Hollis Sinclair strolled through Southeastern State Hospital’s main lobby. A choir of students from a local high school stood behind a white baby grand piano filling the lobby with melodious Christmas carols. He walked over to the Family Welcome Center and randomly reached for one of the many brochures describing the hospital’s special programs. He opened the pamphlet but instead of reading about Southeastern’s advanced program of knee and hip replacement surgery, he peered above it to the area in front of the hospital. As he expected, the sea of reporters that had been congregating outside all day was still there.
Replacing the brochure, he buttoned his freshly pressed white coat, straightened his tie and, finally, made sure his identification badge was in clear sight. Because of the unrelenting presence of the media, the administration had advised all physicians to use alternative hospital exits to avoid an ambush—an advisory that Hollis Sinclair fully intended to ignore.
He gave a final tug on the lapels of his coat and then made his way out of the hospital into an early dusk. Having participated in two of the regularly scheduled hospital press briefings, he was immediately recognized by the reporters. They scampered forward en masse, gathering around him like frenetic autograph seekers at a rock concert. Above the clamoring of their questions, he held up his hand.
“I’m sorry. I would prefer not to answer any questions at this time.”
“Can you just tell us if you’re still involved in the care of these women?”
“GNS is a neurologic disease. I’m the chief of neurology. Naturally, I’m involved.”
The same reporter again made his voice heard above the others. “Can you share with us your impression of the overall condition of the victims of GNS?”
“As I just mentioned, I’d prefer not to make any specific comments at this time.”
A second reporter, waving his notebook in the air, asked in a booming voice, “Are the doctors any closer to discovering the cause of GNS?”
“Without going into detail, the answer to your question is yes.”
A television anchorwoman from one of the local channels had managed to weave her way to the front and was now flanking Sinclair.
“Does that mean you’re also getting closer to finding a treatment?”
“I’ll make one comment because I think it’s important the American people understand that there’s a small group of forward-thinking doctors who are convinced GNS is a curable disease. Even as we speak, I am planning on a bold diagnostic test that will answer a great many questions about this dreaded disease and lead to a treatment plan.” Sinclair’s prediction prompted an immediate cacophony of fever-pitched voices. He started forward and again raised his hand. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say at this time. If you will excuse me, I have important patient-related matters to attend to.”
Sinclair made his way slowly through the reporters, who, for obvious reasons, were not deterred by his insistence he would make no further comments. But Sinclair had already accomplished what he had set out to do. He picked up his pace and ignored all the questions being posed to him.
By the time he reached the main medical office building, the reporters had retreated. With a satisfied grin, he looked back at the group and then continued on his way toward the doctors’ parking lot. His less than impromptu meeting with the press went exactly as he’d planned. He knew there would be a price to pay, and it would come in the form of an urgent summons to Dr. Helen Morales’s throne room—but he didn’t care. In matters with such profound life-and-death consequences, the ends always justified the means.