not controlled, by the hospital. Laura knew she was in for the fight of her life.
Am I ready for this?
CHAPTER SIX
A NEW CONSPIRACY
FRIDAY, MAY 15, 1992
Friday was usually Dr. Herman’s slowest day at the office but not today. He had made a small fortune by seeing more than forty patients. It was almost 7:00 p.m. but still light out when he left his office. He had to make rounds with sixteen of his patients admitted to the hospital. Although it was his duty, he made each patient feel special.
He drove his black Mercedes to the hospital and parked in his reserved space. He removed his Ray Ban sunglasses and flipped the visor down. Taped to the bottom of the visor was a photo of his mother, Margot. He touched his fingers to his lips and then placed them on the photo. This was part of his daily ritual before making his hospital rounds. Dr. Margot Herman was his inspiration, and he knew his mother would be proud that her only son chose to follow in her footsteps.
As he entered the hospital, he decided he needed a cup of black coffee to help him through his rounds. Coffee was his drink of choice, he never drank alcohol, and he was critical of those who overindulged. It was suppertime, and the cafeteria was two-thirds full. Most patrons were concerned family members biding their time, as their loved ones lay upstairs. He walked over toseveral tables and casually chatted with his patients’ spouses and siblings.
Dan Cooke stopped eating his potpie and rose to shake Dr. Herman’s hand. “Bobby seems to be doing much better. Thanks, Doc.”
His son had fallen off a merry-go-round and fractured his collarbone. All Herman did was consult an orthopedic surgeon, but he was the contact to the family and was happy to take the credit.
Another woman bear-hugged him, almost spilling his coffee. This scene was not unusual. What Herman lacked in skill, he more than made up for in bedside manner. His patients and their families loved and respected him as their family doctor.
On his way to the elevator, he walked past the open door of the doctors’ lounge. Herman spied Charlie English sitting alone with his head in his hands and mumbling to himself. Herman couldn’t quite make it out, but at the end of the diatribe, he understood, “When hell freezes over.”
Seeing Herman walk in, English jumped to his feet. A wild, glazed expression was on his face. After a moment, his confusion changed to a stupid grin, and he sat back down. “Hey there, Lars.”
Herman looked him up and down, noting his unshaved face and wrinkled clothes. “Are you all right?”
English laughed oddly. “You caught me by surprise. That’s all.”
Herman had given English a prescription for Klonopin to help him cope with the stress of his divorce and legal problems, but the man’s red blotchy skin suggested he might be overusing or self-prescribing.
English was in his late forties. Slightly older than Herman, he once sported a full head of ginger hair, but now the top of his head was bald. In the last few years, he had developed a paunch around his midsection. A robust Herman encouraged English to exercise to manage his stress. Herman even invited English on his 5:00 a.m. jogs, but English refused. Herman, as his treating physician, would have preferred exercise to medication, but English was a difficult patient, in part because he was a fellow physician. He treated English as a courtesy. Herman reluctantly prescribed sleeping pills and Valium to help English cope with the pressures of his life.
Herman approached his friend cautiously. “What’s the matter, Charlie?”
English looked up from his hands. His eyes were red from crying. He cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “Women, Lars, fucking women. They’re driving me crazy. I’m paying alimony to one ex-wife, Charlotte, and child support for my two children and alimony to the other one, Susan. The children and Susan live in Hewes City. They’re bleeding me dry. The lawyers’ fees are killing
Am I ready for this?
CHAPTER SIX
A NEW CONSPIRACY
FRIDAY, MAY 15, 1992
Friday was usually Dr. Herman’s slowest day at the office but not today. He had made a small fortune by seeing more than forty patients. It was almost 7:00 p.m. but still light out when he left his office. He had to make rounds with sixteen of his patients admitted to the hospital. Although it was his duty, he made each patient feel special.
He drove his black Mercedes to the hospital and parked in his reserved space. He removed his Ray Ban sunglasses and flipped the visor down. Taped to the bottom of the visor was a photo of his mother, Margot. He touched his fingers to his lips and then placed them on the photo. This was part of his daily ritual before making his hospital rounds. Dr. Margot Herman was his inspiration, and he knew his mother would be proud that her only son chose to follow in her footsteps.
As he entered the hospital, he decided he needed a cup of black coffee to help him through his rounds. Coffee was his drink of choice, he never drank alcohol, and he was critical of those who overindulged. It was suppertime, and the cafeteria was two-thirds full. Most patrons were concerned family members biding their time, as their loved ones lay upstairs. He walked over toseveral tables and casually chatted with his patients’ spouses and siblings.
Dan Cooke stopped eating his potpie and rose to shake Dr. Herman’s hand. “Bobby seems to be doing much better. Thanks, Doc.”
His son had fallen off a merry-go-round and fractured his collarbone. All Herman did was consult an orthopedic surgeon, but he was the contact to the family and was happy to take the credit.
Another woman bear-hugged him, almost spilling his coffee. This scene was not unusual. What Herman lacked in skill, he more than made up for in bedside manner. His patients and their families loved and respected him as their family doctor.
On his way to the elevator, he walked past the open door of the doctors’ lounge. Herman spied Charlie English sitting alone with his head in his hands and mumbling to himself. Herman couldn’t quite make it out, but at the end of the diatribe, he understood, “When hell freezes over.”
Seeing Herman walk in, English jumped to his feet. A wild, glazed expression was on his face. After a moment, his confusion changed to a stupid grin, and he sat back down. “Hey there, Lars.”
Herman looked him up and down, noting his unshaved face and wrinkled clothes. “Are you all right?”
English laughed oddly. “You caught me by surprise. That’s all.”
Herman had given English a prescription for Klonopin to help him cope with the stress of his divorce and legal problems, but the man’s red blotchy skin suggested he might be overusing or self-prescribing.
English was in his late forties. Slightly older than Herman, he once sported a full head of ginger hair, but now the top of his head was bald. In the last few years, he had developed a paunch around his midsection. A robust Herman encouraged English to exercise to manage his stress. Herman even invited English on his 5:00 a.m. jogs, but English refused. Herman, as his treating physician, would have preferred exercise to medication, but English was a difficult patient, in part because he was a fellow physician. He treated English as a courtesy. Herman reluctantly prescribed sleeping pills and Valium to help English cope with the pressures of his life.
Herman approached his friend cautiously. “What’s the matter, Charlie?”
English looked up from his hands. His eyes were red from crying. He cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “Women, Lars, fucking women. They’re driving me crazy. I’m paying alimony to one ex-wife, Charlotte, and child support for my two children and alimony to the other one, Susan. The children and Susan live in Hewes City. They’re bleeding me dry. The lawyers’ fees are killing
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