Doctors (73 page)

His throat was completely blocked and he was unable even to draw breath. Clutching his gullet, he staggered, desperately trying to pull out the roast. All the while his face was turning a cyanotic blue.

His wife shrieked. Yet everyone in the restaurant seemed paralyzed.

Barney and Bennett reacted instinctively.

“Heimlich Maneuver,” said Bennett.

Barney shoved his way through the rapidly gathering crowd. He rushed toward the choking man.

Carlo’s wife was frantically trying to help her husband remove the roast when Barney arrived and brusquely pushed her aside.

“What the hell—?” she screamed.

“Give me room, give me room—I’m a doctor! Get out of
my way,” he shouted harshly. This was hardly a moment for bedside manner.

Barney began to apply the standard technique for removing a foreign body from the trachea, where it is preventing the flow of air to the lungs. He positioned himself behind Carlo, locked his arms around the victim’s chubby waist, making a fist with his right hand. Then he began to squeeze the abdomen between the navel and the ribcage with quick, forceful upper thrusts.

He did not succeed. The air passage was too tightly blocked. Now Bennett was at his side.

“The Heimlich won’t do it, Ben,” Barney called out. “What now? He’ll be dead in half a minute!”

Bennett knew the next move. “Tracheotomy—lay him down quick.”

The man had lost consciousness and was limp in Barney’s arms as he set him on the floor. The spectators were too stunned to speak. Bennett grasped a steak knife from a nearby table, kneeled down and jabbed the point of the knife into the base of the victim’s throat. Blood poured from the wound.

Carlo’s relatives were suddenly jolted into outrage. There were hysterical cries of “He stabbed him.” “The nigger’s trying to kill him.” “Help!” “Police!” “Murder!”

As Barney valiantly tried to hold Carlo steady, one of the burly bartenders attempted to drag Bennett away.

“Stop, you asshole,” Barney shouted. “My friend’s a surgeon. He’s saving the guy’s life.”

The bartender either did not hear Barney or did not want to hear him. He continued to pull Bennett to his feet. There was no time for polite explanations. Bennett smashed his left fist into the bartender’s solar plexus and sent him reeling.

The crowd recoiled in fear.

“I’m a doctor, dammit,” Bennett shouted, barely able to control himself.

Meanwhile, Barney called from the floor. “Come on, Ben. Get something we can use as a trocar to give this guy an air supply.”

Bennett’s eyes darted around quickly and saw nothing. Then he noticed a nearby waiter with a ballpoint pen in his breast pocket. In a single motion, he grabbed the plastic pen, snapped it in two, pulled out the ink cartridge, and handed the hard, outer cylinder to Barney, who immediately plunged it into the incision to keep the air passage open.

Pausing for a moment, he shouted to Ben, “What about the bleeding? Can we use something for clamps?”

“No, Barn. Just stay down there and make sure the opening is—”

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by the sound of sirens. For the bartender had pressed his silent alarm, which had roused the State Police eight hundred yards down the road.

Suddenly the troopers were everywhere.

They quickly sized up the scene: a black man with a knife was standing over a white man with blood pouring from his neck. They took swift, decisive action.

Three of them set upon Bennett, two holding his hands, a third ferociously pounding his face and body till he slumped to the ground, where they continued to kick him.

Barney knew he
had
to keep the air passage open and could not come to his friend’s rescue. Instead, he bellowed like a wounded bull, “He’s a doctor, you bastards. He’s just saved this man’s life—leave him alone!”

That was the last thing he remembered.

The cold wind awakened him.

At first Barney fought to regain his senses, but all he could see was a psychedelic flashing of lights. The back of his head felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer.

An ambulance attendant was breaking an ammonia capsule under his nose to bring him back to consciousness.

“Are you all right?” the man asked.

No, Barney thought to himself, I feel like I’ve dived head first into an empty pool. But something hurt even worse than his head.

“Ben—where’s Ben?”

“You mean the other doctor?”

“He’s a surgeon,” Barney protested groggily.

“He’ll be all right,” said the medic.

“All right?” Barney gasped. “Where is he?”

“On his way to the Ridgetown hospital.”

“You mean he’s still taking care of the patient?”

“Not exactly,” the attendant replied. “He’s in a separate ambulance.”

Barney could finally focus his eyes. And he stared with anger at the man who had just spoken these words.

“He was pretty badly beaten up,” the man explained uneasily. “I guess the troopers didn’t know who he was. They thought—”

“He did an emergency tracheotomy, you schmuck. He saved that fat idiot’s life.”

The attendant did not know how to respond. For lack of anything better, he spoke the truth. “Yes, that was fantastic. Both of you were really great.”

“Take me to him,” Barney ordered, still slurring his speech. “I wanna see my friend.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve got orders to x-ray you for possible concussion. And then take you to the station.”

“Don’t need a railroad station,” Barney mumbled. “Got my own car.”

“No,” the medic said apologetically, “I mean the police station. The family is filing a complaint.”

Once again, Barney had to wake his brother in the middle of the night.

“Hey, Barn,” Warren groaned, his mind still caught in the cobwebs of sleep, “don’t tell me you’ve sold another book.”

“I’m afraid this time I’ve
been
booked.”

“What?”

“Please wake up and listen. The cops allow you only one phone call.”

“Cops! What’s the matter?”

“Well, I’m not sure. But I think the charge may be something like attempted murder.”

“Holy shit!” Warren gasped, now jolted fully awake.

As the surly policeman overseeing the call impatiently tapped his boots, Barney explained to his brother as quickly and coherently as possible what had happened.

Warren tried to remember the relevant material. Luckily, he had read about a similar case in one of the recent law journals.

“Now Barney, I know you’re tired. But I’m gonna ask you some very important questions and I want you to think carefully.”

The policeman’s boot-tapping became louder and louder. Barney gave him an imploring look and said with all the politeness he could muster, “It’s my lawyer, Sergeant. I think I’m allowed to speak to my lawyer for as long as I need to.”

The officer merely coughed as if to say that he would be the judge of how much time was genuinely necessary.

“Now,” Warren began his pretrial examination, “did you state clearly that you were a doctor?”

“I shouted it at the top of my lungs.”

“Did the patient either ask for or refuse treatment?”

“Warren,” Barney said, his exhaustion exceeded only by his exasperation, “the guy was nearly dead. If we hadn’t—”

“Please, Barn, just answer my questions. Was there anybody there from his family?”

“Yeah, yeah, I suppose so. What the hell are you driving at?”

“It’s something called the ‘Good Samaritan Law,’ ” his brother replied. “Since the fifties most of the states have passed some kind of legislation that allows doctors to intervene in emergencies without running the risk of being sued for malpractice.”

“Hey, look, it was a matter of life and death. There wasn’t time for me to show my diploma.”

“So, in fact, you’re saying you identified yourself, and neither the victim—who was medically and legally non compos—nor his family refused medical care?”

“That’s pretty close,” Barney said quietly.

“Okay, listen, Barn. I’ve got to make a few calls to find out what lawyers our firm uses in Connecticut. And then I’ll get up there as soon as possible to arrange for bond.”

“And what do I do in the meanwhile?” Barney asked with exasperation.

“I don’t know,” his brother answered, trying to calm him. “Read the paper, play cards with Bennett.”

“Ben’s not here,” Barney said with concern, “he’s in the Ridgetown hospital.”

“Well, phone him and tell him not to worry. I’ll take care of this as quickly as I can.”

“Can
you
speak to Ben?” Barney pleaded. “I get only one call and you were it.”

“You mean in Canada, too?” Barney was holding the telephone in his less-bandaged hand.

“Yeah, Barn,” Laura answered, “one of the wire services must have picked up the story. The papers here made a big deal out of it. There was even an editorial.”

“For or against?”

“C’mon, don’t be so paranoid. Of course it was favorable. They used you guys as an example of the need for a nationwide ‘Good Samaritan’ law. You did the right thing. It was wonderful.”

“The guy’s family didn’t seem to think so.”

“But they dropped the charges, didn’t they?”

“Yeah. They sure cooled down fast—although I’m still waiting for my box of candy or a thank-you note.”

Laura fell silent.

“Hey, Castellano, are you okay?”

“I was just thinking,” she replied, a strange sadness in her voice. “This was probably the most important thing you’ve done since you became a doctor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m gonna find out if that bastard Dr. Freeman is still practicing in Brooklyn and I’m gonna send him all the clippings. Maybe it’ll remind him that he’s got your father’s blood on his hands.”

Barney thought for a moment. She’s right. Perhaps the adrenaline that came to me so swiftly in the restaurant had been dammed up since my childhood, waiting for the moment I could show the doctor who refused to treat my father what he
should have
done.

Even as Laura and Barney were exchanging thoughts, an infuriated Herschel was standing by his son’s bed in Yale–New Haven Hospital (to which he had insisted Bennett be transferred by ambulance, despite the local orthopedist’s vehement objection).

Seated patiently on the other side of the room were two middle-aged men, one in a three-piece suit, the other in a lumber jacket. Neither looked like a doctor.

Bennett was lying on his back, head and chest heavily bandaged, with plaster casts on so much of his body that he seemed like a latter-day mummy.

An hour later Barney arrived, himself swathed in gauze and walking with difficulty.

“How is he?” he asked Herschel.

“Let’s put it this way,” Bennett’s father answered, “those troopers did a thorough job. If there was any bone they could possibly break, they broke it.”

Just then Bennett stirred and returned to the world of the conscious.

“How do you feel, Ben?” Herschel asked anxiously.

“Hi, Dad,” he answered, still half comatose. “I don’t feel anything yet. What happened?”

“To change the old chestnut, Landsmann,” Barney said, “the operation was successful—but the doctor died!”

“We saved his life?” Bennett asked, his mouth dry from lack of fluids.

Barney moved to pour some water. “Of course. From now
on you can do your operations with a steak knife—maybe graduate into forks and spoons.”

Bennett smiled. “Ow, don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“Sorry, Ben,” said Barney, bringing the cup to his friend’s lips, “I was just ribbing you.”

Bennett groaned again. “Dad, please get this crazy man out of here.” He rested for a moment, took a few breaths, and asked, “Who cut me up?”

“The best, my boy,” said Herschel, “the head of your department.”

“I’m at Yale?”

“Yeah,” Barney replied. “Our original idea was to get you to operate on yourself at your own hospital, but your boss said you were too junior.”

Bennett’s ribs again twinged with laughter. “Who sent you, Livingston, the Ku Klux Klan? Get serious. Read me the O.R. notes.”

“Be patient, Ben. I think they’ll be in several volumes, but the radiologist’s promised to bring all your pictures over when you were awake.”

“I
am
awake,” Bennett said slowly. “Get me those pictures so I can assess the damage.”

“I’ve already checked it out,” Barney answered in a calming voice. “They broke the radius and ulna in both arms. You’ve cracked a femur and they scored at least four goals with your head. Let’s just say they made a jigsaw puzzle out of your bones.”

Bennett could sense that his friend had omitted something. “Come on,” he ordered, “if that’s all it was, you wouldn’t have that hangdog look, Barney. What else did they get?”

Barney hesitated and then said as casually as possible, “There was a fracture dislocation of the cervical spine. Your boss is gonna do a ‘reduction’ as soon as you’re well enough to take some more gas, and then you’ll be as good as new.”

“Don’t jive me, Livingston. That puts me out of action for at least twelve weeks.”

“Don’t worry, Bennett,” Herschel interposed. “It won’t affect your appointment in Texas. And meanwhile, if you’re up to it, I’d like you to discuss some things with these two gentlemen.”

At this point the sartorially ill-matched pair came forward and introduced themselves. They were attorneys of such eminence that Bennett immediately recognized their names. One was
the renowned champion of civil rights, Mark Sylbert, “defender of the underdog.” The other was regarded as the most persuasive courtroom speaker in the land.

“We can’t sit here and watch this country abandon its basic principles,” Sylbert argued. “This is a clear-cut example of what our society’s come to, and I’d like you to let me fight it, Dr. Landsmann.”

“Dad, I think it’s wrong,” Bennett said, wincing as he spoke.

“No, son, the most wonderful thing about America is that a man can get real justice—”

“—that’s if he can afford expensive lawyers, Dad.”

“Excuse me, Ben,” said Herschel, his indignation rising, “you’ve got at least a dozen broken bones, and damage to your spine as a reward for doing something noble.”