Chapter Twenty-One

 

They entered the apartment Sunday night, dropped their suitcases, and slept for twenty hours, a sleep as deep as a coma. Angelo woke up around twilight the next day; purple, pink, and blue hues streaking across the city’s horizon, making the world outside appear more like a dream than a reality.

Angelo’s old life was waiting for him: stuffed mailbox, spoiled milk, and a message from his lawyer, Rudnick, reminding Angelo of his upcoming Office of Professional Medical Conduct hearing later that week.

When Jason and Camille awoke, they had dinner. None of them spoke about what had happened. Beyond the black stitches on Camille’s thigh and the fresh bruises on Angelo’s face, there was something altered deep inside each one of them. Something they weren’t quite ready to deal with. Maybe certain basement floorboards in the brain had snapped—free falling, crashing into an unknown crawlspace that was never supposed to be invaded.

One thing was certain: they were grateful for each other’s company, for the light conversation, the delicate chiding that pushed boundaries ever so slightly, and the welcomed euphoric wave of inebriation as they sipped wine.

Only when they returned to sleep later that evening did Angelo stumble back to the Cape, retracing his steps through the cornfield maze of events. Though he felt rested and relieved that Demetre and Yossi were in jail, there was the vague, residual regret that he would do everything differently if given the chance. Only so that Mia would still be alive.

Tuesday morning Angelo returned to work, though he felt more like a ghost than a physician, seeing patient after patient, and subsisting in a daze that clouded his conscious so that he had to ask the clinic manager to reschedule his afternoon appointments.

Camille had taken the rest of the week to recover, so when Angelo returned to the apartment, he found her on the couch writing in her journal. “You’re home early,” she said.

Angelo shook his head. “I’m not in the right headspace to take care of myself, let alone sick people who need my undivided attention.”

Camille patted the cushion next to her.

“Sit down.” Angelo reclined on the couch with his head in Camille’s lap. “Good or bad, everything will be decided on Friday. For now, there is nothing you can do other than remain focused on the OPMC hearing.”

“You’re right.”

Camille combed Angelo’s hair to the side. He recalled his mother used to do the same thing when he was little. His sister’s resilience was something that never failed to surprise him. He wondered how he would have gotten through this without her.

“I want to read you something I wrote,” she said, clearing her throat. “When we finally returned to our real lives after experiencing such a traumatic experience, it was as if everything—our apartment, the neighbors, the streets—all the colors seemed muted. We felt things less profoundly, as though we had left a part of ourselves at the Cape. Maybe we needed to leave that part behind so that we can begin to grow another part to replace the old one?”

“That’s very good.” Angelo managed to find some scintilla of comfort in Camille’s observation. At least he had a sister and a boyfriend who loved him. At least, he told himself assuredly, he had that.

Later that night, Angelo and Jason strolled through the streets of his neighborhood. They passed restaurant windows, alive with lights and noises. Glasses clinking, people chatting as the restaurant doors opened, spilling patrons into the streets radiating with ebullience—these sounds seemed to follow them as they passed.

“When did you first become suspicious of Laura?” Jason asked.

“It was while we were at the police station,” Angelo said. “I kept wondering, how did Yossi know we were there? And then it occurred to me, Laura told him. When Yossi said, ‘You set me up.’ I thought he meant she had tricked him, knowing you would come to save the day, but that’s not what he meant. Laura knew that even if Yossi came clean and admitted he was working with Laura, if she didn’t confess, no one would believe Yossi over her.”

In the end, Yossi had confessed to helping Demetre dispose of Mia’s body, but Angelo had been correct in his assumption that Laura was the one who had been assisting Demetre when Mia became unresponsive. Angelo wondered why Laura’s nursing training hadn’t kicked in. Succumbing to panic is a trained healthcare provider’s worst nightmare. Agreeing to dispose of the body, instead of calling for an ambulance, was the worst path Laura could have gone down.

The night before the OPMC inquiry, Camille, Angelo, and Jason dined at a French brasserie in Chelsea. They piled into the red leather booth. Camille stared at them like she was the proud mother of two heroic sons.

“I have a good feeling about this inquiry.” Camille took Angelo’s silence as disappointment for her bringing up the subject and added, “Me and my big mouth.”

“Why they even need to proceed with this inquiry is beyond me,” Jason said.

“This inquiry has nothing to do with Mia’s death,” Angelo recited as if he were reading lines. “They’re investigating my relationship with Demetre and whether there is any evidence I acted with misconduct.”

The server welcomed them, but Camille asked if he could give them a few more minutes.

Angelo took a long sip of water. “I figure if I lose my license, I’m going to rent a farmhouse and rescue dogs from kill shelters.”

“Dogs?” Camille laughed.

“Farmhouse?” Jason asked.

“Why not?” Angelo said somewhat hysterically. “Dogs can’t be harder than people to care for.” After a few deep breaths with Jason rubbing his back, Angelo experienced a peculiar fear.

It was Mia.

Across the room she appeared alone, sitting at a table. There was no escaping her sweet presence, those soft brown eyes, the cascade of chocolate hair. She didn’t frighten him. There were no milky eyes, no ghoulish sneer like one might expect from a ghost. She materialized as a young woman in his presence, asking for nothing, just raising a quick hand, hello, and when he returned the gesture, she disappeared back into her secret world.

Neither Jason nor Camille saw her, and, in the end, Angelo decided that he hadn’t either; a subconscious hallucination he feared would haunt him like a ghost forever.

Friday morning, Angelo arrived at the offices of the OPMC in New Rochelle. Rudnick was waiting for him outside. Angelo had forgotten how tall he was. Rudnick greeted Angelo warmly, and they went inside. The lobby appeared trapped in 80s décor. Salmon-colored fiberglass chairs. Plexiglass wall-mounted magazine rack. Linoleum floor tile. Rudnick stood out with his tanned skin and gold cufflinks.

Kraemer met them in the lobby. He was an obese man in his mid-fifties with a meaty head, no neck, and a thick 70s porn star mustache. He escorted them to a small room with white walls and no window. They sat at a foldout table. The room reminded Angelo of a hospital psychiatric intake room; except this time, he was the one being analyzed. That shift in power was disarming, and the gravity of the situation was not something he took lightly. If his actions were deemed unethical, Angelo would lose everything. Or maybe not everything, but his career, and that was a lot.

Kraemer offered them coffee, but Rudnick and Angelo refused. “Well, then let’s begin,” Kraemer said. “As it’s been explained to you through your lawyer, Dr. Perrotta, we are investigating your involvement with Mr. Demetre Kostas, and your role with his practice, SkinDem. Do you understand?”

Angelo nodded.

“Dr. Perrotta,” Kraemer said. “I need you to reply verbally so the stenographer can record your response.”

Angelo complied, “Yes, I understand.”

“Let’s begin.”

For the next two hours, Kraemer read email exchanges between Demetre and Angelo. All the while, the walls of that small room felt like they were closing in. Angelo heard his emails imbued with whatever it was that had snared Kraemer’s suspicions. Although there was nothing incriminating, it was still a horrible invasion of privacy. Each time Angelo looked over at Rudnick, his lawyer offered him a subtle, yet, encouraging smile.

By noon, the interview was drawing to a close. Kraemer pulled a letter from within a stack of papers.

“Have you seen this document before?” he said, sliding it over to Angelo. Immediately, he saw the Jeune Toi letterhead. Angelo willed his eyes to remain fixed to avoid drawing any suspicion. “Did you inform the Jeune Toi representative that you were the medical director of SkinDem?” Kraemer asked.

“No.”

“Then can you explain why she thought you were?” Kraemer pressed. “It says so at the bottom.”

Rudnick picked up the letter and handed it back to Kraemer. Then he looked at Angelo expectantly.

“Mr. Kostas lied and told her I was the medical director,” Angelo admitted.

“Why would Mr. Kostas lie about that?” Kraemer asked.

“Lunch,” Angelo said flatly. “Demetre. I mean, Mr. Kostas, wanted her to take him to a fancy Japanese restaurant for lunch.”

“And you agreed to go along with this charade and signed the letter?” Kraemer clarified.

“I didn’t think much of it at the time,” Angelo said. “It was just another drug rep lunch.”

Kraemer placed the letter back within the stack. Angelo sensed his disapproval.

“Dr. Perrotta, you were asked to consult with a Mrs. Violet Trautman. Do you recall why?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Mr. Kostas wanted me to look at a mole on Mrs. Trautman’s back before he removed it.”

“Currently, you are being sued by Mrs. Trautman for delay in diagnosing her melanoma?” Kraemer asked.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Perrotta was an employee of Dr. Stanzione’s practice,” Rudnick explained. “He was instructed to spend time with Mr. Kostas because there had been several meetings to discuss merging the two practices. My client had no way of knowing Mr. Kostas was performing illegal procedures, particularly since the burden was on Dr. Stanzione to check Mr. Kostas’s credentials.”

“I understand, but Dr. Perrotta had every right not to offer his medical expertise. Plus, he failed to document his consultation in which he should have recommended that Mrs. Trautman seek the advice of a dermatologist. All we have is Mrs. Trautman’s testimony in which she states that Dr. Perrotta said the mole looked benign. Her testimony is corroborated with Mr. Kostas’s notes obtained from SkinDem.” Kraemer then focused his attention on Angelo. “Were you paid for this consultation?”

“No.” Angelo’s mouth was parched. He filled a Styrofoam cup from the pitcher of water on the table. He took a sip but struggled to swallow without coughing.

Kraemer pulled another page from his stack. “That Saturday, after you consulted with Mrs. Trautman, Mr. Kostas took you to a department store for a makeover.” Kraemer placed a photocopy of Demetre’s calendar in front of Angelo. The date was circled with the words, Makeover with Angelo at Barneys, written in the center.

“Do you recall this?”

“Yes, I do,” Angelo said, “but I bought everything myself. Mr. Kostas didn’t pay for a thing.”

“His credit card statement shows that he bought you dinner at Mr Chow’s that afternoon.”

“So, he paid for dinner,” Rudnick said. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Kraemer eyed them both for several long seconds. “Why don’t we pause here for a ten-minute break?”

Angelo excused himself to use the restroom and slipped into one of the stalls. He sat with his head between his knees, taking deep breaths. Someone entered the bathroom. A shiny pair of mahogany Oxfords stopped in front of the stall door.

“Angelo,” Rudnick said. “You’re doing fine.”

Angelo pressed his forehead against the wall, feeling the cool aluminum on his skin. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

Rudnick was waiting by the sink when Angelo stepped out. “Kraemer showed me your prescription records. I have to say, I was very impressed. You should be proud of yourself. You can’t imagine what I’ve seen. Some doctors make a living selling prescription drugs. Your records are impeccable.”

Angelo washed his hands and smiled at him in the mirror.

“So far they’ve got nothing on you.”

“Then why are we still here?” Angelo asked. His tone was unabashedly snarky.

“It’ll be over soon,” Rudnick said. “Just stay calm.”

Rudnick walked out and left Angelo alone. He began the tortuous process of regaining his composure, hoping to instill confidence when all he felt was dread. Once he returned to the conference room, Kraemer and the stenographer were whispering to each other. There were teeth marks in Kraemer’s Styrofoam cup, and Angelo hoped that meant he was hungry. Maybe this nightmare would be over soon.

“Are we all here?” Kraemer asked, looking around. “The sooner we get started, the sooner we can finish up.”

Angelo wondered what else Kraemer had up his sleeve, what document he was waiting to pull out that would unravel this entire proceeding and prove without a doubt that he was an unethical doctor who should have his license revoked.

“Dr. Perrotta,” Kraemer began. “Did you have a sexual relationship with Mr. Kostas?”

“No.”

“Did you go to gay discos with Mr. Kostas and use illegal drugs?”

Angelo wanted to laugh when Kraemer used the word disco, but he was gripped by a panic so sharp and unexpected that it felt like a slap. He looked beseechingly at Rudnick.

“What does any of that have to do with whether or not Dr. Perrotta acted unethically?” Rudnick asked.

“We have a witness who stated Dr. Perrotta and Mr. Kostas were lovers, that they danced at discos and took drugs. They hatched a plot to open their own medical spa, cutting out Dr. Stanzione.” Rudnick focused his attention on Angelo. “Although you weren’t paid directly by SkinDem, Dr. Perrotta, you were the medical director. Documents, including several invoices, list you as the medical director.” Kraemer supplied copies of those invoices, which Angelo reviewed closely.

The muscles in Rudnick’s face tightened. “I don’t see Dr. Perrotta’s signature anywhere.”

Angelo felt a gurgle of acid rising in his throat. The sight of Kraemer, looking smug and self-assured, had awakened pieces of himself; horrified, angry pieces coming together to formulate the picture of how Kraemer saw him.

“Excuse me,” Angelo said, clearing his throat, “but who the hell is this witness? Is it Yossi Cohen? Because he was just arrested for assisting Demetre . . . . Fuck! Mr. Kostas, in disposing of a dead woman’s body.” Angelo lost his grip, gimping along instead of maintaining a controlled stride.

“Angelo,” Rudnick said in a hushed, strained voice. He picked up the invoices and handed them back to Kraemer. “This doesn’t prove that Dr. Perrotta was the medical director, and knowing that Mr. Kostas is an admitted liar, thief and murderer, it would stand to reason Mr. Kostas was capable of resorting to extraordinary measures by using my client’s name without his permission. We already know Mr. Kostas stole his prescription pads.”

“Dr. Perrotta,” Kraemer said, ignoring Rudnick and maintaining a laser focus on Angelo. “Did you and Mr. Kostas discuss opening your own medical spa?”

“We may have had a discussion,” Angelo said, “but it was just talk. Demetre didn’t want to merge with Dr. Stanzione if it meant giving up his autonomy. He didn’t want to be—”

Kraemer cut in, “Like a shelter dog.” Kraemer eyed Angelo with a tinge of appraisal. Only then did Angelo realize Kraemer was toying with him.

“This is ridiculous,” Angelo said with disgust.

He watched the corner of Kraemer’s mouth curl up because he’d won. He had succeeded in rousing the obsidian, and now it was slowly churning. Angelo’s heart beat against his chest. He could hear Kraemer’s voice, but as if from far away, and then, suddenly, very close as though he were speaking directly in his ear.

“I couldn’t disagree with you more,” Kraemer said. “Dr. Stanzione offered you your very first job out of training, and you repaid him by plotting with Mr. Kostas to go out on your own, even ridiculed him in emails. The invoices, the letter from Jeune Toi, and the consultation with Mrs. Trautman indicate you were acting as SkinDem’s medical director. Not to mention the makeover and expensive meals. Seems to me you had a taste of the good life and wanted more than what the late Dr. Stanzione had to offer. There is nothing ridiculous about that.”

“You’re right,” Angelo replied with an unexpected spate of anger. “This isn’t ridiculous. This is fucking bullshit!”

Angelo was unaware he had stood up but quickly realized it once he felt Rudnick’s hand pressing down on his shoulder. “Can I have a moment with my client?”

“Who are you to judge me anyway?” Angelo continued. “I looked you up online Mr. Kraemer. You’re not a doctor. What happened? Couldn’t get into medical school?”

“Angelo!” Rudnick gripped his arm and pulled him out of the room.

He fought to stay, enraged by the lengths to which he had been insulted. “Do you like your job, Mr. Kraemer? Does it make you feel powerful, judging doctors?”

In the hallway, Rudnick pushed Angelo against the wall. Such feelings of anger and frustration had been building up inside, Angelo hardly recognized his own actions. Angelo had committed the cardinal sin of medicine. First, do no harm. Kraemer’s derogatory summary, characterizing Angelo as someone who befriended a murderer and betrayed his boss, was meant only to humiliate. His integrity had been scrutinized and built upon the testimony of a drug dealer and now, an accomplice to murder. Never had he felt so small as sitting at that table listening to a man with a gnarly mustache disparaging his choices for wanting a better life.

Suddenly, Angelo was depleted of any emotion. He stared blankly into Rudnick’s eyes. He couldn’t hear a word he was saying, lost in the frenzy and fury of his alternate self, the one that took over; the same one who may have just ruined his life.

Rudnick asked to meet with Kraemer in his office alone. Sitting in the waiting room, Angelo felt a beat of anger rise up his neck, realizing insulting Kraemer so horribly, so publicly, was the final nail in his coffin.

Rudnick stood over him. “We have a problem.” There was a stretch of dubious silence. Angelo was about to vomit when he saw them walking through the door. He slowly rose as they neared, grinning and sobbing—deliberately walking to greet them. Jason escorted Tim Meadows, Demetre’s ex. Angelo threw his arms around Jason’s neck. “What’s going on?”

“We’ll talk later,” Jason said. “Is that your lawyer?”

Angelo beckoned Rudnick. “This is Demetre Kostas’s former partner,” Angelo explained, “both personally and professionally. He owned half of SkinDem along with Laura Ellis.”

Rudnick shook his head in disbelief. “I hope you’re here to save the day.”

Tim smiled—a bright, big white smile. “I’m only here to tell the truth.”

“Please, come with me.” Rudnick escorted Tim into the conference room.

Angelo gave Jason the tightest hug and kissed him repeatedly on the cheek, which made Jason blush. Standing in the busy hallway, they were drawing a lot of attention.

“I love you more than anything. How did you get Tim to agree to come all the way here?”

Jason wiggled his fingers in front of Angelo’s eyes. “Mind control.”

“Well, it worked on me,” Angelo said. “Hopefully, it will work on Kraemer.”

“Actually,” Jason said. “You inspired me to reach out to Tim. After you said Tim and Laura lost everything after Demetre was arrested, I wondered how Tim felt, particularly after he heard Laura and Demetre were involved in Mia’s death. To my surprise, Tim had a lot to say. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure he was coming. I couldn’t let you down.”

Angelo stood teary-eyed before Jason. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jason said.

“Just take the compliment,” Angelo said, kissing him. “Once again, you saved the day.”

An hour later, Rudnick escorted Tim to the waiting area. “Mr. Meadows is leaving.”

“Tim,” Angelo said. “Thank you so much for taking the time to testify on my behalf. I know you’ve lost so much already. It couldn’t have been easy to relive it again.”

“My pleasure,” Tim said. “I hope all goes well with your inquiry. It would be such a loss. No one deserves to have their dreams stolen from them. I should know.”

Once Tim had exited the building, Rudnick took Angelo and Jason to a nearby coffee shop to talk. Rudnick used the word “magical” to describe Tim’s testimony. They sat at a booth by the window. A waitress brought over three coffees. Rudnick ordered a slice of apple pie. Angelo and Jason were hungry, but Angelo could hardly catch his breath, let alone eat.

Rudnick explained, “Tim recounted years of Demetre’s drug addiction, which inhibited his ability to differentiate right from wrong. Demetre had stolen money from the practice to buy drugs, and when Tim put a limit on how much Demetre could withdraw, he resorted to stealing prescription pads to obtain opioids, which Yossi sold to his clients.”

“Well, he certainly stole prescription pads from me,” Angelo said.

“For years, Demetre had stolen and swindled from the very people who trusted him,” Rudnick continued. “But it was an incident involving a patient with a mole that Demetre removed without recommending a dermatology consult that snagged Kraemer’s attention. Tim said that the patient went to a dermatologist to assess another mole, which was cancerous. Once Demetre heard, he amended his notes, to state that he recommended a dermatology consult when in fact, he had never given that advice to the patient.”

“Unbelievable,” Jason said.

“You’re a lucky man, Angelo,” Rudnick sang through a mouthful of pie.

Glancing at Jason, Angelo knew exactly how lucky he was.

That night, they had dinner with Camille at the apartment. Angelo told her the entire story. “You’re a hero,” Camille said to Jason. “Twice. How do you do it?”

“Mind control,” Angelo said, wiggling his fingers at Jason, who wiggled his back.

“Oh, to think you can finally put this awful mess behind you.” Camille grabbed her arms and shivered. Angelo wondered if she was thinking about her impending divorce. Wouldn’t it be great when that was over too?

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

 

It was a clear day; blue skies, blinding sun, fresh grass, and blossoms swaying in the breeze. They arrived in Staten Island with the intent of pulling out all the stops. They ordered Italian heroes from Vertucci’s, stacked with a ridiculous amount of deli meats and cheese—salami, ham, and provolone—on fresh Italian bread as long as a child’s arm. They bought two bottles of Chianti and set out for Moravian Cemetery.

“Let’s lay the blanket under the tree,” Camille suggested.

The mane of lush green lawn looked blue as it stretched out under the clear sky. They ate and drank for long periods without talking. Angelo stared at them, assailed by a brief inebriated sense that what they were doing was attempting to work through their damaged past, not by revisiting it, but through actions moving forward. He felt he had taken a page from Camille’s reflections she wrote in her journal: They had left a part of themselves at the Cape in order to grow another part to replace the old one.

A picnic at Moravian Cemetery would go down as the most macabre thing any of them had ever done, and yet it felt completely normal in the moment. Angelo pitched his head toward the sun, closing his eyes. Envisioning his mother, he thought about her smile, her honey-colored hair, and those wide eyes. Seeing himself reflected in her eyes, he imagined a world of endless possibilities.

For as long as he could remember, Angelo dreamed of living the good life, and all the years it took to build that dream had been dismantled in only twelve months. Though he hoped to distance himself from that clapboard bungalow on South Beach, imagining himself living happily somewhere else. In reality, he had never been more contented sleeping alongside Camille, talking after lights out, cuddling on the sofa with his mother watching TV, and walking along the beach with Don after dinner.

Standing over his mother’s grave while Camille and Jason loaded up the car, he whispered a solemn promise to live a life that would make his mother proud, not just for her, but for himself.

Behind him he could hear Jason calling. It was time to go. At last, Angelo could say he was ready.

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Frank Spinelli, MD is a licensed physician, and the author of The Advocate Guide to Gay Men’s Health and Wellness, as well as Pee-Shy: A Memoir, which has been optioned to be developed into a limited series. He appeared in the Emmy-nominated 30 Years from Here, Positive Youth, and I’m a Porn Star. He also hosted a season of Dueling Doctors.

Frank lives in New York with his husband and their two four-legged adopted sons.