“Here’s our plan for the prosecution. We need the family’s buy-in. First, put on your loved one’s treating physician. He will testify that the decision hadn’t been made to remove heroic measures. Meaning life support. I’ve talked to him at length. He’s prepared to testify that he has seen patients come back, regain consciousness, who were unconscious as long as Ms. Turkenov.”
“Damn!” exclaimed Roy. “That bastard did kill her!”
“Well, the downside is, according to your mother’s neurologist, the fact there was no brain stem activity. In many medical circles that meant she was brain dead and that means legally dead. So there’s that.”
“But do all doctors believe that to be the case?” asked Anastasia. “In my studies, I see huge disagreements all the time on medical theories and procedures. Medicine is known for that.”
Constance clasped his hands together as if washing them. “That I don’t know. I’m sure the defendant will have a very attractive doctor who disagrees with our doctor. That’s why we have trials.”
“Can Dr. Sewell be a witness too?” Roy asked.
“He can and probably will, at least on the issue of legal death. He’s a dangerous witness, too, because of his top-notch medical education and postgrad training. You can’t attend a finer medical school than Harvard. So, there’s that.”
“What do you see our role as?” asked Jack, whose wife immediately made eye contact with him. Jack looked away, refusing to meet her gaze. They had talked about this already and it was her opinion that Jack shouldn’t be introduced into the case or made known to the jury in any way. She wanted it that way because she felt her husband was always overreaching and always about me me me. She had told him so just that morning.
“That’s something I want to talk about, Mr. Millerton. So I’m glad you brought it up.”
“See?” said Jack’s look back at his wife. “Thank you. I’m trying.”
“Since your loved one was admitted to the hospital, it’s my understanding Jack and Roy have been in charge of her estate? Her money?”
“Yes,” said the uncle and son-in-law in unison.
“And have her funds been properly accounted for? No expenditures made that could be questioned?”
“Absolutely,” said Millerton. “All above-board.”
“Well, you did pay yourselves out of my mother’s estate,” said Anastasia. “Don’t forget to tell Lieutenant Constance about that.”
At just that moment, Albert Turkenov was shown into the room by the receptionist Constance shared with the District Attorney. Nadia’s son looked distressed, which he was, having driven twenty above the speed limit across town to make the meeting.
“Sorry,” he said, catching his breath as he took a seat on the couch. “Just closed a sale.”
“I’m Constance,” said the investigator. “You must be Albert?”
“I am. I’m one of the conservators of my mother’s estate.”
“We were just talking about that. Are you, Albert, aware of any expenditures made by the estate that weren’t on the up and up since you’ve been a co-conservator?”
“Nothing. We’re squeaky clean.”
“What about what you geniuses paid yourselves?” Anastasia retorted to her brother. She was still angry about their having paid money to themselves for looking after her mother’s funds.
“Whoa, what’s this about?” Constance asked. His gray eyes had widened and he looked in alarm at the three men. “You paid her money to yourselves? Well, there must have been a court order allowing it, so it’ll pass muster.”
“No court order,” Anastasia exclaimed. “That’s what I’m so pissed off about. They just took my mother’s money and haven’t even told the judge about it.”
Now Constance stood and paced east to west behind his desk.
“Let me get this straight. You three gentlemen paid yourselves money out of Nadia Turkenov’s funds? How much was paid?”
“I got five thousand,” said Uncle Roy.
“I got five thousand,” said Albert. “But I earned it.”
“I received an equal amount,” said Jack. But Anastasia leaned and bumped hard into him with her shoulder.
“Tell the whole truth,” she hissed at her husband.
“Well, there’s been quite a bit of professional expenditure of time on my behalf. I’m a certified public accountant, you know.”
“Never mind that. How much did you get?”
“Almost twenty-five hundred.”
“Plus the five thousand?”
“Plus the five thousand.”
Constance’s pace increased behind his desk. He opened his mouth and bit his fist, an old habit he was trying to break. He repeated. It was better than shouting in frustration.
“You’ve taken over seventeen thousand dollars for overseeing a million bucks in CD’s? Are you serious? What the hell could CD’s require?”
“Well, I had to prepare an accounting,” said Millerton, puffing his chest out. “Plus there was an entire weekend of paperwork, reviewing bank statements, going over a year’s worth of expenditures.”
“She’d only been unconscious for two weeks!” exclaimed Anastasia. “I told you it was stupid to go over the past year’s expenditures. But oh, no, you had to make a big deal out of it like you were looking for money she shouldn’t have spent. It was her money, goddammit!” she cried. “You just robbed her, Jack Millerton, and I’m seeing a lawyer and divorcing you!”
“Honey,” said Millerton. “Let’s save this for later. Let’s go for coffee, cool down, and talk it through. I’ll go over my time sheet with—”
“You and your time sheets can go straight to hell. I want my mother’s money replaced by all of you or I’m calling the judge myself.”
Constance ceased his pacing and pointed at Millerton. “You know, sir, this borders on theft. In fact, maybe it is outright theft. Any idiot knows you can’t take money from a ward of the court without a court order. I’m going to have to take this to the D.A. At this point, I have to advise you not to discuss it further with me. It’s not in your best interests to keep talking.”
“You’re telling us we’re in trouble?” said Uncle Roy. He, for one, was ready to return to his store and the fifth of Wild Turkey he kept in the supply cabinet. It was past noon so it was allowed.
“I’m saying this is technically theft, what you’re telling me. You have the right to remain silent, and you should. You have the right to an attorney, and you should see one right away.”
Constance then continued with the balance of the Miranda statement.
The four family members managed to escape his office before he had concluded.
It was time to lawyer-up, said Albert in the hallway.
No one disagreed.
40
Getting past XFBI was simple. The Peak Home Health ID and his own picture ID—a brand new Arizona driver’s license obtained just for the ruse—waltzed him right through the front door. He was shown all around by the on-duty aide and his duties explained.
He was introduced to Katy Murfee, who saw him through a haze of heavy narcotics but struggled nevertheless to make him feel welcome. The house and laundry, bathroom, and supply facilities were explained and presented so that he would feel comfortable and competent when he appeared for his first shift. Luchesi shadowed the on-duty aide over the final two hours of her shift, as planned, and he became comfortable with the job. He had never actually done any form of health care in his life, but he also didn’t plan to be around all that long. It almost made him laugh out loud like he was in some kind of horror movie as he was taken through the house and saw the children and the parents: he had a fleeting moment with each one where he saw them riddled with bullet holes and bleeding. No, he wouldn’t be around all that long. But neither would they. Not even the little boy with his trucks and trains. He just might be the first to go.
XFBI had searched his nursing bag. But they said very little about the medications he was bringing in.
Nursing staff that showed up with re-supply was common enough; the drugs that Luchesi brought along were passed through without comment.
At the end of her shift, the on-duty aide re-introduced Luchesi to Katy, who this time understood she had a new helper.
“Katy, this is Diego. He’ll be taking the next shift.”
Katy smiled wanly. “Good to make your acquaintance. Welcome to my little house of horrors, she said, indicating all the medical gear and hospital bed and carts and cabinet stuffed with supplies and medications.
“Good to meet you,” said Diego. “Thank you for allowing me to help.”
Katy scootched up in bed with her arms. “So. Where did you train?”
“East Valley Community College. North L.A. County.”
“I might have heard of that. And maybe I haven’t. My mind is a bit foggy, as you’ll see.”
“That’s all right. I’ll try to keep you from having to think so much.”
“That sounds good. Seriously, most of the time I get along pretty good on my own. Except for the stuff I have no control over.”
“You’re talking toilet.”
“Exactly. That needs help.”
Luchesi looked down and didn’t meet her eyes. Katy caught this lack of eye contact and pursed her lips. What was that all about? she wondered. The topic was a sensitive one to any bed-ridden patient. Home health aides were trained to be very accommodating in that regard. But he had looked away. Well, she frowned.
But then she quickly forgot about it.
“Are you a one-nighter or will you have midnights for awhile?”
“I’m perm. I’m going to school in the daytime.”
“What classes are you taking?”
“Oh…” his voice trailed off. Then, “something to do with nursing. I want to get my degree.”
“Are you going for your BSN?”
“I don’t think so. I’m going for my nursing degree.”
Katy looked at the first aide, who was busily packing her bag to leave. The aide shrugged. Some people…her look said. There was no explaining. But still, he didn’t know what the BSN degree was? Katy had referred to the bachelor of science in nursing, the standard bachelor’s degree in nursing, and the man said he wasn’t going for the BSN, that he was going for the nursing degree? What? She sat back, just a little ruffled, but she quickly attributed her feelings to the drugs they were giving her. She was paranoid, she told herself. Let it go.
Katy smiled. “Yes, the nursing degree is a great one to have.”
“I hear you’re a doctor?”
“I am.”
“What kind of doctor?”
“What board certification? Family practice.”
“Oh. Then you know more about my job than I do, I’ll bet.”
Katy nodded and said, “Maybe I do. I might at that.”
The 4pm-12am aide finished her packing and came to Katy’s bedside. She leaned down and pecked Katy on the forehead with her lips. “Have a good night.”
“I will. Diego and I are going to get to know one another.”
“We are,” said Diego. “And I’m going to ask all kinds of questions about being a doctor. I might even go for that someday.”
“Sure,” said Katy. “We can talk all you like.”
“By the way, Diego. We’ve got a pretty good bedsore on the coccyx. Take precautions.”
“Will do,” said Luchesi, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what that meant. But he nodded graciously and assured the departing aide that he would do whatever was necessary.
Katy waited to see just what those precautions would consist of.
It would be interesting.
41
Physicians’ Mountain Mutual Insurance decided to deny coverage to Dr. Sewell. They sent a certified letter both to Dr. Sewell and to Thaddeus. In it, they said that they had originally begun the civil case for medical malpractice with a reservation of rights, meaning they wouldn’t confirm insurance coverage for Dr. Sewell until they were sure that what had happened was a factual situation that was covered by the insurance policy. Now they had completed their investigation and decided against coverage. They were very sorry, but their hands were tied by the terms of the contract.
Thaddeus was angry and decided they wouldn’t just walk away like that. He made some calls and flew to L.A. and met with the claims manager in Irvine.
Stanis Vonocur was a man who smiled and whistled through his days as the claims manager at PMMI, but who, inside, was in turmoil as he blocked payment of claims at every turn. His job was to avoid paying out the insurance company’s money and he had gotten very good at it over the years. He sat on the insurance company’s mountain of money like it was his own. Screwing policyholders right and left, he continued to smile and whistle. He grudgingly agreed to meet with Thaddeus when the lawyer had called to complain about the coverage denial.
They met for lunch at Felix’s, where the Cuban food was all the rave.
Sure enough, as self-described, Thaddeus found the balding, smiling man in the lounge, waiting for a table. He looked up as Thaddeus approached. Introductions were made and the men settled around the small table. Thaddeus ordered a coffee and Vonocur requested another scotch.
“So,” said Thaddeus, “you’ve denied coverage to my client and I want to find out, for the record, just what your thinking is.”
The smiling man licked a smear off scotch from his thumb. “Sorry. Uh, we just don’t feel that writing a book and appearing on a TV show establishes a physician-patient relationship that would be covered by a medical malpractice policy, Mr. Murfee. The whole notion is really stretching it and we’ve tried to be forthright about that from the gate. If the woman wasn’t a patient, there isn’t any coverage for what happened to her. Especially where it was her own wrongful act. But that’s just an aside.”
“You have a point, and I’m the first to admit it from my side of the street. But there’s a rising theory of liability for doctors who give medical advice on TV. All the doctor shows have contributed to this, as people have tried to follow Dr. Oz and Dr. Phil and apply some of their methods. Lawsuits have been filed against the TV medics and settlements have been made. There is a growing consensus among plaintiffs’ lawyers that this is a very legitimate and very ripe area of the law. You’re just going to see more of it, Mr. Vonocur. My suggestion is that you become a leader and honor the trend.”
“Of course, you would suggest that. You’re looking for a deep pocket for your client in case the civil suit goes ass over teakettle on you. Speaking of, what about the homicide charges? Thank God we’re not in on that. Isn’t that case pretty open and closed?”
“Some might think so. It gets into a very technical area of medicine.”
“I’m all ears. Enlighten me.”
Thaddeus’ coffee arrived, with the claims manager’s scotch. They both sipped.
“Well, there can be no murder without a living human being whose life is terminated by an illegal act. We’re arguing there was no living human, that she was already deceased when Dr. Sewell withdrew the life support.”
The claims manager smacked his lips. “Surely no judge is going to go for that. Are they?”
“Unknown. We’re trying.”
“What’s the medical definition of death nowadays?”
“In this case, it’s the cessation of brain stem activity that qualifies the patient’s status as medically dead.”
“Is that the same as legally dead?”
“The law will take its lead from medicine. Always a question of fact.”
“Sounds like an uphill battle, to me.”
“It sure is, and there’s no denying that. But we’re always prepared for battle around my office. Even in cases like this, bad faith insurance cases where the carrier is denying coverage. I came here to tell you that I’m prepared to file a bad faith action against your insurance company on Monday if you don’t reverse your decision. Not only that, but there will be no settlement ever. I will take
you to trial, I will hit you for millions of dollars, and I’ll drag your name through the mud with every newspaper and TV station that will listen to me. Plus I’ll let the American Medical Association know that your company should decline your advertising in any of its journals to its membership. In short, you screw with my client and I will screw with you. Now, where were we?”
Vonocur grappled with the open collar of his shirt. He pulled it open wider and tried to appear relaxed, but clearly he was in panic mode.
Said Vonocur, “We’re learning more from you about the underlying claim. You’ve raised some factual issues that we weren’t aware of. It seems to me,” he said, licking his thumb free of scotch, “you should allow me a week to discuss with my superiors. As I sit here I am more inclined to agree with your position, given the nationwide trending you’ve observed. I would like our in-house counsel to review those kinds of cases and try to give us a trend line. If it’s as you say, that more and more of these cases are being filed, then PMMI should be among the first to rally and carry the fight. We should be among the frontrunners to declare coverage where our physician is sued for something he or she said on TV.”
“That’s what I call ‘sweetly reasonable,’,” said Thaddeus. He checked his watch.
“In a hurry?”
“My plane leaves at three. Any later and the runways are packed with late afternoon departures.”
“What airline?”
“Thaddeus Murfee Airways. I have my own jet.”
“Of course, you would.”
Thaddeus leaned forward on the table, tipping it slightly so that Mr. Vanocur’s scotch sloshed.
“Let me remind you. I’m speaking off the record now. You change your decision or I will trash you. With every dime I have I will outspend you and drag you into court and there I will trash you. Call me no later than Monday noon with good news. At twelve-oh-one p.m. I am going to file my lawsuit against you. Your job is to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Got it. Well, then, Mr. Murfee—”
The Near Death Experience (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 10) Page 19