The Society

Will found himself wondering about the managed-care bureaucrats who shelved Micelli’s career as a physician without so much as the courtesy of an interview. The companies were the Charybdis whirlpool that would suck a physician under even after he had survived the Scylla that was the Board of Registration in Medicine. He was, he saw now, facing the same peril. Guilty or not, his license had been preemptively suspended by the board as a result of his suspension at the hospital. In all likelihood, even if he was deemed acceptable to practice by the board, many of the multiple managed-care panels to which he belonged would remove him as a provider of treatment for their subscribers simply because he once had been suspended. It would be okay for him to practice surgery, they would in essence be saying, but not to earn a living doing it.

His involvement in the Society and that damn debate at Faneuil Hall were sure not to help matters. There probably wasn’t a managed-care company within a thousand miles that wouldn’t relish the opportunity to bring the hammer down on his career. This was the first time he realized that, regardless of whatever happened today or even down the road, he might well be finished as a doctor.

Easy does it.

Satisfied he had waited long enough for questions, Micelli turned and led the group down the hall to the elevators. In nearly ten years at the hospital, except when accompanying a patient’s litter, Will had never used any of the elevators. He suspected that not one of the other three would have passed on the stairs for just one flight, but Micelli was leading this expedition, and there was nothing about the man that suggested he would ever opt for the more physically challenging of any two options. As they headed down the corridor, Will found himself behind the others and next to Gil Murray.

“Thanks for doing this,” Will said. “I’m really grateful.”

“I would do just about anything for Augie,” Murray replied, his voice a bit like James Earl Jones’s. “I had a back operation a few years ago under general anesthesia, only I wasn’t asleep during the procedure and had no way to tell anyone, because I had been given a drug to paralyze my muscles. Some unkind remarks were made about me when my surgeon thought I was asleep. I heard them all. Augie fixed me up with some people who were able to prove that was the case, and he even found an organization named Anesthesia Awareness that’s made up of others who’ve experienced the same thing.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Will said, cringing at Murray’s story.

“It’s one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me. Augie helped me get a settlement for what I went through, but it’s the other things he did that really mattered. He’s had some tough times, and doesn’t take such good care of himself, but underneath it all he’s the best.”

“I’m learning that.”

“On the way over, Patrolman Bob there told me that Augie had helped his dad, as well.”

Up ahead, Micelli was holding open the elevator door, motioning them to hurry up. Loss of a child, loss of self-esteem, loss of health, loss of a hard-earned profession. No one would argue that Will wasn’t going through a devastating situation, but the Law Doctor still had him beat.

Nurse Anne Hajjar, usually on the day crew, was waiting for them in the ICU. She was, as usual, radiant and upbeat, even though, she explained, she was working a double because of a hiring freeze on RNs. She nodded to Will, her expression neutral if not a bit cold. He felt a deep pang. They had worked so well together for so long back when life was normal. Now her respect for him seemed all but gone.

Hajjar turned her attention to Micelli.

“So, what are we after here?”

“The truth,” Micelli said.

He gave her a quick capsule.

“No chance,” she said. “The only thing we are more short of than nurses is storage space. There’s a little closet over there where we keep some supplies and cleaning stuff, but I go in there all the time, and I’d have to be as deaf, dumb, and blind as the Pinball Wizard to miss a clothing bag with Dr. Grant’s name on it.”

“Is there any other possible place? Wedged way up under the bed Dr. Grant was in?”

Without debate, Hajjar entered the cubicle where Grace was sleeping, knelt down, and peered under the bed. She returned shaking her head.

“No go.”

“Can you think of any other possible space besides that closet?”

Hajjar gave Will a prolonged look. Then, perhaps reflecting on the way things once were between them, she went to the other cubicles and looked under each of the other beds.

“Nada,” she reported.

“Could we check the closet?” Micelli asked.

“Suit yourself. Just you, though. The rest of you will have to wait over there. A couple of our patients are touch and go right now. I don’t want any commotion.”

Will watched as Hajjar led the Law Doctor to the far end of the unit and a supply closet that Will knew wasn’t any more than six-by-six. The inspection took less than a minute. Without a word, Hajjar returned to her patient, and Micelli came back grinning sheepishly.

“Nothing I didn’t expect,” he said. “Even if we don’t find anything here or in the ER, I have documents drawn up for each of you to get notarized stating that fact.”

“Stop by my office after we’re through,” Leary said, “and I’ll notarize whatever you need.”

Almost subconsciously, she glanced down at her watch. Will, who was again feeling deflated and peeved with himself for getting so enthusiastic over Micelli’s theory in the first place, felt his spirit sink another notch. Jill Leary could and probably should be at home with her kid right now, not offering to notarize worthless documents for him. She was a genuinely caring soul, but there was no way this fruitless expedition was going to supply the hard evidence he needed to free up the board, the hospital, and the Society to reinstate him. Absolutely no way.

“So,” Micelli said, pumping his fists to demonstrate that his bravado was intact, “this setback is not totally unexpected. Next we go to the ER, unless any of you has another thought.”

How about we all go home, Will was thinking.

“Ms. Leary,” Micelli continued, “if you would lead the troops, I have a matter to go over with Dr. Grant.”

He waited until Will had dropped back, then lowered his voice.

“Sorry about the strikeout in the ICU,” he said.

“I didn’t expect any different.”

“Maybe the ER will come through.”

“Maybe.”

“Listen, if I’m going to adjust my attitude, the least you can do is to stay in this game until it’s over.”

“Sorry, Augie, really I am. All of a sudden I just started overthinking-projecting like hell, getting myself all tied up in knots over things that haven’t happened and might not ever happen.”

“Been there, done that,” Micelli said.

“For so long, I just took being a doc for granted.”

“I understand. You know that I do.”

“I’ll pull it together.”

“Good. So, what’s the deal with Patty Moriarity?”

Will snapped around to face him.

“What about her?”

“She’s on our side, right?”

“Right. I told you a little about her. She’s the detective who got taken off the managed-care case.”

“Well, she called my office while I was on my way here, but I had the line on call forwarding to my cell phone.”

“Why didn’t she call me?”

“She said something about not being able to get through to your cell and not wanting to call you at home. She said to tell you she was off on business and would be in touch either late tonight or tomorrow. She said another thing, too. She doesn’t want you to go home until you speak with her.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t go home tonight.”

“But why?”