"Can't you tell them? Make it part of your testimony."
Craig rolled his eyes with exasperation. There were occasions when Leona drove him batty. It was the downside of spending time with someone so young and inexperienced.
"Why does he think there was malpractice?" Leona asked.
Craig looked off at the normal, beautiful people around the bar, obviously enjoying the evening with their happy banter. The juxtaposition made him feel worse. Maybe coming up to the public bar was a bad idea. The thought went through his mind that perhaps becoming one of them through his cultural endeavors was really beyond his grasp. Medicine and its current problems, including the malpractice mess, had him ensnared.
"What malpractice was there supposed to have been?" Leona asked, rephrasing her question.
Craig threw up his hands. "Listen, bright eyes! It's generic on the complaint, saying something about me not using the skill and care in making a diagnosis and treatment that a reasonable, competent doctor would employ in the same circumstance… blah blah blah. It's all bullshit. The long and short is that there was a bad outcome, meaning Patience Stanhope died. A personal injury-malpractice lawyer will just go from there and be creative. Those guys can always find something that some asshole, courthouse-whore doctor will say should have been done differently."
"Bright eyes!" Leona snapped back. "Don't be condescending to me!"
"Okay, I'm sorry," Craig said. He took a deep breath. "Obviously, I'm out of sorts."
"What's a courthouse-whore doctor?"
"It's a doctor who hires himself or herself out to be a, quote, expert and who will say whatever the plaintiff attorney wants him to say. It used to be hard to find doctors to testify against doctors, but not anymore. There are some worthless bastards that make a living doing it."
"That's terrible."
"It's the least of it," Craig said. He shook his head dejectedly. "It's mighty hypocritical that this screwball Jordan Stanhope is suing me when he didn't even stay around at the hospital while I was struggling to revive his pathetic wife. Hell, on a number of occasions he confided with me that his wife was a hopeless hypochondriac and that he couldn't keep all her symptoms straight. He was even apologetic when she'd have him call and insist I come to the house at three in the morning because she thought she was dying. That really happened on more than one occasion. Usually the house calls were in the evenings, forcing me to interrupt what I was doing. But even then, Jordan would always thank me, so he knew what kind of effort it was, coming out there for no good reason. The woman was a disaster. Everyone is better off with her out of the picture, including Jordan Stanhope, yet he is suing me and claiming damages of five million dollars for loss of consortium. What a cruel joke." Craig shook his head dejectedly.
"What's consortium?"
"What someone is supposed to get from a spouse. You know: company, affection, assistance, and sex."
"I don't think they were having much sex. They had separate bedrooms!"
"You probably have that right. I can't imagine he'd want to or even be able to have sex with that miserable hag."
"Do you think the reason he's suing you might have something to do with you criticizing him that night? He did seem to take offense."
Craig nodded a few times. Leona had a point. With glass in hand, he slipped off the barstool and returned to the bar for a refill. As he waited among the happy revelers, he thought about Leona's idea and wondered if she was correct. He remembered regretting what he had said to Jordan when he'd gotten into Patience's bedroom and saw how bad off she was. His comment had just popped out of his mouth in the stress of the circumstances and how surprised he'd been. At the time, he'd thought his hasty apology had been sufficient, but maybe not. If not, he was going to regret the incident even more.
With a second double scotch, Craig worked his way back to the table and got himself onto his barstool. He moved slowly, as if his legs weighed a hundred pounds apiece. To Leona he seemed to have made yet another transition. He now appeared depressed, his mouth slack and his eyes droopy.
"This is a disaster," Craig managed with a sigh. He stared down into his scotch, his arms folded on the table. "This could be the end of everything, just when things are going so well."
"How can it be the end of everything?" Leona asked, trying to be lively. "What are you supposed to do now that you have been served?"
Craig didn't answer. He didn't even move. Leona couldn't even see him breathing.
"Shouldn't you get a lawyer?" Leona persisted. She leaned forward in an attempt to look up into Craig's face.
"The insurance company is supposed to defend me," Craig responded in a flat voice.
"Well, there you go. Why not call them?"
Craig raised his eyes and met Leona's. He nodded a few times as he gave Leona's suggestion consideration. It was almost five thirty on a Friday night, yet the insurance company might have someone on call. It was worth a try. He could use the reassurance that he was at least doing something. A big part of his anxiety was from the helplessness he felt in the face of such an overwhelming, disembodied threat.
With newly found urgency, Craig snapped his cell phone from its clip on his belt. Using klutzy fingers, he scrolled through his address book. Like a beacon in a dark night, the name and cell phone number of his insurance agent popped into view. Craig made the call.
It ended up requiring several calls, including having to leave his name and number in an emergency voicemail, but within a quarter of an hour, Craig was able to tell his story to a real person with an authoritative voice who acted calmly knowledgeable. His name was Arthur Marshall, the sound of which Craig found curiously reassuring.
"Since this is your first brush with this kind of event," Arthur was saying, "and since we know from experience how uniquely unsettling it is, I think it is important for you to understand that for us it is all too common. In other words, we are experienced in dealing with malpractice litigation, and we will give your case all the attention it deserves. Meanwhile, I want to emphasize that you should not take it personally."
"How else can I take it?" Craig complained. "It's calling into question my life's work. It's putting everything in jeopardy."
"That is a common feeling for someone like yourself and entirely understandable. But trust me, it is not like that! It is not a reflection of your dedication and life's work. More often than not, it is a fishing expedition in hopes of a financial windfall despite the plaintiff attorney's claims to the contrary. Everyone familiar with medicine knows that less-than-perfect outcomes, even involving honest mistakes, are not malpractice, and the judge will so advise the jury if this action were to go to a trial. But remember! The vast majority of such cases do not go to trial, or if they do, the vast majority are won by the defense. Here in Massachusetts, by statute your claim must go before a tribunal, and with the facts you've given me, it probably will stop there."
Craig's pulse had come down to a nearly normal level.
"You're wise to have contacted us so early in the course of this unfortunate affair, Dr. Bowman. In short order, we will assign a skilled, experienced attorney to the case, and for that we will need to get the summons and the complaint ASAP. You are required to answer within thirty days of service."
"I can messenger this material on Monday."
"That will be perfect. Meanwhile, let me suggest you begin to refresh your mind about the case, particularly by getting your records together. It's something that has to be done, and it will give you the feeling you are doing something constructive to protect yourself. From our experience, we know that is important."