The Third Oath

By Robert E. Jones and Paul Crames

Who hates lawyers the most? Doctors and lawyers take Oaths for their professions. But what if there were a third Oath? One taken by physicians . . . as cold-blooded killers?

When Dr. Randal Frye commits suicide after losing a medical malpractice lawsuit, an ever-expanding part of the medical community begins a secret war against medical malpractice lawyers. See what happens when the medical community says "enough" to malpractice lawsuits and creates an organization designed to eliminate the malpractice threat once and for all! Will anyone discover the conspiracy? If so, will it ever end?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 18, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462823451

Book preview

PROLOGUE

PLEASE DON’T HIT ME AGAIN!

Kimberly Maniscotti’s plea merely incensed her father further! Her tear streaked face doing nothing to deplete his anger!

Anthony Maniscotti once again struck his daughter about her ear and skull, this time even more forcibly than before!

Anthony Maniscotti did not generally hit Kimberly where the marks might be seen, telltale marks usually covered by clothing, but today’s attack was driven by anger so intense that it outweighed what fragile thread of rational thought he usually possessed.

He was a bull of a man and the current swipe sent Kimberly crashing hard to the pink shag carpeting of her bedroom floor, where the girl huddled in a fetal position, a quivering mass of pain . . .

In the hand that had not hit his daughter, the hand that had not dropped her to the floor like a bowl of quivering jelly, Maniscotti clutched the object of his current manic rage: Kimberly’s report card! From top to bottom, a finite, but complete, list of nothing but D’s and F’s!

His daughter had defied his orders, once again, to do better this time!

With a final shudder of disgust and contempt, Maniscotti, the unemployed factory worker and distraught alcoholic father, pitched the report card toward the cowering sprawl that was his only child. Fluttering down, like a wan paper butterfly, the report card silently came to rest upon Kimberly’s side, like a small blanket of hate, as she attempted to cower beneath its protective covering, causing her to tremble uncontrollably at its touch, convulsing as if the paper itself was forcing her to fold into an even tighter fetal position to insure its limited protection.

No matter how tightly she curled, however, the paper could never be large enough to prevent the larger, and abusive, Maniscotti from seeing her.

If you don’t do better by the end of the next grading period, girl, you’ll get a REAL beating! Do you want to experience a REAL beating? One where I don’t hold back at all? Maniscotti growled, spittle oozing from his lips, falling to the floor; the froth of a rabid dog, his eyes bulging from his maddened state.

Anthony Maniscotti leaned over Kimberly, attempting to look into her teary and slightly swollen eyes, the alcohol on his breath burning Kimberly’s nostrils, causing her to choke.

Only inches from her face, Anthony Maniscotti’s bloodshot eyes piercing into her, Kimberly could control herself no longer, coughing blood, spasms so strong she could not concentrate any longer, her bladder released, and for the first time in many years, Kimberly Maniscotti wet herself.

Anthony Maniscotti snarled, glaring, and shaking in his maddened state. His nostrils again flared, but not solely from the anger, as the smell of urine slowly registered in his twisted mind.

He glanced toward the wet spot on the floor, realization hitting him square in the face! Not, however, the realization of pity, or shame, but the realization of the marks he had left on his daughter, the fear of being caught and how close he had come to assaulting Kimberly in a manner that would have left him subject to immediate retaliation. The ‘proof’ others had sought for years!

Maniscotti slowed his own breathing, trying to regain control and not panic.

Fists still clenched, fire in his eyes, yet the anger slowly subsiding . . . he left.

When Kimberly finally heard the door close she clamped herself into an even tighter coil. As she listened to his feral footsteps fade down the hallway, her trembling body was but a hint of the torture pounding in her brain, the pain pummeling her head, seeping into every pore of her body. Through tear-seared eyes she glimpsed the yellow sheet dangling upon one heaving shoulder. Lifting the paper, she now shuddered from another cause, for, no matter how hard she tried, when she brought the report card to her face, the grades could not be deciphered. They seemed but tiny sticks, all displayed in tiny rows of a language she could not comprehend. It may as well have been written in hieroglyphics.

She wept, as there was nothing else she could do.

She tightened harder, descending agonizingly deeper into her private hell, as the stench of her own urine, the pain, and the alcohol from her father’s fetid breath, nauseated her until she violently vomited!

Now soaked in both her own urine and vomit, Kimberly Maniscotti prayed for her mother to come home soon! Maybe, somehow, her mother could comfort her. Maybe, somehow, her mother could make the excruciating pain pounding, pounding so harshly and so furiously, inside her shaken skull, go away?

Young Kimberly willed the torture inside her skull to abate . . . but it did not.

She could hear the frantic beating of her heart, its rhythmic pumping of blood crashing inside her head like a private hurricane, with waves of pain beating out a war chant on the kettle drums of humiliation.

Thump . . . thump, thump . . .

Thump . . . thump, thump . . .

The pounding increased, anchoring itself to her soul, becoming more and more unbearable, until Kimberly’s prayer became the wish she was dead. It was all that was left to her. The countless prayers for her father to die had long gone unanswered.

The pain cast itself as harshly as Anthony Maniscotti had cast the report card! Little fists continuing to pound inside of Kimberly’s head, raw and rhythmic, the beating of her tortured heart pumping the blood harder and harder inside her damaged skull!

The sound became deafening as the pounding became excruciating!

The bloody drumbeats were sending a song of sorrow as her heart played a manic melody, while pounding even harder.

Drums beating at the pace of her heart!

Thump! Thump!

Louder!

Kimberly again wished that she were dead!

More than this . . . she wished even harder, with all her might, with all her soul, that her father were dead!

There was nothing else for her. For she already knew the next grading period would prove no better. Double vision and terrible headaches were ill suitors for success. Moving closer to the blackboard in each subject would not avail the seventh grader either, as each seat she had traded for, to get closer, only caused greater frustration as she still could not read, or comprehend.

Likewise, increasing the number of hours she studied each night to four, instead of the previous three, was a total and complete waste of time, for it meant she stared at the fuzziness only that much longer.

Eventually she told her mother about the money wasted on the glasses, money she knew the family budget could ill afford!

Then, after more D’s and F’s, and another beating, Kimberly finally told her mother how Anthony Maniscotti was abusing her; the nearly constant, and always damaging, abuse.

When her mother silently turned away, Kimberly knew it came as no surprise. Her mother cried at the news of the horrible recurrent headaches . . . and Kimberly also realized at that moment why her mother also seemed to have recurring headaches.

Kimberly also knew . . . or was at least pretty sure . . . the reason her mother had the headache was because of complaints initially raised about Kimberly’s treatment. Kimberly knew better than to complain to her mother after that, for she did not want her mother to suffer as well.

These were things they would have to keep from the factory worker who had been laid off seven months before, and remained unemployed ever since.

What could her mother do to stop him?

Should she dare hide the liquor?

Should she dare thwart him?

Could they run away?

Was there help somewhere?

Was there anything to do that would result in anything beyond more beatings for each of them?

What about the headaches . . . the headaches that were driving Kimberly insane?

Ultimately, Carole Maniscotti stole an afternoon from work to take Kimberly to the doctor, a specialist whose name she found in the Yellow Pages. Perhaps he could stop Kimberly’s headaches?

The physician took some time, and then said they might be migraine headaches, likely from the rigors of adolescence, akin to acne, telephone marathons and the occasional foot stomping by pre-teen girls.

What about the double vision? Possibly the same? Try another optometrist, if and when they could afford it?

The doctor would never connect Kimberly’s ailments to her beatings. How could he, or any doctor? He wasn’t told about them. He wasn’t there all those many brutal times.

He had never heard poor Kimberly’s desperate cries for help.

He had never heard Kimberly’s pleading words, PLEASE DON’T HIT ME AGAIN!

CHAPTER 1

Garth Bainbridge was a modern-day prospector, whose quest for small ingots of wealth, or pure running veins of riches, took him not to caves, mines, creeks and streams, or dried up and overworked riverbeds of far off hills and mountains, but to the dirt and grime found within the likes of city streets and alleys, courthouses, insurance, and credit companies. To those places associated with his ‘profession’. But most of all, Garth was forever drawn, like a bug to a light at dusk, to the ingots of wealth and riches found in ambulance chasing, hospitals, and morgues.

It was at the last where Bainbridge finally, after years of crawling through the muck, slinking through dark alleys, and chasing way too many ambulances, struck the Mother Lode.

This little lady is younger than baby drool, Garth mused while he nibbled on a toothpick.

The comment went virtually unnoticed by Ben Lackner, who was the morgue night attendant—although he was the only other live person in the room, and was the obvious target of the comment.

Lackner grunted, either from the strain of mopping, or in response to Bainbridge, or both, he was not actually sure which, and did not really care at the moment. He continued with his mopping of the tiled floor, fighting his own never-ending battle to keep at least an appearance of sterility to the basement facility.

Bainbridge moved closer to the corpse. Freshly lain on the table, it would not be tended to until daybreak.

It appeared the girl’s body was entirely nude, though a white sheet covered her from her ankles to the center of incipient breasts. Other than the bluish tint to her lips, the girl was nearly as white as the cloth that had been carefully draped over her frail body.

She’s young, Bainbridge again noted, removing the toothpick in order to obtain a fresh one. The old one was losing the mint flavor and had started to splinter.

Nibble one too many times on these damned cheap things and spend an hour with your tongue out in front of a mirror trying to locate a microscopic splinter in your tongue, he mumbled to himself as he began licking and nibbling away at the newly inserted toothpick.

Yeah. Young, Lackner muttered, still engrossed in his nightly sterility ritual.

The attendant didn’t like looking at the bodies down here . . . especially the children. Lackner much preferred when the dead were out of view, shoved into the wall in one of the drawers, rather than being exposed in their deathly white form for all to see.

Yeah, she’s young alright, Bainbridge surveyed, walking around the stainless steel table, but not as young as some of the stiffs you guys get in. Me, I like the early days of summer, Ben. You know, when there’s all kind of slabs of meat like in a slaughterhouse. Bainbridge laughed, a little echo off the basement walls bounced around the morgue.

Lackner felt chills embrace his spine. Goose bumps!

Yeah, Ben, the early days of summer are great, great for you know what, he laughed, tapping the pants pocket that held his wallet. Ah, give me those hit-and-runs beside the playgrounds, assuming the cops find the guy who did it. Don’t make money without a defendant, huh, Ben?

Lackner kept to his silent mopping, though he smiled when the white man in the sharkskin suit tapped where the money was held.

The black man with the mop knew it was only a matter of time before Bainbridge got down to business.

Bainbridge rotated his new sliver of birch between his lips with his tongue, and then removed it to use it like a miniature pointer.

Tracing the pearl dry features of the pale face, he was careful not to touch the dead youngster.

She ain’t no beauty. Her nose is too large and hooked. And her hair’s too stringy . . . like my wife’s spaghetti.

Ben shuddered at Bainbridge’s callous tone. He didn’t like the tall man, and considered Garth Bainbridge himself to be MOST unattractive as well! But Lackner liked when he came nonetheless. What civil servant with so many mouths to feed on little pay wouldn’t like Bainbridge’s money?

So get her a nose job and a wig, the attendant spoke in afterthought.

Bainbridge laughed, If she’s a case that winds up in court, that’s a bitchin’ good idea! We’ll roll her into court ourselves! Tell me, Ben, how’d she die?

Some ‘brain’ shit, Lackner shrugged, stopping his chores.

The tile floor could wait.

"Yeah? Bainbridge withdrew his wallet. Two twenty-dollar bills were plucked, and then folded into Lackner’s shirt pocket.

Tell me more.

Some ‘brain’ shit, Ben repeated, squeezing his eyes tightly to aid in his recollection of what he had heard. Checked out at County Hospital. Went like a blown fuse.

Bainbridge drew forth and repositioned two more twenties. I bet that turd-smacking grin of yours suggests someone fucked up big? Is that the word in the pipeline?

Could be so, Lackner replied. Could be so. But I’m having trouble recollecting.

I’ll help you remember, Bainbridge laughed and presented yet another pair of twenties.

By the time Lackner had enough to buy both sons the boom box CD stereos they wanted, Bainbridge had filled his note pad with the necessary nuggets to file a claim.

K. Maniscotti, age 12

Cause of death: aneurysm

of the cerebral cortex

Place: Pittsburgh General

The age was critical, in that much sympathy would be garnered.

The time was too, for it was two whole days after her hospital admission. In two whole days, Bainbridge knew, a whole lot of things could have gone wrong.

Bainbridge left the cold dank basement, his stake hot in his hand.

More importantly, the Maniscotti’s address was also in it!

Grieving parents would want to place blame, he knew. It wasn’t something this ‘prospector’ had learned in an Ivy League classroom, but in the school of ‘experience’!

Law school sucked, the man who had not completed even one year cursed, unlocking his ’57 T-bird, but it led me to some damn good contacts. Some damn good, fucking damn good, contacts!

Still muttering and talking to himself, Bainbridge drove to the Maniscotti’s. It was a disreputable neighborhood. And, wouldn’t you know it, things only got better. Their house was the smallest one on the block!

Bainbridge smiled, thinking of this poor family, their young daughter taken before the prime of her life!

Still a baby to the jury he thought. And, glancing at the small home again as he approached it, by the dim streetlight at least, it seemed in the most shoddy state of disrepair—a great heart-wrenching story for the papers.

Bainbridge stopped in front of the house and checked his notepad. Yep, the right location, owned, or at least occupied, by the parents of the recently deceased!

What were their names again, Bainbridge muttered to himself as he flipped the page.

Carole and Tony Maniscotti, Bainbridge almost crowed.

Both Carole and Tony were home. Tony answered the front door, filling its way with his bulk. He was unshaven by several days, and clearly very angry for having been disturbed.

What kind of asshole rings the bell at eleven p.m.?

Hello to you, too, the lanky visitor grinned around a fresh toothpick.

You wanna smile with half those teeth, buddy? Maniscotti warned, forming a fist. As Maniscotti raised his fists his robe broke open to reveal the homeowner’s nudity. Bainbridge almost laughed, but Tony’s prominent fist told him such a response would be unwise.

Me and the little lady were . . . Maniscotti re-cinched his robe. The state of his groin vividly described what had been interrupted. Sleeping, the man on the modest stoop offered with an expression that was half-sneer, half-smile.

Sorry to disturb your, er, ‘sleeping’? Bainbridge mused, the corners of his mouth rising.

Yeah. ‘Sleeping.’ Maniscotti snickered, converting to a lewd grin.

A timid female voice fell down along the foyer banister to filter onto the stoop.

Who is it, Tony?

Some salesman. I’ll be up as soon as I discourage him, the man called back, re-clinching his big fists.

I’m not here to cost you money. I’m here to make you money, Bainbridge offered . . . quietly . . . almost timidly.

The tattered robe, the house badly in need of paint, the derelict car on the front lawn, all suggested the Maniscottis had seen better days.

Did I win the Pennsylvania lottery, bud? Tony queried as he stepped toward Bainbridge, hands still making weapons, as his attitude resumed the clear intention to strike at the slightest provocation. ’Cause if that ain’t it, you twerp, you’re gonna be whistling through your ass.

What you won, my friend, is MY lottery, which is just as good, Bainbridge smiled, squeezing and pushing his gaunt frame past Maniscotti as he forced himself into the Maniscotti’s home, inviting himself in.

Bainbridge felt Maniscotti grab him by the shoulder and spin him around. The next thing he knew, he was prone . . . his jaw throbbing thunderously.

I never bought me no ticket, Tony growled belatedly, massaging his fist.

Yes . . . whether you like it or not, you did, said Bainbridge.

Bainbridge heaved himself up off the floor, groaning.

Leaning against the wall for support, still groaning, he produced a business card.

Bainbridge slowly extended the card to Maniscotti, not wanting to rile the man any further.

Maniscotti reluctantly took the card from Bainbridge’s outstretched hand, noticing the man was keeping a good distance between them as he leaned against the wall to recover from the earlier blow. Keeping one eye on Bainbridge, Maniscotti turned the card over in his hand, leaning into the house to get a little more light, but not leaning toward the man who had just pushed his way into Maniscotti’s home. He read:

Garth W. Bainbridge

Investigations and Legal Referrals

Maniscotti felt the hair raise on the back of his neck . . . another damn bill collector?

Better tell me some long-lost millionaire relative put me in his will or you’ll be chomping down on knuckle stew again!

Close. Real close, Bainbridge smiled, wincing because of his jaw, but reluctant to make any sort of move with his hands that Manicotti might misinterpret. Your daughter left you a fortune . . . a fucking bundle.

At the mention of his dead child, Maniscotti’s eyes grew wide, and Bainbridge cringed, anticipating another blow. But before Manicotti unloaded, Bainbridge heard someone creeping downstairs, sobbing.

What . . . what about Kimberly? the woman asked as she clung to Maniscotti’s iron-like arm.

Bainbridge noted that anger was still washing over Maniscotti’s harsh look, but saw something in his eyes soften from his wife’s presence.

Mrs. Maniscotti was at least two inches taller than her hulking husband—angular and almost lithe. Bainbridge could see whom the corpse, which had brought him here, had taken after.

What about Kimberly? Carole Maniscotti repeated, one hand to her mouth.

This was the fun part, Bainbridge knew, and he played his role to the hilt. Like a miner targeting glittering ore, his pickaxe and shovel were verbal tools of the trade.

She died in the hospital, didn’t she?

She nodded.

You took her there for the doctors to save her, not to lose her, didn’t you?

She nodded again.

Somebody fu . . . screwed up, right? I mean, your little girl would be alive today if the doctors had done their jobs properly, don’t you think?

Now it was Tony who nodded.

I don’t see how . . .

Bainbridge motioned she not finish her comment. He then closed the front door and walked them to their small living room.

That’s a helluva punch, Tony. Ever box?

Sandlot. Like baseball, Maniscotti laughed, thinking to his ‘bully-boy’ days. He was almost jovial now, recalling this guy had mentioned something about making a fortune.

Bainbridge’s face had started to swell, the pain growing, making him wince, but his claim was ready to be staked. The damage was obvious enough that Ms. Maniscotti had acquired an ice pack for his jaw.

Thank you ma’am. Bainbridge remarked as he was handed the ice pack, barely noticing the pain as his mind raced forward, outlining each detail before it was needed.

He began to explain his plan.

I know this guy. He’s like Midas. Makes gold out of anything.

But I don’t want my Kimberly’s memory to be sullied by . . .

Shut up, Carole. Tony interrupted, Continue, Bainbridge.

Tony’s hooked already, Bainbridge thought, smiling to himself . . . gold fever!

Your child’s death can’t be changed. But you folks don’t have to be impoverished by more than grief. My Midas Man can, I’m sure, make the people who are responsible for your daughter’s death . . . pay.

Tony got right to the point.

Pay, you say. How much?

Enough to kiss this crummy neighborhood goodbye forever!

The fever was stronger; Bainbridge could feel it grow in Tony! Watch as his eyes turned to precious, priceless, ingots!

Remember, all those doctors . . . like all the King’s men . . . should have put your poor little Humpty Dumpty back together again. If Kimberly was still alive when they admitted her . . . and she was . . . she should have made it!

But her brain. The aneurysm. The doctors said that . . .

Shut up, Carole! Tony turned and glared, Let him finish!

Carole was going to be harder to sell this claim to, but enough of a grub stake, and Bainbridge was sure she would be prospecting at his side . . . soon!

I’ll bet my shiny new car outside the doctors messed up. They always do, you know, even if only in some tiny way. Midas Man will see to that. And it won’t cost you a penny. Midas Man will see to that, too!

Tony Maniscotti smiled and slowly extended his hand.

Buddy, I think you’ve come at a good time, after all!

Carole looked bleary eyed from Bainbridge to her husband . . . trembling and biting her lower lip. No objection escaped her lips.

CHAPTER 2

Malcolm Deitz checked the time on his Rolex against the dial set into a small recess on the dashboard of his baby. Deitz decided his watch was obviously more accurate and wondered why Lamborghini couldn’t have sprung for a better timepiece to go into his little beauty.

Malcolm Deitz was classy . . . in his own mind.

Malcolm Deitz was a winner . . . in everyone’s mind.

Malcolm Deitz was the man.

Malcolm Deitz was Midas Man.

Shoulda got the Ferrari, he muttered. Being drastically overweight, to the point of obesity, Malcolm Deitz shifted his bulk sideways in order to slither his left hand down the interior of the doorframe and grab the low door release. Grunting, he pulled up on the handle, leaning even further into the center of the car, to get a better grip on the handle and to gain leverage, and managed to open the door, becoming slightly out of breath from this simple maneuver. Stepping out of the low-slung exotic with great effort, Deitz almost lost his balance as he emerged from the little jungle gym on wheels, as he had come to semi-affectionately think of his new toy, falling partly back into the car before he regained his balance and tilted forward enough to shift his weight out the door.

Once his balance was regained, and the stress on the shocks of the vehicle was released by the removal of his massive weight, the car settled into its parking spot, apparently no worse for the wear. He closed the door, wishing the sticker invoice had been left on the window to reveal the lofty cost of $215,000. But he was Malcolm Deitz, so maybe he could acquire a new sticker to display? Regardless . . . it would have to wait for another day.

Deitz carefully locked the door, so as not to scratch anything with his keys, and then walked stiffly to the tiny trunk area to retrieve his ostrich briefcase. It had been foolhardy to give himself the undersized present for his fifty-second birthday. Not because of the money, he thought, but of the sleepless nights and bloody underwear he expected.

Deitz set the case down on a comparatively grime-free section of the covered parking lot and reached both hands behind his back. Cringing, he pulled himself erect, literally hearing his overstretched muscles, presuming that was what you could still call them, and overworked bones, scream and grind. Moisture sprang to his green eyes while pain thundered in his rectum and legs. He calculated how four hours hunched over the wheel now caused his coccyx to throb, and his legs to cramp, and he wearily anticipated another malady: a long bout with hemorrhoids.

Tallying his medical ailments, he decided he should have driven his Rolls Royce. Or better yet, let someone else chauffeur him in the rolls. He liked that thought much better.

Still smiling to himself, the lawyer suddenly realized he had been thinking in medical terminology, as if diagnosing himself.

Coccyx. Rectum, he grumbled. I’m a doctor of law, not a doctor of medicine. Now I’m even thinking like the neurotic sons of bitches.

Deitz walked to the front of the building where the wind was blowing crossways. He grabbed his toupee when a gust nearly unseated it and held his head, thinking aloud, This trip sure as hell better be worth it.

After readjusting, and while still holding his hairpiece in place, with his briefcase still in hand, the attorney proceeded toward the convention hall beside the parking garage where he had parked the Lamborghini. The entire city block housed a complex including the garage, a refurbished hotel and an indoor shopping mall. All were brick. All were gothic. Deitz liked sleek and modern better, which was why he had tried the sports car.

The wind died down and he removed his hand from the toupee after checking its posture. By now he was at the steps of the convention hall. He noticed a metal plaque as he approached the door. The warrior read a brass engraving lag-bolted into the brick. It was flawed with age and he commiserated slightly with it.

GREATER ITTSBURGH

CONVENTION CENTRE

Missing its P he thought.

Deitz snickered, I know just how you feel. Happens with age ‘old guy’.

Deitz continued to smile at his little joke as he walked up the steps.

At the top of the steps, on the landing, stood a trim young man in a wrinkled suit. He was holding the door open, smiling down the look that offers, Take your time, Mister, but really masks the thought, Hurry up, you old fart.

Bet you don’t have problems with your ‘P’ you young shit, Deitz mumbled to himself as he approached the younger man, but one day, if you are lucky of course, that shit-eating smile will fade and you’ll know what it feels to be my age.

When Deitz finally reached the landing he was out of breath from climbing the stairs. He panted, Thanks. You happen to know where the law seminar’s being held?

That’s where I’m going. Would you like me to take your case, Sir?

No, Deitz mumbled, angered by the offer. Deitz took it as a reminder that he looked fifteen years older than his years. He had given up cigars, cognac and even begun a diet, but he still had to struggle to keep pace. The young attorney was stallion-like, chomping at the bit, still wet behind the ears, looking at his watch, a Japanese imitation of Deitz’s Rolex Oyster.

Ah, to be so young . . . and thin . . . again! Or was I ever that thin? Deitz asked himself.

The pair rounded the final corner, entering a wide hallway. In it were set two long tables parallel to twin pairs of large double doors. Several dozen men, lawyers most likely, were also congregated in this space, a wide hallway. Most had already registered and were waiting for the lectures to begin. Several State Bar Association secretaries, and other staff, all of whom were attempting to process the remaining attendees and distribute seminar materials, which included a paperback source book for each attorney, manned the tables.

Deitz went to the table marked Pre-Registered and handed an emaciated strawberry blond, with enormous buckteeth, the identification slip given him by his secretary in charge of his calendar and appointments. The identification slip showed his name, misspelled, Ditz.

There appears to have been a computer glitch regarding the spelling of my name. Deitz commented, The spelling should have been D-e-i-t-z.

Ditz. Ditz, she muttered, completely oblivious of his remarks. The freckled youngster scanned columns with her forefinger onto which was glued a fourteen karat gold nail. Here we are, Sir. Malcolm Ditz. Here are your materials. The seminar was just starting. Hurry in, Mr. Ditz, and you won’t miss much.

Thank you. By the way, that’s Deitz, like smelly feets!

Considering the flatness of her chest he inwardly amended: Not Ditz, like tits, of which you have none.

The girl had turned her folder around, to point out his name with the audacious digit. I’m sorry, Sir. Must be a misprint.

Like the plaque outside? He smiled an exaggerated smile.

She was oblivious, returning only a blank stare.

Seeing it would do no good to make any attempt to explain, Deitz quickly picked up his materials and started to turn toward the lecture hall. However, before he could manage his escape, she asked, I don’t remember seeing you at hotel check-in last night. Aren’t you staying next door, Sir?

No. Just drove in for the day.

The strawberry blond looked incredulous.

Just for the day? You drove halfway across Pennsylvania just for the day?

He decided not to admit to her it wasn’t even for that long. Yeah. Just for the day.

With his backside aching, Deitz made his way toward the left-hand side of the hall and found a partly empty row of chairs at the rear-most table. The heavyset man wedged himself into a wobbly metal folding chair, barely sturdy enough to hold the cocky young shit he had just met outside, let alone Deitz’s massive frame for any extended period of time.

As he took the seat the aches and pains remained in his thoughts, As if my hemorrhoids aren’t inflamed enough as it is. My coccygeal and rectal areas are a mass of traumatized tissue.

Deitz shook his head, but not too hard, absently thinking the hairpiece might be loose.

Reaching up, more as a result of a reflex, than as a result of an actual planned thought, to be sure the piece was still where it should be.

There I go again, the lawyer grumbled angrily, putting everything into goddam doctor terms. Jeez! It’s just double pains in the ass!

The same skinny shit of a lawyer, who had, shortly before, held the door open for Deitz, joined him only moments after Deitz had been seated. Deitz previously saw the man go to the Late Registration table when they first arrived at the doors, which was likely one of the causes for the delay in entering the room.

Did I miss much, he whispered. Reed Norris.

Mal Deitz. Not much.

Norris was soon flipping pages, trying to find the insert showing the first day’s format. Deitz tapped Norris for his attention and, on his own form, pointed out where it was printed:

Presenter: The Honorable W. Wesley Frye.

Norris then scooted his chair, shuffled papers and generally made distractions, causing Deitz to strain to hear the comments by Judge Frye. Deitz briefly delighted in the wicked thought of running the young lawyer down with his red Lamborghini, but the gruesome sight flitted from his mind . . . the blood red would not match the paint. He smiled.

Shit, he thought, I can destroy people effectively by using, rather than breaking, the law. Why bother? And why ruin a perfectly good paint job?

He refocused on the speaker and found that he could hardly hear Judge Frye’s baritone. Cursing more, he hoped his hearing was not an ebbing thing also.

It’s quite a pleasure to see so many bright young faces out there, Judge Frye continued. I’d like to express my appreciation to the Young Lawyers Section of the Pennsylvania Bar for asking me to make a few introductory remarks to this, their week-long conclave on the subject of Professional Liability Law. Today’s session, as will be Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s also, is dedicated to the subject of medical malpractice. The keynote speech will be by a distinguished and laudable member of the medical profession. I’m somewhat familiar, one might say, with this gentleman and I assure you that you’re in for a cherry of a talk.

Handsome with snowy white hair, Judge Frye turned to smile at the similarly adorned man sitting to his left. The magistrate looked back to his audience and the video camera taping the full week of lectures.

I shan’t bore you with all the accomplishments and awards our distinguished speaker has accumulated the last thirty or so years. I’ll let my little brother do that himself, Wesley Frye chuckled.

Brother Randall had always been intensely serious, nothing like Wesley or Bernard, the eldest by many years of the three Fryes. Bernie had shipped out to Vietnam within weeks of his eighteenth birthday and had eaten a fatal bullet in the bush.

Judge Frye smiled warmly down at his physician brother. I wouldn’t kid him if I didn’t love him so much. And I want now to tell him, before the members of my own profession, how much I admire him. Ladies and gentlemen, without further adieu, I offer our keynote speaker, the eminent physician, the man I love like a brother, Dr. Randall Frye.

That Judge Frye was an emotional man became evident when he embraced his little brother upon the latter’s standing. Clearly, too, the physician was greatly embarrassed by this public display of affection. But after spending decades living around his brother, and losing their older brother, there was obviously a closeness that had developed between the two that was clearly worth the embarrassment the younger brother felt.

As the embarrassed doctor approached the podium, the assemblage applauded, save for a palsied woman stationed in an aisle in a wheelchair . . . and plaintiff attorney Malcolm Deitz.

Randall Frye, M.D. was a slightly taller version of his brother. The physician, however, was innately shy and quietly offered, Thank you, crouching down to the mike. His delivery proved precise, but lackluster, and Frye failed to make eye contact with either his audience or the video camera, preferring to read to the audience rather than lecture.

I would like to thank Judge Frye for his remarks. I admit I was surprised when your committee for the Young Lawyers Section approached me to deliver the overview speech on medical malpractice. You see I have never been involved in malpractice litigation. This may be due to the fact that I am not in the thick of things, as it were, as are most of my colleagues, for I have concentrated the bulk of my professional career upon research. I do see patients with neurological complaints on occasion, though this at a minimum.

Deitz scrutinized Frye: his stiff body language, his labored way of communicating, and his undeniable awkwardness.

Perfect, Deitz muttered softly.

Frye continued, reading straight from his notes, while Deitz studied his quarry, page after page of speech revealing more useful info to Deitz’s cause.

Medical care itself, because of the many malpractice suits, is in crisis. It has been thus for nearly sixty years. During these past decades, concomitant to the unrelenting spate of litigation against health care providers, has been a correlative rise in the cost of medical care that has far out-stripped inflation even at its worst. For example, medical costs rose thirty-eight percent during the relatively inflation-free Eighties, and escalated, with the stock market, into the nineties. Things have worsened ever since, despite the probing and prodding of the infamous HMOs. But that is fodder for another presentation.

The physician paused, still staring at his notes, while the audience emitted a variety of random sounds ranging from subdued giggles to hesitant applause.

Gathering his composure, he continued, Experts estimate the current rate of rising health costs is triple the rate of inflation. Triple, mind you. I maintain that the single-most cause is the outlandish cost of malpractice insurance, which premiums are a direct result of the tens of thousands of lawsuits doctors have to defend against yearly, and the hundreds of millions of dollars paid out in verdicts. But these costs are simply passed on via higher health insurance premiums and, in turn, higher hospital and office bills. This is true for all practitioners, almost without regard to their individual track record. I’ve never received so much as what you lawyers call a claim letter and still my premium is a king’s ransom compared to what I paid even ten years ago.

All that’ll change soon enough, Deitz thought, smiling even broader, as the minutes passed.

The constant threat of lawsuits, furthermore, impedes the ability of health care providers to offer affordable treatment to citizens. Today’s high cost of medical care is a problem compounded also by the running of so many tests and procedures forced upon doctors by lawyers. It is law, not science, which dictates much of what is considered good or bad medicine. As such, rancor runs rampant between the legal and medical professions. Many of my fellow doctors hope that the talk in Washington, D.C., of limiting recovery in such cases will be their salvation; but, to date, such remains merely talk. And there is hope that the current trend of State’s placing caps on malpractice damages in lawsuits will continue.

The doctor finally glanced up from his notes. The video operator was pointing to his watch, indicating Frye was going over the allotted time. Instantly Frye broke into a sweat.

Please bear with me, he pleaded. Turn to your course materials, to the excerpts of the medical oath and your Canons of Ethics. Note the ‘Hippocratic Oath’ and your vows have many similarities. This should come as no surprise, for there are many similarities between our professions.

Frye peeked up again at the operator, who motioned Frye to wrap it up. The physician blanched.

We are m . . . m . . . much the s . . . s . . . same, he stuttered. Doctors treat with p . . . p . . . pills and scalpels, lawyers with words and ideas. Both are sworn to serve the public trust by these oaths.

Employing faster rhythm, his voice cracked severely.

There were those among the hundreds listening who giggled.

Attorney Deitz laughed out loud.

His trip, even the blood-soaked hemorrhoids, had been worthwhile indeed.

Just a few things more, Frye begged. I found some startling statistics. New lawsuits against medical providers average nine hundred a day. Nine hundred a day! Is it any wonder that so many doctors consider their most mortal enemy the lawyer and not disease?

Frye grasped his hands in prayer.

Young ladies and gentlemen. Most of you have hardly started your careers. Don’t forget that every time a doctor is sued, it is more than his bankroll that is on the line. It is his career, his reputation, and his dignity. Think to how our oaths are so much alike before you attack those who took the Hippocratic one. Think to the larger issue of what these lawsuits do. Think to what the malpractice crisis, malpractice lawsuits, causes, and foment, does to the country. Thank you very much.

In the main, the audience stood, applauding loudly. Deitz sat, applauding only his extreme good fortune. The Executive Vice-President of the Young Lawyers Section, a pretty brunette in her late twenties, called into the microphone over the din.

We’re behind schedule, group, so please take only a ten minute coffee break.

Reed Norris began to stack his materials on the table and