gets another doc who calls in a different prescription, insinuating that last night’s doc doesn’t know what in the hell he’s doing.”
“Tubal pregnancy,” Will said, anxious to speak with Tom Lemm, the Society president.
Runyon looked crestfallen at having the tag line of his tale preempted.
“Exactly,” he said, speaking to those nearby, as Will had headed off. “She bled out on the way to an ER—as in
died
. Can you believe it?”
Will spotted Lemm, a family practitioner in his fifties, on the far side of the hall. By the time he reached the man, he had been regaled by a surgeon, whose name he didn’t know, with the story of a woman whose HMO told her to wait awhile to have her thyroid biopsy repeated because the evidence of cancer from the first set of seven painful needle biopsies was inconclusive. Three months later, her husband was transferred to another state and assigned coverage with a different HMO. When the woman’s cancer suddenly began rapidly growing, the new HMO refused to pay for treatment, claiming it was a preexisting condition.
“Hey, Will,” Lemm called out as he approached, “this may be our largest gathering yet.”
He motioned to the crowd, and Will noticed as he followed the gesture that his partner, Susan Hollister, had just entered and was casting about for a seat.
Thanks for showing up, Suze. I owe you one.
“I’ve got a couple of cases, Tom. Do you think they’re appropriate given this latest murder?”
“Are they funny?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you mean funny, ha ha, or funny, all of a sudden I can’t see out of my right eye.”
“Which are these?”
“A little of both.”
“Well, you’re on the agenda. There’s more tension than usual from what’s going on, but I don’t see any reason to withhold an anecdote or two. Tonight it’ll be right after we finish discussing the status of the class-action suit. After your report, we’ll decide what we’re going to do about the big debate against Boyd Halliday next week.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke to him an hour ago. He says it would send the wrong message to the public and the killer if he called off the debate.”
The debate, billed as a forum, had been organized by the Wellness Project, a respected independent consumer health-care coalition, and was scheduled for venerable Faneuil Hall in downtown Boston. Halliday, the powerful and dynamic CEO of Excelsius Health, was to be matched up against Jeremy Purcell, a world-renowned surgeon, Harvard professor, philosopher, and former president of the Hippocrates Society. Thanks in large measure to Will’s efforts, publicity for the forum, which was titled
Managed Care: Boon or Boondoggle,
had been extensive, and a sellout was anticipated. Of course, the managed-care murders had only heightened interest in the event.
“How does Jeremy feel about it?” Will asked.
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” Lemm said. “Jeremy’s had a fairly large coronary. He had emergency bypass surgery at White Memorial.”
“And?”
“He’s reasonably stable now, but he won’t be ready for next week. We have to decide what we’re going to do.”
“Halliday’s a force,” Will said, in what he knew was something of an understatement.
“He is that. Listen, I’ve got to get this show on the road. Don’t worry about your stories. If people want to laugh they’ll laugh. I think one of the big reasons we’re getting more members at every meeting is you and your stories.”
“I don’t make them up, I just read them.”
“That’s the point. They’re real.”
“Okay, I’ll do my best.”
“Will, you’re doing great things for this organization, and don’t think we don’t appreciate it.”
“Well, garsh, thanks, Mickey,” Will said in his highly tuned Goofy imitation—the only one in his repertoire.
Lemm, a lean six-footer, shambled up to the podium and silenced the crowd with a few taps on the
“Tubal pregnancy,” Will said, anxious to speak with Tom Lemm, the Society president.
Runyon looked crestfallen at having the tag line of his tale preempted.
“Exactly,” he said, speaking to those nearby, as Will had headed off. “She bled out on the way to an ER—as in
died
. Can you believe it?”
Will spotted Lemm, a family practitioner in his fifties, on the far side of the hall. By the time he reached the man, he had been regaled by a surgeon, whose name he didn’t know, with the story of a woman whose HMO told her to wait awhile to have her thyroid biopsy repeated because the evidence of cancer from the first set of seven painful needle biopsies was inconclusive. Three months later, her husband was transferred to another state and assigned coverage with a different HMO. When the woman’s cancer suddenly began rapidly growing, the new HMO refused to pay for treatment, claiming it was a preexisting condition.
“Hey, Will,” Lemm called out as he approached, “this may be our largest gathering yet.”
He motioned to the crowd, and Will noticed as he followed the gesture that his partner, Susan Hollister, had just entered and was casting about for a seat.
Thanks for showing up, Suze. I owe you one.
“I’ve got a couple of cases, Tom. Do you think they’re appropriate given this latest murder?”
“Are they funny?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you mean funny, ha ha, or funny, all of a sudden I can’t see out of my right eye.”
“Which are these?”
“A little of both.”
“Well, you’re on the agenda. There’s more tension than usual from what’s going on, but I don’t see any reason to withhold an anecdote or two. Tonight it’ll be right after we finish discussing the status of the class-action suit. After your report, we’ll decide what we’re going to do about the big debate against Boyd Halliday next week.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke to him an hour ago. He says it would send the wrong message to the public and the killer if he called off the debate.”
The debate, billed as a forum, had been organized by the Wellness Project, a respected independent consumer health-care coalition, and was scheduled for venerable Faneuil Hall in downtown Boston. Halliday, the powerful and dynamic CEO of Excelsius Health, was to be matched up against Jeremy Purcell, a world-renowned surgeon, Harvard professor, philosopher, and former president of the Hippocrates Society. Thanks in large measure to Will’s efforts, publicity for the forum, which was titled
Managed Care: Boon or Boondoggle,
had been extensive, and a sellout was anticipated. Of course, the managed-care murders had only heightened interest in the event.
“How does Jeremy feel about it?” Will asked.
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard,” Lemm said. “Jeremy’s had a fairly large coronary. He had emergency bypass surgery at White Memorial.”
“And?”
“He’s reasonably stable now, but he won’t be ready for next week. We have to decide what we’re going to do.”
“Halliday’s a force,” Will said, in what he knew was something of an understatement.
“He is that. Listen, I’ve got to get this show on the road. Don’t worry about your stories. If people want to laugh they’ll laugh. I think one of the big reasons we’re getting more members at every meeting is you and your stories.”
“I don’t make them up, I just read them.”
“That’s the point. They’re real.”
“Okay, I’ll do my best.”
“Will, you’re doing great things for this organization, and don’t think we don’t appreciate it.”
“Well, garsh, thanks, Mickey,” Will said in his highly tuned Goofy imitation—the only one in his repertoire.
Lemm, a lean six-footer, shambled up to the podium and silenced the crowd with a few taps on the
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