Tropical Doubts

By David Myles Robinson

Some Honolulu lawyers called Pancho McMartin the best criminal defense attorney in the islands. He’d admit to being pretty damn good. But he was on a losing streak now—three guilty verdicts in a row—and his confidence was sinking fast. When one of his oldest friends, Giselle, was left comatose after surgery and her husband, Manny, pleaded with him to sue the doctors involved, Pancho couldn’t find a way to avoid a new specialty: medical malpractice.

But it wasn’t long before the sudden death of one of the defendants—and a murder charge accusing Manny of being the killer—had Pancho back in the old familiar arena of fighting for his client’s life, while at the same time seeking justice for the O.R. errors that had left Giselle in a permanent vegetative state.

In Tropical Doubts, the third legal thriller from David Myles Robinson featuring colorful, fast-thinking Pancho McMartin, medical hijinks merge with murder as surprise twists build in this unpredictable courtroom drama.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terra Nova Books
• Release date: Sep 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948749268

David Myles Robinson

David Myles Robinson was born in Los Angeles and attended college in California and Hawaii, obtaining his J.D. in 1975 from the University of San Francisco School of Law, where he met his wife, Marcia Waldorf. After moving to Hawaii, he became a trial attorney, specializing in personal injury and workers’ compensation law, and Waldorf joined the Public Defender’s Office before being appointed as a judge. She retired from the bench in 2006, and Robinson retired from private practice in 2010. He completed his first novel, a precursor to Tropical Lies, about twenty years ago but says it was so s

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Marcia.

CHAPTER 1

Pancho McMartin watched as his client, newly convicted of murder, was escorted to the side door of the courtroom by two men in brown jumpsuits with Sheriff stenciled across the back. The client, a large Samoan in his early twenties, had a shaved head. Except for his face, every square inch of visible flesh was tattooed.

With shackles on his wrists and ankles, he shuffled to the door and then stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Pancho. He’d sat through the trial with a look of absolute disdain, even menace, and now Pancho almost laughed out loud at the expression on the man’s face—fear. Pancho gave him a small nod, which he hoped would convey some sense of encouragement. Not that there was much to encourage. The Samoan would spend the rest of his life in prison unless Pancho could win an appeal of little or no merit.

His client disappeared through the door, and Pancho was alone in the courtroom. He shivered as the room, now empty, returned to its usual freezing temperature. He leaned his elbows on the counsel table and put his head in his hands. This was his third trial loss in a row, the second this year—a record for him.

Pancho knew his client was guilty and hadn’t wanted to take the case. But the client’s family in Samoa and Oceanside, California, had collected the $250,000 fee Pancho charged for a murder case. Even then he might have turned the case down, but Pancho’s private investigator and best friend, Drew Tulafono, had asked him to take it on.

The guy’s family in Oceanside goes to church with my mother, Drew had said. And they’re using all their powers of persuasion to get her to get me to get you to take the case.

Don’t they know he’s guilty as hell? Pancho asked.

Drew nodded. Pretty much, although they’re hoping he’ll get off with self-defense. But the main thing here is that Samoan families, mine included, are tight-knit and supportive of each other. If someone’s in trouble, the family’s sacred duty is to come to their aid in whatever way possible.

So Pancho had taken the client on and had presented a decent case for self-defense. In the end, however, Pancho figured the jury just couldn’t get past the way his client looked, which was like a gangbanger who would just as soon kill you as step out of your way.

Pancho sighed heavily and ran his hand through his long brown hair. Three in a row. He wondered if he was losing his touch. He felt tired and depressed. It had been a bad six months.

Just before he’d taken on this loser of a case, his longtime girlfriend, Paula Mizono, a financial adviser, had tearfully told him she was accepting a position in Hong Kong. She loved him, she said, but she was in the prime of her work life and this opportunity, at triple her current salary, was too hard to pass up. Besides, she said, almost as an afterthought, even though I knew what I was getting into when we hooked up, the fact of the matter is we hardly see each other. I’m off to work at three in the morning because of the time change to New York, and I’m ready to hit the sack by the time you get home.

Pancho had lost his first wife to the long hours of his law practice and had vowed not to lose Paula. It was her job that caused the split, he told himself. But the pain of the loss and the loneliness of his empty bed hurt just the same.

The door to the judge’s chambers opened and Lew, the bailiff, poked his head into the courtroom. "You all pau in here, Mr. McMartin? I need to lock up."

Pancho nodded and stood. Yes, Lew, I’m done. Put a fork in me.

For what it’s worth, Lew said, walking into the courtroom and pulling his keys out of his pocket, I thought you did a great job on a dead loser of a case.

Pancho gave a wan smile. Thanks. He loosened his tie, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of courtroom into the real world.

CHAPTER 2

Pancho ran into Drew on Queen Street, two blocks from the office. The big Samoan ex-football player was panting.

Sorry I couldn’t get there for the verdict, Drew said, bending over to catch his breath. I figure I at least owed you that much for talking you into this case. Frigging traffic on the freeway is the shits, even in the middle of the day. He straightened up and looked at Pancho. I heard we lost. Sorry, man.

Why are you so out of breath? Pancho asked. If you knew we already had the verdict, what’s the rush?

I was hoping to get there before they took our client away in case you needed me to talk to him. I know how these bruddahs can be.

Pancho shrugged and slapped his friend on his oversized back. Doesn’t matter. I told him we’d appeal. But, in the end, justice was served.

*   *   *

Pancho still hadn’t gotten used to walking into his reception area and seeing two secretaries. They’d had to take out one of the oversized waiting chairs to accommodate the additional desk, but it had to be done. Susan, his longtime secretary, was getting up there in age and had finally agreed it was time to hire someone whom she could train properly.

Pancho could tell as soon as he walked in that they’d heard the news. The coconut wireless in action.

Sorry, boss man, Susan said in her raspy, ex-smoker’s voice. She held up a stack of pink while-you-were-out slips for him to take.

Yeah, sorry, Pancho, said Elise, the new, thirty-something secretary.

Pancho grunted, took the proffered call slips, and leafed through them.

Drew plopped onto the large leather sofa in the waiting room, which responded with a whooshing sound.

You okay? Susan asked Pancho.

He looked up from his message slips. Yeah, I guess. You know how I hate losing. And this is three in a row.

Relax, Susan said. Her tone sounded amused. You can’t expect to get every criminal off and back on the streets. She chuckled and turned toward Drew. Maybe you ought to get our boy out surfing tomorrow. We don’t have much happening around here right now.

Drew, a former NFL lineman for the San Diego Chargers, had only recently started surfing again after undergoing double knee replacements. I’ll twist his arm, he said.

Helloooo, I’m standing right here, Pancho said. He smiled, shook his head in mock disgust, and headed into his office. He settled behind his desk and took note of the calls he needed to return. Not much of real interest, he thought. Until he came to the last one. It was from one of his oldest friends on the island, Manny Delacruz, and it was marked urgent.

Pancho dialed the number and swiveled around to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows at Aloha Tower Marketplace and Honolulu Harbor. A huge cruise ship was docked at Pier 2. The ship dwarfed Aloha Tower, once the tallest building in Honolulu.

The stress in Manny’s voice was palpable. Pancho, thank God. Can you come over to Prince Kuhio Medical Center right away?

Pancho had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Is Giselle all right?

After a slight pause Manny answered, No. His voice cracked. Just come over if you can. I’ll be in the ICU waiting room.

I’ll be there in ten minutes.

CHAPTER 3

The Prince Kuhio Medical Center, founded in 1854, had been added on to and revamped many times over the years. The front entry on Punchbowl Street was graced with soothing gardens and a large baobab tree. Most people, however, entered the building from the parking garage on Lusitana Street, and finding their desired location in the warren of hallways and departments often required directions.

Although the hospital was downtown and close to Iolani Palace and city hall, called Honolulu Hale, it was a long enough walk from Pancho’s office near the harbor that, given the urgency in Manny’s request, Pancho decided to drive. He knew the surgical services were in the Kamehameha Wing, and he was able to make his way there with only a couple of wrong turns. He still wore his court clothes—cowboy boots, jeans, white cotton shirt, dark blue tie with tiny Lady Justice figures, and a gray linen sport coat. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

He found Manny pacing in the waiting room just outside the Intensive Care Unit. Manny wore cargo shorts, an old aloha shirt, and rubber slippers, what mainlanders called flip flops. At five-foot-ten, he was only a couple of inches shorter than Pancho, but now he seemed smaller, as if he’d aged ten years since Pancho had last seen him a few weeks earlier.

Pancho still didn’t know what was wrong with Giselle, Manny’s wife, but he let Manny hug him long and hard without asking any questions. When Manny broke off the hug and wiped his eyes, Pancho gestured toward some chairs. The two men sat side by side, with Pancho turned in his chair toward Manny. The only other person in the waiting room was an elderly haole, or Caucasian. The white woman stared blankly at a worn copy of Women’s Health.

I think we told you Giselle was going to have another surgery to remove excess skin left over from her weight loss, Manny said.

Pancho nodded. Since he’d first met Giselle, almost twenty years earlier, she had ballooned to more than four hundred pounds. She’d become hypertensive, and her preexisting asthma had worsened dramatically. The stress on her knees had caused her to develop degenerative joint disease. She could hardly leave the house without it being a major production. Something had to give. She said she didn’t want to end up like her friend, the singer Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole, affectionately known as Bruddah Iz, who was best known for the medley Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World, which was a worldwide hit. The two had worked together on various initiatives to promote the preservation of Hawaiian culture. Like Giselle, Iz had suffered from weight problems all his life. At one point, he had weighed more than 750 pounds. He died in 1997 at the age of thirty-eight.

Dr. Denise Campbell, Giselle’s family physician, had prescribed a weight-loss regimen that included gastric bypass. Over the next two years, Giselle had lost close to two hundred pounds. For the first time in years, she was mobile.

But one of the effects of such drastic weight loss was excess skin and soft tissue, which Dr. Campbell determined should be surgically removed. About a year ago, Giselle had undergone a panniculectomy of the abdomen whereby her surgeon, Dr. Richard Takamine, had removed excess skin and fatty tissue.

Healing was difficult for Giselle after the surgery, and she had been required to undergo a regimen of antibiotic therapy. Dr. Takamine theorized that the large doses of corticosteroids Giselle took to manage her asthma might have played a role in her slow healing.

This time, Manny explained, Dr. Takamine was going to perform a panniculectomy of her right thigh. Her orthopedist wouldn’t do the right knee replacement until all that excess skin was removed. He said it would interfere with the procedure.

He paused to take a deep breath. Pancho put a hand on his shoulder. He had a good idea where this was heading.

The doc told me the surgery went well, but when she was taken to recovery, she went into respiratory and cardiac distress. He said they did CPR and called the code team to assist. Eventually, after defibrillation, Giselle’s heart returned to a normal rhythm. Tears began to stream down Manny’s face. She’s in a coma, Pancho. They say she has serious brain injury.

Pancho spotted a box of Kleenex and handed a tissue to Manny, who wiped his eyes and face. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he went with the obvious: Is there a chance she’ll recover?

Manny crumpled the tissue and clenched it in his fist. His mouth was tight. He shook his head. The doc said the prognosis isn’t good.

Pancho let the statement sink in. He looked around. The haole woman still had her face buried in the magazine although Pancho hadn’t noticed her turning any pages.

The soft, unidentifiable music was briefly interrupted by a page for a Dr. Williams.

What can I do, Manny? Pancho asked. Do you want me to talk to the doctors, get some definitive answers?

Manny didn’t answer right away. He sat back in his chair and took some deep breaths. Then he turned toward Pancho. I want you to find out what went wrong. He paused for a second, and then his face hardened. It was a look Pancho had never seen on his old friend’s face. And then, Manny continued, if you find out someone fucked up, I want you to make them pay.

CHAPTER 4

Pancho had met Manny and Giselle less than a week after moving to Honolulu. At the time, he was still studying for the bar exam. Pancho’s mother in Santa Fe, New Mexico, insisted he call Manny and Giselle as soon as he got settled.

You’ll love them, his mother had said. Manny’s a farmer and a songwriter, and Giselle’s a fabulous Hawaiian poet. They’re both well known and well connected. They’ll be good people for you to know.

His mother hounded him for days before Pancho finally gave in and called. They insisted he come over for dinner that very night. His mother had been right—he loved them.

The Delacruz farm was on the North Shore of Oahu, tucked in the valley at Waikane. It was an isolated, idyllic spot, surrounded by lush vegetation. It was still light when Pancho pulled his rented car into the red dirt driveway.

Manny showed him around. He had a small herd of cattle and had been steadily expanding his vegetable farm. His goal, he explained to Pancho, was to go totally organic, but he’d been having a hard time getting the bugs under control. The farm was surrounded by jungle, including massive banana trees planted by a prior owner.

The couple lived in a plantation-style house: wood frame, green metal roof, and a large lanai across the front of the house. There were wheelchair ramps and other accommodations throughout the house, which Pancho promptly discerned were for Giselle, whom he guessed weighed north of three hundred pounds. She used a motorized wheelchair much of the time.

Manny, on the other hand, was lean and hard, with Portuguese skin browned and creased from the sun.

Because of Giselle’s weight issues, the two employed a live-in cook, nurse, and housemaid—a sassy, middle-aged Filipina named Magdalena. They called her Magda. For dinner, Magda baked a whole opakapaka—otherwise known as pink snapper—with a black bean sauce and white rice. The white meat of the fish was firm but tender. It was the most delicious fish Pancho had ever tasted.

So, Pancho said, I understand you met my parents on a book tour some years back.

Pancho’s parents had been some of the original hippies to inhabit the communes of Taos back in the late sixties. But after Pancho was born and they had begun to grow up themselves, they decided the commune life was no longer for them. Pancho was ten when they finally moved into an actual house with an actual indoor toilet. They were dirt poor, but they were happy.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Pancho’s mother announced she had sold one of the self-help books she’d been writing for the previous few years. One thing led to another, with Pancho’s father getting into the act, and the two ultimately became a mini-empire of self-help literature. They made millions. By the time Pancho left to attend UCLA, his parents had bought a house in one of Santa Fe’s most expensive neighborhoods, near Museum Hill.

Giselle smiled, her round, brown Hawaiian face enhancing the kindest-looking green eyes Pancho had ever seen. "Yes, we were all in San Francisco for a book show. I had just published Ohana Nights, my third book of poetry. My reading was scheduled to follow your mother’s, and as we waited around together, we just seemed to click. We’ve been friends ever since though I’m not able to travel like I used to." She gestured with her right hand toward her obese body in such a graceful motion it might have been part of a hula.

Sooo, Pancho said, drawing the word out slowly, did my parents ever admit to you how they ended up naming me Pancho? I know they claim they did it out of some misguided idea that it would help me get along better as a white kid in the Taos public schools, which are mostly Hispanic, but frankly, I think they probably dropped some acid after the midwife left and named me while they were stoned.

Manny and Giselle laughed together.

I’d never heard the acid theory before, Manny said, but I’d tend to agree it makes more sense than their lame explanation.

Following dinner, the three relocated to the living room, which seemed more like a library. There was a television, but most of the walls in the warmly lit room were taken up by bookshelves. A worn leather couch faced the TV. Next to the couch was an oversized chaise lounge, which Pancho figured was probably where Giselle nested. A small desk under the window, facing the front yard, was cluttered with papers. It was a comfortable room which, as the years passed, would provide Pancho with wonderful memories of Giselle reading her poetry, Manny playing the ukulele while he sang his songs, and the three of them just talking about anything and everything.

Pancho learned a lot about Hawaii from Manny and Giselle—lessons that would serve him well as he worked his way up to becoming the top criminal defense attorney in Honolulu. In some respects, Pancho looked on them as surrogate parents, just as he was sure they looked on him as the son they never had. Yet in many other ways, despite the twenty-year differential in their ages, he looked on them as close friends. No subject was off limits. The two were as adept at discussing obscure aspects of Hawaiian oral history as they were the latest social media app.

Now Manny needed his help, but Pancho wasn’t sure what he could do. He was a criminal defense attorney. Manny needed someone versed in medical malpractice issues.

CHAPTER 5

So what’d you tell him? Drew asked.

Pancho and his best friend were sitting on the lanai of Pancho’s Diamond Head condo. They each had a bottle of Modelo Especial in hand. The light was fading, and the surfers and outrigger canoeists were slowly—no doubt reluctantly—making their way in toward the beach. There were too many clouds to make for a good sunset, but being mid-June, it was warm and comfortable. The ocean was fading from deep blue to silver gray.

I told him I’d look into it as best I could, but I pointed out I’m not a medical malpractice attorney. Pancho ran a hand through his hair. Hell, I’ve only handled a few personal injury cases over the years, and those were done as favors.

Yeah, but you got good results in all of them, Drew said.

Pancho gave a small grunt of acknowledgment. He had done well in those cases, which had offered a pleasant change from the dirty world of criminal law. In fact, probably as a result of his current mini-losing streak, he’d been toying with the idea of taking on more personal injury cases.

So what did Manny say to that? Drew asked. The big man propped his bare feet up on a nearby stool.

He said, and I quote, ‘You’re a great trial attorney. Hire experts to get the facts, and if you all find something went wrong that shouldn’t have happened, I wouldn’t trust anyone but you to take the case to court.’ Then he said, ‘Giselle loves you, and I know you love her. Do this for her.’

The two men were silent, listening to the small waves break on the shore below. Indistinct voices of lingering beachgoers packing up to go home drifted up to the fifth-floor condo. Lights in the hotels and condos in Waikiki, off to the right, began to twinkle.

Finally Drew said, I’ll get Manny to sign an authorization form, and I’ll start collecting the records from Prince Kuhio. They’ll probably dick around with me for a while, but I’ll get them.

Pancho nodded. Get the records from each of the doctors, as well: Denise Campbell was the treating, Richard Takamine was the surgeon, and Lance Mossman was the anesthesiologist.

Pancho put his beer on the side table and leaned back in his chair to stretch. It had been a long day. His loss at trial still ate at him. Now two of his closest friends needed his help. But realistically, what could he do? He certainly couldn’t pull Giselle out of her coma. It sounded to Pancho as if Manny was going to have to face some hard realities in the days and weeks to come.

Pancho knew Manny, and he knew Manny wouldn’t pull the plug on Giselle if there were any hope that she might still have some brain function. Nor would Manny rest until he found out what had gone wrong. Giselle and Manny were each other’s life. Pancho couldn’t picture one without the other. His greatest fear for his old friend was what would happen if he was forced to face the reality of loss.

Pancho sat up straight and picked up his beer. I’ve got to do whatever I can for them, he said.

CHAPTER 6

The days passed, one dreary rainy day after another—a rarity for Hawaii. There was no surf worth paddling out for, so Pancho tried to catch up on the backlog of work that always piled up during trial. The biggest pain was appeasing the clients whose hands he couldn’t hold while he spent his days in court. Who knew criminals could be so needy? he said to Susan.

Every afternoon, usually when he was heading home, Pancho would go to the hospital to check on Giselle. Manny was always there, looking worse every day. Not enough sleep and too much cafeteria food were taking their toll.

On the fifth day, when Pancho inquired as usual about Giselle’s condition, Manny broke down and cried. He sat in a chair at the side of Giselle’s bed and hunched over, sobbing uncontrollably. Pancho stood behind him and rubbed his back, letting the breakdown run its course.

Gradually, the sobbing subsided. Manny wiped his face on his arm and sat up. He patted Pancho’s hand. Sorry, Paunch. The doctors told me a couple hours ago that Giselle’s no longer in a coma, but there’s very little brain function. They say she’ll probably be pronounced to be in a persistent vegetative state. They’re still going to run some more tests, but they say there’s very little hope.

Pancho said nothing. What was