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 answer
ed, ‘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 nation-wide “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.’
‘That’s right,’ Sylbert interrupted. ‘They just saw the color of your skin and took for granted you were in the wrong. That, to my mind, is the most virulent form of racism. This is a chance to call them to account.’
‘The story’s in the press already,’ said the other advocate.
‘Well, then,’ Bennett commented, ‘I’d say the point is made.’ He looked at Herschel and inquired, ‘How much would it cost to take a suit like this to court?’
‘Ben, money is no object here. I’ll pay as much as necessary.’
‘Okay,’ Bennett replied, the strain of talking making him more uncomfortable than ever. ‘Don’t waste the dough on scoring legal Brownie points. Send whatever it would cost to the Southern Christian Leadership – in memory of Dr King.’
39
To prepare himself for his unprecedented exploration into the physician’s mind, Barney composed a questionnaire, which he sent out to all his friends and Med School classmates. Clearly, they would have witnessed behind-the-scenes dramas inaccessible to him. Naturally, he promised total anonymity. The respondents were even given the option of omitting their own names.
Lance Mortimer was one of the first to reply and did so at some length, prefacing his contribution with a personal letter.
Dear Barn,
I think you’re on to a brilliant idea (I kick myself for not having thought of it first). As a matter of fact, I’ve seen so many unbelievable things that I started keeping a diary about two years ago, and I will go through it carefully and send you the juiciest bits. (I can’t just xerox the entire thing – I don’t tell even my shrink about my sexual exploits.)
I enclose my record of an incident that occurred in the early morning of June 6th 1970. Obviously, I have disguised the names – not to protect the innocent, but to save my own neck.
Now, obviously, you know these incidents took place in Los Angeles, but I have invented a private hospital called St David’s at Newport Beach. And I’d be grateful if you kept my little fiction. You could blow the whole profession sky-high – if they don’t destroy you first.
Regards,
Lance
P.S. Your Champions book was reviewed in the Los Angeles Times by Vera Mihalic a couple of years ago. I didn’t think it was something you would want to see, so I didn’t send it along. br />
As Barney first began to peruse Lance’s initial contribution, he smiled at the Hollywoodisms. But by the time he had finished, he felt deeply unsettled. Obviously, he had opened up Pandora’s box.
After reading the report for the third time, he felt the need to share his anxiety with someone. And since Dr Baumann would hardly be amenable to a midnight call from a former analysand, there was no alternative.
‘Hi, Castellano. Did I wake you?’
‘Not really, I’ve given up sleep for Lent. What’s up?’
And then he read the document aloud.
No one will ever forget the masterful Oscar-winning performance of Luke Jamison (not his real name) in Stanley Walters’ (not his real name) production of (let’s call it) Starless Night. Nor will the performance of June Sommerville (not her real name) – in real life Mrs Jamison – as the deaf-mute girl ever fade from memory.
It was thus that to an obbligato of excitement the hospital received the news that June was on her way in a private ambulance with a suspected ruptured appendix.
Surgeon Steve Ross (not his real name) woke me from an exhausted sleep in the on-call room and told me to be ready for the procedure stat. I barely had time to run a razor over my face and comb my hair, before dashing to the O.R.
For those who have never seen June Sommerville in real life, let me tell you that her beauty was not the result of makeup or trick photography. She was gorgeous.
As we were rushing her in, I couldn’t help but notice that our hospital director himself had appeared, to invite her husband Luke to wait with him in the comfort of his own office.
After injecting Miss Sommerville with sodium pentothal to relax her, then quickly inserting a tube into her trachea and pumping the ambu bag to inflate her lungs, I began to induce her into ‘comfortable sleep’ with the usual mixture of Halothane and oxygen. I asked her to name her ten favorite film roles. She had barely gotten to Ben Hur when she was in the second stage of anesthesia, a Nirvana-like dreamland. I signalled to Dr Ross that the patient was ‘under.’
He then asked for his trusty scalpel and made a flawless incision in her ivory-white abdomen. In a matter of minutes – Ross is a superb craftman – the offending appendix was removed and paracentesis (the draining of the infected fluid) of the abdominal cavity had begun.