counted nine. That didn’t seem to be a huge number, for a prominent addiction specialist. But medical malpractice was not my field. I made a note to check with Terry O’Reilly.
Terry was an old law school buddy who did a thriving malpractice business. He made a hell of a lot more money than I did, and wasn’t half as smart. He’d asked me more than once to join him. I’d been tempted. All that dough. But I knew I could never bring myself to be an ambulance chaser. Too seedy. I knew they justified it as a crusade for the little guy. But that’s not how I saw them. Extortionists, they were to me. Find a victim. Drag out the boilerplate. Fill in the blanks. File the complaint. Wait for the settlement. Take thirty percent. Buy a new Bentley.
I didn’t want any part of it.
But that didn’t sour my friendship with Terry. He was a good guy. And a better golfer. We didn’t talk business.
Most courts had websites. On many of them you could access the pleadings. The briefs, the motion papers. Some even had transcripts of trial proceedings. It took me a while, but I managed to track down some information on each of the nine Steiglitz cases. A couple were what you’d expect. Some poor depressive finally succeeded on his fourteenth suicide attempt. Great. Let’s sue everybody. Steiglitz was named in the complaint, along with every other doctor, nurse and orderly and the hospital involved. Plaintiffs’ lawyers liked to cast a wide net. Haul in as many insurance companies as they could. Spread the pain. Make settlement more palatable. Take their thirty percent. Buy another yacht. Upgrade the summer castle in Bordeaux.
A couple of the other cases were also routine. Bad reaction to drugs. Sue the drug company, the doctor who prescribed it. The pharmacy. The maker of the bottle it came in. Whatever.
One caught my eye, though. Jane Doe v. Steiglitz. No other defendants. Records sealed.
Interesting. It was very rare that a judge would agree to seal the records. Litigation in America was supposed to be open, public. Justice in secret was justice denied. Where minors were involved, or rape victims, their identities could be protected. Here, the ‘Jane Doe’ on the caption indicated something of that sort. But the whole file sealed? Well. Must be something there worth finding out about.
I called Terry. He commiserated about Melissa. I brushed it off. I’m okay, I said. Let’s play golf.
It’s the middle of winter, Rick.
Right. You know a Dr. Hans Steiglitz?
Sure. Big mover and shaker in addiction. Had him as an expert witness once.
Really? Not a client though?
Not a client. Why, you want to sue him?
Not yet. Just wanted to find out something about him. He treated Melissa.
Ah. Finally you’re coming around.
I didn’t say that.
I can hear it in your voice. He’s like all the rest. All talk and fucking up everything he touches. You want to sue him?
I said no. I want to find out some stuff. You think you can help me?
Depends on what it is.
I told him about the sealed file.
Damn. That’s a tough one.
I’m not asking you to steal the file. I’ve got other guys for that.
He laughed.
Just ask around. See if you can find out what the case was about. It could be nothing. I don’t know. I just need to know enough to see if it’s worth following up.
Sure. But it’ll cost you two strokes on Sunday.
It’s the middle of winter, Terry.
Right.
Like I said. A good guy.
95.
It was raining. My stomach was hurting. My scalp was tingling. I knew these feelings. They were the same ones I got on the way into court. Butterflies, but worse. Stage fright, but more extreme.
It was too much. I had to have a cigarette to calm it down. I had to have a lot of cigarettes to calm it down.
I asked the driver if I could smoke.
Sure, he said. No problem. Then I can too.
Relief. It was a long ride out to Westchester. Smoke-free, it would have been interminable.
So many times I’d been there. The first, the second time, I’d paid attention to every detail. I’d talked endlessly with the staff. I’d read and reread the pamphlets. I’d wanted so badly to make it work. To get the old Melissa back.
By the third or fourth trip the cynicism had set in. Going to the clinic after every new relapse became a depressing routine. There was nothing I could do. It was up to her. If she didn’t really want to stop, it wasn’t going to happen. They told me that. But it still was hard to take. The helplessness.
I’d begun to wonder whether it really was possible. To slay the Monster.
The well-manicured grounds came into view, discreetly separated from the surrounding stately homes by a rustic stone wall.
It all looked gray in the rain.
My heart went cold.
Not a bad thing, actually, for the job I had to do. Squeezing information from a reluctant witness. No room for extraneous emotion.
Steiglitz showed me into his office. It was expansive, elegant. Just like he was. Or thought he was. He was his usual slick and unctuous self. His handshake was firm and dry. It lasted just the right amount of time to convince you of his genuine sympathy. He didn’t sit behind a desk. He ushered me into an armchair. Pulled one over for himself. Just two guys sharing their feelings. Open up. Share. Let’s make it all feel better.
The first task was to make him comfortable in his assumptions.
I told him that Melissa’s death had made me do some hard thinking. That I’d finally realized it. That I too had a drinking problem.
He was solicitous. He questioned me gently, but extensively. My drinking habits. A little family history. My motivations. My rationale.
That part required no mendacity. Fact was, I was getting out of control. I was more and more needing several drinks just to feel normal. I had the shakes in the morning. I was up to eight double Scotches a day, easy.
Yes, I had a problem.
In fact, so convincing was my story that I almost decided to admit myself into the clinic, right then right there.
Steiglitz did not approve. Too many bad associations with the place, he said.
That, I couldn’t argue with.
My cell phone rang. Terry. I apologized to Steiglitz. Took the call. Terry told me what he’d found. Not a smoking gun. But maybe enough. Enough to make an educated guess.
I hung up the phone. Apologized again.
No, no, said Steiglitz, not a problem.
He carried on where he’d left off. I should find a group in Manhattan I’d be comfortable with. He’d suggest a few. I could try them out. See if there was one I would respond to. They weren’t all clones of twelve-step hell. There had to be a group or two for cynical, successful guys like me. Guys who weren’t going to put up with the usual quasi-Christian pabulum.
Sure, I said. Sounds good. I’ll try that. Thanks.
