Remedies

by Kate Ledger

  Someone in the waiting room emitted a high-pitched note, not quite a scream, but a sound pried wide with vowels of fear. He knew the officer’s gun was drawn. There was an airy lightness to the moment. A breath. Then he heard the door of the waiting room swinging wide and the sound of several people entering at once. The chaos of the next moments was excruciating. The police moved in, all in puffy bullet-proof jackets, like life vests. Four of them, six of them, ten officers. Simon glimpsed through the window the black and white cars on the street, their red and blue lights whirling. At first he thought he was looking at Baltimore City po lice, but after a moment he realized the yellow letters on the back of one officer’s vest read “DEA.” The patients in the waiting room were herded out the door to the side of the house. Lorne Williams, who’d had his prostate removed and who was bent over a walker, was shuffled outside along with them, an officer gripping him by the elbow.

  “What’s going on?” Simon said. “Don’t touch him,” he barked at the man holding Lorne Williams. “He’s got nothing to do with anything.”

  “Are you Dr. Bear?” an officer asked, which seemed idiotic since he was the only person around in a white coat.

  “Is this because of the article?” Simon asked loudly. “It’s not a controlled substance. Call Boeker,” he insisted. “Call Boeker. They’ll tell you what it is.”

  Simon’s first lucid thought was of Jamie: utter gratitude that she was supine in a bed far away in the hospital in Bethesda and not asleep upstairs. His second thought was that he wasn’t going to be able to make it to the hospital to sit with her, and he’d be letting her—and Emily—down. He had the sense that he was supposed to defend his staff, first, and then the patients, like the patriarch of a clan, but he thought of Jamie and felt a surprising distance from what was happening around him. “Hey,” was all he managed to say, as an agent rounded the corner and stepped into the hallway, parting the air in front of him with the nose of his gun.

  “Quiet,” the officer barked.

  He still believed they would shortly announce they’d made a mistake. Sorry, wrong house, like a comedy routine. But the announcement didn’t come. They had a search warrant that they handed to him. He glanced at it, noticing nothing but the address of his house at the top of the page. “Against the wall,” the agent directed with his gun, and the other officers stepped past them and began to move into the exam rooms, ripping open the cabinets, flinging contents in all directions.

  Simon felt the rush of fear and actually thought of the mechanics of his sympathetic nervous system, the sweat beginning at his scalp, under his arms. He took a breath, his heart pounding. The patient May Anderson came down the hallway; he recognized her by her purple hairline, except she was dressed differently than she had been less than an hour earlier. She was wearing a DEA vest and a holster with a weapon. “Hey,” he greeted her, as if she might explain and clarify, as if they were passing on the street. Avoiding eye contact, she angled her shoulder away from him and edged down the hallway.

  “Oookay,” he said, in the unruffled, aloof way Bev would have said it, which seemed the only way to handle the moment. He turned and put his hands against the cranberry wall, a semigloss paint Emily had chosen several years earlier, with the explanation that it was dignified, serene and not at all ordinary for a doctor’s office. It struck him as still a good color.

  Despite everything that was happening around him, he continued to presume the warrant was because of the sulmenamine infusion therapy. Somebody, probably a Drug Enforcement bureaucrat, had read the article in the Sun and misunderstood the legality of the therapy. The charge against him would be a patent infringement—or, at worst, a medical investigation regarding the use of an outmoded pharmaceutical. Or maybe, he thought, the odd guy, the one he’d refused to treat, had called the cops to settle the score. The DEA probably believed that a seemingly miraculous new pain medication would be narcotic-based. No such thing as bad press, he reminded himself as the search continued, and he began to imagine how he’d parlay the experience of being arrested into an opportunity to get the word out about sulmenamine. He remained convinced everything would get straightened out, and he maintained his assurance that this was just another step in a long adventure. What came to him, in the din of it all, was the refrain of “Alice’s Restaurant,” You can get anything you want, and the mania of Officer Obie with his marked-up photographs as evidence, just because of a pile of garbage.

  “Never been in the back of a po-lice car,” he remarked rakishly to the cop who’d been assigned to keep an eye on him. The guy ignored him. The search of the office took place under brutal hands. Simon was temporarily held, his body quickly searched, but then the agent let him go as they ransacked the office. Simon paced, first nervously like a zoo tiger, then obligingly looking for keys and trying to explain the layout of the office, but the agents moved with speed, never quite looking at him as they directed him to open closets and unlock drawers.

  “This?” Simon protested. “This?” Then he unlocked. “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he warned them. “When you realize your mistake, you’ll realize.”

  The brusqueness of their motions, the sweeping of an entire drawer of sterile syringes into a cardboard box, didn’t reveal a shred of sensitivity that these rooms were healing spaces. This was where people found relief from misery, where the afflictions that threatened their lives were made less dire and sometimes even resolved. The agents ransacked cabinets, as if Simon harbored secrets that could take down a country, and their intent to protect a very innocent society was served by their seriousness and their intrusiveness. They insisted he unlock drawers in his desk. Simon’s thoughts returned to Jamie, revisiting the relief that she wasn’t home and the panic that he would not be available to leave Baltimore any time soon. His stomach dropped because his shift at the hospital was supposed to start when work ended, and he wanted to be at Jamie’s bedside. He asked the man who seemed to be the lead agent, “How long do you think all of this is going to take?”

  “Depends on how helpful you can be,” came the steely response.

  Rita, who along with the other staff members had spoken with the officers outside, stepped up to him. “Call Tory,” she said quietly. “Right now. Don’t say anything to these guys. Don’t help them, don’t clarify anything for them. Things you say can backfire later.”

  By the time Tory Beauregard arrived, the office was in disarray. The dark-haired attorney was tall and lean, a careful, distinguished dresser. Simon had encountered him once having his shoes polished at the shoe shine stand in the train station. He was neither old nor young and never married, and it was unclear whether his solitude suited him or saddened him, or whether he was simply a rather private person. He gave the impression of being concerned about nothing but work. He had a pensive stoop and a habit of focusing his gaze in the distance when he was thinking, but when he spoke he was bitingly direct, and that much was helpful.

  “It’s not looking good,” he said.

  “I didn’t see this coming,” Simon admitted. He had seated himself in the waiting room on the edge of the pond. The four koi lined up like battleships, but were otherwise still, as if they were watching.

  “You know what it was?” Tory said. He’d already spoken to the U.S. Attorney’s office. “Some nurse turned you in. Called the State Medical Board. McKinley? You know who that is? Said she used to work here. Didn’t think you were prescribing within legal bounds.”

  Simon nodded dully, vaguely relieved. It seemed about right, considering the state Julie had been in when she left the office. He was glad that the rest of the staff—his long-standing employees and companions, whom he’d also diagnosed and treated over the years—had stood by him.

  “They’re going to review your records,” Tory cautioned.

  “Can they do that?”

  “Or they can press charges now and work out the details later.”

  “I document everything,” Simon attested. “Even the patients have
copies. Just something that I do.”

  Tory rubbed the side of his face as if he were checking the state of his shave. “That’ll serve you well,” he said thoughtfully. “Anyway, you’ll get an inventory of everything they take.” He glanced off toward the window. Then he added, “There was a death, did you know that?”

  Simon looked at him without speaking. The color green from the cemetery came back to him again. A haunting, glittering green, like plastic turf.

  “A guy named Dane MacAllister?” Tory prompted.

  But Simon shrugged. “I know the name,” he said without emotion. “He was a patient. Months and months ago. I have nothing to do with his death.”

  “But you treated him?”

  Simon had a sinking feeling. “A while ago. I’m not even sure what for, not off the top of my head. I haven’t seen him since. Maybe even a year. What’d he die of?”

  “Autopsy results said narcotics. He had a prescription of yours for methadone. The U.S. Attorney would probably love to pin the death on you. And add to that this Julie McKinley who says you’ve been pushing painkillers like they were Tic Tacs.”

  Simon sifted through his recollections of patients. He’d probably seen MacAllister a total of three times and remembered him mostly for his theatrical face, high cheekbones, teeth like a wind-wrestled picket fence. He remembered prescribing painkillers for him, but nothing remarkable. “He’d had X-rays done. I prescribed meds for him, methadone probably, and I knew how much he was supposed to be taking. I didn’t overdose him.” He remembered the maroon-headed agent. “They set me up this morning. An agent came in pretending to be a patient. She complained about her back.”

  “Whadja do?”

  “What do you mean, what did I do? I gave her a prescription for Dilaudid.” Tory rubbed the side of his face again, appearing to think. Simon took the gesture as a sign that Tory didn’t understand. He felt he had to explain himself. “That’s what she wanted. It’s not my place to talk patients out of pain medication. I can’t see their pain, so I have to believe what they tell me. People shouldn’t be forced to suffer. I don’t believe they should be told to keep a stiff upper lip, or tough it out. Life is hard enough, and long-term pain doesn’t do any good for the person who’s experiencing it. Ask any doctor, any good doctor, any doctor telling the truth, and they’ll admit that opioids work best. They’re the gold standard for pain relief. And if the DEA wasn’t breathing down everybody’s neck, more doctors would prescribe them, and patients would get better care.”

  From under his groomed brows, Tory’s gaze had focused off in a far corner of the room. “Well,” he began slowly. “We’ll have to prove that this MacAllister was an addict and that you didn’t know—or even suspect. That you prescribed an appropriate amount for whatever his complaint was.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Simon said simply. “I probably prescribed what he asked for.”

  “C’mon, Simon,” Tory groaned. “Work with me, would you? It doesn’t help your case for you to have some vendetta against the whole system.”

  Simon raked his fingers through his hair, realizing how disheveled he must look. “I’m just being honest. I do what’s right for my patients.”

  Tory jabbed at the air between them with a single finger. “You’re going to have to wise up, or you’re going to see everything you’ve worked for, your whole career, destroyed. This is a murder charge. It’s September, you realize.”

  “So?”

  “Jesus, two months before elections? Time for the governor to let everyone know he’s serious about getting drugs off the streets. He’s going to want action.”

  Simon paced again. His voice was loud and high-pitched. “It’s a witch hunt. It’s because I’m out on my own in private practice. I’m the one who’s going to burn at the stake.”

  “Did you think—I mean, you must have considered at some point there were risks for prescribing narcotics.”

  “I’m a good doctor,” Simon stated.

  “Know what the guys at the U.S. Attorney’s office said? Doctors who overprescribe painkillers are one of the four D’s. Either they’re dated—they don’t know what good treatments exist, or they’re duped—they let addicts con them. They’re disabled themselves—they’re users who’re suffering from their own addiction; or they’re making a profit, and they’re just plain dishonest. So which are you, and how are we going to convince everyone otherwise?”

  Simon cracked a smile. “I just want to do what’s right for my patients, and it’s my policy to let them guide their care. I was just at a conference. I’ve seen a lot of the latest treatments and some are good, but nothing’s a cure-all. I don’t judge everybody who comes into my office, so maybe I get duped sometimes, but I also don’t wind up turning away a guy who’s got legitimate need. I don’t do drugs, you can ask anybody. And I don’t sell. I’m not profit-driven like that. I didn’t even want to pursue money for the sulmenamine therapy I’ve been offering—”

  “What’s that?”

  Simon’s eyes flashed. “Didn’t I tell you?” he said, animated. “I discovered a new treatment, still in its early stages, very promising, and I’m still testing it. It was in the Sun, though the article didn’t mention I’ve already seen at least two patients cured, maybe three. It’s nonnarcotic, in case you’re worried about that. Nonaddictive. It’s a legitimate drug.” He paused. “What?”

  Tory was looking off again to the far end of the room. Simon could see how, from the outside, the circumstances all seemed to slant in one direction. He looked like a vigilante, like someone who couldn’t be bothered to follow rules. But he’d been careful, and everything he’d done was within the law. “I can understand this might not appear to add up right,” he acknowledged. “The new thing’s only happened very recently. I had to pursue it.” When Tory didn’t say anything, he added, “I’m not a criminal.”

  “You better hope the treatment that you’re testing—this sulmenamine or whatever you call it—doesn’t have any ill effects. You could be looking at a lawsuit. Or two.”

  Tory left then to check in with the U.S. Attorney and see if there was any new information about MacAllister that might be helpful. He reminded Simon they were still waiting to hear if an arrest would be issued, and he promised to be back in half an hour. When Tory stepped out, Simon dialed Emily’s cell. His fingers shook, but he resolved not to let on what had happened.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked the instant he heard Emily’s voice.

  “Better, I think. They said they want a surgical consult to see if the sore needs debriding.” She sighed. “I could use a break. So?” Her voice sounded flat. When they were first married, he’d been able to cajole her out of a dark mood, lift her spirits with a joke or a story or a plan for something wild and inventive that they could do together. How far they’d veered from that. A lump rose in his throat.

  “I can’t get there for a while,” he said.

  She was silent.

  “Emily?”

  Exasperated. “Now what?”

  “It’s out of my hands. I’ll explain to you later.” His voice grew hoarse, but he thought if he told her, he might break down. “But I can’t get away.” A pair of agents stood at the reception desk holding the enormous cartons he’d ordered with vials of sulmenamine. He held up one finger, wait, and called out to them, “There’s no reason for that to go.”

  “Are you downstairs?” his wife was asking. When he didn’t answer, she said, “I read the article in the paper.”

  “It wasn’t exactly what I expected,” he admitted.

  “They never are,” she said dryly.

  “But no such thing as bad press, right? Right?” Wasn’t that what she’d always insisted? He called across the room to the agents. He didn’t want to have to describe to Emily what was going on in the office, but the agents were taking his only supply of the Boeker drug. “Excuse me, there’s no reason to take those,” he yelped. “They have nothing to do with this. Wait. Excuse me.”<
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  “Simon,” she interrupted.

  “I can’t believe this,” he groaned.

  She was pressing him. “I need to know when you’ll be here.”

  He wanted to explain, but he couldn’t. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it until late. Tell Jamie to hang in there.”

  Emily grew silent again. The agents headed out to the fleet of police cars. Tell her or don’t tell her, he couldn’t decide. He wanted her to know, but he couldn’t handle a reaction from her, an analysis of his business mistakes.

  “It’s not easy being here,” Emily said finally, in a voice that suggested she was changing the topic. He felt his heart quicken. “She’s demanding.”

  “She’s thirteen.” Two agents began to load patient charts into a cardboard box. He watched them note the segment of the alphabet in black marker on the side of the carton.

  “We haven’t been good parents. We’ve been shitty, shitty parents. You know, she told me about camp finally.”

  “Camp?”

  “The whole thing with the knife. She said she was borrowing it, and she had no intention of doing anything with it, no plan at least, but that whittling thing wasn’t—it wasn’t true. She says she might have decided to—to hurt herself. If she’d stayed. She was thinking about it.”

  “What?” He felt his breath squeeze away.

  “Like, hurting herself. Like—” She paused, as though she was having trouble saying the words. “Cutting herself. Did you know people do that?”

  “Is that what she said?” he asked nervously. Once he’d seen a TV show in which a contortionist had folded his body into a two-foot-by-two-foot box and submerged himself underwater. The man was a reasonable height, maybe five-nine, and he’d consciously had to slow his breathing and his heart rate in order to survive in the container. He watched the agents outside moving with officious strides, consulting clipboards and calling into walkie-talkies. He imagined Jamie in the hospital bed, her lips parched. It seemed a long time later that he felt himself exhale again.