm in his voice for the first time since that moment in the OR.

“However,” the woman added, “he asked me to tell you not to get your hopes up and to remind you that he really just takes the cases of people suing doctors, not the doctors who are being sued.”

“I understand.”

“You know where the office is?”

“Park Street in Boston. Right down the street from the State House.”

“We’ll see you at noon.”

The recommendation to try August Micelli, MD, LLD, had come from Susan Hollister, who did not know the man well but did know that his intelligence was respected by physicians, even though the nature of his law practice was reviled. It was while Will was turning his practice over to her that Susan had suggested he might call the man, who was widely advertised as “the Law Doctor.” The patients Susan inherited from Will included Grace Peng Davis, on whom she had operated the following day, and several others whose surgery needed doing.

After being turned down for legal support by his malpractice carrier as expected, Will had tried two attorneys-one local and one in Boston. Emotionally and intellectually, he failed to connect with either, and the retainers and fees each demanded would have virtually broken him even before the game of saving his professional, personal, and financial lives began. Visions of running out of money and lawyer at the same time had sent him trudging back to the sanctuary of his condo. When he returned from the disappointing session with the second of the attorneys, there was a letter from a third firm waiting in his mailbox. However, rather than offering him representation at an exorbitant fee, this attorney was announcing that he and his firm had been retained by Kurt Goshtigian and his family to institute a malpractice claim against him. After two extra trips to the OR, it appeared that the man was going to make it, but his debility would be profound, if not permanent.

Will was dressing for the trip into Boston when the front doorbell sounded. He scurried over to the bathroom-window observation post. Beneath him, a husky black man in a business suit stood motionless by the front door. Not a reporter, Will guessed; the man was simply too well dressed. He discarded salesman as a possibility for the same reason and decided to open the window.

“Yes?” he called down.

The man squinted upward at him.

“Dr. Willard Grant?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Sam Rogers. I’m an investigator with the Board of Registration in Medicine. May I come in for just a moment, please? I have a letter I need to hand-deliver to you.”

Will knew even before he opened the door what the official-looking envelope contained. Still, Rogers explained it to him.

“This is a summary suspension of your privilege to practice medicine in this state of Massachusetts. It has been issued because of the suspension recently ordered by Fredrickston Hospital. It is effective immediately and may be appealed through channels established by the board. Do you have any questions?”

Without bothering to read the letter, Will tossed it onto a pile of junk mail and unopened bills on the coffee table. Somewhere in the mound of mail was another letter-one he had read. It was from Tom Lemm, unofficially requesting that he remove himself from his very important and sensitive position with the Hippocrates Society until his pending matter with the hospital could be satisfactorily resolved.

“Are you here to investigate what was done to me?” Will asked Rogers.

“No, sir. I may well be investigating your case sometime in the future, but for the moment my assignment is to deliver this letter and explain its contents.”

“Thanks,” Will said with no emotion whatsoever. “As far as I’m concerned you’ve done your job and done it well.”

“In that case,” Rogers said, “if you wouldn’t mind signing off on that right here. .”

Will would have been the first to admit that he had never been on anyone’s best-drivers list. His reflexes were sharp, and that certainly helped, but even under the best of circumstances his thoughts were constantly wandering, as was, all too often, his car. Although he had never been involved in anything more destructive than a minor fender bender, he sometimes wondered if there were accidents he would never know about for which he had been responsible.