First Do No Harm (Benjamin Davis Book Series, Book 1)

by A. Turk

  Putting a call in to Woody Douglas, Herman wanted to review the terms of the lease renewals for his tenants.

  Woody himself answered the phone. “Lars, how are you doing? How’s business?”

  “Couldn’t be better. This ultrasound machine is a cash cow. I’m thinking of getting another machine and hiring an operator, business is so good.” He only had two hands, and he didn’t like leaving money on the table. “I just had a consult with a patient and diagnosed her with gallstones. I just sent her upstairs for a consult with Charlie. He’ll probably be scheduling her for surgery next week. It’s the perfect assembly line. I diagnose them, he cuts them, and we all make money.”

  The conversation turned to the leases. Woody was unhappy about the terms, especially the rent increases. “I’m the one who set you up with both doctors. I know you’re getting a referral fee from them, Lars.”

  My business relationships are none of your business. The hospital is benefiting financially from this arrangement, as are you personally, thought Herman. He replied, “I’m the reason your income’s doubled. My ultrasound makes a lot of money for your hospital. It’s your job to make sure your pathology department keeps backing up my diagnoses of stones. Now just sign the goddamned leases, and let’s move on.”

  Next he asked Douglas about Patel’s formal complaint concerning Herman’s care of Rosie Malone. The report had just come in, and the charges had been dismissed with no criticism of Dr. Herman or Dr. English. The findings concluded that during surgery, Dr. English had “inadvertently injured the patient’s bowel,” but that the “informed consent signed by Mrs. Malone had acknowledged that surgical problems, including puncture of the bowels and internal bleeding, were known risks of the procedure.” The Executive Committee report further stated that “the failure to transfer the patient to Saint Thomas until February 5th at 6:00 p.m. was within the standard of care because the patient was not stable and transport in an unstable condition had inherent risks.” The report concluded that Dr. Herman, the treating physician, was “in the best position to evaluate whether to transfer the patient and that Dr. Herman used his best medical judgment.”

  The rest of the day went like clockwork. Herman performed seven ultrasounds, at $1,500 a pop. He ended the day at six o’clock, earlier than usual, and hurried home to take his beautiful wife, Alice, out for a Valentine’s Day dinner.

  Alice was waiting by the door when her tired husband walked in. She threw her arms around him before he could even take his coat off. She could feel the exhaustion in his body but knew his weariness was not the result of a long day at the office. Valentine’s Day was always a difficult holiday, but usually Lars masked the sadness.

  Valentine’s Day was an annual reminder of Lars’s mother, Margot. It was the day she was horribly disfigured during the firebombing of Dresden in 1945. It was also the day of his father’s death. He was one of the many German soldiers killed in that horrific air raid. Valentine’s Day was never a celebration in the Herman household; it was a day of remembrance. Every year of his childhood, his mother took him to the beautiful Iguazu Falls near their home in Misiones, Argentina.

  After a few minutes of chitchat about the day, Lars turned to Alice and asked, “Will you be my valentine?”

  “Who else would be, Sheila?”

  They laughed at the thought.

  “Seriously, you’re the only woman who’s ever loved me, other than my mother,” Lars said.

  “I wish I had met her. From what you’ve told me she was an incredible person and a great doctor. She would be very proud of you, Lars.”

  “I wish she had seen me pass the FLEX exam and seen our dream came true. All she got to see was how hard I struggled.”

  He started up the stairs and noticed a rectangular-shaped shipping crate on the landing. “What’s this?”

  “It’s from Argentina. The return address is Uncle Wilhelm’s.”

  Lars got a hammer and carefully opened the crate. As he suspected, it was a painting. He read the note out loud:

  Dearest Nephew,

  I hope my note finds both you and Alice doing well on this Valentine’s Day. It has been forty-seven years since that tragic day when you lost your father, and your mother’s hospital was destroyed and she was injured. She’s gone but not forgotten by either of us.

  I have enclosed a Renoir titled La Femme au Puits. I picked it up from an old Parisian Jew in 1942. It was one of the first pieces I acquired for my private collection. He’s been dead for almost fifty years, so he won’t mind my gifting it to you. If you decide to sell it, be careful. Use the sources I previously provided you.

  I will love and remember your mother, my dear sister, until the day I die.

  Love,

  Uncle Wilhelm

  Lars began to cry. Although Alice made dinner reservations at their favorite Italian restaurant in Nashville, she went to the kitchen to take two steaks out of the refrigerator. There would be no restaurant visit tonight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE HOOK

  FRIDAY, MARCH 6, 1992

  Benjamin Abraham Davis was not a native Nashvillian. He was a nice Jewish boy, born in Brooklyn, New York, who grew up on Long Island, but he left New York when he was eighteen years old. Nashville had been his home for almost twenty years now. He had come to the city to get his law degree and a master’s degree in business from Vanderbilt University but stayed after meeting his wife and his boss, Morty Steine. He was a Yankee, proud of his distinct New York accent. Davis used the cachet of his accent to his advantage by charming his clients. His charm first won over Morty.

  Davis was a second-semester punk law student when he applied for a clerkship at Morty Steine’s office. To that point, the cigar-smoking Steine was a lone wolf, practicing solo, with the help of his middle-aged secretary, Bella Rosario. Despite its size, the Steine law firm had achieved national prominence, with Morty representing many celebrities, specifically country music artists and songwriters.

  Davis worked diligently with Morty, learning from him, benefiting from his guidance, and ultimately earning his respect and a partnership. Davis became the son that Morty and his wife, Goldie, never had. However, he was smothered professionally by Morty. Despite Davis’s hard work and dedication, Morty got the credit, not only in the eyes of the clients but in Davis’s eyes as well. Davis felt a twinge of jealousy enhanced by his strong need for recognition.

  After working together for almost twenty years, as he explained to his protégé, seventy-two-year-old Morty was retiring to spend as much time as possible with his beloved Goldie, who was dying from stage IV ovarian cancer. Whatever time she had left, he wanted to be by her side. She needed him, Morty confided to Davis, and he knew his clients would be in good hands. He would, however, work a few hours a couple of days a week until he finished up two pending cases.

  Davis was confident that the clients would get excellent service from him, but he was concerned that because of Morty’s charisma and dominance, the clients might elect to go elsewhere for their confidential and personal legal advice. Davis felt he needed Morty’s unconditional endorsement so that the firm’s business would transfer effortlessly. The clients knew Davis and were familiar with his work, but they loved Morty.

  Yesterday was Morty’s last full day at the firm, and tonight Davis and others would honor him for his contribution to the law and to the community. Davis was throwing Morty a retirement party at Hillwood Country Club, where Davis was a member. The club was within walking distance of Davis’s house, although he never had time to play golf. Living in Hillwood, in West Nashville, was not as prestigious as living in Belle Meade, but it was a well-respected neighborhood.

  Davis had invited almost three hundred clients, politicians, and members of the Bar and judiciary. Beyond honoring Morty, it was also Davis’s coming out party from under the shadow of his friend and mentor. He needed to impress the firm’s clientele.

  Davis had flown in a very special toastmaster, retired United States Sup
reme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall. Morty and Marshall fought shoulder-to-shoulder for equality and civil rights in the fifties when Marshall was the general counsel for the NAACP.

  Liza and Davis picked up the Steines at their farm, Squeeze Bottom, and drove them to the party. Liza, a registered nurse, volunteered to keep an eye on Goldie, who was very frail. As Davis glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw her wince in pain. Tonight was going to be difficult for this extremely sick and brave woman, but Goldie insisted on being there to join others in honoring her husband of forty-four years.

  As they entered the club, Liza took Goldie to one side and found her a place to sit so she wouldn’t be trampled by the dozens of well-wishers who converged on Morty. Morty acknowledged the accolades of his guests but made a beeline to shake hands with his old friend Justice Marshall, who was standing in the corner, drink in hand.

  The open bar flowed, and all enjoyed the food. About an hour into the party, Justice Marshall made a short speech and described Morty as “not only a great lawyer, but one of the greatest men I’ve ever known. Morty didn’t use his God-given talent to just make money and benefit his clients. Rather, he made a significant difference in this world.” Marshall actually got a little emotional and thanked Morty for their fifty-year friendship.

  Even Davis was impressed by how much Marshall recognized the old man. Davis thought, It has been an honor to be a part of Morty’s legal career, even a small part.

  After Marshall spoke, Dolly Parton, whom Morty had represented for more than thirty years, climbed onto his lap and sang “I Will Always Love You.” It brought the house down.

  After Miss Dolly kissed the top of Morty’s balding head, the old orator stood and addressed the crowd. He thanked Justice Marshall for his kind words and Miss Dolly for her beautiful song: “I’ve enjoyed my legal career, representing some of you and doing battle with others.”

  Morty specifically recognized several prominent politicians, including two United States congressmen and two Tennessee Supreme Court justices. The room was filled with a who’s who of the state of Tennessee for the last fifty years.

  “I’ve loved one woman my entire life, the still beautiful Goldie. We married in 1948, and she’s been my partner in life ever since.”

  He regaled the crowd with their story. Morty stared only at Goldie as he recounted the day they met at Steine’s Department Store, she a salesclerk and Morty a young lawyer, a World War II veteran, and the owner’s son to boot. People could almost picture the tall, handsome man with curly black hair as he stood before them. Now slightly stooped, Morty had only a fringe of gray.

  The guests laughed as Morty told them all about what a good team he and Goldie made. “But I knew who the boss was,” Morty added with a grin. “If you corner her, she’ll tell you that I like to think I’m calling the shots in our partnership, but that’s not the truth. She just lets me think I’m in control,” he said.

  Looking at the tears streaming down Goldie’s face, Morty blew her a kiss before turning to Davis.

  “Well, in my professional life, I’ve only had one partner: Ben Davis. He and I have been together since 1975, and like Goldie, he’s figured out that it’s easier to plant one of his ideas in my head, let me call it my own, and let me take credit for it. He’s been doing that for years, and I’ve let him because I enjoy taking the bow. But it’s time to give credit where credit is due. I toast my friend, my partner, and a great lawyer, Ben Davis. Thank you for this memorable evening.”

  The open bar remained open, but the evening began to wind down as judges and politicians left the club severely under the influence.

  Liza informed her husband that she would be giving Morty and Goldie a ride home and that Sammie Davis, their niece, was his ride. Davis and Sammie needed to remain until the forty or so diehards at the bar and at tables decided to leave.

  As Davis watched Liza rounding up Morty and Goldie, Bradley Littleton approached him. With urgency in his voice, Littleton said, “Ben, I’ve got to talk to you immediately.”

  “I can’t now, Brad, I’m busy. I’m about to sit down with the manager to go over the bill. Call me at the office on Monday.”

  “This can’t wait. Pay the bill. I’ll wait over there, and then we can talk.” Littleton pointed to a table in the corner.

  “Brad, I’m sure Bella can fit you in sometime on Monday afternoon.”

  “This can’t wait. Take care of the bill, and we’ll talk.”

  What a pain in the ass, Davis thought. Why the hell was Littleton even invited to the party? Davis couldn’t remember Littleton’s name on the guest list, and he wondered if the son of a bitch crashed the party. He decided to ask Bella about it.

  Davis walked over to his niece, who was dressed in a midnight blue strapless evening gown that complemented her blue eyes. Normally, she wore her hair in a long ponytail, but for this special occasion, it was up, showing off her exquisite tanned neck and shoulders. She was the most beautiful woman in the room, but that didn’t prevent Davis from feeling a little burdened by her. Sammie was in Nashville, working for him out of pure nepotism. If it wasn’t for her grandmother’s influence with her son, Sammie would be unemployed. A Jewish mother’s guilt was a powerful thing.

  “Brad, this is my niece and paralegal, Sammie Davis.” Davis then moved closer to the manager as he finished giving orders to his staff.

  While they waited on Davis to return, Sammie told Littleton that she had been working in Nashville for only three weeks. She was living in the loft above Davis’s office. Her father, George, was Mr. Davis’s older brother, and her parents divorced when she was five. She had grown up with her mother in Miami, and she spent summers with Davis’s parents in Woodbury, Long Island.

  She also told him that she was a graduate of the University of Florida and a recent graduate of a paralegal program. But these qualifications didn’t impress her uncle, who thought she had no practical or life experience.

  “Sammie Davis, are you a Jr.?” Littleton asked with a smile.

  She shrugged. “My mother has a twisted sense of humor; she loved the Rat Pack.”

  After Davis wrote a check for just under $10,000 to the club manager, he strode over to the table where Sammie and Littleton were waiting. It was an expensive night, but well worth it, he thought.

  He sat down and couldn’t help noticing Littleton’s straight-forward gaze at his twenty-four-year-old niece. “Brad, do you mind if my paralegal sits in on this meeting? Sammie is shadowing me to gain experience.”

  “It will be a pleasure. She obviously got the looks in the family.”

  Davis didn’t like the way that Littleton was almost leering at Sammie, but that reaction was typical. He had seen how men looked at her, almost smacking their lips. He didn’t care for Littleton before this display, and now he just wanted to get the conversation over with.

  Bradley Littleton was about fifty, more than ten years Davis’s senior. Littleton was short and weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds. Davis was about the same weight, but at six foot two with the broad frame of a football player, he towered over Littleton and carried his weight better. Davis met Littleton four years earlier when they represented co-defendants in a contract dispute. Davis defended the case to trial and received a defendant’s verdict, while Littleton settled with the plaintiff immediately prior to trial. Davis’s client got off with paying only legal fees while Littleton’s client paid a significant settlement and even greater legal fees.

  Littleton seemed to attract profitable clients. He had a network of stooges who directed family, friends, and innocent strangers to him for representation and legal advice. Davis wondered whether Littleton compensated his bird dogs because any payments to non-lawyers would be unethical fee splitting. Littleton had a good bedside manner and appeared more competent than he really was.

  Davis sighed. “Brad, it’s late and I’m tired. What can’t wait till Monday?”

  “I need your help. I’ve stumbled onto a great opportunity.
There are these two incompetent doctors in Plains County. One’s a family practitioner, and the other’s a surgeon. They’ve been terrorizing an entire community. Do you know where Plainview is?”

  “Yes. It’s about thirty miles south of Hewes City. Plainview is the county seat of Plains County.”

  Littleton described a string of potential medical malpractice cases that occurred over the last year at Plainview Community Hospital. He said that a conspiracy involved unnecessary laparoscopic gallbladder surgeries. According to him the co-conspirators, Dr. Lars Herman and Dr. Charles English, were corroborating each other’s false diagnoses and removing healthy gall-bladders. Littleton was very critical of the hospital for allowing Herman and English to continue to admit patients and perform surgeries, even after receiving multiple incident reports. He also blamed the hospital for ignoring this clear pattern of unnecessary surgeries. According to Littleton, the hospital remained silent because the doctors were the hospital’s highest earners.

  Davis listened carefully. He knew how to try a medical malpractice lawsuit, boasting that he’d tried twelve but never lost one yet.

  After hearing Davis’s track record, Littleton could no longer remain silent. “Ben, that’s why you’re the man for this job. The defendants will be scared shitless when they hear you’re representing the other side.”

  Davis was not taken in by Littleton’s flattery. “Brad, how do you know all this? Have you met with any of the clients? Have you gotten signed medical authorizations? Have you reviewed medical records?”

  Littleton shook his head. “There’s been a recent death at the hospital. The patient died unnecessarily. The nursing staff is upset, and a physician on staff, Dr. Laura Patel, even made a formal complaint. She got sideways with the administration for reporting English and Herman for malpractice and unnecessary surgeries. The Executive Medical Committee took her information but didn’t investigate.”