chapter one - booklife
TRANSCRIPT
CHAPTER ONE
Hearing the bedroom door open, he closed his eyes and
pretended to be sleeping. The sound of her stiletto heels
against the hardwood floor sent a shockwave through his
entire body, and as she sauntered toward the vanity at the far
end of the room, he became wide-eyed and ready to watch
her undress.
She knew all along he was watching her, but she slowly
removed her clothing as though she was alone. As she
carefully dropped her evening gown to the floor, seductively
applied lipstick, and strategically dabbed perfume behind her
ears, on her forearms, and in her cleavage, he quickly became
aroused. He didn’t know what he loved most about the way
she prepared herself for him, but he was certain her act would
qualify for funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.
Following a final brush stroke through her long, brown
hair, she got up from the dressing table and slowly
approached his bed. She knew how he wanted her, and
naked, under a full-length mink coat, black nylon stockings,
and black patent leather high heels, was how she planned to
give herself to him. Without saying a word, she eased into
bed and quickly became one with her lover.
Although he wanted the moment to last forever, the taste
of her lips, the smell of her perfume, and the combined
sensations of mink, patent leather, and soft skin were
overwhelming. As he felt the height of his passion about to
progress for one final geometric instant before all would be
made commonplace by the force of rapture, she put her lips
close to his ear and softly sang:
"Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light…..”
Just then, he opened his eyes and realized his latest
dream girl was singing to him by way of a clock radio. Feeling
his heart pounding, he sat up and wiped the sweat off his face
with the object of his most recent affection - a large
down-filled pillow. Attributing the events of the preceding
moments to a slight overindulgence in bourbon and chronic
sexual deprivation, Dr. Robert Louis Cassidy slowly climbed
out of bed to begin a new day.
Days began early for the residents of Roaring Fork in
rural Northeastern Pennsylvania, and as misery loves
company, an early morning crisis was usually brought to the
immediate attention of Dr. Cassidy. Such being the case, it
was of little surprise to Roaring Fork's 34-year-old general
practitioner when the phone rang at 6:10 A.M., just as his
warm bottom was easing its way onto a cold toilet seat.
Wondering why the phone always seemed to ring at the
precise moment his backside made contact with the toilet,
Cassidy stifled the urge, ascribed the inevitable to the
beginning of a new week, and quickly made his way back to
his bedroom and the ringing phone.
"Hullo, Doctor Bob," the frail voice chirped. "This is
Sarry. Say, listen. I had some diarrheee this mornin’, and I
ain’t sure if I should take Pepta-Gizmo or Kayapectone."
Assuring the caller either Pepta-Gizmo or Kayapectone
would probably take care of her diarrheee, Dr. Cassidy
politely hung up the phone and headed back to the bathroom
for his second round with a pause that refreshes. Realizing
most scorecards would already have Sarry Adams two or
three rounds up on him in that regard, he entered the
bathroom only to realize the phone was ringing again.
Beginning to get the distinct impression January 5, 2015 was
going to be another one of those days, he returned to his
bedroom and the clamoring phone.
"Doctor Cassidy, this is Karen in the hospital emergency
room," the caller began. "Since you're on call in the E.R. from
7 A.M., I thought I'd give you a heads-up. I just received
a call from a truck driver who is at the rest stop on Interstate-
81. He told me he needs a physical done and some medical
forms filled out right away or he can't continue to drive truck.
He said he wants a doctor to meet him at the E.R. by 7
o'clock because he's already behind schedule with an
important shipment. What shall I do?"
Realizing a lesser man, who had already started the home
fires burning, savored his first cup of morning coffee, and
answered the call of the wild, would have told Karen just
what to do and how to do it, Dr. Cassidy calmly instructed
the emergency room nurse to inform the trucker a doctor
would come to the emergency room as soon as possible. Also
realizing his third attempt at getting the morning started
would only be a charm if he took matters into his own hands,
the perceptive physician took the phone off the hook and
once again headed in the direction of the bathroom.
Thinking he had solved his problem, Cassidy was startled
by the sudden high-pitched shrill of the front door bell.
Wondering who would be calling at 6:20 in the morning, he
quickly made his way to the front of the house.
As he walked through the huge Victorian house that
served as his home and medical office, he wondered who he
would find at the front door. He hadn't seen Ernie Luce in
over a month, and he wondered if the quarry worker was
stopping by on his way to work to make payment on his $400
bill. Ernie was known to stop by at odd hours and pay a
paltry installment on his longstanding bill whenever he
needed some free drug samples.
If it wasn't Ernie Luce leaning on the doorbell, Cassidy
wondered if it might be Wandy Sharples, who forecast the
weather by interpreting the sounds of the many wild animals
that inhabited Roaring Fork's expansive forests. Wandy’s
arthritis was due for a cold weather flare-up, and she had
been known to show up at inopportune times to have one of
her hips or knees injected. This treatment helped Wandy sit
through another week of television talk shows and soap
operas.
Realizing the door bell was still ringing and a true medical
or surgical emergency could be waiting on the other side of
the door, Cassidy began to walk faster. As he pulled up the
shade on the door, Cassidy peered through the ice-covered
window to see Deputy Sheriff Red DiNardo leaning on the
doorbell.
As Cassidy opened the door, DiNardo quickly moved
inside the house to escape the sub-zero temperature.
Promptly disposing of his customary comments about the
inclement weather, Cassidy's ailing father, and the impending
Super Bowl, the lanky redhead, who looked and acted more
like a used-car salesman than a deputy sheriff, stared at
Cassidy and smiled. Methodically opening his leather trench
coat and repositioning the .357 magnum on his hip, DiNardo
removed a subpoena from the inside pocket of his checkered
sport coat.
"Here’s another subpoena, Doc," DiNardo said, handing
the document to Cassidy. "Looks like you’re being sued for
malpractice again."
As a look of concern came to Cassidy's face, DiNardo
snickered.
"I thought I’d better call on you early today,” DiNardo
said. “I remember how you got all bent out of shape the time
I served you with a subpoena in front of your patients during
office hours."
Trying to ignore the sarcastic deputy, Cassidy fumbled
with the subpoena. As he opened it, Cassidy immediately
looked for the plaintiff's name.
"Jerry Jennings," Cassidy exclaimed. "I don't even know a
Jerry Jennings."
DiNardo paused, smiled, and rubbed his chin.
"Well, I expect you're going to know the man quite well
in the near future," he quipped.
As Cassidy continued to look with disbelief at the
plaintiff's name on the subpoena, DiNardo seemed to grow
impatient with the paucity of stimulating conversation.
"Say, Doc, how long you been practicing medicine up
here?" DiNardo asked.
"Two and a half years," Cassidy answered quietly.
"Well, let's see now.” DiNardo continued. “Three
malpractice suits in two and a half years comes out to one
point.....No, one point…..Well, just about one malpractice
suit a year. Ain’t that right, Doc?"
"Whatever you say, Red," the dejected physician answered
with a sigh.
"Doc, I hope I'm not being too personal," DiNardo said,
looking around the room and smirking. “But how did you
finally make out with those other malpractice suits?”
Cassidy realized DiNardo knew the outcomes of every
lawsuit in the history of Roaring Fork, but he also realized the
irritating deputy wouldn't go away before he got some kind of
answer.
"The insurance company settled the first suit out of
court, Red,” Cassidy replied unemotionally. “We could have
won the suit in court because it was totally frivolous, but the
patient was only looking for a few thousand dollars. So, the
insurance company decided to settle out of court to save the
legal expenses."
"Well, don't you doctors have any say in how these suits
get settled?" DiNardo asked.
"No, Red, we don't," Cassidy answered. "The insurance
companies always have the final say in these things. It costs
an insurance company about $15,000 just to prepare a
courtroom defense for any physician who has been sued for
malpractice. So, if the insurance company can settle a lawsuit
for $5,000, it settles out of court and feels good about the
$10,000 it saved rather than the $5,000 it spent. The
insurance companies don't care if the doctor is innocent or
not. They just pay the money and get it back by raising every
doctor’s malpractice insurance premiums the next year. It's a
game, Red - just a big game."
Seeming to derive some bizarre form of pleasure from
Cassidy's misfortune, DiNardo inquired about the physician's
second malpractice suit. Realizing DiNardo seemed to revel
in true confessions, Cassidy threw a cold stare in the deputy's
direction before continuing.
"I wasn't personally sued in the second case," Cassidy
stated emphatically. "A few of the other doctors at the
hospital were sued, and I was joined in the suit against them.
The case was a real disaster, and the lawyers who represented
the other doctors knew the patient's family was looking for
big bucks. The lawyers realized the patient would probably be
awarded a settlement in excess of the combined insurance
coverage of the other doctors who were involved in the case.
So, they decided to bring me into the case even though I
never really took care of the patient.”
“You were sued, even though you never took care of the
patient?” DiNardo asked incredulously.
“I was on call when the child was brought into the
emergency room.” Cassidy explained. “I examined the kid,
made the correct diagnosis, and immediately called Doctor
Fox, who was on the second floor of the hospital at the time.
Fox immediately admitted the kid to his service. From that
point on, I never saw the child again, but I was still joined in
the suit his family brought against the hospital and the other
doctors. The lawyers argued I was the first physician to see
the kid in the emergency room, as well as the physician who
referred him to Doctor Fox."
"So, how much did the phone call cost you?" the deputy
asked with a smug look on his face.
"One-million dollars," Cassidy answered in disgust. “One-
million dollars.”
Satisfied he had seen Cassidy squirm enough for the time
being, DiNardo started to wax philosophical.
“You know, Doc, you’re still a young man,” DiNardo
observed. “Why, I wouldn’t let this malpractice stuff get to
you. Shoot, I’ve been sued seven or eight times myself for
piddly crap like police brutality. No, sir, I wouldn’t let a little
thing like a malpractice suit get to you.”
Coming up for air, DiNardo studied Cassidy's still
uninspired face.
"Say, Doc, did I ever tell you about the time I served old
Doc Fox with a subpoena over to the hospital while he was
in surgery?” DiNardo asked.
Not giving Cassidy the chance to admit he had already
heard the garrulous deputy tell the same story three or four
different times, DiNardo continued to jabber.
"Yes, sir, I remember it like it was yesterday,” DiNardo
continued. “I drove over to the hospital to find Doc Fox.
When I inquired at the nurse's station where he was, I was
told by Suzie, you know, Suzie - the one with the big, uh,
yeah, well, I was told by Suzie that Doc Fox was back in the
operating room, just starting to take out Floyd Wilburn's gall
bladder. Well, I ain't got all day to wait on a gall bladder, and
I'm sworn to uphold the law. So, I pulled out my badge and
ordered Suzie to take me back to see Fox. Well, Suzie didn’t
know what to do, but she knew I meant business. So, before I
knew it, she started handing me all kinds of doctors' clothes
and special shoe covers. Then, she told me I had to scrub my
hands with that smelly Iodine stuff before I could go into the
operating room. Well, sir, I got all gussied up like a real
doctor, put on this surgical cap, mask, and special gown over
the green doctors' pajamas, and marched right into the
operating room. Inside the O.R., another nurse put a pair of
sterile gloves on me. In the meantime, Suzie took the
subpoena and put it into a special plastic pouch. She gave it
to another O.R. nurse who put the subpoena into a sterilizer.
A few minutes later, the nurse removed the subpoena from
the sterilizer and handed it to me. Walking right up to the
operating table, I handed the subpoena to old Doc Fox and
gave him the bad news he was being sued for malpractice.
Pretty slick, huh?"
"Yeah, Red, pretty slick," Cassidy replied sarcastically.
As DiNardo slowly broke out into a big smile, Cassidy
decided to turn the tables on the deputy.
"You know, Red, I've heard you tell that same story about
Doctor Fox on a number of different occasions,” the
perturbed physician said. “Somehow, I don't remember ever
hearing you tell anyone about how you took one look inside
Floyd Wilburn's abdomen and puked all over Floyd, Fox, and
the whole nursing staff."
Cassidy's unexpected reply took the smile off DiNardo's
face, and the embarrassed peace officer could only offer a
feeble excuse about eating some greasy food at the local
diner. So as not to back himself into another corner,
DiNardo quickly changed the subject.
"So, when are you going to find a nice girl and get
married, Doc?” DiNardo asked. “You've got the biggest
house in the whole town, and it's a shame to waste it just on
yourself. Why, people are starting to talk. In fact, some of the
boys up to the county jail…..”
Achieving the near-impossible by interrupting DiNardo
mid-sentence, Cassidy tightly clenched the subpoena in his
fist and ushered his early morning visitor out the door.
"Give my regards to your father down in Florida when
you talk to him, and make sure you get your reservations in
early for the Super Bowl party up to the Grouse Lodge,"
DiNardo shouted, as he slid on the icy ground en route to his
patrol car.
As DiNardo drove off, Cassidy went directly into his
office to look through his files for anything on a Jerry
Jennings. To his surprise, he found an office chart bearing
Jennings' name.
Perusing the chart, Cassidy realized the patient had been
seen in his office two years earlier for a minor skiing accident
at nearby Elk Mountain. With a great deal of concern, Cassidy
sat down at the large roll top desk that served as the focal
point of his office and carefully read the patient’s records:
"Name: Jerry Jennings. Date of birth: 5/8/75. Address:
3393 Lackawanna Garden Apts., Scranton, Pa. No Phone.
12/29/12- The patient has a negative medical and surgical
history. He has no known allergies. He is taking no
medications. History: The patient was skiing at Elk Mountain
today. He fell and experienced right shoulder pain while
trying to control his fall. His pain has grown more severe in
the past few hours. Physical Examination: Blood Pressure -
118/72, Heart Rate - 76. Respiratory Rate - 12. Lungs are
clear. The heart has a regular rate and rhythm. The right
shoulder has slightly decreased range of motion and pain on
motion, but no evidence of fracture, dislocation, or rotator
cuff injury. The rest of the musculoskeletal exam is within
normal limits. Back is normal. Neurological exam is normal
with normal deep tendon reflexes. Impression: Right
shoulder sprain. Treatment: Indomethacin, 50 mg after
breakfast, lunch, and supper daily as needed for pain. Patient
advised to rest the shoulder and apply heat. Since the patient
lives out of town, he will follow up with his personal
physician in Scranton in 2 to 3 days."
Cassidy leaned back in his oversized tilt-swivel chair and
read the chart over and over, trying to remember the course
of events that transpired two years earlier. He vaguely
remembered Jennings, but realized he wouldn’t be able to
describe the patient’s appearance to anyone. As he continued
to read the chart, he wondered what he ever did to Jerry
Jennings to deserve a malpractice suit.
Having survived two previous malpractice suits, Cassidy
realized depression was premature at this point and anger was
futile. He wanted to speak to somebody about his latest
dilemma, but it was 7 A.M., and from previous experience, he
knew he wouldn't be able to speak to anyone in the Medical
Insurance Company of Pennsylvania before 9 o'clock.
Cassidy took pride in always trying to be available when one
of his patients needed him. He thought it ironic that he
always had to wait inordinate amounts of time to have
someone listen to his problems.
Flipping Jennings' chart on his desk, Cassidy got up from
his chair and walked over to the wall where a portrait of his
father, Dr. Louis Cassidy, was prominently displayed. The
likeness accurately portrayed a rugged man with a full head of
dark hair, ageless eyes, and a stoic face.
The elder Cassidy was Roaring Fork's most respected
physician before lung cancer forced him to retire from
medicine. His dream had always been to one day practice
medicine in the same office with his son, but his unforeseen
illness forced him to leave his medical practice prematurely
and move to a warmer climate before his dream could be
realized. As the younger Cassidy stared at his father's portrait,
he knew his father's intentions had been honorable. But as he
stood in the shadow of a subpoena that appeared to be larger
than life, he found it difficult to be grateful for his
inheritance.
While Cassidy continued to study the details of his
father's portrait, he began to sense how cold and empty the
house felt. Not certain of whether his feelings were related to
the freezing temperature or his life circumstances, Cassidy
took a final look at his father's portrait and walked out of the
office. Realizing he was already more than an hour behind
schedule, he moved deliberately toward the cellar and a
hungry wood furnace.
Walking down the cellar steps, Cassidy continued to think
about his father. He recalled how Dr. Fox once referred to
his father as "Cassidy the Greater," and him as "Cassidy the
Lesser." He realized he had always lived in his father's
shadow, and wondered if the day would ever come when he
would be able to live a life of his own choosing.
Entering the large, unfinished cellar, Cassidy also realized
how much he hated tending to its oldest inhabitant - a
gargantuan wood furnace. Atop the old, rusty monstrosity
was a faded prescription from Louis Cassidy, M.D., which
read: "4 to 6 large fiery logs every 6 hours as needed for
heat.”
The prescription was an example of Dr. Lou Cassidy's
humor, and the object of his humor - the old Longwood
furnace, was an example of the kind of things in which the
man believed. Since Cassidy the Greater charged only token
fees for his medical services, he had an annual income that
was comparatively low by most professional standards and
ridiculously low by medical standards. To compensate for this
low income, he learned to live with a remarkable degree of
efficiency and ingenuity. The way he heated his 6,000 square
foot house was an example of such efficiency.
Cassidy's old Longwood furnace had the capability of
producing hot water and keeping his home and office at a
comfortable 70 degrees throughout the entire year at a cost of
only pennies a day. Dr. Lou Cassidy was a conservationist
who didn't believe in decimating forests, but his 100-acre
property on the outskirts of Roaring Fork produced more
downed timber each year than the Cassidy’s needed to heat
their home. Cassidy saw his yearly supply of downed timber
as a gift from nature's bounty. He also considered the sizeable
amount of manual work required to convert the downed
timber into firewood an opportunity to keep both physically
fit and philosophically straight.
Like his father, Cassidy the Lesser also believed in
conservation, but as he tried to save the last hint of fire in the
lukewarm furnace, he once again thought it foolish to be a
slave to an inanimate object. He had lost count of the
number of times he threatened to place the wood furnace on
the permanently disabled list and replace it with a new oil
furnace, but his inability to do anything against his father's
wishes made all his threats meaningless.
Cassidy respected his father, but he was as different from
his father as a son could be. Unlike his father, he hated
tending to a furnace every six hours just so the fire wouldn't
go out and the pipes wouldn't freeze. Unlike his father, he
hated living in the country and having to tolerate a small town
mentality. Unlike his father, he hated the uncertainty of his
existence. Throwing progressively larger logs in the furnace,
Cassidy once again thought about his most recent dilemma,
and wondered if his medical practice wouldn't be the next
item to be added to his hate list.
Closing the furnace's heavy door, Cassidy once again
heard the front door bell ring. Already conditioned by the
door bell’s shrill sound, he immediately began to experience a
sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Wondering what else
could possibly go wrong before breakfast, Cassidy proceeded
to the front door.
Lifting the window shade, Cassidy was relieved to see
Barley Evans, who was trying to stay warm by doing a jig and
sticking various corners of his thin, 6’4” frame into the
doorbell at timely intervals. As soon as Cassidy opened the
door, the scraggly-haired telephone repairman straightened
his baseball cap, brushed off his tattered, brown bomber
jacket, and immediately rushed past Cassidy like a freight train
passing a bum.
"Top of the morning to you, Doc," Barley shouted,
marching toward the cellar. "I'm way behind schedule today,
but I have to diagnose the cause of your telephonic
dysfunction, so people can talk to you on the horn again. The
hospital called the phone company and told them to get
someone out to your house pronto. I'll just show myself
downstairs to your box, and take things from there.”
Suddenly realizing he had taken his bedroom phone off
the hook earlier in the morning, Cassidy stopped the cellar-
bound repairman and directed him to the bedroom where the
phone company’s latest problem was about to be identified
and corrected. Shaking his head and breaking out into the
smile of a man who looked like he had just solved Rubik's
Cube for the first time, Barley put the phone back on the
hook.
"Well, there you are, Doc," Barley said. "You’re as right as
rain again. Now you can call the emergency room because
they’ve been trying to call you with little success, if you catch
my drift."
Barley continued shaking his head and smiling as he
turned in the direction of the front door.
"You know, Doc, you're too good for this town,” Barley
observed. “I mean, look at me, for example. Since you told
me I had an ulcer and what I had to do to fix it, I've been
feeling like a new man. I've been swallowing that lousy tasting
stuff after meals, and I've cut way back, I mean, way back on
my coffee and smokes. I'm down to 10 or 12 cups of coffee a
day and less than a pack of chokes, and I feel fannntastic."
Reaching the front door, Barley paused momentarily.
"Yes, sir, Doc, you're too good for this town," he
repeated. "Already this morning, you have some irate trucker
in the E.R., talking about losing a big contract if he doesn't
get a load delivered on time. He’s shooting his mouth off
about suing you for his losses if you don't get your butt up
there quick. You know what the trouble is with this town is,
don’t you, Doc? There just isn’t any gratitude for a man in
your position. No, sir, no gratitude at all."
Shaking his head and forcing a smile, Cassidy felt the
need to respond.
"Barley, it's already 7:30 A.M.," he said emphatically. "I've
been up for an hour and a half, and I still haven't had my
coffee or even sat on the crapper. In fact, I'm still not even
sure what day it is, and already everyone in town is either
trying to find me, sue me, or both."
Pulling his baseball cap down tighter on his head, Barley
smiled and patted Cassidy on the back.
"So, what else is new, Doc?" the grinning repairman
asked.
As Barley shuffled off to his telephone repair truck,
seemingly unaware of the slippery ground underneath his
feet, Cassidy waved.
"Yeah, right, Barley,” Cassidy mumbled. “So what else is
new?"
CHAPTER TWO
As hot water began to fill his large, ornate bathtub,
Cassidy wiped the steam off the mirror that hung like a
painting over his bathroom sink. The new year was just
beginning, but its first few days seemed like an eternity to
Cassidy. Even simple tasks like clearing steam from a mirror
seemed to require significant effort.
In addition to finding out he was being sued for
malpractice, everything else in his professional life seemed to
be going wrong. For Cassidy, the new year seemed to bring
one emergency after another, one complication after another,
and one irate patient after another. Even a truck driver who
let his health records lapse seemed intent on blaming Cassidy
for his own negligence.
Looking at his image in the mirror as if to compile a
damage estimate, Cassidy realized he was starting to lose his
youthful appearance. Gray hairs were evident on his chest,
and his healthy brown scalp appeared to be thinning. His
once tight facial skin was sagging, and the muscles on his
5'10'' frame were losing their tone. His blue eyes no longer
had a youthful glow, and his most prominent features were
giving way to advancing layers of adipose tissue.
As Cassidy watched his mirror image vanish with the
mounting steam, he poured a tall glass of Wild Turkey
bourbon and prepared for a long soak in his bathtub. His first
week in 2015 had not been very pleasant, and he realized how
much his tired body craved peace and quiet. Cassidy needed
comfort and solitude, and from past experience, he knew he
could achieve both temporarily with a hot bath and a
bottomless glass of unadulterated bourbon.
Cassidy sunk into the hot tub, and after he took a long,
slow sip of Wild Turkey, he looked out the bathroom
window and watched a tranquil snow falling on Roaring Fork.
The events of the previous week had not allowed Cassidy the
luxury of a single minute to himself, and sinking deeper into
the tub and taking progressively longer sips of whiskey, he
realized how good it felt to have his senses reawakened.
As the night sky grew thicker with snow, Cassidy took
long, deep breaths and tried to totally isolate himself from the
rest of the world. Feeling the hot water caress the spasm from
his neck and shoulder muscles, Cassidy closed his eyes and
entered a hypnotic state.
Meditating on nothingness felt good, if only for a few
seconds at a time, but Cassidy realized, just as his bath water
would soon turn cold, his ability to escape from reality would
be equally ephemeral. As a frigid wind began to blow against
the window, Cassidy found it more difficult to keep his mind
blank, and as the bathroom grew suddenly cold, he once
again began to think of his latest dilemma, the Jennings
malpractice suit.
Warming his bath water by opening the hot water faucet
with the toes of his left foot, and warming his insides with
another generous slug of Wild Turkey, Cassidy thought about
the discussion he had earlier in the week with Joe Neal, a
claims representative from the Medical Insurance Company
of Pennsylvania. Following some preliminary investigation,
Neal informed Cassidy that Jennings had sustained a
fractured right clavicle in his fall on Elk Mountain, and was
suing Cassidy because of the physician’s failure to diagnose
and appropriately treat his fracture. Representing Jennings
was Attorney Bradley Gold who Joe Neal described as “what
happens when a caveman makes love to a shark.”
Although Neal, who worked with Cassidy during his first
two malpractice suits, looked for reasons to be optimistic,
none were readily apparent. X-rays taken in the emergency
room of a Scranton hospital on New Year's Eve clearly
demonstrated Jennings' fractured collarbone. Unfortunately,
Cassidy didn’t have any X-rays with which to support his
diagnosis of shoulder sprain or disprove the presence of a
fracture. Trying to make light of the situation, Neal told
Cassidy he should just be grateful the “Angel of Death”
wasn't handling the Jennings case.
The Angel of Death was Neal's allusion to a fast-talking,
high-stepping lady malpractice lawyer from Scranton, whose
multitudinous victories against physicians in malpractice suits
were quickly making her a legend in her own time. Although
she had cost his insurance company more money than he
cared to admit, Neal spoke of the Angel in tones that seemed
to echo both contempt and admiration.
Whether he was describing her emasculating attacks on
defendants and expert witnesses, her ability to play “Daddy's
Little Girl” for a judge, or her willingness to intentionally
distract a jury by strutting around the courtroom like a
fashion model, Neal spoke of the Angel as the feared and
respected adversary she had become. Joe Neal was the first to
admit a malpractice case involving the Angel of Death was a
fait accompli.
Cassidy was discouraged by Joe Neal's analysis of his
latest predicament, but there was something about the
Jennings case that continued to bother him. Cassidy knew
how to diagnose and treat a fractured clavicle as well as any
other physician, but he couldn't recall anything about
Jennings that even remotely suggested such a possibility.
Furthermore, he couldn't understand why anyone with a
painful injury like a fractured clavicle would wait two days to
seek medical attention.
Cassidy saw Jennings in his office on the December 29,
2013, and Jennings wasn't seen in the Scranton emergency
room until New Year’s Eve. Cassidy didn't know anyone,
with the possible exception of a comatose Rambo, who could
endure the pain of a fractured clavicle for two days without
appropriate medical treatment.
Cassidy realized lawyers intentionally delayed the filing of
malpractice suits until the impending expiration of the statute
of limitations. This strategy frequently allowed the actual
events that led to the suit to become obscured in everyone's
memory and open to individual interpretation. Nevertheless,
Cassidy couldn't understand why anyone would wait for two
years to file a malpractice suit if the case was as cut and dried
as Jennings' lawyer had suggested to Joe Neal. There was
something about the Jennings case that bothered Cassidy, but
as he once again manipulated the hot water faucet with his
toes only to have ice cold water run down his left leg, he
realized he had less ability to change matters in the Jennings
case than he had to coax hot water from a cold furnace.
Dressing in his standard garb of blue jeans, a pullover
sweater, thick white socks, and boat shoes, Cassidy tended to
his hungry furnace. He then retreated to his living room where
he started a fire in the fireplace. Caressing a hot cup of coffee
with both hands, he snuggled into a corner of a large couch
that seemed to have been constructed with his exact body
dimensions in mind. Cassidy watched and listened as the fire
began to create a loud roar that echoed through the chimney.
Quickly rejecting the thoughts of a book or television, Cassidy
was content to let a hot cup of coffee and crackling fire get
him through the rest of the night.
It didn't take long for the serenity of the evening to get to
Cassidy and lull him into a deep sleep. As was frequently the
case, however, his nap was quickly interrupted by the shrill
sound of the front door bell. Threatening, as he usually did
three or four times weekly, to replace the antiquated door bell
with something more modern and soothing to the ears,
Cassidy waited until his racing heart stopped pounding before
deliberately making his way to the front door.
As he walked to the door, Cassidy expected to find his
close friend, Father Joe Kasperski, waiting. Father Joe, the
Pastor of St. Christopher's Roman Catholic Church in Roaring
Fork, was known to visit Cassidy with some regularity and
ponder matters, spiritual and temporal, over a bottle of
Seagram's Crown Royal. With the kind of week Cassidy had
just finished, he welcomed the thought of a visit from his
Father Confessor and the opportunity to augment his waning
blood alcohol level.
As he pulled up the window shade, Cassidy's emotions
plummeted from the sublime to the ridiculous. Instead of
Reverend Kasperski, Cassidy found the ever-repugnant Teddy
Edwards waiting on the other side of the door. Reluctantly,
Cassidy opened the front door and invited the cigar-fondling
Edwards to come in from the cold.
To understand Teddy Edwards was to understand Roaring
Fork. The equation was simple to understand because the
indomitable Edwards owned most of Roaring Fork, and what
he didn't own, he simply didn't care to own. In one way or
another, Teddy Edwards was involved in every enterprise in
Roaring Fork. In one way or another, Teddy Edwards held a
second mortgage on every soul that resided within the town’s
rapidly expanding boundaries.
Edwards came to Roaring Fork in the late 1960’s when
most of the town's residents were still dairy farmers. He had
been an insurance agent in Delaware, and after quietly
pocketing a few months worth of insurance premiums, he
moved to the unsuspecting little hamlet of Roaring Fork
where he heard destiny calling his sullied name. With money
borrowed from the local bank, he bought a few properties and
opened the Teddy Edwards Real Estate Agency. "The rest," as
they are fond of saying in Roaring Fork, "was history."
Realizing hard times were starting to befall the dairy
farmers of Roaring Fork, Edwards stepped in and won their
confidence. The dairy farms in Roaring Fork, as in the rest of
Susquehanna County, had been handed down from generation
to generation, and many of their owners didn’t know how
much their farms were worth when Edwards came to town.
Buying farms for mere fractions of their true value, Edwards
quickly acquired a sizeable portion of the acreage that made up
Roaring Fork.
The farmers who sold their land to Edwards naturally
assumed he would keep their farms intact and sell them to
other farmers. The wily Edwards, however, had long term
plans for the farmland he acquired. Unfortunately, the
perpetuation of the dairy industry was not one of them.
Edwards was fond of telling people, "after all else is gone, the
good earth still remains," and Edwards had many plans for the
good earth of Roaring Fork.
Edwards' modus operandi was simple. He would buy a 1,000
acre farm, and sub-divide the farm into 10 large parcels of land
and a smaller parcel on which the farm house, barns, and other
buildings were located. Selling each separate parcel to out-of-
state buyers for a higher price than he had paid for the entire
farm, Edwards quickly began to amass a small fortune.
Edwards' out-of-state clients were happy to buy a
"mountain retreat," or "hunter's paradise," or "gentleman's
farm," as Edwards had advertised the various parcels of land,
at prices that were reasonable in comparison to the high-
priced real estate of New York or New Jersey. Since they were
able to sell their farms, pay their bills, and realize a small
profit, the farmers of Roaring Fork were, if not happy, at least
content. All in all, Edwards came up smelling like a rose and
became wealthy beyond imagination.
Had Teddy Edwards stuck to buying properties at
wholesale prices and selling them at retail prices, he might
have been a palatable individual. Unfortunately, Teddy became
greedy and began to resort to underhanded tactics to achieve
his goals. Underneath the brown eyes that always seemed to
twinkle, the trick mustache that knew just when to wiggle, and
the unmistakable belly laugh, lurked an egomaniac who truly
believed Roaring Fork and everything in it was his to fondle.
Teddy had the ability to maintain his credibility even when
he was lying through his teeth. He used this trait, which is
usually reserved for more visible individuals with political
aspirations, to take advantage of the more desperate residents
of Roaring Fork. Edwards had the ability to rob someone
blind and still make the person think Teddy Edwards was his
only friend in the world.
Whenever Teddy knew someone was desperate and
needed to sell a property, he would place that person's
property on his list. Whenever a prospective buyer would
inquire about the property, however, he would tell them it had
already been sold or the owner was taking it off the market.
Whenever the owner would call on Edwards to find out why
no one was coming around to look at his property, Edwards
would show him the listing in his real estate catalogue and tell
him no one appeared to be interested in buying the property.
After he had given the owner of such a property sufficient
time to dwell on the more practical aspects of misfortune,
Edwards would unexpectedly stop by for a cup of coffee and a
long talk. When the moment was right and the owner
appeared most vulnerable, Edwards would look him straight in
the eye and tell him how much he had always liked and
admired him. After he started gaining the owner’s confidence,
Edwards would tell him how much he wanted to help him. It
didn't take much more for Edwards to convince the owner his
property was unmarketable and his only way out was to sell
the property to Edwards, who might be able to put it back on
the market at a later time "when the economy got better."
With this ploy, Edwards would buy valuable properties for
pennies on the dollar and dupe an unsuspecting owner into
thinking it was Edwards who was taking all the risk and
Edwards who was handing out Christmas presents ahead of
time.
Seemingly overnight, Edwards had cornered the real estate
market in and around Roaring Fork, but for Edwards, one
market was far from sufficient. Saving the choicest land for
himself, he quickly built a truck stop, restaurant, motel, and
large shopping center. All of Teddy's enterprises were built
close to Interstate-81 and all had catchy names that were
designed to attract the highway's heavy traffic. Edwards' truck
stop was called, "The Gas Hole," his restaurant was aptly
named, "The Roaring Forkful," and his motel was known as
"The No-Tell Motel." Although the names of his enterprises
caused a certain amount of controversy in conservative
Susquehanna County, the jobs his businesses created and
economy they bolstered soon proved to be a fair trade for
Edwards' off-color humor.
When wealth alone became insufficient to satisfy Edwards'
ravenous appetite, he sought political power. He became a
silent, but dominant, force in Susquehanna County politics,
and the decision-maker for Roaring Fork's Town Council and
School Board. His being named Chairman of the Board of the
Bank of Roaring Fork was a major coup and emblematic of
the power he had amassed.
Although the general public was unaware of many of
Edwards' political undertakings, he played the game of politics
well. Many political appointees in Roaring Fork and
Susquehanna County owed their livelihoods to Edwards, and
more than one attractive female teacher, who aspired to teach
in the Roaring Fork School District, passed under Edwards
before being given the key to her classroom.
Teddy Edwards controlled everything in Roaring Fork. He
controlled who worked, who was given mortgages and loans,
and who was elected to public office. He controlled what the
people of Roaring Fork ate, where they lived, and the brand of
gas they put in their cars. The one and only thing Teddy
Edwards had been unable to control in his quarter-century in
Roaring Fork was the reason he came to see the visibly
unimpressed Dr. Cassidy.
"Do I smell fresh coffee?" Edwards asked, as he skipped
the customary greetings and quickly entered the warm house.
"Yeah, Teddy," Cassidy answered half-heartedly. "Come in
and sit down by the fire. I'll pour you a cup. How do you like
your coffee?"
"The same way I like my women, Doc – hot, black, and
strong," the self-styled Romeo with the prominent paunch and
thinning black hair answered, as he rubbed his hands near the
fireplace. "And throw in a shot of that Crown Royal you keep
around here for your buddy, the padre."
Handing Edwards his spiked coffee, Cassidy sat down and
stared at his uninvited guest.
"So get right to it, Teddy," Cassidy said. "What's on your
mind?"
"Oh, just a social call, Doc," Edwards answered with eyes
twinkling and mustache wiggling. "Yes, sir, just a social call."
Waiting for Cassidy's reaction, Edwards let out his
characteristic four-note belly laugh, which was always followed
by a short puff on his cigar and a second four-note chorus of
laughter.
"Actually, Doc, I came to tell you how sorry I am you're
being sued again," Edwards remarked sarcastically.
Cassidy was caught off-guard by Edwards' comment, but
his angry scowl obviated any reply.
"Forgive me for intruding in your personal life, Doc,"
Edwards continued. "But a man in my position has to know
what's going on in his community, and it appears to me you're
not a very happy camper these days."
Edwards leaned forward and looked straight into Cassidy's
angry eyes.
"The fact of the matter is, Doc, I've always liked and
admired you, just like I always liked and admired your daddy,”
Edwards said. “Sure, your father and I didn't always see eye to
eye, but I still liked him. Yes, sir, I really liked you daddy, ah,
ha, ha, ha, (puff) ah, ha, ha, ha! So, listen, Doc, since your
father's not around here to advise you any more, why don't
you take some good advice from someone who's been around
here long enough to know who fits in these parts and who's
just hanging on? Let me tell you, Doc, you're just hanging on.
Like the Eskimo says, 'you're walking on thin ice, and you
appear to be a very heavy man,' ah, ha, ha, ha, (puff) ah, ha, ha,
ha!"
Edwards took a long, slow slurp of coffee and another
puff on his cigar.
"The truth is, Doc, you're a lame duck around here,”
Edwards observed. “Everyone's got your number, and they're
going to keep playing it until you get hurt - and hurt bad. The
fact you've been sued so many times in such a short period of
time is going to give the right people the wrong impression
and make them think you're a bad doctor. It's also going to
give the wrong people the right idea to keep suing you until
you go blind. So, why not do the smart thing already? Sell me
this place, pocket yourself a tidy profit, and move somewhere
else where you're not known and where you can show people
what a good doctor you really are."
Cassidy had heard Edwards' sales pitch before and realized
Edwards was only starting to warm up. Unwilling to prolong
the agony any longer, the usually reticent Cassidy decided to
speak his mind.
"You know, Teddy, when my father turned this house
over to me, he made me promise I would never sell it to you,”
Cassidy stated unemotionally. “He also made me promise I
would never sell the property’s gas and oil rights because he
believed fracking would ruin the entire water table. When he
left for Florida, he was too sick to care what I did with the
house, but he wasn't too sick to make me promise I'd never
sell the house to Teddy Edwards. He knew this was the most
beautiful property in the entire county, and he knew how badly
you wanted it. He told me about all the things you pulled
when you were trying to get him to sell it to you, and he told
me about how you even tried to get to my mother when she
was still alive, thinking you could convince her to persuade my
father to sell you this house."
Seeing Edwards surprised by his truculent remarks,
Cassidy grew more vocal.
"You know, Teddy, my father was a humble man, but
knowing he had the one thing Teddy Edwards wanted and
couldn't have, gave him great satisfaction,” Cassidy continued.
“He told me once you really believed you could buy anything
and anybody you wanted. Well, let me tell you this, Teddy, you
couldn't buy my father, and you can't buy me."
Quickly standing up, Cassidy handed Edwards his coat.
"My father's house wasn't for sale," Cassidy stated
emphatically. "Neither is mine."
Slowly rising to his feet, Edwards paused, took a final sip
of coffee, and made eye contact with Cassidy.
"Okay, Junior, have it your own way,” Edwards said in a
condescending tone. “You're a real man now that you’ve had
your chance to talk back to Teddy Edwards. Well, after I leave
and you've had the chance to change your soiled underwear,
just remember I'm only trying to be your friend. Do you think
any other yahoo around here is going to offer you $500,000
for this place? Huh? Look, I know you've had a bad week,
and I forgive you for being out of sorts. Just think about my
offer, and remember I'm only trying to show you the light at
the end of the forest. Think about what I said, Kid, and I'll see
you again sometime when you’re feeling better."
As Edwards walked to his Lexus, Cassidy slammed the
front door. Hearing a faint chorus of: "ah, ha, ha, ha, (puff) ah,
ha, ha, ha," Cassidy picked up the cup Edwards had just used
and threw it into the trash can. As Edwards drove away,
Cassidy returned to the living room, and smelling the
aftermath of Edwards' cigar, let out a loud, angry sigh.
Cassidy knew Edwards wanted his property much more
than he ever indicated in conversation. Edwards certainly had
more than enough money to build a larger and more beautiful
house and the ability to build it on a much larger and more
favorably located tract of land, but for as long as Cassidy could
remember, Edwards made it clear he only wanted Doc
Cassidy’s house. There was little question in Cassidy's mind
what once started out as a whim for the obstinate Edwards
had snowballed into an obsession. There was also little
question in Cassidy's mind Edwards was resourceful enough
to make life very difficult for anyone living in or around
Roaring Fork.
Rekindling the fire, Cassidy returned to his couch and
continued to think about Edwards and the various legends
that had given the scoundrel his well-deserved notoriety. One
such legend was the legend of Max Monroe.
Max “I Charge A Million” Monroe was a dirt ball plumber
who came to Roaring Fork when he discovered he was being
investigated by the state of New Jersey for a number of
questionable business practices. Ostensibly seeking a hidden
mountain sanctuary where there were no building codes, trade
unions, or Better Business Bureaus to hinder his shady
operation, Monroe moved to Roaring Fork where he promptly
resumed the shady business practices that forced him to leave
the leaking "Garden State."
On one occasion, Bonnie Thompson, who had just
recently been widowed and left a modest inheritance, hired
Monroe to clean her furnace. Since she was leaving town for a
week to visit her sister, Bonnie signed a release form
authorizing Monroe to work inside her house during her
absence and repair or replace whatever he felt necessary to
complete the job.
When Bonnie returned home, she quickly discovered
Monroe had replaced her furnace with a newer, more
expensive model and had also replaced her antique cast iron
radiators with a baseboard heating system. What Bonnie had
expected to cost $30, cost nearly $10,000. Unfortunately, the
work had been legally, if unwittingly, authorized by Bonnie
when she signed Monroe's release form.
Monroe seemed to thrive on taking advantage of the
unsuspecting residents of Roaring Fork, and he was able to
legalize his crimes by requiring his customers to sign the
appropriate release forms and agreements beforehand.
Although most of his underhanded practices were confined to
small and usually undetectable acts like adding hidden charges
to bills, unnecessarily replacing good plumbing parts and
fixtures, and creating future work for himself by tampering
with other plumbing in his customer's houses, Monroe would
decompensate every so often and do something major. One
such decompensation involved Teddy Edwards.
Teddy had heard about Monroe from a number of
dissatisfied customers, and when he decided to have a
plumbing project completed at his truck stop, he decided to
give Monroe a call and take a look at Roaring Fork's newest
bandit for himself. When the job was completed, Monroe
presented Edwards with an astronomical bill that included
multiple hidden and inflated charges, separate charges for
travel time, and even a consultation fee. Without questioning
the validity of the individual charges, Edwards wrote out a
check and paid the entire bill. Teddy then had his regular
plumber inspect Monroe’s job and review his itemized bill.
If Edwards was angry Monroe had done work that had not
been required, had unnecessarily replaced expensive fixtures
that were only a few years old, and had created enough future
work for himself to become a full-time employee at the Gas
Hole, he never showed it. Nor did he show any anger at being
charged three times what Monroe's job was actually worth.
Instead of being angry at Monroe, Teddy awarded him another
job.
Although the job was simple in comparison to his earlier
job at the Gas Hole, Monroe was happy to take Edwards'
assignment and repair the furnace of an old, dilapidated house
on the outskirts of town. Edwards had recently acquired the
house, and told Monroe it required extensive repairs before it
could be listed for sale again.
No one ever found out what happened that fateful day
when Max Monroe walked into the house with tools in his
hands and dollar signs in his eyes. What everyone in Roaring
Fork did ultimately learn, however, was how all the king's
horses and all the king's men wouldn't have been able to do
anything with what remained of Max Monroe after the furnace
he was repairing unexpectedly exploded in his face.
Although far less gruesome, the legend of Johnny Cheng
was no less instructional. Johnny Cheng was Edwards' cook at
The Roaring Forkful. The talented oriental's forte was his ability
to duplicate the most complex entrees from the most famous
restaurants in the world after tasting the critically acclaimed
food a single time. Cheng had been blessed with extraordinary
taste perception, and was able to immediately identify each
ingredient in any sample of food after only one taste.
After working for Edwards for a number of years, Cheng
decided he was tired of cooking American and European food
and interested in opening his own Chinese restaurant. Using
his life savings, he bought an old, run-down store in Roaring
Fork from the town's real estate maven, Teddy Edwards.
Although his savings were nearly depleted by the inflated price
of the property, the industrious cook was able to quickly
transform the dump into Johnny Cheng's Restaurant.
From the moment Cheng left The Roaring Forkful, the
restaurant began to see a dramatic drop in business. Its once
outstanding cuisine rapidly became mediocre, and the
residents of Susquehanna County looked forward to the
opening of a new restaurant. Even without its gourmet food,
Johnny Cheng's Restaurant appeared ready to win by default
over the now lackluster Roaring Forkful.
During the first few weeks of the new restaurant's
operation, however, a curious thing happened in Roaring
Fork. For no apparent reason, the town's population of house
cats began to disappear. Although the bizarre occurrence
could not be explained by the local police, the feline
population of Roaring Fork had been mysteriously decimated.
In the midst of Roaring Fork's latest unsolved mystery,
Teddy Edwards decided to take a few friends to dinner at
Johnny Cheng's. The unsuspecting restaurateur handled
Edwards' dinner reservation personally, and even though the
reservation had been made for the busiest night of the week,
Cheng personally prepared a sumptuous feast for the dinner
guests of his former boss.
Midway through the meal when the tuxedo-clad Johnny
Cheng came to Edwards' table for an anticipated round of
accolades, Edwards introduced him to Madge Sutter, a
dignified and extremely loud woman who wrote a restaurant
review column for a newspaper syndicate. As everyone in the
restaurant tuned in to closely listen to her observations, the
rotund food critic began to praise the new eatery. When her
compliments had locked Cheng's smile firmly into place, she
informed him she especially liked his egg rolls.
"Yours' is the only restaurant I've found that makes egg
rolls just like they do in mainland China," Madge stated
unequivocally.
As Cheng scratched his head in bewilderment, she asked,
"And where do you ever find the fresh cat meat for your egg
roll filling?"
At that precise moment, one of Roaring Fork's few
remaining dairy farmers, Clyde Wilmont, bit into the first egg
roll he had ever tasted in his 55 years of life. Hearing the
strange new morsel might contain remnants of his lost pet
tabby, the wide-eyed Wilmont spit the egg roll into his wife,
Gladys', lap. What followed could only be described as mass
hysteria.
To prevent an old-fashioned hanging, Edwards personally
escorted the perplexed Johnny Cheng out of the restaurant.
Although a formal investigation by the Pennsylvania State
Health Department ultimately exonerated Cheng from any
improprieties, the damage had already been done. Johnny
Cheng quickly discovered he couldn't even give away his
Chinese food to the people of Roaring Fork. With little
alternative, he was forced to sell his renovated property back
to Edwards at a substantial loss and go back to work as the
older, but wiser chef of The Roaring Forkful.
Cassidy realized anyone who could unceremoniously
dispose of a crooked plumber, quietly pilfer a small army of
cats, and effortlessly ruin the career of a promising
businessman could certainly get to an expendable country
doctor with little difficulty. Cassidy had never thought of
himself as a lame duck, but he realized Edwards was a student
of the human condition and his analysis was probably correct.
Cassidy didn't trust Edwards as far as he could drop-kick the
porker's fat body against a trade wind, and he realized the time
to fortify his defenses against the egomaniacal lord of Roaring
Fork was probably long overdue.
With the exception of the sounds of a crackling fire and an
angry set of grinding teeth, the Cassidy household was
unusually quiet for a Friday night. As he continued to ruminate
over Teddy Edwards, Cassidy realized how quiet things were,
but as he closed his eyes to savor the uncommon solitude, the
phone began to ring. Attributing the tinny sound of his old-
fashioned wall phone to the inevitable, Cassidy slowly made
his way to what he was sure would be his next great challenge
in life.
"Is this Doctor Cassidy's office?" an impatient woman
inquired.
“Yes, it is,” Cassidy answered.
"Now, listen to me carefully,” the loud woman continued.
“I take my family to another doctor, but I want to know what
I have to do to get some eye drops for my daughter's pink eye?
I can't get a hold of my own doctor, and Bailey's Drug Store is
already closed."
“Does your daughter have any other symptoms?” Cassidy
asked in a sincere attempt to be helpful.
"Let me be perfectly frank with you, Doctor Cassidy,” the
caller snapped. “I'm not about to come to your office and pay
you my hard earned money so you can tell me what I already
know. My daughter has pink eye, and all I want to know is
how I can get some eye drops for her."
The usually compliant and always courteous physician
thought about the situation for a moment, and feeling the
adverse effects of a very trying week, calmly responded to the
rude caller.
"Ma'am, there are reasons I asked you if your daughter had
any other symptoms,” Cassidy said calmly. “A high percentage
of children with pink eye also have an associated ear infection
that can be caused by the same bacteria that infects the eye.
So, your daughter may also have a potentially serious ear
infection that may require an oral antibiotic.”
Growing angrier and starting to enjoy the feeling, Cassidy
continued.
"Now, I'm glad you’re trying to be perfectly frank with me,
Ma'am, because I'd like to be perfectly frank with you,” he
said. “I'm not about to treat a child who I've never seen before
for a problem I haven't had the chance to diagnose. I can give
eye drops to your daughter tonight, and two weeks from now
when she comes down with meningitis from complications of
an untreated ear infection, the doctors in one of the Scranton
emergency rooms are going to wonder what kind of quack
treats meningitis over the phone with eye drops without even
seeing the patient. So, here’s the thing. If you called here
tonight and told me you had a sick child and no money, I
would have told you to bring her right over to my office. I
would have examined your daughter and given you whatever
medicine she needed without any charge. You didn't, though.
So, the only thing I can tell you to do is take your child to an
emergency room somewhere and let them charge you a few
hundred dollars to tell you what I just told you for free."
Without giving the caller a chance for any further rebuttal,
Cassidy unemotionally placed the phone back on the hook. He
immediately began to feel guilty and second-guess his
impulsive decision, but as he thought about the possibility of
being sued for malpractice because of a kind act to an ignorant
patient, his feelings of guilt began to subside.
Cassidy did much more for his patients than any physician
could be expected to do, and he was starting to realize how
much he resented being taken for granted by the people of
Roaring Fork. Before he could ponder the pros and cons of
guilt any further, however, Cassidy heard a car pull up to the
house. As he looked out the window, he was happy to see
Father Joe Kasperski getting out of his car. It seemed a little
late for Father Joe to be visiting, but Cassidy was happy to see
his closest friend making his way up the front stairs.
"Hiya, Doc," the white-haired priest with the ruddy
complexion said, as he walked into the house and dusted the
snow off his hat.
"Hiya, Father," Cassidy replied. "How about a drink?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?" the 72-year-old clergyman asked,
handing Cassidy his coat and hat.
As the two friends sat close to the fire, they began their
ritual of toasting everyone in the Catholic Church from the
Pope on down to the cleaning lady at St. Christopher's.
Kasperski was nearly twice as old as Cassidy, but both men
communicated on the same wavelength and both looked
forward to each other's company.
Somewhere along the line of toasts between the
archbishops and the monsignors, Kasperski brought a
problem to Cassidy's attention.
"Bob, I have a problem I need to talk to you about,”
Kasperski said in a serious tone of voice. “For the past few
months, I've been coughing a lot. At first, I just blamed it on
the dampness of the rectory. For the past few years, I've been
after Bishop O'Brien to finish off the rectory basement
because of the dampness, but you know the Bishop. He's got
enough money to put a new roof on the cathedral every few
years, but when it comes to the smaller parishes, he doesn't
have the time of day. He smiles whenever I go looking for
financial help from the diocese and tells me to appeal to my
parishioners. That's some joke, huh?"
As Kasperski took a long, hard drink of Crown Royal
Canadian whiskey, Cassidy entered the conversation.
"Once upon a time, my father told me the priests who
were sent to St. Christopher's were priests the Bishop didn't
like,” Cassidy said. “Dad said these priests were exiled, rather
than assigned, to small rural parishes like St. Christopher's.
You've been here for a lot of years now, and you're one of the
few pastors in the diocese who hasn't been made a monsignor.
You really must be on the Bishop's hit list."
Kasperski smiled and looked straight into Cassidy's eyes.
"Me and O'Brien were in the seminary together,”
Kasperski admitted. “I could never take to the guy. He was
always kissing up to the priests who ran the place, and always
trying to prove he was better than everyone else. You know
how I am with people. If I don't like a guy, he knows it. Well,
O'Brien knew I never cared for him, and while his buddies got
the Monsignor stripes and the cushy parishes in the diocese,
his less-than-ardent followers got sent to places like St.
Christopher's."
Kasperski took another sip of whiskey and continued
looking straight into Cassidy’s eyes.
"How much did your father's feelings about St. Chris' and
the diocese sway you in your decision to leave the seminary?”
he asked.
Although a little known fact in Roaring Fork, Cassidy had
indeed been a seminarian at Pius the Tenth Seminary in nearby
Dalton. In fact, Cassidy had only two years remaining before
his ordination when he decided to leave the seminary and
pursue a career in medicine.
With a sullen look on his face, Cassidy took a healthy swig
of whiskey.
"Well, you know how hard my father tried to get me to
leave the seminary,” Cassidy replied. “He never wanted me to
go into the priesthood in the first place. In fact, it wasn't until
my senior year at the University of Scranton he realized I had
taken a double major in theology and biology, and was
planning to go to the seminary rather than medical school. He
was especially upset because I had the second highest average
of all the biology majors and could have gone to practically
any medical school in the country. When I started the
seminary, he tried to get me to leave by telling me how I was
wasting my life, and then he tried to get me out with horror
stories about how badly the diocese treated certain priests.
None of his early tactics worked. The only reason I left was
because my mother developed lung cancer, and I realized my
father couldn't take care of her himself. I took a leave of
absence from the seminary, and after spending a few months
at home, I started to realize how important the medical
profession was to my father, and how much he wanted me to
be a part of his profession. I also started to realize I was
becoming genuinely interested in medicine. So, while I was
taking care of my mother, I applied to medical school and got
accepted without any problem. My mother died the summer
before medical school started. Right before she died, she held
my hand and said, 'Robert, you're going to make a good
doctor.'"
Tears started to well up in Cassidy's blue eyes. Taking a
sip of whiskey, he slumped back into his couch. Quickly
composing himself, he looked at Kasperski and smiled.
“Well, enough seminary stories,” he joked. ”Let’s hear
more about that cough.”
“Like I told you, I've had this cough for a few months
now,” Kasperski said. “For the last week or two, I've been
feeling weak, and my bones have been aching. Of course, the
weather's been cold, and I'm no spring chicken either. The
thing that's starting to worry me, though, is the blood I've
been coughing up for the past two days. When I coughed up a
big clot after supper, I decided it was time to get over here to
see you."
Hearing Kasperski’s symptoms left Cassidy with an uneasy
feeling. The good doctor had seen lung cancer kill his mother
and rapidly take his father to death's door, and he didn't like
what his friend was telling him.
In lieu of any premature false hope, Cassidy escorted the
priest into the examining room of his office and began his
investigation.
"I don't like the way your lungs sound, Father,” the
dejected general practitioner stated unequivocally, “And your
diaphragm isn’t moving very well. Your bones and liver are
tender, and it seems like you've lost some weight since I last
examined you. It might be my imagination, but you also sound
hoarse to me."
"So, what's the verdict, Doc?” Kasperski asked point-
blank. “Do I have cancer?”
"I don't know, Father, but I don't like what I'm seeing,"
Cassidy answered honestly.
"Well, look, you know how I feel about things,” Kasperski
said. “Let's do whatever's necessary and find out what's going
on here. I'm at peace with my Maker, so 'Thy will be done.'
One thing though, Bob, I want everything kept on the 'Q.T.'
Understand? If I do have cancer and there's nothing we can do
about it, I want to live out my days at St. Chris,' and I don't
want anybody the wiser, especially the Bishop. Okay?"
"Alright, Father," Cassidy agreed, "I'll set up a few tests for
you in Binghamton where no one knows you. When I get the
results, we'll sit down and talk about things."
"Thanks, Bob, you're a good friend," Kasperski said, as he
buttoned his overcoat, put on his hat, and prepared to face the
cold night air. "You're also the best doctor I know."
As he left the house and approached his car, Kasperski
paused, turned around and looked at Cassidy.
"You know, Bob, you made the right decision when you
left the seminary,” he shouted. “Christ was a doctor, not some
Sunday morning orator. Think about it."
With a final wave, Kasperski got into his car and quickly
drove off.
Closing the stubborn front door, Cassidy went back into
his office and sat down at his desk. Putting both feet on the
desk and leaning back in his chair, he thought about Father
Kasperski and struggled for a diagnosis that didn't contain the
word, cancer. Quickly dismissing all other alternative diagnoses
as soon as they came to mind, the concerned physician grew
despondent. Still deep in thought, Cassidy was startled by the
sudden ringing of his office phone.
"Oh, Doctor," the female caller slurred. "This is Martha. I
know my husband, Edgar, has an appointment with you next
Thursday for his infantzema, but I forget what I did with your
card that had the time on it, and I wondered if you could tell
me the time his appointment is, and Edgar told me to remind
you he needs the subscription for his breathing medicine filled,
and, Oh, Doctor, by the way, I'm selling some ladies'
cosmetics to make some extra money, and, well, I know there's
no Mrs. Doctor Cassidy, but I was wondering if, when I come
down to your office with Edgar….."
Although he was usually tolerant and understanding of the
long-winded Martha Post, Cassidy had been totally depleted of
the energy to be either, and without any warning, he simply
hung up the phone. Realizing Martha would undoubtedly call
right back, Cassidy waited for a few seconds before taking the
phone off the hook again. As he listened to the dial tone, he
wondered at what stage of mental fatigue a person began to
prefer telephone noise to the sound of the human voice.
As he continued the meditation that had been interrupted
by Martha Post's late night phone call, he was once again
startled by the piercing ring of the front door bell.
"Oh, already, give me a break," he thought to himself, as
he stumbled out of his chair and made his way to the front
door.
Arriving at the door, he saw an unfamiliar silhouette on
the window shade. Realizing the uninvited visitor would
undoubtedly go away if he ignored the doorbell, he considered
not opening the door.
During the past week, the front door had allowed an
incessant array of new problems to complicate the life of Dr.
Robert Louis Cassidy, and he sincerely wondered if there was
room in his life for yet another problem. Firmly grasping the
door knob with his right hand, Cassidy leaned against the
large, wooden door and wondered if his life was about to be
changed by the unexpected caller on the other side.
CHAPTER THREE
As he opened the front door, Cassidy stared at his late
night visitor. In turn, the young woman in the designer ski suit
and woolen snow bunny cap stared back at the fatigued
physician who was starting to look more like a poster child for
Biological Warfare than a contemporary practitioner of the
healing arts.
Glancing at the driveway where her late model Mercedes
was parked, Cassidy continued staring at his late night visitor.
“Can I help you,” he asked, expecting the beautiful woman
to admit she was lost and ask for directions.
Removing a European leather driving glove, the young
lady offered her hand to Cassidy in a businesslike fashion and
introduced herself,
"Doctor Cassidy, I'm Angela Fratello,” the young beauty
said, briskly shaking Cassidy's hand. "Please forgive me for
calling on you so late, but I need your help. I had an accident
while I skied at Elk Mountain tonight, and I'm starting to
experience some pain in my right foot. I live outside Scranton,
and I don't know if it's safe to drive that far without having my
foot examined."
With his attention still divided between his visitor and
what was undoubtedly the most expensive car to ever grace his
driveway, Cassidy invited Angela inside. Making her way into
Cassidy's office, Angela removed her woolen cap, and shook
out her wavy, brown hair.
Cassidy silently watched as she took off her ski suit,
revealing a gorgeous body in tight-fitting blue jeans and a
flannel shirt. As she turned toward the speechless physician
and smiled, the combination of her refulgent green eyes, rosy
cheeks, and red lips made Cassidy wonder if he wasn't about
to awaken from one of his fantasies.
Angela hopped on Cassidy’s examination table with some
difficulty, and as the doctor slowly removed the suede boot
from her right foot, she studied his office.
"You know, this is just how I pictured it," Angela said.
"Pictured what?" Cassidy inquired.
"Your office," she answered. "You know, I've been skiing
at Elk Mountain for years, and the favorite part of my ride
from Scranton has always been driving past your house. I've
often wondered what it was like inside, and for some reason,
it's just like I pictured it."
Angela stopped talking and winced with pain as Cassidy
removed a heavy woolen sock from her right foot.
"Oh, brother," Cassidy remarked, as he looked at the big
toe of Angela's right foot. "Your big toe is swollen and
severely infected. This didn't happen just tonight."
"No, it didn't," Angela conceded. "It's been swollen for a
few weeks and discolored for the past few days. To be honest
with you, I think it probably started about a month ago. One
of my avocations is ballet. I was doing The Nutcracker with the
Binghamton Ballet Company last month, and after one of our
rehearsals, I noticed a small ulcer under my toe. The ulcer
didn't get any bigger, so I just forgot about it. When the
swelling started a few weeks ago, I attributed it to a new pair
of Italian high heels I've been trying to break in. I wear high
heels all the time at work, and every so often I get a swollen or
discolored toe, which usually gets better after I soak it in hot
water and Epsom salts. What finally got me scared was a fall I
took tonight at Elk Mountain. When I got up, I found it hard
to put weight on the toe and started feeling a throbbing pain
from the toe into my foot. When I took my boot off and saw
how discolored my toe had become, I realized I needed some
help."
"Help is what you needed a month ago," Cassidy observed,
continuing to examine her toe with concern. "What you need
now is prayer."
"What do you mean - prayer?" Angela asked. "Prayer for
what?"
"Prayer that you don't wind up losing this toe," Cassidy
replied.
Returning to his consultation room, Cassidy sat down with
Angela and explained his findings.
"Miss Fratello, I'm concerned about the way your toe
looks,” Cassidy said. “Unless I miss my guess, you have a good
case of osteomyelitis starting. Now, osteomyelitis is…..”
"I know what osteomyelitis is, Doctor,” Angela
interrupted. “It's a bone infection. The question is what do we
have to do to take care of it?"
Cassidy leaned back in his chair and stared into his
patient’s expectant eyes.
"First of all, the diagnosis of osteomyelitis is usually made
with an X-ray and a few blood tests,” Cassidy replied. “If the
X-ray is inconclusive, a bone scan has to be done. When the
diagnosis of osteomyelitis is made, the treatment generally
consists of intravenous antibiotics for usually up to six weeks.
In some cases, even six weeks of antibiotics fail to resolve the
infection, and surgical intervention becomes necessary."
Cassidy watched Angela's face as he explained the
diagnosis and treatment of osteomyelitis, and he was surprised
her facial expression didn't change when the ominous reality
of her presumptive condition was explained. Cassidy expected
his patient to become frightened, if not hysterical, upon being
informed she might have to undergo extensive treatment for a
disease that had the potential of being refractory to even the
most aggressive medical therapy. To Cassidy, Angela looked
more like a medical school professor, who was administering
an oral examination on the diagnosis and treatment of
osteomyelitis, than an amateur ballerina who had unexpectedly
acquired the disease. The more Cassidy looked at Angela, the
more he realized he didn't know how to read her.
"Of course, all this is academic at the moment,” Cassidy
continued. “You need a few tests done before any diagnosis
can be made or any treatment can be started. Since you're
from Scranton, the best thing for us to do is to get in touch
with your personal physician as soon as possible and let your
doctor get the necessary tests down there."
"I'd really prefer not to," Angela answered emphatically.
"Why couldn't you do the tests at your hospital and treat me
here?"
"I don't think you understand what's going on here,"
Cassidy observed. "You may have a disease that is going to
require intravenous antibiotics for six weeks, and if the
antibiotics don't work, you may very well lose that toe. Sure, I
can diagnose your problem tonight, but why would you want
to be treated by a general practitioner in a small rural hospital
when you have your choice of modern hospitals, as well as
medical and surgical specialists, in Scranton? Besides, in a
town as big as Scranton, your doctor could arrange for nurses
from a Home Health agency to administer intravenous
antibiotics to you at home. I can't do that up here. To treat
you, I’d have to admit you to the Roaring Fork Hospital.”
"Could we take one step at a time?" Angela asked
diplomatically. "Could we make sure we're dealing with osteo
and not just cellulitis or something simple?"
"Osteo? Cellulitis? Who is this broad, anyway?" Cassidy
thought to himself, as he continued to stare at his late night
patient. Quickly realizing he was too tired to argue his point
any further, Cassidy decided to hoist the white flag.
"Okay, Miss Fratello, you win,” Cassidy conceded. “I had
nothing planned for tonight anyway. I was just going to sit
down by the fire with a bottle of Wild Turkey and get
smashed, but I guess a few tests won't set me too far back. I'll
draw a blood sample from you now, and while you're at the
hospital getting your foot X-rayed, I'll check your white blood
count and sed rate."
"Great," Angela replied. "Let's get these tests done, and
then I'll get smashed with you."
Totally surprised by her forward remark, Cassidy took
Angela back into his examining room. After he withdrew a
tube of venous blood from her right arm, Cassidy sent Angela
to the hospital for her X-rays. As he prepared the blood for
analysis, Cassidy thought about Angela and began to wonder
what the rich, out-of-town beauty really had on her mind.
Cassidy took one portion of Angela's blood sample and
poured it into a thin tube that resembled a glass soda straw. In
one hour's time, he would check the tube to see how fast the
blood cells sedimented from the fluid portion of the blood.
The resulting erythrocyte sedimentation rate, or sed rate,
would be useful to help substantiate the presence of an active
infection or inflammation in Angela's body.
Cassidy placed a few drops of the remaining blood into a
blood cell counting chamber. When this chamber was placed
under a microscope, an estimate of Angela's white blood cell
count could be made. A white blood cell count over 10,000
would be suggestive of an infectious process.
As Cassidy prepared to estimate Angela's white blood cell
count, he tried to understand why she was so adamant about
being treated by him. He wondered if Angela had a bad
experience with a physician in Scranton, or if she owed a
physician or hospital in Scranton a significant amount of
money. He wondered if she had to keep her medical problem
a secret from her employer, or if she was a fugitive from the
law and unwilling to be seen in a public place such as a
hospital.
Never short on imagination, Cassidy began to consider
other reasons for her reluctance to seek medical care closer to
home. With the Jennings case still in the back of his mind, he
wondered if Angela was trying to set him up for a malpractice
suit. After his recent visit from Teddy Edwards, he wondered
if the inexorable real estate mogul was, in some way,
responsible for Angela's mysterious, late night appearance.
All kinds of thoughts raced through Cassidy's tired mind,
but none of them made any sense. Regardless of Angela's
motives, the facts were still incontrovertible. Angela was one
pirouette away from losing a toe and in urgent need of medical
attention.
As Cassidy looked into the microscope at the blood cell
counting chamber, he was amazed at the number of readily
apparent white blood cells. Tallying the number of cells with a
hand counter, he quickly realized the final count would be
academic. There was little doubt Angela had a severe infection.
Just as Cassidy finished reading Angela's sed rate, she
returned from the hospital with her X-rays. Cassidy promptly
placed the films on the viewing box in his consultation room,
and his eyes widened when he saw the degree of bone
destruction in Angela's toe. What Cassidy had feared, the X-
rays had corroborated. Angela had osteomyelitis.
As Cassidy turned toward Angela, tears were already
starting to fill her eyes.
"You don't have to tell me," she mumbled from behind a
crumpled handkerchief. "I already looked at the X-rays. If you
don't mind, could we sit down by that fire you talked about?
I'd really appreciate a warm fire and something strong to
drink."
With tears in her eyes, Angela no longer seemed like a
patient to Cassidy. Instead, she seemed like a very frightened
30-year-old woman who needed someone to talk to. Without
hesitation, Cassidy escorted Angela into his living room.
With two tall glasses of unadulterated Wild Turkey close at
hand and one recently neglected fire rekindled, the two
strangers pulled their chairs closer to the fireplace.
"So, how bad were my tests?" Angela asked.
"Your white blood cell count was 19,000, which is roughly
twice normal,” Cassidy answered. “Your erythrocyte
sedimentation rate was 90, with normal being less than 20. So,
here’s the thing. It's almost midnight, and I doubt if I'll be
able to get in touch with your primary care doctor at this hour,
but the first thing in the morning, I'll….."
"I already told you I want you to treat me,” Angela
interrupted. “I don't want to go to any doctor in Scranton."
"Why?" Cassidy asked in an atypically loud voice.
"Because," Angela quickly answered. "I have my reasons."
"That's not good enough, Miss Fratello," Cassidy replied.
"I told you I have my reasons,” Angela shouted. "And will
you please stop calling me, 'Miss Fratello?' Try 'Angela,’ and
see if that works."
"Alright, Angela," Cassidy conceded in a quieter tone of
voice. "Put yourself in my position. I've all but finished the
absolute worst week in my entire precarious existence on this
planet. Then, out of nowhere, the most beautiful woman I've
ever seen shows up at beddy-bye time with a Mercedes, a
wardrobe out of the Sharper Image catalogue, a vocabulary that
includes words like 'osteo' and 'cellulitis,' the unexplained
ability to read X-rays, an advanced case of osteomyelitis, a
strange aspiration to be under the medical care of a country
doctor, and not one good reason not to obtain more
comprehensive and convenient medical care closer to home.
Now, if you were me, would you want some answers before
you dove into this case head first?"
Angela smiled and looked straight into Cassidy's baby
blues. Moving her chair closer to his, she put her hand on his
knee.
"Doctor Cassidy, you're a compassionate human being,”
she said. “You’re also a snappy dresser, and you pour a mean
drink. What's more, you're absolutely right. By the way, what
do your friends call you?"
"My friends?" Cassidy asked. "I don't have all that many
friends, but the few I have usually call me 'Bob.' Most of the
people around here call me 'Doctor Bob' or just 'Doc.' Sounds
like something out of The Muppets or Snow White, doesn't it?”
Angela sank into her chair and laughed.
“Patients who think I charge too much call me 'Butch
Cassidy,” he continued. “Others, who think I take too much
time sewing up their lacerations or removing splinters from
their behinds, call me 'Hopalong Cassidy,' I’m starting to
sound like a regular Saturday matinee."
Angela laughed again at his unusual insight, and then asked
Cassidy if she could call him, "Bob."
“Angela, you can call me anything you want as long as you
cut right to the chase and tell me why you won't let me send
you to a doctor in Scranton," Cassidy replied.
"Alright, Bob,” Angela agreed. “I’ll ‘fess up, but I don't
know if you'll like or even be able to understand my reasons.”
Angela paused and took another sip of bourbon before
continuing.
“The fact of the matter is I can't go to any of the doctors
in Scranton,” Angela admitted. “I know many of them
professionally, and I don't think they would want to see me as
a patient."
"What do you mean, professionally?” Cassidy asked. “Are
you one of those expensive call girls or something?"
“I'm not an expensive call girl or something,” Angela
loudly exclaimed, as she laughed and threw a phantom punch
in Cassidy’s direction. ” Of course, you might say I have been
called a 'whore,' at least in a pejorative sense, by a number of
doctors in Scranton."
"I still don't understand," Cassidy said. "Why can't you go
to a doctor in Scranton? Are you some kind of underworld hit-
person who specializes in Scranton doctors, or what?"
"Well, sort of," Angela admitted sheepishly. "The truth of
the matter is I'm an attorney, and my practice is devoted
exclusively to medical malpractice."
Angela paused and took another sip of bourbon as she
watched Cassidy sink deeper into his chair.
"Bob, I've successfully sued more doctors than the
Pennsylvania Medical Society cares to admit,” Angela
continued. “I'm also involved in a greater number of medical
malpractice suits at the present time than any other three
lawyers in Scranton combined. Now, maybe you can see why I
can't go to any doctors in Scranton. Bob, I don’t even go to
any dentists in Scranton. I went all the way to Philly to get
dental implants, and I still have to go there just to get regular
dental checkups.”
Cassidy took a healthy swig of Wild Turkey, and remaining
speechless, looked away from Angela.
"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" Angela asked,
trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with Cassidy.
Resisting the temptation to tell Angela exactly what he
thought about lawyers and medical malpractice, Cassidy sat up
straight in his chair and tried to appear professional.
"Angela, what you do professionally is your business,”
Cassidy stated calmly. “My business is doing what's right for
my patients. As it pertains to you, my doing right consists of
dispelling these notions you have about not being able to
obtain the medical care you need in Scranton, and then
arranging such care for you."
Not wanting to hear what Cassidy was about to say,
Angela tried unsuccessfully to interrupt him.
"Let me finish, please,” Cassidy demanded in a much
louder tone of voice. “Just because you earn your living suing
doctors, that doesn't mean you can't find doctors in Scranton
who will be willing to take care of you. The very fact you're a
malpractice lawyer will probably help you receive meticulous
medical care. No doctor is going to take any shortcuts with a
malpractice lawyer, and a lot of these docs will probably even
butter up to you because they realize you might be a good
friend to have somewhere down the line. Now, I don't owe
any of these guys in Scranton a thing, and I could very well
play your little game and pretend all of them wear black hats
and steel cattle from the Little Sisters of the Poor, but that's
not what I'm about. That's why I have to insist you receive
your medical treatment closer to home. You may not realize it,
but it's really in your best interest."
"Cassidy, you sound like my parish priest," Angela
exclaimed. "Get down from your pulpit for a minute and listen
to me. I realize a lot of what you're saying is true. You may not
believe this, but I have a lot of personal friends in Scranton
who are doctors, and don't forget, a lot of these guys are
making big bucks from my law firm. We're paying some of
these guys ten-grand a pop to stick their head in a courtroom,
identify themselves as an expert witness, say the defendant
screwed up, and then excuse themselves because they have an
appointment with their investment counselor. So, I realize
there are plenty of doctors I could go to, but I don't choose to
go to any of them. Bob, you've got to realize my uncle's law
firm, Fratello, Bucci, and Forgione, is one of Scranton's oldest
and most respected law firms. You've also got to realize, in my
four and a half years with the firm, I've brought in more
money than any other lawyer in the firm's history. I've been
able to do this because I've worked hard at developing an
image, and that image would get shot down the tubes if I
started going to the enemy for help. Bob, I don't go after
innocent physicians with frivolous nickel and dime cases. I
only go after the real jerks who are out there hurting people.
Why, I throw away more potential malpractice cases in a day
than any other lawyer in Scranton gets offered in a month. So,
how about cutting me a break here. I need your help. I can't
force you to treat me, and I can understand your reluctance,
but, please, Bob, I'm scared. Help me."
"Boy, this chick knows how to handle herself," Cassidy
thought to himself. Still unwilling to concede, he took another
sip of Wild Turkey and prepared to invoke the powers of
rebuttal.
"Angela, all of this is real nice, but who died and left me in
charge of protecting your image?” Cassidy asked. “You know,
there are a few things you have to understand too. I've been in
practice two and a half years now, but it feels more like
twenty-two and a half. I'm already on my third malpractice
suit, and to this day, I still don't know what I did wrong. Every
time I try to vent some frustration with my insurance rep, he
tells me not to worry, to keep up the good work, and to just be
glad some Angel of Death isn't representing the plaintiff. Is
that the type of image you're trying to work up to? Am I
supposed to work a minor miracle here so someone will give
you a fancy title someday?"
"Bob, let me explain the whole 'Angel of Death' thing,”
Angela interrupted, smiling apologetically. “A few years ago, a
lawyer friend of mine came up to me after a trial I won for big
bucks, patted me on the back, shook his head, and said,
'Angela, you're death.' The guy was just trying to compliment
me on winning the case. Before I knew it, all of the other
lawyers started calling me the 'Angela of Death.' With time, the
letter, ‘A,’ got dropped, but the rest of the name stuck. Now,
they call me the Angel of Death. I think it's funny myself, and
it certainly hasn't hurt business any."
Cassidy's eyes widened upon hearing Angela's revelation.
Once again, he sunk back in his chair and stared at her.
"You're the Angel of Death?” he asked in disbelief.
"You look surprised," Angela replied. "What were you
expecting - an old hag with a broom and a pointed hat?"
"No, nothing like that," Cassidy answered. "Just someone
a little older, with long scraggly hair, and a long warty nose."
"Bob, I can't change who I am, but I don't apologize for it
either,” Angela said with obvious sincerity. “The Angel is a
part of me, but only a part. You may find this hard to believe,
but underneath that image, is a sensitive human being who
really cares about the human condition, a sick toe in bad need
of some urgent help, and a scared little girl who doesn't want
to lose that toe. Bob, please forget about the Angel, and forget
I come from Scranton, and please just help me like you'd help
some sick little kid from Roaring Fork."
Cassidy took a hard look at Angela, and just shook his
head.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said. "I can't believe I'm
about to admit the Angel of Death to the Roaring Fork
Hospital for treatment of her osteomyelitis."
"Uh, Bob, that's something else we have to talk about,”
Angela interjected. “I can't go into the hospital. We have to do
this thing on an out-patient basis."
"What?" Cassidy shouted. "What are you talking about?
Do you realize how serious this problem is? Listen, Miss Sugar
Plum Fairy, you're about one pirouette away from hanging up
your ballet slippers for keeps, and you're going to look pretty
silly chasing after some medical miscreant in the courtroom
with your cane. Listen, Angela, I'm still not sure I want to be
treating you at all, but there's no way I can treat you without
putting you in the hospital."
Taking a long drink of Wild Turkey and shaking his head
back and forth, Cassidy made no attempt to hide his mounting
anger.
"Bob, let's just analyze this thing for a minute,” Angela
said calmly. “Exactly what do you plan to do for me in the
hospital?"
"First and foremost, I.V. antibiotics," Cassidy answered
succinctly. "Then, whirlpool treatments, close observation, and
monitoring of the osteo's activity with X-rays and blood tests."
"Now, how many times a day would I be getting the I.V.
antibiotics?” Angela inquired.
"Let's see,” Cassidy said, giving Angela's curvaceous body
the once-over twice. “You're about 5’6” and 120 pounds, so
I'd probably give you one gram of I.V. Ceftriaxone once or
twice a day."
"You see, Bob, that's my point,” Angela observed
enthusiastically. “We can do this on an out-patient basis. You
could examine me every day and give me the intravenous
antibiotics in your office. I could certainly do the whirlpools at
home, and I'd go to your hospital for tests whenever you felt
they were necessary.”
"Ang, I don't stock I.V. antibiotics in my office because of
the expense,” Cassidy admitted. “However, I might be able to
get in touch with a Home Health agency in Scranton and have
their nurses give you the daily injections. I could check your
progress here in my office a few times a week."
"Bob, I don't want to get involved with any medical
agencies in Scranton either,” Angela replied. “Anyway, I have
a better idea. I have an uncle who owns a pharmacy in
Scranton. Just give me a prescription, and I'll get the I.V.
antibiotics from him."
"I don't believe you," Cassidy exclaimed. "You have an
answer for everything. Did it ever occur to you I might not be
able to see you daily for the next six weeks? Did it ever occur
to you I just might have a personal life and might already have
my evenings planned for the next six weeks?"
"Do you?" Angela asked.
"No," Cassidy confessed, "I don't, but that's beside the
point. Anyway, I still don't see how you're going to drive up
here every day from Scranton."
"Bob, that's the least of my problems," Angela replied. "I
only live 30 minutes from here, and I really don't mind the
drive at all. I know it would be more convenient to go into the
hospital, but I just can't. I'm ready to put the lid on one case,
my next trial starts the day after this one ends, and I'm
involved in a State Board of Medicine disciplinary action
against a physician. Besides, I'm dancing in Swan Lake next
season in Binghamton, and I'd never be able to stay in shape
in a hospital bed."
"What about your personal life?" Cassidy inquired. "Won't
all this running back and forth cut into your free time?"
"Not at all," Angela answered. "I'm not married or
engaged, and I don't even have a steady boyfriend. I go out on
dates when the situation is right, and I make appearances at
social functions in Scranton for business sake, but outside that,
I'm really pretty much of a loner. I live alone and I spend most
of my free time alone. I go skiing alone at Elk Mountain, drive
to Binghamton by myself for ballet, and think nothing of
picking up and following the sun for a weekend by myself."
"Do you prefer being alone?" Cassidy asked.
"Not really," Angela admitted. "I'd much prefer to be able
to do things closer to home with other people, but I intimidate
my friends and get bored listening to my colleagues talking
shop all the time. The only way I can enjoy myself is to get as
far out of town as possible and hope I can meet some people
who are willing to accept me for who I am. I really don't like
being a loner. In fact, if I had my 'druthers, I'd be married and
have a family. I'm Italian, and I have a strong sense of family,
but it's hard doing what I do for a living and being married at
the same time. My biological clock is starting to tick louder,
and every once in a while I panic when I think I'm going to
miss the chance of having my own family. So, what's a girl to
do? I'm not going to marry just anyone because my clock is
ticking louder, and I'm not about to give up a prominent
career. You know, Bob, I've often thought the perfect man
would have the mind of a doctor, the body of an athlete, and
the love of a priest. If such a man does exist, and if he ever
comes my way, I think I'll know. Then, I'll be able to consider
all my options. In the meantime, I'm content with my current
lifestyle."
"You know, Ang, you don't look anything like you really
are,” Cassidy observed. “I mean, you don't look like a lawyer,
you don't look like the kind of person who would ever be
alone, and you don't even look Italian. Your hair is light brown
and you eyes are green. I don't think I know any other Italians
who have such light features."
"Oh, that's the Norman influence," Angela replied. "I'm
Sicilian, and Sicily has a number of different bloodlines
because of invasions by tribes like the Normans and the
Saracens. The Normans had light hair and eyes while the
Saracens, who were Arabs, had very dark features. So,
somewhere down the line, I guess one of my ancestors took a
roll in the hay with some Norman soldier who had green eyes
and a long spear."
The two looked at each other and laughed.
"Just think what might have happened if the Normans
never invaded Sicily,” Cassidy observed. “Today, you might be
dishing out spaghetti in some Italian restaurant with a name
like 'Two Guys from Sicily' or 'Three Brothers from Italy.'"
"How about 'Seven Goombahs from Joisey?'” Angela
mused. “If the Normans never invaded Sicily, maybe I'd still
be in Palermo, picking olives by day and working as a bambino
factory by night. It boggles the mind, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," Cassidy said, losing himself in her deep
eyes. "It certainly does."
"What about you, Bob?" Angela asked. "What's a nice guy
like you doing all alone in a big place like this?"
"Oh, I don't know." Cassidy answered with an air of
introspection. "I guess I've never had the time to get interested
in anyone. It seems like my whole life's been a marathon, and
I've never really had any time for myself. We moved up here
from Philadelphia when I was 13, but I wound up going to
Scranton Prep because my father didn't like the local school
system. I dormed at Prep, and after graduation, I just moved
my bags across town to the University of Scranton. All
through college, I was sure I wanted to be a priest, and after I
graduated from the university, I entered Pius the Tenth
Seminary in Dalton. I stayed there for two years until my
mother came down with lung cancer. I took a leave of absence
from the seminary to take care of my mother, but somewhere
along the line, I got hooked on medicine and traded in my
prayer book for a stethoscope.”
“That’s very interesting,” Angela said. “I’m really
surprised.”
“While I was at Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia,
my father was still depressed over my mother's death,” Cassidy
continued. “I would come home on weekends and during
vacations to spend my free time with him. I had just barely
finished the first year of a three-year family practice residency
at the Keystone Medical Center in Philly when my father came
down with cancer. I had to leave my residency to come back
to Roaring Fork to take over my father's medical practice. So,
as you can see, my dance card's been pretty full, and I've never
really had the chance to get interested in anyone."
"I find it hard to believe you haven't gotten involved with
anyone up here since you've been in practice,” Angela
observed. “You realize, of course, you're probably the most
eligible bachelor in the whole area."
"I don't know," Cassidy answered. "I've never really
considered Roaring Fork my home, and I don't really fit in
with the people around here. I care for them as patients, but
I've never found anyone around here who I could relate to as a
person. Do you realize you know more about me after two
hours than the rest of this town does after two and a half
years? So, what does that tell you?"
"I think it tells me this has been a long office call, and I
should head back down the mountain,” Angela replied, getting
up from her chair and gathering her belongings. “So, do we
have a deal, Bob? Will you take care of me?"
Cassidy took a long look at Angela's expectant face and
helped her with her jacket.
"Why do I get the strange sensation I'm going to live to
regret this?" Cassidy asked jokingly.
"Well, I know I won't," Angela replied, extending her hand
to Cassidy.
As Cassidy walked Angela to her car, they planned their
next meeting for the following evening.
"Is 9 o'clock alright?" Angela asked, as she got into her
Mercedes. "I'd come sooner, but I have a dinner engagement."
"Dinner engagement?" Cassidy inquired with the look of a
jealous teenager.
"Yeah, I'm having dinner at my uncle's house tomorrow
night," she answered.
"Which one, the lawyer or the pharmacist?” Cassidy
inquired.
"Neither," Angela answered with a smile. "I’m having
dinner with my uncle, the butcher."
"Nine o'clock will be fine," Cassidy replied, shaking his
head and smiling. "And don't forget the Ceftriaxone."
"That's easy for you to say," Angela quipped, as she tossed
Cassidy's prescription for the antibiotic into her glove
compartment.
Without saying another word, Angela smiled, waved, and
slowly drove away.
As the snow began to fall once again on Roaring Fork,
Cassidy waved to Angela. With only a pullover sweater to
protect him against the frigid night wind, Cassidy continued to
stand outside his house and watch the dark green Mercedes
make its way down the winding mountain road.
When Angela’s car was no longer in sight, Cassidy, who
seemed impervious to the cold night air, took a deep breath
and turned toward his house.
"It might be a mild winter after all," Cassidy thought to
himself, as he climbed the long flight of stairs that led to his
house and a well-deserved rest.