“Hey, are you Alex Cutter?”
Alex sat on his haunches washing the wheels of his Audi with a large sponge and a bucket of soapy water, a typical Saturday afternoon chore he found soothing. So many hours of his days were devoted to precise, meticulous work that a job like this, completely without risk, was a welcomed distraction. He also loved leaving the metallic gray paint shiny, the black leather interior spotless. Lisa’s car, on the other hand, was a perpetual disaster he tackled only once a month. Even then he simply washed the exterior, because any interior work would be in vain.
Startled, Alex glanced over his shoulder at the voice. Behind him stood a middle-aged stranger in jeans, camouflage T-shirt, camouflage fishing vest, and aviator sunglasses, wearing a huge, shit-eating grin over his face.
“I am.” Alex stood.
The grin enlarged as he pulled a folded paper from inside his vest. He handed it to Alex. “Here.” He turned toward the street.
Alex accepted the paper. “What’s this?”
“Get it?” the man yelled to a partner aiming a telephoto lens at them from across the street.
The photographer nodded. “Hell, yeah.”
The process server said to Alex, “You’ve been served,” then turned and walked away laughing.
Served? What the …? Then it dawned on him. He dried his hands on a rag stuck in his back pocket and carefully unfolded the sheet of paper.
“What do I do now?” Alex asked Garrison. He was on the kitchen phone, the unfolded summons on the counter.
“Nothing for the moment. I’ll notify our attorney now and set up a meeting for Monday morning. This being Saturday, there’s not a damn thing we can do till then. It ain’t going away, that’s for damn sure. Just try to calm down.” Garrison paused. “But I gotta ask you, any truth to the allegation? You have anything—anything at all—to do with this woman’s suicide?”
Alex didn’t answer immediately, so Garrison pressed the issue. “Well?”
Alex swallowed. “She had a glioblastoma. I operated on it, then had it radiated. That’s it.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. This your first? Malpractice suit I mean.”
Alex dropped heavily into a chair. “Yeah. Aw, Jesus, ten million dollars.” For the first time since joining the clinic, he wondered how much his insurance covered. What would happen if they won and were awarded the entire amount but he had only five million dollars of coverage? What then? Would they take his house, car, retirement? Why hadn’t he been concerned enough to pay attention to these things?
“What else do they want in damages? That is, if you don’t mind me asking,” Garrison said.
“They want my state license revoked.”
“Suspect they’re going to have a problem with that one. Can’t remember that kind of thing ever happening, especially with this being your first suit. Keep the faith; you’ll persevere. What d’ya have going Monday morning?”
“One case. Shouldn’t run past noon.” He’d purposely scheduled a light week in anticipation of the AVM Thursday.
“I’ll be seeing patients by the time y’all finish. Run me down soon as you’re free.”
Alex was still sitting at the kitchen table, phone in hand, when Lisa came in from the carport carrying a bag of groceries. She set the bag on the counter with a grunt. “What’s wrong?”
His mind was consumed by a toxic brew of anger at the process server and the Costello family. Meredith had claimed she was all alone. So why was the family now pressing charges? He held up the paper for her to see. “I’m being sued for malpractice.”
She sat in the chair opposite him. “Oh my God! What did you do?”
“Nothing. The patient died from a glioblastoma. A sister I didn’t even know existed claims I killed her with a prescription of Nembutal.”
“Did you?” Lisa asked matter-of-factly.
Ah, man … “No.”
Years ago when they were still learning about each other, he had shared the story of his mother’s death in the nursing home, how he regretted not helping her commit suicide. Lisa had been shocked, believing neither a patient nor their doctor had a right to intentionally assist in suicide, regardless of the circumstances. Her belief was based on the simple conviction that life is a gift that no human has a right to take, regardless of how well-intentioned their actions. Alex had argued that a physician’s most important obligation to a patient was to relieve suffering, that nothing in the Hippocratic oath stated that physicians should prolong life. He strongly believed that if the final terminal stage of disease increased suffering, it would be more humane to provide the patient the option of a merciful alternative. She had found his argument abhorrent.
“I don’t believe you. Why? Because I know you,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “And if I don’t believe you, what’s a jury going to believe?”