Oath of Office

by Michael Palmer

  He craned his neck back until he made eye contact with his father. Then he pulled his car keys from his pants pocket.

  “Ask that guy over there in the green plaid shirt to get my medical bag from the trunk of my car,” he ordered the chef nearest to his left. “Then get me a large bowl of ice water and some dishwashing soap. Dove, Palmolive. Anything you have is okay.” The circle of people gathered around them began to close in. “You’ve got to back up!” Lou said firmly, applying gentle pressure. “Give us more room.”

  Blood flowed from the wound in thick spurts. Hemostasis? Ice? Cleansing?

  He evaluated the pluses and minuses of each maneuver.

  Stop bleeding.… Get alignment.… Sterilize.… Protect any microscopic arteries that might still be intact.…

  Lou made decisions while talking to the boy almost continuously. A single rolled apron had been placed under Joey’s neck, and stacks of towels were now elevating his legs from the knees down.

  Lou rested the damaged hand palm down on a clean towel, gently adjusting the thumb into an anatomically correct position.

  “Okay, Joey … listen to me now.… Everything is going to be just fine.… I’m going to help.…”

  “Help me,” Joey answered back meekly. “Please help me.”

  “Someone give me a scissors, please.”

  Lou pulled one of the towels from the pile and cut off a long three-inch strip. Next, he wrapped the strip twice around the middle of Joey’s forearm and tied it off. The bleeding began to slow. To add torque, Lou slipped a wooden cook spoon under the strip and turned it until the bleeding began to slow even more. He made note of the time, 12:50. There may have been as much as two hours of wiggle room to keep the tourniquet on before there was tissue damage, but he had no desire to cut things that close.

  “Here you go, Lou,” he heard Dennis say.

  Lou’s heavy black leather bag materialized on the floor beside his knee. A number of states had enacted Good Samaritan laws to protect doctors who offered help in an emergency from being sued. But many of those laws were vaguely constructed, and some had even been challenged in court. As a result, there were docs who went out of their way to avoid involvement in trauma or medical emergencies—an aspect of his profession Lou had never been proud of. Instead, he had chosen to make himself better prepared. He carried a well-equipped medical bag in his trunk, and at one point, had actually participated on a committee that helped the airlines to design a sensible and useful emergency first-aid kit that could be placed on planes.

  “You still with me, Joey?”

  “Yes … I’m with you, sir.”

  The physical evidence of shock had already begun to recede, and some strength had returned to the youth’s voice. Bleeding had been reduced to an ooze.

  “I need that icy dishwashing soap now,” Lou called out.

  Given that the ambulance would be there soon, there was little in Lou’s emergency bag that would be of major help. But there was gauze and a great splint—thumb-sized, three-quarters of an inch wide, pliable aluminum, backed with foam rubber. And just as important, there was a pair of shears that could shape it. Years had passed since he had put the splints and shears into his kit. Who knew?

  He irrigated the wound, carefully wrapped the laceration, measured off a piece of splint well more than twice the length of the thumb and twisted it into a U that held the fracture in an anatomically perfect position, with three inches of aluminum extending across the wrist and onto the hand, front and back. Then, again from the kit, he snapped open a chemical ice pack and set it on the bandage. By the time the cold was gone, Joey would be undergoing treatment. Lou finished the job with heavy cotton batting up to the tourniquet and two ACE bandages.

  “You’re doing great, pal,” Lou said to him. “You’re one tough customer, I’ll tell you that. You are really something.…”

  Lou checked the youth’s blood pressure. One hundred.

  Reasonable.

  He continued the stream of encouraging banter.

  “You’re doing just great, Joey … just great.…”

  “Out!… Out! Okay, back off, everyone. Please.” Millie Neuland came rushing through the crowd. If she had aged since any of the dozens of photographs of her were taken, Lou could see no evidence of it. Gray, tousled hair, round wire-rimmed glasses, bright blue eyes, rouged cheeks, finely painted eyebrows, and a nearly perfectly round face. Her gingham dress, frilly half apron, and single strand of pearls completed the picture.

  The quintessential grandmother.

  Lou had begun wiping off the boy’s pallid cheeks.

  Millie knelt next to him, mindless of the blood. “The ambulance is on the way,” she said to no one but Lou, a genteel Southern lilt in her speech. “If you’re not a doctor, son, you dang well should be. I’m Millie Neuland.”

  “I guessed. Lou Welcome. I’m an ER doc at Eisenhower.”

  “Lucky us. Oh, Joey! Can you hear me, baby? You got a doctor right here with you.”

  Joey’s eyes fluttered open. “Hi … Ma.”

  “Your son?” Lou asked.

  “Might as well be. His name’s Joey Alderson. Been here at the restaurant for years. Looks twelve, but he’s near twenty-five.”

  “Ma, I really messed up this time,” Joey managed in a hoarse whisper.

  “How bad?” Millie asked Lou. There was emotion in her voice, but her tone was that of a woman used to being in charge and dealing with crisis.

  “He put his hand under a knife that was chopping carrots. My father, the guy over there in green, and I were sitting just a few feet away.”

  “How bad?” the restaurateur asked again, encouraging no mincing of words.

  Lou glanced down at Joey, who appeared to have drifted off. “Reimplantation,” he said, sensing the word was one that the youth was unlikely to completely understand. “We have some wonderful hand surgeons at Eisenhower Memorial. I can make some calls and we can get him over there.”

  “I don’t know you, and I don’t know any of the doctors at Eisenhower Memorial,” Millie replied, “but since you work at one of the big hospitals in the city, you might know that many folks out here consider a referral to there tantamount to a death sentence. We’re very proud of our hospital here. My restaurant is one of its biggest supporters. In fact, the surgical suite is named for me and this place. Joey’s a little … limited in some ways. He may frighten easily. The doctors at DeLand know him well. They know how to be sensitive to his needs.”

  “I understand,” Lou said, now measuring every single word carefully. “The metropolitan hospitals in cities like D.C. all have the reputation you spoke about—mostly because people who are referred in are usually quite ill.”

  From the distance, they could now hear the siren of an approaching ambulance. Lou knew that, assuming his concerns about DeLand Regional were on the mark, time was running out on his chances to get Joey Alderson into the city.

  A frontal assault seemed to be his only option.

  With the approaching siren getting louder, he met Millie Neuland’s gaze with his, and held it. “Millie, I promise to explain my feelings later,” he said, “but I have my reasons—very strong reasons—and I am begging you to allow me to bring Joey into Eisenhower Memorial.… Begging you.”

  The woman, clearly nonplussed by the force behind Lou’s words, studied his face.

  The siren, now in front of the restaurant, cut off. Moments later, they could hear the voices and commotion from the direction of the main entrance.

  Lou felt his heart sinking. There was nothing more to say.

  “Well,” Millie said finally, “if Joey’s going to be trucked into the city, then I’m going with him.”

  CHAPTER 18

  There was a time Kim Hajjar and her three closest D.C. friends met for drinks once a week. But more and more, their good intentions were being eroded by their professional lives. Their meeting spots seemed tempered as well. Gone were the margaritas at Chi-Chi’s and Scorpion Bowls down at t
he Hong Kong. The group of women now preferred quieter watering holes where they could commiserate about jobs, kids, husbands, or in Kim’s case, the dearth of quality men.

  Darlene would have been a welcome addition to the group, but the Secret Service, along with concerns about paparazzi, made it impractical for the First Lady to join their periodic early-evening revels. Having been to Bar None with Darlene just a few days ago, Kim suggested it would make a good kickoff spot to enjoy a cocktail before dinner at the Blue Crab Grill, the much-hyped new restaurant on Connecticut Avenue.

  The women were rarely on time for their own gatherings. Two of them were lawyers, and like Kim, worked hours bordering on the cruel and unusual. Candice, an ob-gyn, was often held hostage by the biology of her patients. Usually, though, the group managed to carve out a few good hours, always ending with the pledge that when the time came for their next gathering, their friendship would override all but the most dire considerations.

  That night, Kim showed up at Bar None on time, knowing the others probably would not. Having spent an exhausting day making final preparations for the visit of the President of Ireland and his family, she was happy to have a quiet interlude before the gang arrived.

  Kim felt lucky to have nabbed a spot at the bar, but after downing a beer in fewer swigs than she would ever admit, she now needed to use the ladies’ room. She loved working for Darlene, but always appreciated the ease with which she could move about when unencumbered by her entourage. There were no advance teams to pass judgment on the premises beforehand, no agents chatting inconspicuously in the corner, and best of all, no one following her to the restroom.

  When she returned to the crowded bar, Kim was not surprised to find her place occupied by a woman in her twenties, dressed to attract. Several preppy swains had already picked up the scent and were beginning to circle. She moved downwind to the only empty stool. Unfortunately, the occupants next to her were an attractive couple with lovey-dovey eyes and exploratory hands. Kim sensed the all-too-familiar pang. She had had her chances over the years—a couple of engagements, and even a brief marriage to a man who was all shiny on the outside, but on the inside was searching for Mommy. Now, any man who wanted to learn who she was and what mattered to her would have to do some serious digging.

  Might need something stronger than an Amstel Light, she thought.

  Kim was working to avoid staring at the happy couple and to keep from lamenting her uninspiring love life, when she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. Turning, Kim came face-to-face with Nicole Keane’s stunning beauty. The two women embraced with genuine affection.

  “I thought you said you were trapped in some sort of deposition,” Kim said.

  Nicole, olive complexioned, with dark, seductive eyes, was as statuesque as any runway model. And although none of the friends could be considered at all unattractive, she was the most hit upon. To the dismay of her would-be suitors, she was also the woman with the oldest marriage license and most number of kids—three.

  “Deposition over and done,” Nicole said. “It is so weird having the absolute goods on someone, and sitting in a deposition listening to them lie.”

  “A-gree,” Kim said. “I’m as big a baseball fan as the next person, but to hell with a grand slam home run or a no-hitter. Lying under oath is the true Great American Pastime.”

  “And I am now absolutely ready to participate in the other Great American Pastime.” She caught the bartender’s eye with little trouble. “Wild Turkey, neat.”

  “Oooh! That kind of day, huh?”

  “Loooooong,” Nicole said as her drink appeared on the bar.

  Kim could not resist another glance at the touchy-feely couple, and Nicole caught her looking. “Do you think they’re really happy?” Kim asked.

  Both women watched as the couple kissed lightly.

  “I wouldn’t say they’re unhappy,” Nicole said. “But I remind you of the first rule of Pepsi Generation sanity.”

  “I know. I know. Never go around comparing your insides to everyone else’s outsides. I think we need to start importing more men. Is it just my imagination, or is every guy in D.C. married, or gay?”

  “There are still some eligibles rooting about. It’s not like you weren’t a former beauty queen, darling,” Nicole replied. “You just don’t flaunt it.”

  “I don’t think my eighty-hour workweeks have done much for my overall desirability, that’s for sure.”

  “Trust me, you’re still a stunner,” Nicole said.

  Kim gave her friend a hug. “Flattery, my dear, will get you another drink.”

  “And a little cleavage on display will get you half a dozen.”

  As if on cue, the bartender motioned to Kim and guided a bottle of Amstel Light down the crowded bar to her.

  “I take it back,” Nicole said. “With a face like that, you can keep your cleavage in the henhouse.”

  “You sure you got the right woman?” Kim asked the man.

  “He was very clear it was for you.”

  “He, who?” Kim asked, looking over at a pod of perhaps a dozen and a half eager twenty- and thirty-somethings beginning the evening’s hustle.

  “I … don’t see him.”

  “Well, what did he look like?”

  “I didn’t really notice. He looked like … all of them. What can I say? I think he wore glasses. Maybe dark hair. I do know when he passed me the drink, he had slid money for the beer and an extra two bucks between the bottle and the coaster.”

  “Two bucks?” Nicole exclaimed.

  The bartender chuckled. “If it had been a five, I might have remembered him better.”

  Kim turned the screw top of the bottle and wondered if it had been loosened before. Nothing like a couple of years in the White House to fan any spark of mistrust into a conflagration.

  “Throw it away,” she said after a moment’s thought.

  The bartender had watched her test the bottle. “Here,” he said, exchanging the Amstel for one from the fridge. “You’re ready for a fresh one anyhow.”

  “You really think it’s already been opened?” Nicole asked.

  “Probably not, but weirder things have happened.”

  “You’re right there, sister.”

  The kiss-happy couple gulped down their last swallows and headed for the door. Nicole slid onto one of the vacated stools. The other women were later than usual, she observed. Perhaps it was worth calling.… The moment she said the word, the bar phone began ringing.

  “The all-powerful Nicole,” Kim said before she could begin wondering why whoever it was hadn’t called on one of their cell phones. “Wanna guess which one of them it is?”

  The bartender listened for a few seconds, then hung up. “It was for you,” the bartender said to Kim. “It was the guy who bought you the beer.”

  “Inventive,” Nicole said.

  “Creepy,” Kim responded.

  The jukebox had begun playing a song Kim knew by the band Green Day.

  The bartender leaned toward them to be heard over the increasing din. “He told me to tell you to look under the drink coaster.”

  “Intriguing,” Nicole said.

  “Double creepy,” Kim replied.

  Her brow furrowed as she flipped the cardboard coaster over so that only she could see. Nicole and the bartender waited. The note was written in a small, neat hand. Kim read it and felt her stomach knot. Her heart rate accelerated like a drag racer as she scanned the restaurant.

  “Do you see him?” she asked the bartender, now with some urgency. “Are you sure he’s not here?”

  The man glanced about again, but shook his head. “Like I said, I really didn’t take a good look at him. In this place, guys are always buying drinks for pretty women they want to connect with. It’s like the coin of the realm. I remember what the women look like more than I remember the men.”

  The noise level in Bar None had elevated as more people filtered in. The bartender waited until it was clear he wasn’t going to lear
n the contents of the message, and then headed off to tend to other customers.

  Nicole scanned the room. “Okay,” she said finally. “I give up. What’s it say?”

  “Nicole, I detest pledging people to secrecy,” Kim said grimly, “and the last thing I want to do is upset you. But I need to keep this one to myself—at least for the time being.”

  “You can’t be serious. I tell you about my damn sex life. The good stuff, too.”

  “Believe me, baby, if I had a sex life, I’d tell you all about it, too. But this is business—company business. If Darlene says it’s okay for me to talk with you about it, the first thing I’ll do is get you on speed dial.”

  “Good thing I love you,” Nicole said.

  Kim embraced her. “Good thing you do,” Kim said.

  * * *

  THE OTHER two women arrived together, just a couple of minutes later. Per her agreement with Kim, Nicole led them to the far end of the bar so that Kim could speak to a man who seemed interested in her. The new arrivals, giddy to be drifting away from the responsibilities of their lives, acted as if they had just been told of their friend’s engagement.

  As soon as the three women had melted into the evening crush, Kim moved back from the bar, slipped the coaster from her purse, and read it one more time.

  Sec’y Evans has been framed. I must speak to Darlene Mallory in secret. If you agree to help arrange the meeting, go put a dollar in the jukebox.

  Kim nodded to no one in particular, replaced the coaster in her bag, and moved slowly across the room toward the jukebox. There was no sense in trying to pick out the writer of the note. Kim was convinced now that he was clever enough to keep himself disguised or concealed until he was ready to disclose himself and his purpose.

  It felt strange to know that he was out there someplace, watching. Clearly, he had done his homework. Darlene was the one closest to the president who might be willing, at least, to listen to what this man had to say.

  Kim made her way to the jukebox, taking several furtive glances over her shoulder. What if the note was true? What if Russ Evans had been railroaded into resigning? She approached a man leaning up against the brick wall, drinking a Heineken—tall, intelligent, with razor-cut chestnut hair. He looked at her unabashedly as she neared. A chill ripped through her. Their eyes met. She was just about say something, when a flashy blonde in a tight white sweater came and wrapped her arms around his neck.