Richard Mabry - Code Blue

"Then you might see if the bank will contact the company," Steve said. "I'll do what I can, but-and I hate to say this about one of the companies I represent-you may wind up having to sue them before they'll pay for the damages to your car."

Okay, if that was what it took, so be it. Cathy hung up and pulled the wrinkled card from the edge of her desk blotter. She stared at it for a moment. Don't think; just do it. She punched in the numbers and felt a slight quickening of her pulse as she waited for the call to be answered.

"Yes, this is Dr. Cathy Sewell. Is Will Kennedy available?"

"Will he know what it's about?" his secretary asked.

"Just tell him who it is. He'll know."

The strains of a soft-rock song filled the silence, then Cathy heard a click and Will's voice. "I thought you'd never call. Have you recovered from your cuts and bruises? Can we schedule that dinner now?"

Cathy's gut tightened. "I'm sorry I haven't called. I apologize. I appreciate the dinner invitation, but I'm too overwhelmed to think about a social life. But physically, I'm doing okay. Thanks for asking. The reason I called is that I've got some legal issues. Are you available?"

The silence on the other end of the line gave Cathy serious second thoughts. Had she hurt his feelings because she called him for professional help, not dinner? Or did the hurt run deeper? Was it about their past? She was about to tell him to forget she'd asked when he said, "I'll help you in any way I can. When would you like to sit down and tell me about the problem? I'd suggest we do it over dinner, but I get the sense you're not ready for that."

Cathy's heart urged, Yes. Let's have dinner out. Let's pick up where we left off. But her head intervened. "No, I'm not ready for that. I'm sorry."

"Tell you what. I'm in court most of the day. Can you come by my office at five this afternoon?"

"That sounds fine." She hung up, still wondering when-if ever-she could let herself care for a man again. With a sigh, she pulled a yellow pad toward her and made a list of all the questions she wanted to ask Will. By the time Jane called to tell her the day's first patient had been shown to the treatment room, the list filled half the page.

The man perched on the edge of Cathy's examining table was dressed for success. The label of an exclusive tailor peeked from inside the suit coat hanging on the back of the exam room door. Gold links closed the cuffs of a crisp dress shirt as white as a first snowfall.

The effect was spoiled by the gaps between the shirt's buttons and the roll of fat spilling over the edge of the man's collar. His florid complexion screamed high blood pressure. The network of fine blood vessels tracing across his nose told Cathy more about his drinking habits than the history sheet clipped to the chart in her hand.

"Doc, I don't want to hurry you," he said, "but I've got to get back to work. My wife made me come. Says she's tired of me chewing Tums and gulping Mylanta all day. But I know it's just heartburn."

"Why do you say that?" Cathy asked.

"Hey, my schedule would give anybody heartburn. Out of the house in the morning with a can of Red Bull to get me as far as the Starbucks for my double espresso. Grab a burger and fries for lunch, unless I'm taking a client out. The only real meal I get in a day is dinner with the wife, assuming I get home in time. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. I made the Million Dollar Roundtable the last three years, but insurance doesn't sell itself. I've got to keep pushing if I want to send Junior to college."

"Mr. Phillips, why don't you slip offyour shirt? I need to check you over."

Instead of complying, Phillips gave her a hard look. "I don't have time for that." He pulled back his cuffand consulted a watch that looked to Cathy like a Rolex. "Got an appointment in fifteen minutes. Just give me some of that stufflike I see advertised on TV, would you?"

Cathy looked at the vital signs Jane had recorded on Phillips's chart. She tried to keep the urgency she felt out of her voice.

"Mr. Phillips, your blood pressure is through the roof. The pains you've described are probably angina-signs of an impending heart attack. If you'll excuse an overused expression, you're a ticking time bomb. I want to get an electrocardiogram, have Jane draw some blood for studies, including your cholesterol and lipids. You'd better cancel that appointment."

The man eased his ample bottom offthe table and reached the door in two strides, snagging his coat on the way. "You doctors are all alike. Do some tests. Run up a big bill. Well, I don't have time for this. I thought I'd throw some business your way. Maybe get you to buy some insurance from me in return. But I'll just call my regular doctor. He won't ask for a bunch of tests. I won't even have to go to his office. No sir, he'll call in a prescription for me." The last words trailed down the hall as the man made his exit.

Jane stuck her head in the door. "Mr. Phillips didn't stop at the desk on the way out. What are the charges? Does he need a follow-up appointment?"

Cathy shrugged her shoulders before returning them to the slumped position they'd assumed. "No charge. And follow-up? I suspect the next time I or any doctor sees him will be in the emergency room or the morgue."

The first thing that struck Cathy was the comfortable feel of Will's office. The framed diplomas and certificates on the wall were balanced by paintings with a Western theme, one of which she recognized as a reproduction Remington. Stacks of files and a jumble of law books, most with yellow Post-it notes, fluttering from the pages like the plumage of some rare bird, covered the surface of a round table in the corner. Will's desk, made of an oak door sanded and varnished to a glowing patina, held a phone, a computer, a handheld cassette recorder, and a leather-bound Bible. The only picture on the desk was of Will with his parents. She hadn't seen Pastor and Mrs. Kennedy for years, but they didn't appear to have changed. A little frisson of pleasure-a faint, warm shiver-ran through Cathy as she noticed the absence of any woman's picture in the room.

Will waved Cathy to a couch and pulled over a client chair so he faced her, their feet almost touching. He balanced a yellow legal pad on his knee, pulled a fountain pen from his shirt pocket and uncapped it, and gave a gesture that he was ready to hear her story.

"I guess I should start by apologizing for not calling you earlier," she said. "I… I don't have a good excuse. My life's been sort of topsy-turvy since I came back here, and I suppose I didn't want to add another complication."

Will waved away both the apology and the excuse. His expression stayed neutral.

Cathy opened her purse and pulled out her list. "I think I need to engage your professional services. Can we talk about your rates? I can probably handle them, but I want to be sure. Finances are sort of tight right now, until my practice takes hold."

"Tell you what," Will said. "Let's put any discussion of fees aside for the time being. If necessary, we can engage in some good, old-fashioned bartering. You need legal services. I'll probably need medical attention sometime. Why don't you tell me what's troubling you?"

She'd rehearsed it a dozen times on the way over, but somehow the words of her ordered presentation eluded her. Hesitantly at first, then speaking faster and with more force as she thought about the injustice of it all, she described her problems with the insurance company.

When she finally ran out of steam, Will asked his first question. Soon, with no recollection of how the segue occurred, she found herself venting about her frustration with the hospital credentials committee. She confessed her worries about running through the money she'd borrowed from the bank to get her practice started, without being able to repay it. She admitted she was afraid someone wanted to drive her out of town. When it was over, Cathy felt as though she'd just completed a three-hour emergency operation.