doctor.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanna talk to him before Pharma-K’s lawyers do.”
We were back at the hospital by nine thirty. The hospital sat on the University of Utah campus. I knew Joel’s doctor would be in because I had looked him up online. He was a professor of nephrology at the university medical school. His office hours were from ten to noon.
We waited outside his office in the school. The vibe of students running around with their books and the idealistic, hopeful expressions on their faces took me right back. Law school had been like that. Only a few students had approached it in a cutthroat manner. Professors assigned cases out of books in the library, and by the time I’d get there, the pages had been ripped out. But for the most part, there was excitement, and a sense of brotherhood hung in the air. We’d been promised six-figure salaries and a ticket to change the world upon graduation.
The reality was that six-figure salaries existed only for a few. And in exchange, those few worked eighty hours a week for the most miserable lawyers in the country: civil litigators at massive firms.
I always knew I’d make it. I had a vision: the law wasn’t a noble profession; it was just a business, no different from any other. No advertisement was too tacky when Marty, Raimi, and I were starting out; no method of getting clients was too lowbrow. One of our most successful ads was a television commercial that featured a beautiful model stripping off her top to reveal the lingerie underneath. Then she said, “I’m waiting for you, but I won’t wait forever.” And we hit them with the divorce pitch. We ran another ad that showed a good-looking man in a Porsche saying essentially the same thing. The response from horny men and unhappy housewives who had been married too long was overwhelming.
The Bar opened an investigation into complaints that we were actually causing divorces, but the Bar was nothing. It had no real teeth. As long as we didn’t steal from our clients and we showed up to all the hearings, a slap on the wrist was all the Bar could hand out. Don’t steal, don’t lie too much, show up to court—those were the only ethics a lawyer needed.
A man with gray hair and a soft expression approached the office. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Corwin?” I rose and shook his hand. “Noah Byron. I was wondering if we could talk about Joel Whiting for a minute, Doc.”
He looked from me to Olivia and back. “Are you relatives?”
“No,” I said with a shy grin, “his lawyer.”
As I expected it to, his expression changed. Doctors possessed a built-in animosity toward attorneys. Their insurance companies had convinced them that they were paying fifty thousand dollars a year in medical malpractice insurance because of us, though that wasn’t true at all. In Utah, anyone bringing a medical malpractice suit had to first clear a medical panel made up of doctors. If those doctors didn’t approve, the potential plaintiff couldn’t sue. Doctors looked out for their own, and only truly egregious cases made it through: drunk doctors slipping up during a surgery; a blatantly wrong diagnosis that left the patient dead or disabled. That freed droves of quacks to recommend unnecessary procedures on people, knowing they would never be sued. Still, the insurance companies had pulled a magic trick and convinced doctors it was somehow our fault they were getting milked by their providers.
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss his case. You’ll have to talk with the office of legal counsel.” He turned to leave.
“Doc, I’m just trying to help his mother understand what’s going on. She thinks he’s going to pass away, and no one’s doing anything to help him. I’m just here for her. No malpractice suit, I promise.”
He tapped his fingers against his thigh a few times. “Fine. Come in.”
His office was neat and sparse. I sat across from him, and Olivia sat next to me. When we were seated, Dr.
“Why?”
“Because I wanna talk to him before Pharma-K’s lawyers do.”
We were back at the hospital by nine thirty. The hospital sat on the University of Utah campus. I knew Joel’s doctor would be in because I had looked him up online. He was a professor of nephrology at the university medical school. His office hours were from ten to noon.
We waited outside his office in the school. The vibe of students running around with their books and the idealistic, hopeful expressions on their faces took me right back. Law school had been like that. Only a few students had approached it in a cutthroat manner. Professors assigned cases out of books in the library, and by the time I’d get there, the pages had been ripped out. But for the most part, there was excitement, and a sense of brotherhood hung in the air. We’d been promised six-figure salaries and a ticket to change the world upon graduation.
The reality was that six-figure salaries existed only for a few. And in exchange, those few worked eighty hours a week for the most miserable lawyers in the country: civil litigators at massive firms.
I always knew I’d make it. I had a vision: the law wasn’t a noble profession; it was just a business, no different from any other. No advertisement was too tacky when Marty, Raimi, and I were starting out; no method of getting clients was too lowbrow. One of our most successful ads was a television commercial that featured a beautiful model stripping off her top to reveal the lingerie underneath. Then she said, “I’m waiting for you, but I won’t wait forever.” And we hit them with the divorce pitch. We ran another ad that showed a good-looking man in a Porsche saying essentially the same thing. The response from horny men and unhappy housewives who had been married too long was overwhelming.
The Bar opened an investigation into complaints that we were actually causing divorces, but the Bar was nothing. It had no real teeth. As long as we didn’t steal from our clients and we showed up to all the hearings, a slap on the wrist was all the Bar could hand out. Don’t steal, don’t lie too much, show up to court—those were the only ethics a lawyer needed.
A man with gray hair and a soft expression approached the office. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Corwin?” I rose and shook his hand. “Noah Byron. I was wondering if we could talk about Joel Whiting for a minute, Doc.”
He looked from me to Olivia and back. “Are you relatives?”
“No,” I said with a shy grin, “his lawyer.”
As I expected it to, his expression changed. Doctors possessed a built-in animosity toward attorneys. Their insurance companies had convinced them that they were paying fifty thousand dollars a year in medical malpractice insurance because of us, though that wasn’t true at all. In Utah, anyone bringing a medical malpractice suit had to first clear a medical panel made up of doctors. If those doctors didn’t approve, the potential plaintiff couldn’t sue. Doctors looked out for their own, and only truly egregious cases made it through: drunk doctors slipping up during a surgery; a blatantly wrong diagnosis that left the patient dead or disabled. That freed droves of quacks to recommend unnecessary procedures on people, knowing they would never be sued. Still, the insurance companies had pulled a magic trick and convinced doctors it was somehow our fault they were getting milked by their providers.
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss his case. You’ll have to talk with the office of legal counsel.” He turned to leave.
“Doc, I’m just trying to help his mother understand what’s going on. She thinks he’s going to pass away, and no one’s doing anything to help him. I’m just here for her. No malpractice suit, I promise.”
He tapped his fingers against his thigh a few times. “Fine. Come in.”
His office was neat and sparse. I sat across from him, and Olivia sat next to me. When we were seated, Dr.
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