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
“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.
This morning, traffic was light, and the drive into Boston was less grueling and perilous than usual. Susan had told Will little of Augie Micelli except that he had once been on some sort of board or community-service organization with her and that he had been treated poorly by the Board of Registration in Medicine and the medical community. Micelli’s response to both had been to get a law degree and subsequent notoriety as the Law Doctor- highly promoted in the press and on billboards as the place to go for justice against physicians responsible for bad outcomes. It was Susan’s hope that the similarities in the ways Micelli and Will had been treated might lead him to agree to get involved in Will’s case. It was a long shot, but in this mounting gale, even the smallest landing field would be welcome.
As Will turned off the Mass Pike and headed into the Back Bay, he found himself thinking of Patty Moriarity. Since her visit to Wolf Hollow Drive, she had not been among the hordes who had tried to reach him by phone or through simply showing up on his doorstep. He assumed the wiretap on his phone was in place and still functioning, but he had no way of knowing if her position as an investigator on the case was surviving.
He gave passing thought to reaching out to her, but nothing she had said or done during her odd visit had encouraged such familiarity, and her abrupt departure had accomplished just the opposite. He expected to reconnect with her if he ever received another call from the murderer, but so far nothing. Maybe he simply wasn’t good enough for the serial killer anymore.
He left the Jeep in a lot off Tremont that was more expensive than some surgical procedures and walked along the Boston Common to Park. Although the street itself was elegant, the Law Doctor’s office was not. Located on the third-floor alley side of a four-story brownstone, it consisted of a small, eclectically furnished waiting room, off of which was an entrance from the dimly lit hallway and one other door, presumably to Micelli’s inner sanctum. The oriental carpet was threadbare in spots, and the two framed prints on the wall-a farm scene perhaps by one of the Dutch masters, and a courtroom depiction that might have been offered as a premium for subscribing to a law magazine-had little to do with each other. A bottle-blond woman in her late forties peered up from behind her granny glasses as he entered, and smiled kindly.
“Dr. Grant?” she asked in what he could immediately tell was a dense Boston accent.
“Yes.”
“I’m Gladys. Please fill out this registration form. Bring it in with you when you go. Mr. Micelli’s on the phone right now, but it shouldn’t be too long.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Will replied, in the understatement of the day.
The form, clearly meant for someone who was hoping to sue a doctor, contained only a few lines of demographic questions that Will could answer. He finished it in less than a minute and slipped it into his thin black leather briefcase, which contained copies of the lab reports from the hospital that Susan had obtained for him, as well as of the letters of suspension from Sid Silverman and the Chairman of the Board of Registration in Medicine. In addition, there was the letter from the multipartnered law firm in Worcester that told him he was being sued for malpractice. That letter included paragraphs taken directly from some law boilerplate, describing the legal basis for Kurt Goshtigian’s action against him.
Please consider this letter, together with the attached complaint, incorporated herein, to constitute a written demand for relief on behalf of your former patient Kurt S. Goshtigian. We intend to file a lawsuit following the expiration of fourteen (14) days from the mailing of this demand.
It is our contention that through your negligence and use of mind-altering drugs at the time of Mr. Goshtigian’s cancer surgery, you have caused infection, excess bleeding, extended operating-room time, substitution of principal surgeons, additional surgery, and additional medication. In addition, your negligence has caused unnecessary pain and suffering for Mr. Goshtigian and his family. Please provide your medical malpractice and personal-liability carriers with the enclosed documents and have their attorneys send us notice of representation. The amount of damages to be demanded will depend on Mr. Goshtigian’s survival from your malpractice and his condition at the time of discharge and subsequent to that time, but in no case will it be less than fifty (50) million dollars.
Fifteen minutes passed during which Gladys answered four calls, each, it seemed, from a potential new client. Just as Will was beginning to get restless, the door to Micelli’s office opened and a thick-waisted, broad- shouldered man emerged, who had probably been an athlete at one time, although clearly not anymore. He had dense gray-black hair and olive skin and was wearing a light-blue sport shirt open at the collar, with no jacket. He could have easily played one of Don Vito’s bodyguards in
“Drink?” Micelli asked, heading over to a sideboard with three crystal decanters labeled SCOTCH, WHISKEY, and RUM, half a dozen glasses, and a brass ice bucket. “It’s past noon.”
“No thanks, Dr. Micelli.”
“For chrissakes, don’t call me that. Augie’ll do fine; Mr. Micelli if you have a need to be formal, but please, no ‘Doctor.’ ”
He splashed two fingers from the SCOTCH decanter into a Waterford tumbler, added an ice cube, and took a gulp before heading over to his chair. There was a law degree from Suffolk on the wall behind his desk alongside a
