First Do No Harm (Benjamin Davis Book Series, Book 1) Read online

  FIRST DO NO HARM

  A BENJAMIN DAVIS NOVEL

  A. TURK

  Copyright © 2013 by Alan Turk

  ISBN: 978-0-9892663-0-7

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  First Do No Harm is the first novel in the Benjamin Davis Series by author A. Turk. The story is a work of fiction, based upon and inspired by actual cases prepared and tried by Alan Turk, a prominent Nashville attorney. For the purposes of dramatic effect and to protect those involved in the underlying cases, the names of the parties have been changed, as have certain incidents, characters, and timelines. Certain characters may be composites, while others are entirely fictitious.

  Cover design by Dan Swanson and book design by Elaine Lanmon. Cover photographs by Steve Lefkovitz.

  Special Edition

  To Lisa,

  I love you with all my heart;

  you are my partner in life.

  I am not I; thou art not he or she;

  they are not they.

  —Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited Author’s Note

  Contents

  Chapter One Message Sent Wednesday, September 22, 1993

  Chapter Two Wrongful Death Sunday, February 2, 1992 (About Nineteen Months Earlier)

  Chapter Three Valentine’s Day Friday, February 14, 1992

  Chapter Four The Hook Friday, March 6, 1992

  Chapter Five Confrontation Wednesday, April 8, 1992

  Chapter Six A New Conspiracy Friday, MAY 15, 1992

  Chapter Seven The Library Monday, June 22, 1992

  Chapter Eight The Fishing Hole Sunday, August 23, 1992

  Chapter Nine A Sister’s Help Friday, September 11, 1992

  Chapter Ten Country Girl Wednesday, September 16, 1992

  Chapter Eleven Served Tuesday, October 20, 1992

  Chapter Twelve A New Client Thursday, October 29, 1992

  Chapter Thirteen Opportunity Knocks Friday, October 30, 1992

  Chapter Fourteen Flip of A Coin Thursday, November 12, 1992

  Chapter Fifteen The Leak Had To Be Plugged Tuesday, December 22, 1992

  Chapter Sixteen Attempted Division of Labor Friday, January 29, 1993

  Chapter Seventeen Proving A False Affidavit Thursday, March 11, 1993

  Chapter Eighteen The Disciplinary Hearing Monday, March 15, 1993

  Chapter Nineteen The Quiet Room Friday, June 4, 1993

  Chapter Twenty A Reluctant Patient Friday, June 4, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-One The Wedding Saturday, September 18, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Two Message Received Wednesday, September 22, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Three The Secret Dies on Broadway Friday, September 24, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Four Face-Off Monday, September 27, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Five Calling All Surgeons Thursday, September 30, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Six The Goddess Athena Saturday, October 2, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Thanksgiving Thursday, November 25, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Eight I’ll Call The Pope Thursday, December 9, 1993

  Chapter Twenty-Nine Withdrawal of Defense Monday, December 13, 1993

  Chapter Thirty A Rude Awakening Monday, December 13, 1993

  Chapter Thirty-One Complicated Offers Wednesday, December 15, 1993

  Chapter Thirty-Two Necessary Settlement Monday, December 20, 1993

  Chapter Thirty-Three Mediation Saturday, January 8, 1994

  Chapter Thirty-Four Wildhorse Saturday, January 8, 1994

  Chapter Thirty-Five Medical Licensing Board Monday, January 31, 1994

  Chapter Thirty-Six Partnership Friday, February 11, 1994

  Chapter Thirty-Seven A Long-Awaited Deposition Monday, February 14, 1994

  Chapter Thirty-Eight Jury Selection Monday, August 8, 1994

  Chapter Thirty-Nine Preliminary Jury Instructions Tuesday, August 9, 1994

  Chapter Forty Plaintiff’S Opening Statement Tuesday, August 9, 1994

  Chapter Forty-One Defendants’ Opening Statements Tuesday, August 9, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Two Planned Contempt Wednesday, August 10, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Three The Buffoon Wednesday, August 10, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Four Adverse Witness Thursday, August 11, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Five Subsequent Treating Physician Friday, August 12, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Six Expert Testimony Monday, August 15, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Seven Medicine is An Art, Not A Science Tuesday, August 16, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Eight The Hospital’s Liability Wednesday, August 17, 1994

  Chapter Forty-Nine The Children Are Heard Thursday, August 18, 1994

  Chapter Fifty The Defense Steps Up Friday, August 19, 1994

  Chapter Fifty-One Stabbed In The Back Friday, August 19, 1994

  Chapter Fifty-Two Closing Arguments Saturday, August 20, 1994

  Chapter Fifty-Three The Court’s Final Instructions Saturday, August 20, 1994

  Chapter Fifty-Four The Verdict Saturday–Monday, August 20–22, 1994

  Chapter Fifty-Five The Judge Takes Control Tuesday, August 23, 1994

  Chapter Fifty-Six A Little Glimmer of Justice Monday, November 14, 1994

  Epilogue Friday, July 16, 2010 (More Than 15 Years Later)

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  MESSAGE SENT

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1993

  Benjamin Davis, like Nashville’s historic Printer’s Alley, was feeling and looking beaten down. At only thirty-eight, he was much younger than the Alley, a landmark for almost two hundred years. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, it formed the respectable center of the Christian publishing world, producing Bibles, pamphlets, and the classics. But during Prohibition, a dozen speakeasies sprang up, offering bathtub gin and illegal gambling.

  Today the Alley houses the city’s sleaziest clubs, where stripper poles have replaced the printing presses. Yet the same turquoise iron archway marks its entrance, and tourists still snap photos of loved ones standing under it. The mouth of the Alley is adjacent to the rear of old Steine’s Department Store and the law office of Benjamin Abraham Davis Esquire.

  The brick building housing his office was the only respectable edifice left on the Alley. The sign etched in stone above his entrance read “Steine’s Department Store: Employees’ Entrance Only.” Most buildings bore neon signs of naked women, poker hands, or whisky bottles.

  The building was empty at 6:00 a.m., and Davis relished the solitude. His daily morning routine afforded him a solid two hours of uninterrupted work. With neither the phones nor his staff to distract him, he could complete his daily dictation, thus freeing the rest of his day for meetings with clients, answering telephone calls, and going to court.

  His office occupied the entire eighth floor, which had previously been the shoe department. Oak-framed, calf-high mirrors ran along the bottoms of the corridor walls, and as he glanced down, he noted that his black loafers could use a shine.

  Just as he entered his office, the phone rang. When he picked up, he heard heavy breathing and then a click. He was glad it was a wrong number. He needed his morning cup of coffee before having to deal with anyone.

  Davis placed his new calfskin briefcase on his secretary Bella’s desk. Running his hand over the ultra-soft leather, he admired his gold-embossed initials, B
AD. The briefcase was a recent gift from his brother for serving as his best man. It was beautiful, but even better it contained a check for $50,000 payable to Benjamin Davis.

  On his way down the hall, he glanced in the mirror on the back of the kitchen door and frowned at his reflection. He’d gained twenty pounds in the last six months, and his potbelly was becoming more noticeable, despite his tailor’s best efforts. Davis shook his head in disgust and wondered what he was doing to himself. The job was stressful, and he coped by eating.

  Coffee cup in hand, he sat down at his desk covered with several piles of files. He had to get back to the Plainview cases. He glanced at a draft response in the Rosie Malone case and made notes in the margin. Rosie Malone died unnecessarily at Plainview Community Hospital.

  A firm knock at the door startled him. The knocking got louder and more persistent as he walked toward the door. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” Annoyed by his visitor’s impatience and the interruption of his morning’s privacy, Davis was prepared to give the visitor a piece of his mind. But he didn’t have the chance.

  As he opened the door, the butt of a shotgun struck him square in the nose. He heard his nose break, and he felt blood spew from his nostrils. The blow staggered him, and it was all he could do to remain upright.

  “What the fuck?” Davis yelled as he tasted blood.

  Two men dressed in blue overalls burst in, and Davis knew he would never forget their faces. They looked like a modern-day Laurel and Hardy. Davis couldn’t see but sensed the presence of a third man.

  The thinner assailant didn’t waste time. He smacked Davis across the face with the stock of his gun. The hammers of the shotgun caught flesh, cutting Davis’s lips. The flow of blood increased to a spurting gusher. This blow knocked Davis off his feet, and he fell backward over an end table, shattering the new Waterford lamp his parents had given him for his birthday.

  For a big man Hardy moved quickly, straddled Davis, and placed two-inch black electrical tape across Davis’s mouth. Having his mouth taped and his nose broken made breathing difficult, and Davis slipped to the edge of consciousness. His sandy hair was a bit long for the 1990s, a throwback to the 1970s, and for good measure Hardy grabbed Davis’s hair and banged his head on the floor.

  Davis’s thoughts drifted to the television westerns of his childhood. John Wayne and Clint Eastwood knew how to take a punch. They would have fought back. Davis knew he wasn’t the Duke or even Dirty Harry.

  He lay on the carpet as Hardy began to kick him. Like a possum, Davis curled into a fetal position, praying for some respite. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the third man leaning against Bella’s desk, watching. He couldn’t focus on the uninvolved observer because both Laurel and Hardy were now kicking him with their steel-toed boots, cracking his ribs. Then the fat Hardy thug used his heel to stomp on and dislocate Davis’s left shoulder.

  The thugs began to laugh, taking joy in the pain they were inflicting. Their laughs were the first sounds the bastards made. Davis was entirely at their mercy, and he was well aware that if they wanted him dead, he could do nothing to stop them. The thought of being completely helpless made Davis dizzy and nauseous at the same time. His mind drifted to his beautiful wife and his two adorable children. He desperately wanted to see them again.

  Laurel and Hardy then turned to Bella’s desk, grabbed papers, and scattered them around the room. Hardy picked up the calfskin briefcase and used it to strike Davis in the head. On the third blow, the brass lock cut Davis’s cheek. As Hardy lifted the case to take another swing, Davis could see his own blood staining his new gift.

  I’m no victim of a robbery, thought Davis.

  The clang of Bella’s file cabinet drawers opening and closing told him that they weren’t searching for anything. Davis then understood the reason for this attack. These bastards were sending him a message: get out of Plainview. Could I have avoided this if I had not met Dr. Laura Patel?

  Davis concentrated on staying alert. He heard something hit the floor next to him. It was his favorite family photo. His wife, Liza, and his two children, eight-year-old Caroline and five-year-old Jake, dressed in ski clothing were smiling up at him. Davis’s twelve-year marriage was a solid one, and his wife had gotten used to his long hours and absences from the family—which of course didn’t mean that she was happy for him to be gone so much.

  The third man strode over and ground his heel onto the picture. As Davis heard the glass and picture frame shatter, he started to cry.

  “Life’s a very fragile thing,” the third man muttered.

  The third man bent down, lifting the briefcase. Davis noticed a T-rex dinosaur tattoo with fiery yellow eyes on the man’s right forearm. T-rex brought the briefcase down hard, and Davis descended into darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WRONGFUL DEATH

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 1992

  (ABOUT NINETEEN MONTHS EARLIER)

  On a raw February night, Dr. Laura Patel paused at the water fountain just outside the entrance to the critical care unit and took a long drink. She rubbed her eyes. It was almost midnight, and she was sixteen hours into a twenty-four-hour shift. Tomorrow was about to begin.

  She missed her family and Saint Francis Hospital, where she did her residency in Saint Paul, Minnesota. She regretted moving to Tennessee and hated the administration of her new employer, Plainview Community Hospital.

  Although Saint Francis was a Catholic institution, run by Sisters, Laura, who was a Hindu, had not felt alienated by the staff or the clergy. But here at Plainview Community Hospital she was an outcast. Her dark brown skin set her apart from Plainview’s southern white medical staff, and her education and professional training only emphasized her differences.

  Her specialty was in osteopathic medicine, while all the other physicians on staff were medical doctors. Her degree lent itself to conflict with medical doctors. Historically, there had always been a divide between DOs and MDs because the MDs felt superior. The American Medical Association for many years ran a very successful negative ad campaign against DOs targeting both the general public and its MD membership. In the United States the DOs image was tarnished and denigrated.

  The ignorance of her colleagues didn’t upset her, though. Laura thought the controversy made her strive to be a more holistic and better physician.

  Laura started making her rounds in the critical care unit. No one was at the nurses’ station. It was unheard of for the nurse and two techs to be away from their post at the same time. According to hospital policy, at least one medical professional was supposed to monitor patients at all times, with the only exception being a Code Blue.

  She continued down the corridor, wondering where they’d gone. As she walked, she asked herself again why she had ever come to Plainview. She’d first been attracted to Tennessee by the hospital’s generous compensation package. The hospital’s two-year employment contract guaranteed a minimum salary of $5,000 a month and allowed her to generate additional income by developing her own private practice. The hospital also agreed to pay her office rent for the first two years. The medical staff of the hospital, after the bankruptcy, left town in disgrace, and Woody Douglas, the hospital’s administrator, was on a mission to replenish the staff through attractive offers of employment.

  Plainview not only offered a slower pace, allowing her to focus on her instantaneous family, but it was also close to Nashville, where Maggie, Laura’s life partner, grew up. Maggie’s family supported their same-sex relationship and loved the little girls. Laura and Maggie recently adopted two Chinese orphans, Kim and Lee. I’m so glad that Maggie’s parents and sisters embrace our family, Laura thought. Our daughters need to be surrounded by loved ones.

  Laura’s immigrant father was less understanding, and her American mother was embarrassed. Neither the Indian nor Hindu cultures tolerated homosexuality. Her father had come to this country during India’s nonviolent, yet bloody, revolution for independence. Laura’s father and his brother worked for the
ir uncle, who managed a hotel in Minneapolis. Eventually, the brothers owned a Howard Johnson’s franchise in West Fargo, North Dakota.

  Growing up, Laura had been a source of great pride to her parents. She excelled academically and displayed a strong work ethic. However, her deeply religious family did not understand Laura’s chosen lifestyle. Her parents had met Maggie only once, at Laura’s graduation from A. T. Still University, the oldest DO program in the country. Her parents had not yet met her children, which saddened but didn’t surprise her. Maybe if I keep sending pictures of the girls, they’ll ask to see them in person.

  A faint cry from down the hall broke into her thoughts: “Help, please help me.”

  Again, moments later, she heard moans for help and determined that the sounds were coming from room 303. She grabbed the chart off the desk at the nurses’ station and walked to the ailing patient’s room. The patient, an elderly woman, was obviously in pain.

  Laura quickly read the admission notes in the chart:

  Rosemary “Rosie” Malone, age 67, admitted January 29th at 9:00 a.m. Diagnosis: multiple gallstones and severe abdominal pain. Admitting physician: Dr. Lars Herman; Surgeon: Dr. Charles English.

  The next page had the patient’s physician orders. Gentamicin was a pretty powerful antibiotic, and it was being given in large doses. Dr. Herman must have suspected a severe infection. As she continued reading, her suspicions were confirmed. On February 1st at 9:00 a.m., Rosie Malone’s temperature was 102.4. By 2:30 p.m. that day her temp had risen to 103.8.

  Mrs. Malone’s last recorded temp, at 9:30 that evening, had been 104.2. Clearly, the gentamicin wasn’t working. During the January 31st procedure, the surgeon, Dr. English, had to have nicked the bowel. A third-year resident would have reached the same conclusion. Within a day after the surgery, Mrs. Malone had developed an infection that was currently traveling through her bloodstream. The patient was slowly but surely dying from septicemia as the infection was shutting down vital organs.