CHAPTER ONE

Hearing the bedroom door open, he closed his eyes and

pretended to be sleeping. The sound of her stiletto heels

against the hardwood floor sent a shockwave through his

entire body, and as she sauntered toward the vanity at the far

end of the room, he became wide-eyed and ready to watch

her undress.

She knew all along he was watching her, but she slowly

removed her clothing as though she was alone. As she

carefully dropped her evening gown to the floor, seductively

applied lipstick, and strategically dabbed perfume behind her

ears, on her forearms, and in her cleavage, he quickly became

aroused. He didn’t know what he loved most about the way

she prepared herself for him, but he was certain her act would

qualify for funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Following a final brush stroke through her long, brown

hair, she got up from the dressing table and slowly

approached his bed. She knew how he wanted her, and

naked, under a full-length mink coat, black nylon stockings,

and black patent leather high heels, was how she planned to

give herself to him. Without saying a word, she eased into

bed and quickly became one with her lover.

Although he wanted the moment to last forever, the taste

of her lips, the smell of her perfume, and the combined

sensations of mink, patent leather, and soft skin were

overwhelming. As he felt the height of his passion about to

progress for one final geometric instant before all would be

made commonplace by the force of rapture, she put her lips

close to his ear and softly sang:

"Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light…..”

Just then, he opened his eyes and realized his latest

dream girl was singing to him by way of a clock radio. Feeling

his heart pounding, he sat up and wiped the sweat off his face

with the object of his most recent affection - a large

down-filled pillow. Attributing the events of the preceding

moments to a slight overindulgence in bourbon and chronic

sexual deprivation, Dr. Robert Louis Cassidy slowly climbed

out of bed to begin a new day.

Days began early for the residents of Roaring Fork in

rural Northeastern Pennsylvania, and as misery loves

company, an early morning crisis was usually brought to the

immediate attention of Dr. Cassidy. Such being the case, it

was of little surprise to Roaring Fork's 34-year-old general

practitioner when the phone rang at 6:10 A.M., just as his

warm bottom was easing its way onto a cold toilet seat.

Wondering why the phone always seemed to ring at the

precise moment his backside made contact with the toilet,

Cassidy stifled the urge, ascribed the inevitable to the

beginning of a new week, and quickly made his way back to

his bedroom and the ringing phone.

"Hullo, Doctor Bob," the frail voice chirped. "This is

Sarry. Say, listen. I had some diarrheee this mornin’, and I

ain’t sure if I should take Pepta-Gizmo or Kayapectone."

Assuring the caller either Pepta-Gizmo or Kayapectone

would probably take care of her diarrheee, Dr. Cassidy

politely hung up the phone and headed back to the bathroom

for his second round with a pause that refreshes. Realizing

most scorecards would already have Sarry Adams two or

three rounds up on him in that regard, he entered the

bathroom only to realize the phone was ringing again.

Beginning to get the distinct impression January 5, 2015 was

going to be another one of those days, he returned to his

bedroom and the clamoring phone.

"Doctor Cassidy, this is Karen in the hospital emergency

room," the caller began. "Since you're on call in the E.R. from

7 A.M., I thought I'd give you a heads-up. I just received

a call from a truck driver who is at the rest stop on Interstate-

81. He told me he needs a physical done and some medical

forms filled out right away or he can't continue to drive truck.

He said he wants a doctor to meet him at the E.R. by 7

o'clock because he's already behind schedule with an

important shipment. What shall I do?"

Realizing a lesser man, who had already started the home

fires burning, savored his first cup of morning coffee, and

answered the call of the wild, would have told Karen just

what to do and how to do it, Dr. Cassidy calmly instructed

the emergency room nurse to inform the trucker a doctor

would come to the emergency room as soon as possible. Also

realizing his third attempt at getting the morning started

would only be a charm if he took matters into his own hands,

the perceptive physician took the phone off the hook and

once again headed in the direction of the bathroom.

Thinking he had solved his problem, Cassidy was startled

by the sudden high-pitched shrill of the front door bell.

Wondering who would be calling at 6:20 in the morning, he

quickly made his way to the front of the house.

As he walked through the huge Victorian house that

served as his home and medical office, he wondered who he

would find at the front door. He hadn't seen Ernie Luce in

over a month, and he wondered if the quarry worker was

stopping by on his way to work to make payment on his $400

bill. Ernie was known to stop by at odd hours and pay a

paltry installment on his longstanding bill whenever he

needed some free drug samples.

If it wasn't Ernie Luce leaning on the doorbell, Cassidy

wondered if it might be Wandy Sharples, who forecast the

weather by interpreting the sounds of the many wild animals

that inhabited Roaring Fork's expansive forests. Wandy’s

arthritis was due for a cold weather flare-up, and she had

been known to show up at inopportune times to have one of

her hips or knees injected. This treatment helped Wandy sit

through another week of television talk shows and soap

operas.

Realizing the door bell was still ringing and a true medical

or surgical emergency could be waiting on the other side of

the door, Cassidy began to walk faster. As he pulled up the

shade on the door, Cassidy peered through the ice-covered

window to see Deputy Sheriff Red DiNardo leaning on the

doorbell.

As Cassidy opened the door, DiNardo quickly moved

inside the house to escape the sub-zero temperature.

Promptly disposing of his customary comments about the

inclement weather, Cassidy's ailing father, and the impending

Super Bowl, the lanky redhead, who looked and acted more

like a used-car salesman than a deputy sheriff, stared at

Cassidy and smiled. Methodically opening his leather trench

coat and repositioning the .357 magnum on his hip, DiNardo

removed a subpoena from the inside pocket of his checkered

sport coat.

"Here’s another subpoena, Doc," DiNardo said, handing

the document to Cassidy. "Looks like you’re being sued for

malpractice again."

As a look of concern came to Cassidy's face, DiNardo

snickered.

"I thought I’d better call on you early today,” DiNardo

said. “I remember how you got all bent out of shape the time

I served you with a subpoena in front of your patients during

office hours."

Trying to ignore the sarcastic deputy, Cassidy fumbled

with the subpoena. As he opened it, Cassidy immediately

looked for the plaintiff's name.

"Jerry Jennings," Cassidy exclaimed. "I don't even know a

Jerry Jennings."

DiNardo paused, smiled, and rubbed his chin.

"Well, I expect you're going to know the man quite well

in the near future," he quipped.

As Cassidy continued to look with disbelief at the

plaintiff's name on the subpoena, DiNardo seemed to grow

impatient with the paucity of stimulating conversation.

"Say, Doc, how long you been practicing medicine up

here?" DiNardo asked.

"Two and a half years," Cassidy answered quietly.

"Well, let's see now.” DiNardo continued. “Three

malpractice suits in two and a half years comes out to one

point.....No, one point…..Well, just about one malpractice

suit a year. Ain’t that right, Doc?"

"Whatever you say, Red," the dejected physician answered

with a sigh.

"Doc, I hope I'm not being too personal," DiNardo said,

looking around the room and smirking. “But how did you

finally make out with those other malpractice suits?”

Cassidy realized DiNardo knew the outcomes of every

lawsuit in the history of Roaring Fork, but he also realized the

irritating deputy wouldn't go away before he got some kind of

answer.

"The insurance company settled the first suit out of

court, Red,” Cassidy replied unemotionally. “We could have

won the suit in court because it was totally frivolous, but the

patient was only looking for a few thousand dollars. So, the

insurance company decided to settle out of court to save the

legal expenses."

"Well, don't you doctors have any say in how these suits

get settled?" DiNardo asked.

"No, Red, we don't," Cassidy answered. "The insurance

companies always have the final say in these things. It costs

an insurance company about $15,000 just to prepare a

courtroom defense for any physician who has been sued for

malpractice. So, if the insurance company can settle a lawsuit

for $5,000, it settles out of court and feels good about the

$10,000 it saved rather than the $5,000 it spent. The

insurance companies don't care if the doctor is innocent or

not. They just pay the money and get it back by raising every

doctor’s malpractice insurance premiums the next year. It's a

game, Red - just a big game."

Seeming to derive some bizarre form of pleasure from

Cassidy's misfortune, DiNardo inquired about the physician's

second malpractice suit. Realizing DiNardo seemed to revel

in true confessions, Cassidy threw a cold stare in the deputy's

direction before continuing.

"I wasn't personally sued in the second case," Cassidy

stated emphatically. "A few of the other doctors at the

hospital were sued, and I was joined in the suit against them.

The case was a real disaster, and the lawyers who represented

the other doctors knew the patient's family was looking for

big bucks. The lawyers realized the patient would probably be

awarded a settlement in excess of the combined insurance

coverage of the other doctors who were involved in the case.

So, they decided to bring me into the case even though I

never really took care of the patient.”

“You were sued, even though you never took care of the

patient?” DiNardo asked incredulously.

“I was on call when the child was brought into the

emergency room.” Cassidy explained. “I examined the kid,

made the correct diagnosis, and immediately called Doctor

Fox, who was on the second floor of the hospital at the time.

Fox immediately admitted the kid to his service. From that

point on, I never saw the child again, but I was still joined in

the suit his family brought against the hospital and the other

doctors. The lawyers argued I was the first physician to see

the kid in the emergency room, as well as the physician who

referred him to Doctor Fox."

"So, how much did the phone call cost you?" the deputy

asked with a smug look on his face.

"One-million dollars," Cassidy answered in disgust. “One-

million dollars.”

Satisfied he had seen Cassidy squirm enough for the time

being, DiNardo started to wax philosophical.

“You know, Doc, you’re still a young man,” DiNardo

observed. “Why, I wouldn’t let this malpractice stuff get to

you. Shoot, I’ve been sued seven or eight times myself for

piddly crap like police brutality. No, sir, I wouldn’t let a little

thing like a malpractice suit get to you.”

Coming up for air, DiNardo studied Cassidy's still

uninspired face.

"Say, Doc, did I ever tell you about the time I served old

Doc Fox with a subpoena over to the hospital while he was

in surgery?” DiNardo asked.

Not giving Cassidy the chance to admit he had already

heard the garrulous deputy tell the same story three or four

different times, DiNardo continued to jabber.

"Yes, sir, I remember it like it was yesterday,” DiNardo

continued. “I drove over to the hospital to find Doc Fox.

When I inquired at the nurse's station where he was, I was

told by Suzie, you know, Suzie - the one with the big, uh,

yeah, well, I was told by Suzie that Doc Fox was back in the

operating room, just starting to take out Floyd Wilburn's gall

bladder. Well, I ain't got all day to wait on a gall bladder, and

I'm sworn to uphold the law. So, I pulled out my badge and

ordered Suzie to take me back to see Fox. Well, Suzie didn’t

know what to do, but she knew I meant business. So, before I

knew it, she started handing me all kinds of doctors' clothes

and special shoe covers. Then, she told me I had to scrub my

hands with that smelly Iodine stuff before I could go into the

operating room. Well, sir, I got all gussied up like a real

doctor, put on this surgical cap, mask, and special gown over

the green doctors' pajamas, and marched right into the

operating room. Inside the O.R., another nurse put a pair of

sterile gloves on me. In the meantime, Suzie took the

subpoena and put it into a special plastic pouch. She gave it

to another O.R. nurse who put the subpoena into a sterilizer.

A few minutes later, the nurse removed the subpoena from

the sterilizer and handed it to me. Walking right up to the

operating table, I handed the subpoena to old Doc Fox and

gave him the bad news he was being sued for malpractice.

Pretty slick, huh?"

"Yeah, Red, pretty slick," Cassidy replied sarcastically.

As DiNardo slowly broke out into a big smile, Cassidy

decided to turn the tables on the deputy.

"You know, Red, I've heard you tell that same story about

Doctor Fox on a number of different occasions,” the

perturbed physician said. “Somehow, I don't remember ever

hearing you tell anyone about how you took one look inside

Floyd Wilburn's abdomen and puked all over Floyd, Fox, and

the whole nursing staff."

Cassidy's unexpected reply took the smile off DiNardo's

face, and the embarrassed peace officer could only offer a

feeble excuse about eating some greasy food at the local

diner. So as not to back himself into another corner,

DiNardo quickly changed the subject.

"So, when are you going to find a nice girl and get

married, Doc?” DiNardo asked. “You've got the biggest

house in the whole town, and it's a shame to waste it just on

yourself. Why, people are starting to talk. In fact, some of the

boys up to the county jail…..”

Achieving the near-impossible by interrupting DiNardo

mid-sentence, Cassidy tightly clenched the subpoena in his

fist and ushered his early morning visitor out the door.

"Give my regards to your father down in Florida when

you talk to him, and make sure you get your reservations in

early for the Super Bowl party up to the Grouse Lodge,"

DiNardo shouted, as he slid on the icy ground en route to his

patrol car.

As DiNardo drove off, Cassidy went directly into his

office to look through his files for anything on a Jerry

Jennings. To his surprise, he found an office chart bearing

Jennings' name.

Perusing the chart, Cassidy realized the patient had been

seen in his office two years earlier for a minor skiing accident

at nearby Elk Mountain. With a great deal of concern, Cassidy

sat down at the large roll top desk that served as the focal

point of his office and carefully read the patient’s records:

"Name: Jerry Jennings. Date of birth: 5/8/75. Address:

3393 Lackawanna Garden Apts., Scranton, Pa. No Phone.

12/29/12- The patient has a negative medical and surgical

history. He has no known allergies. He is taking no

medications. History: The patient was skiing at Elk Mountain

today. He fell and experienced right shoulder pain while

trying to control his fall. His pain has grown more severe in

the past few hours. Physical Examination: Blood Pressure -

118/72, Heart Rate - 76. Respiratory Rate - 12. Lungs are

clear. The heart has a regular rate and rhythm. The right

shoulder has slightly decreased range of motion and pain on

motion, but no evidence of fracture, dislocation, or rotator

cuff injury. The rest of the musculoskeletal exam is within

normal limits. Back is normal. Neurological exam is normal

with normal deep tendon reflexes. Impression: Right

shoulder sprain. Treatment: Indomethacin, 50 mg after

breakfast, lunch, and supper daily as needed for pain. Patient

advised to rest the shoulder and apply heat. Since the patient

lives out of town, he will follow up with his personal

physician in Scranton in 2 to 3 days."

Cassidy leaned back in his oversized tilt-swivel chair and

read the chart over and over, trying to remember the course

of events that transpired two years earlier. He vaguely

remembered Jennings, but realized he wouldn’t be able to

describe the patient’s appearance to anyone. As he continued

to read the chart, he wondered what he ever did to Jerry

Jennings to deserve a malpractice suit.

Having survived two previous malpractice suits, Cassidy

realized depression was premature at this point and anger was

futile. He wanted to speak to somebody about his latest

dilemma, but it was 7 A.M., and from previous experience, he

knew he wouldn't be able to speak to anyone in the Medical

Insurance Company of Pennsylvania before 9 o'clock.

Cassidy took pride in always trying to be available when one

of his patients needed him. He thought it ironic that he

always had to wait inordinate amounts of time to have

someone listen to his problems.

Flipping Jennings' chart on his desk, Cassidy got up from

his chair and walked over to the wall where a portrait of his

father, Dr. Louis Cassidy, was prominently displayed. The

likeness accurately portrayed a rugged man with a full head of

dark hair, ageless eyes, and a stoic face.

The elder Cassidy was Roaring Fork's most respected

physician before lung cancer forced him to retire from

medicine. His dream had always been to one day practice

medicine in the same office with his son, but his unforeseen

illness forced him to leave his medical practice prematurely

and move to a warmer climate before his dream could be

realized. As the younger Cassidy stared at his father's portrait,

he knew his father's intentions had been honorable. But as he

stood in the shadow of a subpoena that appeared to be larger

than life, he found it difficult to be grateful for his

inheritance.

While Cassidy continued to study the details of his

father's portrait, he began to sense how cold and empty the

house felt. Not certain of whether his feelings were related to

the freezing temperature or his life circumstances, Cassidy

took a final look at his father's portrait and walked out of the

office. Realizing he was already more than an hour behind

schedule, he moved deliberately toward the cellar and a

hungry wood furnace.

Walking down the cellar steps, Cassidy continued to think

about his father. He recalled how Dr. Fox once referred to

his father as "Cassidy the Greater," and him as "Cassidy the

Lesser." He realized he had always lived in his father's

shadow, and wondered if the day would ever come when he

would be able to live a life of his own choosing.

Entering the large, unfinished cellar, Cassidy also realized

how much he hated tending to its oldest inhabitant - a

gargantuan wood furnace. Atop the old, rusty monstrosity

was a faded prescription from Louis Cassidy, M.D., which

read: "4 to 6 large fiery logs every 6 hours as needed for

heat.”

The prescription was an example of Dr. Lou Cassidy's

humor, and the object of his humor - the old Longwood

furnace, was an example of the kind of things in which the

man believed. Since Cassidy the Greater charged only token

fees for his medical services, he had an annual income that

was comparatively low by most professional standards and

ridiculously low by medical standards. To compensate for this

low income, he learned to live with a remarkable degree of

efficiency and ingenuity. The way he heated his 6,000 square

foot house was an example of such efficiency.

Cassidy's old Longwood furnace had the capability of

producing hot water and keeping his home and office at a

comfortable 70 degrees throughout the entire year at a cost of

only pennies a day. Dr. Lou Cassidy was a conservationist

who didn't believe in decimating forests, but his 100-acre

property on the outskirts of Roaring Fork produced more

downed timber each year than the Cassidy’s needed to heat

their home. Cassidy saw his yearly supply of downed timber

as a gift from nature's bounty. He also considered the sizeable

amount of manual work required to convert the downed

timber into firewood an opportunity to keep both physically

fit and philosophically straight.

Like his father, Cassidy the Lesser also believed in

conservation, but as he tried to save the last hint of fire in the

lukewarm furnace, he once again thought it foolish to be a

slave to an inanimate object. He had lost count of the

number of times he threatened to place the wood furnace on

the permanently disabled list and replace it with a new oil

furnace, but his inability to do anything against his father's

wishes made all his threats meaningless.

Cassidy respected his father, but he was as different from

his father as a son could be. Unlike his father, he hated

tending to a furnace every six hours just so the fire wouldn't

go out and the pipes wouldn't freeze. Unlike his father, he

hated living in the country and having to tolerate a small town

mentality. Unlike his father, he hated the uncertainty of his

existence. Throwing progressively larger logs in the furnace,

Cassidy once again thought about his most recent dilemma,

and wondered if his medical practice wouldn't be the next

item to be added to his hate list.

Closing the furnace's heavy door, Cassidy once again

heard the front door bell ring. Already conditioned by the

door bell’s shrill sound, he immediately began to experience a

sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Wondering what else

could possibly go wrong before breakfast, Cassidy proceeded

to the front door.

Lifting the window shade, Cassidy was relieved to see

Barley Evans, who was trying to stay warm by doing a jig and

sticking various corners of his thin, 6’4” frame into the

doorbell at timely intervals. As soon as Cassidy opened the

door, the scraggly-haired telephone repairman straightened

his baseball cap, brushed off his tattered, brown bomber

jacket, and immediately rushed past Cassidy like a freight train

passing a bum.

"Top of the morning to you, Doc," Barley shouted,

marching toward the cellar. "I'm way behind schedule today,

but I have to diagnose the cause of your telephonic

dysfunction, so people can talk to you on the horn again. The

hospital called the phone company and told them to get

someone out to your house pronto. I'll just show myself

downstairs to your box, and take things from there.”

Suddenly realizing he had taken his bedroom phone off

the hook earlier in the morning, Cassidy stopped the cellar-

bound repairman and directed him to the bedroom where the

phone company’s latest problem was about to be identified

and corrected. Shaking his head and breaking out into the

smile of a man who looked like he had just solved Rubik's

Cube for the first time, Barley put the phone back on the

hook.

"Well, there you are, Doc," Barley said. "You’re as right as

rain again. Now you can call the emergency room because

they’ve been trying to call you with little success, if you catch

my drift."

Barley continued shaking his head and smiling as he

turned in the direction of the front door.

"You know, Doc, you're too good for this town,” Barley

observed. “I mean, look at me, for example. Since you told

me I had an ulcer and what I had to do to fix it, I've been

feeling like a new man. I've been swallowing that lousy tasting

stuff after meals, and I've cut way back, I mean, way back on

my coffee and smokes. I'm down to 10 or 12 cups of coffee a

day and less than a pack of chokes, and I feel fannntastic."

Reaching the front door, Barley paused momentarily.

"Yes, sir, Doc, you're too good for this town," he

repeated. "Already this morning, you have some irate trucker

in the E.R., talking about losing a big contract if he doesn't

get a load delivered on time. He’s shooting his mouth off

about suing you for his losses if you don't get your butt up

there quick. You know what the trouble is with this town is,

don’t you, Doc? There just isn’t any gratitude for a man in

your position. No, sir, no gratitude at all."

Shaking his head and forcing a smile, Cassidy felt the

need to respond.

"Barley, it's already 7:30 A.M.," he said emphatically. "I've

been up for an hour and a half, and I still haven't had my

coffee or even sat on the crapper. In fact, I'm still not even

sure what day it is, and already everyone in town is either

trying to find me, sue me, or both."

Pulling his baseball cap down tighter on his head, Barley

smiled and patted Cassidy on the back.

"So, what else is new, Doc?" the grinning repairman

asked.

As Barley shuffled off to his telephone repair truck,

seemingly unaware of the slippery ground underneath his

feet, Cassidy waved.

"Yeah, right, Barley,” Cassidy mumbled. “So what else is

new?"

CHAPTER TWO

As hot water began to fill his large, ornate bathtub,

Cassidy wiped the steam off the mirror that hung like a

painting over his bathroom sink. The new year was just

beginning, but its first few days seemed like an eternity to

Cassidy. Even simple tasks like clearing steam from a mirror

seemed to require significant effort.

In addition to finding out he was being sued for

malpractice, everything else in his professional life seemed to

be going wrong. For Cassidy, the new year seemed to bring

one emergency after another, one complication after another,

and one irate patient after another. Even a truck driver who

let his health records lapse seemed intent on blaming Cassidy

for his own negligence.

Looking at his image in the mirror as if to compile a

damage estimate, Cassidy realized he was starting to lose his

youthful appearance. Gray hairs were evident on his chest,

and his healthy brown scalp appeared to be thinning. His

once tight facial skin was sagging, and the muscles on his

5'10'' frame were losing their tone. His blue eyes no longer

had a youthful glow, and his most prominent features were

giving way to advancing layers of adipose tissue.

As Cassidy watched his mirror image vanish with the

mounting steam, he poured a tall glass of Wild Turkey

bourbon and prepared for a long soak in his bathtub. His first

week in 2015 had not been very pleasant, and he realized how

much his tired body craved peace and quiet. Cassidy needed

comfort and solitude, and from past experience, he knew he

could achieve both temporarily with a hot bath and a

bottomless glass of unadulterated bourbon.

Cassidy sunk into the hot tub, and after he took a long,

slow sip of Wild Turkey, he looked out the bathroom

window and watched a tranquil snow falling on Roaring Fork.

The events of the previous week had not allowed Cassidy the

luxury of a single minute to himself, and sinking deeper into

the tub and taking progressively longer sips of whiskey, he

realized how good it felt to have his senses reawakened.

As the night sky grew thicker with snow, Cassidy took

long, deep breaths and tried to totally isolate himself from the

rest of the world. Feeling the hot water caress the spasm from

his neck and shoulder muscles, Cassidy closed his eyes and

entered a hypnotic state.

Meditating on nothingness felt good, if only for a few

seconds at a time, but Cassidy realized, just as his bath water

would soon turn cold, his ability to escape from reality would

be equally ephemeral. As a frigid wind began to blow against

the window, Cassidy found it more difficult to keep his mind

blank, and as the bathroom grew suddenly cold, he once

again began to think of his latest dilemma, the Jennings

malpractice suit.

Warming his bath water by opening the hot water faucet

with the toes of his left foot, and warming his insides with

another generous slug of Wild Turkey, Cassidy thought about

the discussion he had earlier in the week with Joe Neal, a

claims representative from the Medical Insurance Company

of Pennsylvania. Following some preliminary investigation,

Neal informed Cassidy that Jennings had sustained a

fractured right clavicle in his fall on Elk Mountain, and was

suing Cassidy because of the physician’s failure to diagnose

and appropriately treat his fracture. Representing Jennings

was Attorney Bradley Gold who Joe Neal described as “what

happens when a caveman makes love to a shark.”

Although Neal, who worked with Cassidy during his first

two malpractice suits, looked for reasons to be optimistic,

none were readily apparent. X-rays taken in the emergency

room of a Scranton hospital on New Year's Eve clearly

demonstrated Jennings' fractured collarbone. Unfortunately,

Cassidy didn’t have any X-rays with which to support his

diagnosis of shoulder sprain or disprove the presence of a

fracture. Trying to make light of the situation, Neal told

Cassidy he should just be grateful the “Angel of Death”

wasn't handling the Jennings case.

The Angel of Death was Neal's allusion to a fast-talking,

high-stepping lady malpractice lawyer from Scranton, whose

multitudinous victories against physicians in malpractice suits

were quickly making her a legend in her own time. Although

she had cost his insurance company more money than he

cared to admit, Neal spoke of the Angel in tones that seemed

to echo both contempt and admiration.

Whether he was describing her emasculating attacks on

defendants and expert witnesses, her ability to play “Daddy's

Little Girl” for a judge, or her willingness to intentionally

distract a jury by strutting around the courtroom like a

fashion model, Neal spoke of the Angel as the feared and

respected adversary she had become. Joe Neal was the first to

admit a malpractice case involving the Angel of Death was a

fait accompli.

Cassidy was discouraged by Joe Neal's analysis of his

latest predicament, but there was something about the

Jennings case that continued to bother him. Cassidy knew

how to diagnose and treat a fractured clavicle as well as any

other physician, but he couldn't recall anything about

Jennings that even remotely suggested such a possibility.

Furthermore, he couldn't understand why anyone with a

painful injury like a fractured clavicle would wait two days to

seek medical attention.

Cassidy saw Jennings in his office on the December 29,

2013, and Jennings wasn't seen in the Scranton emergency

room until New Year’s Eve. Cassidy didn't know anyone,

with the possible exception of a comatose Rambo, who could

endure the pain of a fractured clavicle for two days without

appropriate medical treatment.

Cassidy realized lawyers intentionally delayed the filing of

malpractice suits until the impending expiration of the statute

of limitations. This strategy frequently allowed the actual

events that led to the suit to become obscured in everyone's

memory and open to individual interpretation. Nevertheless,

Cassidy couldn't understand why anyone would wait for two

years to file a malpractice suit if the case was as cut and dried

as Jennings' lawyer had suggested to Joe Neal. There was

something about the Jennings case that bothered Cassidy, but

as he once again manipulated the hot water faucet with his

toes only to have ice cold water run down his left leg, he

realized he had less ability to change matters in the Jennings

case than he had to coax hot water from a cold furnace.

Dressing in his standard garb of blue jeans, a pullover

sweater, thick white socks, and boat shoes, Cassidy tended to

his hungry furnace. He then retreated to his living room where

he started a fire in the fireplace. Caressing a hot cup of coffee

with both hands, he snuggled into a corner of a large couch

that seemed to have been constructed with his exact body

dimensions in mind. Cassidy watched and listened as the fire

began to create a loud roar that echoed through the chimney.

Quickly rejecting the thoughts of a book or television, Cassidy

was content to let a hot cup of coffee and crackling fire get

him through the rest of the night.

It didn't take long for the serenity of the evening to get to

Cassidy and lull him into a deep sleep. As was frequently the

case, however, his nap was quickly interrupted by the shrill

sound of the front door bell. Threatening, as he usually did

three or four times weekly, to replace the antiquated door bell

with something more modern and soothing to the ears,

Cassidy waited until his racing heart stopped pounding before

deliberately making his way to the front door.

As he walked to the door, Cassidy expected to find his

close friend, Father Joe Kasperski, waiting. Father Joe, the

Pastor of St. Christopher's Roman Catholic Church in Roaring

Fork, was known to visit Cassidy with some regularity and

ponder matters, spiritual and temporal, over a bottle of

Seagram's Crown Royal. With the kind of week Cassidy had

just finished, he welcomed the thought of a visit from his

Father Confessor and the opportunity to augment his waning

blood alcohol level.

As he pulled up the window shade, Cassidy's emotions

plummeted from the sublime to the ridiculous. Instead of

Reverend Kasperski, Cassidy found the ever-repugnant Teddy

Edwards waiting on the other side of the door. Reluctantly,

Cassidy opened the front door and invited the cigar-fondling

Edwards to come in from the cold.

To understand Teddy Edwards was to understand Roaring

Fork. The equation was simple to understand because the

indomitable Edwards owned most of Roaring Fork, and what

he didn't own, he simply didn't care to own. In one way or

another, Teddy Edwards was involved in every enterprise in

Roaring Fork. In one way or another, Teddy Edwards held a

second mortgage on every soul that resided within the town’s

rapidly expanding boundaries.

Edwards came to Roaring Fork in the late 1960’s when

most of the town's residents were still dairy farmers. He had

been an insurance agent in Delaware, and after quietly

pocketing a few months worth of insurance premiums, he

moved to the unsuspecting little hamlet of Roaring Fork

where he heard destiny calling his sullied name. With money

borrowed from the local bank, he bought a few properties and

opened the Teddy Edwards Real Estate Agency. "The rest," as

they are fond of saying in Roaring Fork, "was history."

Realizing hard times were starting to befall the dairy

farmers of Roaring Fork, Edwards stepped in and won their

confidence. The dairy farms in Roaring Fork, as in the rest of

Susquehanna County, had been handed down from generation

to generation, and many of their owners didn’t know how

much their farms were worth when Edwards came to town.

Buying farms for mere fractions of their true value, Edwards

quickly acquired a sizeable portion of the acreage that made up

Roaring Fork.

The farmers who sold their land to Edwards naturally

assumed he would keep their farms intact and sell them to

other farmers. The wily Edwards, however, had long term

plans for the farmland he acquired. Unfortunately, the

perpetuation of the dairy industry was not one of them.

Edwards was fond of telling people, "after all else is gone, the

good earth still remains," and Edwards had many plans for the

good earth of Roaring Fork.

Edwards' modus operandi was simple. He would buy a 1,000

acre farm, and sub-divide the farm into 10 large parcels of land

and a smaller parcel on which the farm house, barns, and other

buildings were located. Selling each separate parcel to out-of-

state buyers for a higher price than he had paid for the entire

farm, Edwards quickly began to amass a small fortune.

Edwards' out-of-state clients were happy to buy a

"mountain retreat," or "hunter's paradise," or "gentleman's

farm," as Edwards had advertised the various parcels of land,

at prices that were reasonable in comparison to the high-

priced real estate of New York or New Jersey. Since they were

able to sell their farms, pay their bills, and realize a small

profit, the farmers of Roaring Fork were, if not happy, at least

content. All in all, Edwards came up smelling like a rose and

became wealthy beyond imagination.

Had Teddy Edwards stuck to buying properties at

wholesale prices and selling them at retail prices, he might

have been a palatable individual. Unfortunately, Teddy became

greedy and began to resort to underhanded tactics to achieve

his goals. Underneath the brown eyes that always seemed to

twinkle, the trick mustache that knew just when to wiggle, and

the unmistakable belly laugh, lurked an egomaniac who truly

believed Roaring Fork and everything in it was his to fondle.

Teddy had the ability to maintain his credibility even when

he was lying through his teeth. He used this trait, which is

usually reserved for more visible individuals with political

aspirations, to take advantage of the more desperate residents

of Roaring Fork. Edwards had the ability to rob someone

blind and still make the person think Teddy Edwards was his

only friend in the world.

Whenever Teddy knew someone was desperate and

needed to sell a property, he would place that person's

property on his list. Whenever a prospective buyer would

inquire about the property, however, he would tell them it had

already been sold or the owner was taking it off the market.

Whenever the owner would call on Edwards to find out why

no one was coming around to look at his property, Edwards

would show him the listing in his real estate catalogue and tell

him no one appeared to be interested in buying the property.

After he had given the owner of such a property sufficient

time to dwell on the more practical aspects of misfortune,

Edwards would unexpectedly stop by for a cup of coffee and a

long talk. When the moment was right and the owner

appeared most vulnerable, Edwards would look him straight in

the eye and tell him how much he had always liked and

admired him. After he started gaining the owner’s confidence,

Edwards would tell him how much he wanted to help him. It

didn't take much more for Edwards to convince the owner his

property was unmarketable and his only way out was to sell

the property to Edwards, who might be able to put it back on

the market at a later time "when the economy got better."

With this ploy, Edwards would buy valuable properties for

pennies on the dollar and dupe an unsuspecting owner into

thinking it was Edwards who was taking all the risk and

Edwards who was handing out Christmas presents ahead of

time.

Seemingly overnight, Edwards had cornered the real estate

market in and around Roaring Fork, but for Edwards, one

market was far from sufficient. Saving the choicest land for

himself, he quickly built a truck stop, restaurant, motel, and

large shopping center. All of Teddy's enterprises were built

close to Interstate-81 and all had catchy names that were

designed to attract the highway's heavy traffic. Edwards' truck

stop was called, "The Gas Hole," his restaurant was aptly

named, "The Roaring Forkful," and his motel was known as

"The No-Tell Motel." Although the names of his enterprises

caused a certain amount of controversy in conservative

Susquehanna County, the jobs his businesses created and

economy they bolstered soon proved to be a fair trade for

Edwards' off-color humor.

When wealth alone became insufficient to satisfy Edwards'

ravenous appetite, he sought political power. He became a

silent, but dominant, force in Susquehanna County politics,

and the decision-maker for Roaring Fork's Town Council and

School Board. His being named Chairman of the Board of the

Bank of Roaring Fork was a major coup and emblematic of

the power he had amassed.

Although the general public was unaware of many of

Edwards' political undertakings, he played the game of politics

well. Many political appointees in Roaring Fork and

Susquehanna County owed their livelihoods to Edwards, and

more than one attractive female teacher, who aspired to teach

in the Roaring Fork School District, passed under Edwards

before being given the key to her classroom.

Teddy Edwards controlled everything in Roaring Fork. He

controlled who worked, who was given mortgages and loans,

and who was elected to public office. He controlled what the

people of Roaring Fork ate, where they lived, and the brand of

gas they put in their cars. The one and only thing Teddy

Edwards had been unable to control in his quarter-century in

Roaring Fork was the reason he came to see the visibly

unimpressed Dr. Cassidy.

"Do I smell fresh coffee?" Edwards asked, as he skipped

the customary greetings and quickly entered the warm house.

"Yeah, Teddy," Cassidy answered half-heartedly. "Come in

and sit down by the fire. I'll pour you a cup. How do you like

your coffee?"

"The same way I like my women, Doc – hot, black, and

strong," the self-styled Romeo with the prominent paunch and

thinning black hair answered, as he rubbed his hands near the

fireplace. "And throw in a shot of that Crown Royal you keep

around here for your buddy, the padre."

Handing Edwards his spiked coffee, Cassidy sat down and

stared at his uninvited guest.

"So get right to it, Teddy," Cassidy said. "What's on your

mind?"

"Oh, just a social call, Doc," Edwards answered with eyes

twinkling and mustache wiggling. "Yes, sir, just a social call."

Waiting for Cassidy's reaction, Edwards let out his

characteristic four-note belly laugh, which was always followed

by a short puff on his cigar and a second four-note chorus of

laughter.

"Actually, Doc, I came to tell you how sorry I am you're

being sued again," Edwards remarked sarcastically.

Cassidy was caught off-guard by Edwards' comment, but

his angry scowl obviated any reply.

"Forgive me for intruding in your personal life, Doc,"

Edwards continued. "But a man in my position has to know

what's going on in his community, and it appears to me you're

not a very happy camper these days."

Edwards leaned forward and looked straight into Cassidy's

angry eyes.

"The fact of the matter is, Doc, I've always liked and

admired you, just like I always liked and admired your daddy,”

Edwards said. “Sure, your father and I didn't always see eye to

eye, but I still liked him. Yes, sir, I really liked you daddy, ah,

ha, ha, ha, (puff) ah, ha, ha, ha! So, listen, Doc, since your

father's not around here to advise you any more, why don't

you take some good advice from someone who's been around

here long enough to know who fits in these parts and who's

just hanging on? Let me tell you, Doc, you're just hanging on.

Like the Eskimo says, 'you're walking on thin ice, and you

appear to be a very heavy man,' ah, ha, ha, ha, (puff) ah, ha, ha,

ha!"

Edwards took a long, slow slurp of coffee and another

puff on his cigar.

"The truth is, Doc, you're a lame duck around here,”

Edwards observed. “Everyone's got your number, and they're

going to keep playing it until you get hurt - and hurt bad. The

fact you've been sued so many times in such a short period of

time is going to give the right people the wrong impression

and make them think you're a bad doctor. It's also going to

give the wrong people the right idea to keep suing you until

you go blind. So, why not do the smart thing already? Sell me

this place, pocket yourself a tidy profit, and move somewhere

else where you're not known and where you can show people

what a good doctor you really are."

Cassidy had heard Edwards' sales pitch before and realized

Edwards was only starting to warm up. Unwilling to prolong

the agony any longer, the usually reticent Cassidy decided to

speak his mind.

"You know, Teddy, when my father turned this house

over to me, he made me promise I would never sell it to you,”

Cassidy stated unemotionally. “He also made me promise I

would never sell the property’s gas and oil rights because he

believed fracking would ruin the entire water table. When he

left for Florida, he was too sick to care what I did with the

house, but he wasn't too sick to make me promise I'd never

sell the house to Teddy Edwards. He knew this was the most

beautiful property in the entire county, and he knew how badly

you wanted it. He told me about all the things you pulled

when you were trying to get him to sell it to you, and he told

me about how you even tried to get to my mother when she

was still alive, thinking you could convince her to persuade my

father to sell you this house."

Seeing Edwards surprised by his truculent remarks,

Cassidy grew more vocal.

"You know, Teddy, my father was a humble man, but

knowing he had the one thing Teddy Edwards wanted and

couldn't have, gave him great satisfaction,” Cassidy continued.

“He told me once you really believed you could buy anything

and anybody you wanted. Well, let me tell you this, Teddy, you

couldn't buy my father, and you can't buy me."

Quickly standing up, Cassidy handed Edwards his coat.

"My father's house wasn't for sale," Cassidy stated

emphatically. "Neither is mine."

Slowly rising to his feet, Edwards paused, took a final sip

of coffee, and made eye contact with Cassidy.

"Okay, Junior, have it your own way,” Edwards said in a

condescending tone. “You're a real man now that you’ve had

your chance to talk back to Teddy Edwards. Well, after I leave

and you've had the chance to change your soiled underwear,

just remember I'm only trying to be your friend. Do you think

any other yahoo around here is going to offer you $500,000

for this place? Huh? Look, I know you've had a bad week,

and I forgive you for being out of sorts. Just think about my

offer, and remember I'm only trying to show you the light at

the end of the forest. Think about what I said, Kid, and I'll see

you again sometime when you’re feeling better."

As Edwards walked to his Lexus, Cassidy slammed the

front door. Hearing a faint chorus of: "ah, ha, ha, ha, (puff) ah,

ha, ha, ha," Cassidy picked up the cup Edwards had just used

and threw it into the trash can. As Edwards drove away,

Cassidy returned to the living room, and smelling the

aftermath of Edwards' cigar, let out a loud, angry sigh.

Cassidy knew Edwards wanted his property much more

than he ever indicated in conversation. Edwards certainly had

more than enough money to build a larger and more beautiful

house and the ability to build it on a much larger and more

favorably located tract of land, but for as long as Cassidy could

remember, Edwards made it clear he only wanted Doc

Cassidy’s house. There was little question in Cassidy's mind

what once started out as a whim for the obstinate Edwards

had snowballed into an obsession. There was also little

question in Cassidy's mind Edwards was resourceful enough

to make life very difficult for anyone living in or around

Roaring Fork.

Rekindling the fire, Cassidy returned to his couch and

continued to think about Edwards and the various legends

that had given the scoundrel his well-deserved notoriety. One

such legend was the legend of Max Monroe.

Max “I Charge A Million” Monroe was a dirt ball plumber

who came to Roaring Fork when he discovered he was being

investigated by the state of New Jersey for a number of

questionable business practices. Ostensibly seeking a hidden

mountain sanctuary where there were no building codes, trade

unions, or Better Business Bureaus to hinder his shady

operation, Monroe moved to Roaring Fork where he promptly

resumed the shady business practices that forced him to leave

the leaking "Garden State."

On one occasion, Bonnie Thompson, who had just

recently been widowed and left a modest inheritance, hired

Monroe to clean her furnace. Since she was leaving town for a

week to visit her sister, Bonnie signed a release form

authorizing Monroe to work inside her house during her

absence and repair or replace whatever he felt necessary to

complete the job.

When Bonnie returned home, she quickly discovered

Monroe had replaced her furnace with a newer, more

expensive model and had also replaced her antique cast iron

radiators with a baseboard heating system. What Bonnie had

expected to cost $30, cost nearly $10,000. Unfortunately, the

work had been legally, if unwittingly, authorized by Bonnie

when she signed Monroe's release form.

Monroe seemed to thrive on taking advantage of the

unsuspecting residents of Roaring Fork, and he was able to

legalize his crimes by requiring his customers to sign the

appropriate release forms and agreements beforehand.

Although most of his underhanded practices were confined to

small and usually undetectable acts like adding hidden charges

to bills, unnecessarily replacing good plumbing parts and

fixtures, and creating future work for himself by tampering

with other plumbing in his customer's houses, Monroe would

decompensate every so often and do something major. One

such decompensation involved Teddy Edwards.

Teddy had heard about Monroe from a number of

dissatisfied customers, and when he decided to have a

plumbing project completed at his truck stop, he decided to

give Monroe a call and take a look at Roaring Fork's newest

bandit for himself. When the job was completed, Monroe

presented Edwards with an astronomical bill that included

multiple hidden and inflated charges, separate charges for

travel time, and even a consultation fee. Without questioning

the validity of the individual charges, Edwards wrote out a

check and paid the entire bill. Teddy then had his regular

plumber inspect Monroe’s job and review his itemized bill.

If Edwards was angry Monroe had done work that had not

been required, had unnecessarily replaced expensive fixtures

that were only a few years old, and had created enough future

work for himself to become a full-time employee at the Gas

Hole, he never showed it. Nor did he show any anger at being

charged three times what Monroe's job was actually worth.

Instead of being angry at Monroe, Teddy awarded him another

job.

Although the job was simple in comparison to his earlier

job at the Gas Hole, Monroe was happy to take Edwards'

assignment and repair the furnace of an old, dilapidated house

on the outskirts of town. Edwards had recently acquired the

house, and told Monroe it required extensive repairs before it

could be listed for sale again.

No one ever found out what happened that fateful day

when Max Monroe walked into the house with tools in his

hands and dollar signs in his eyes. What everyone in Roaring

Fork did ultimately learn, however, was how all the king's

horses and all the king's men wouldn't have been able to do

anything with what remained of Max Monroe after the furnace

he was repairing unexpectedly exploded in his face.

Although far less gruesome, the legend of Johnny Cheng

was no less instructional. Johnny Cheng was Edwards' cook at

The Roaring Forkful. The talented oriental's forte was his ability

to duplicate the most complex entrees from the most famous

restaurants in the world after tasting the critically acclaimed

food a single time. Cheng had been blessed with extraordinary

taste perception, and was able to immediately identify each

ingredient in any sample of food after only one taste.

After working for Edwards for a number of years, Cheng

decided he was tired of cooking American and European food

and interested in opening his own Chinese restaurant. Using

his life savings, he bought an old, run-down store in Roaring

Fork from the town's real estate maven, Teddy Edwards.

Although his savings were nearly depleted by the inflated price

of the property, the industrious cook was able to quickly

transform the dump into Johnny Cheng's Restaurant.

From the moment Cheng left The Roaring Forkful, the

restaurant began to see a dramatic drop in business. Its once

outstanding cuisine rapidly became mediocre, and the

residents of Susquehanna County looked forward to the

opening of a new restaurant. Even without its gourmet food,

Johnny Cheng's Restaurant appeared ready to win by default

over the now lackluster Roaring Forkful.

During the first few weeks of the new restaurant's

operation, however, a curious thing happened in Roaring

Fork. For no apparent reason, the town's population of house

cats began to disappear. Although the bizarre occurrence

could not be explained by the local police, the feline

population of Roaring Fork had been mysteriously decimated.

In the midst of Roaring Fork's latest unsolved mystery,

Teddy Edwards decided to take a few friends to dinner at

Johnny Cheng's. The unsuspecting restaurateur handled

Edwards' dinner reservation personally, and even though the

reservation had been made for the busiest night of the week,

Cheng personally prepared a sumptuous feast for the dinner

guests of his former boss.

Midway through the meal when the tuxedo-clad Johnny

Cheng came to Edwards' table for an anticipated round of

accolades, Edwards introduced him to Madge Sutter, a

dignified and extremely loud woman who wrote a restaurant

review column for a newspaper syndicate. As everyone in the

restaurant tuned in to closely listen to her observations, the

rotund food critic began to praise the new eatery. When her

compliments had locked Cheng's smile firmly into place, she

informed him she especially liked his egg rolls.

"Yours' is the only restaurant I've found that makes egg

rolls just like they do in mainland China," Madge stated

unequivocally.

As Cheng scratched his head in bewilderment, she asked,

"And where do you ever find the fresh cat meat for your egg

roll filling?"

At that precise moment, one of Roaring Fork's few

remaining dairy farmers, Clyde Wilmont, bit into the first egg

roll he had ever tasted in his 55 years of life. Hearing the

strange new morsel might contain remnants of his lost pet

tabby, the wide-eyed Wilmont spit the egg roll into his wife,

Gladys', lap. What followed could only be described as mass

hysteria.

To prevent an old-fashioned hanging, Edwards personally

escorted the perplexed Johnny Cheng out of the restaurant.

Although a formal investigation by the Pennsylvania State

Health Department ultimately exonerated Cheng from any

improprieties, the damage had already been done. Johnny

Cheng quickly discovered he couldn't even give away his

Chinese food to the people of Roaring Fork. With little

alternative, he was forced to sell his renovated property back

to Edwards at a substantial loss and go back to work as the

older, but wiser chef of The Roaring Forkful.

Cassidy realized anyone who could unceremoniously

dispose of a crooked plumber, quietly pilfer a small army of

cats, and effortlessly ruin the career of a promising

businessman could certainly get to an expendable country

doctor with little difficulty. Cassidy had never thought of

himself as a lame duck, but he realized Edwards was a student

of the human condition and his analysis was probably correct.

Cassidy didn't trust Edwards as far as he could drop-kick the

porker's fat body against a trade wind, and he realized the time

to fortify his defenses against the egomaniacal lord of Roaring

Fork was probably long overdue.

With the exception of the sounds of a crackling fire and an

angry set of grinding teeth, the Cassidy household was

unusually quiet for a Friday night. As he continued to ruminate

over Teddy Edwards, Cassidy realized how quiet things were,

but as he closed his eyes to savor the uncommon solitude, the

phone began to ring. Attributing the tinny sound of his old-

fashioned wall phone to the inevitable, Cassidy slowly made

his way to what he was sure would be his next great challenge

in life.

"Is this Doctor Cassidy's office?" an impatient woman

inquired.

“Yes, it is,” Cassidy answered.

"Now, listen to me carefully,” the loud woman continued.

“I take my family to another doctor, but I want to know what

I have to do to get some eye drops for my daughter's pink eye?

I can't get a hold of my own doctor, and Bailey's Drug Store is

already closed."

“Does your daughter have any other symptoms?” Cassidy

asked in a sincere attempt to be helpful.

"Let me be perfectly frank with you, Doctor Cassidy,” the

caller snapped. “I'm not about to come to your office and pay

you my hard earned money so you can tell me what I already

know. My daughter has pink eye, and all I want to know is

how I can get some eye drops for her."

The usually compliant and always courteous physician

thought about the situation for a moment, and feeling the

adverse effects of a very trying week, calmly responded to the

rude caller.

"Ma'am, there are reasons I asked you if your daughter had

any other symptoms,” Cassidy said calmly. “A high percentage

of children with pink eye also have an associated ear infection

that can be caused by the same bacteria that infects the eye.

So, your daughter may also have a potentially serious ear

infection that may require an oral antibiotic.”

Growing angrier and starting to enjoy the feeling, Cassidy

continued.

"Now, I'm glad you’re trying to be perfectly frank with me,

Ma'am, because I'd like to be perfectly frank with you,” he

said. “I'm not about to treat a child who I've never seen before

for a problem I haven't had the chance to diagnose. I can give

eye drops to your daughter tonight, and two weeks from now

when she comes down with meningitis from complications of

an untreated ear infection, the doctors in one of the Scranton

emergency rooms are going to wonder what kind of quack

treats meningitis over the phone with eye drops without even

seeing the patient. So, here’s the thing. If you called here

tonight and told me you had a sick child and no money, I

would have told you to bring her right over to my office. I

would have examined your daughter and given you whatever

medicine she needed without any charge. You didn't, though.

So, the only thing I can tell you to do is take your child to an

emergency room somewhere and let them charge you a few

hundred dollars to tell you what I just told you for free."

Without giving the caller a chance for any further rebuttal,

Cassidy unemotionally placed the phone back on the hook. He

immediately began to feel guilty and second-guess his

impulsive decision, but as he thought about the possibility of

being sued for malpractice because of a kind act to an ignorant

patient, his feelings of guilt began to subside.

Cassidy did much more for his patients than any physician

could be expected to do, and he was starting to realize how

much he resented being taken for granted by the people of

Roaring Fork. Before he could ponder the pros and cons of

guilt any further, however, Cassidy heard a car pull up to the

house. As he looked out the window, he was happy to see

Father Joe Kasperski getting out of his car. It seemed a little

late for Father Joe to be visiting, but Cassidy was happy to see

his closest friend making his way up the front stairs.

"Hiya, Doc," the white-haired priest with the ruddy

complexion said, as he walked into the house and dusted the

snow off his hat.

"Hiya, Father," Cassidy replied. "How about a drink?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?" the 72-year-old clergyman asked,

handing Cassidy his coat and hat.

As the two friends sat close to the fire, they began their

ritual of toasting everyone in the Catholic Church from the

Pope on down to the cleaning lady at St. Christopher's.

Kasperski was nearly twice as old as Cassidy, but both men

communicated on the same wavelength and both looked

forward to each other's company.

Somewhere along the line of toasts between the

archbishops and the monsignors, Kasperski brought a

problem to Cassidy's attention.

"Bob, I have a problem I need to talk to you about,”

Kasperski said in a serious tone of voice. “For the past few

months, I've been coughing a lot. At first, I just blamed it on

the dampness of the rectory. For the past few years, I've been

after Bishop O'Brien to finish off the rectory basement

because of the dampness, but you know the Bishop. He's got

enough money to put a new roof on the cathedral every few

years, but when it comes to the smaller parishes, he doesn't

have the time of day. He smiles whenever I go looking for

financial help from the diocese and tells me to appeal to my

parishioners. That's some joke, huh?"

As Kasperski took a long, hard drink of Crown Royal

Canadian whiskey, Cassidy entered the conversation.

"Once upon a time, my father told me the priests who

were sent to St. Christopher's were priests the Bishop didn't

like,” Cassidy said. “Dad said these priests were exiled, rather

than assigned, to small rural parishes like St. Christopher's.

You've been here for a lot of years now, and you're one of the

few pastors in the diocese who hasn't been made a monsignor.

You really must be on the Bishop's hit list."

Kasperski smiled and looked straight into Cassidy's eyes.

"Me and O'Brien were in the seminary together,”

Kasperski admitted. “I could never take to the guy. He was

always kissing up to the priests who ran the place, and always

trying to prove he was better than everyone else. You know

how I am with people. If I don't like a guy, he knows it. Well,

O'Brien knew I never cared for him, and while his buddies got

the Monsignor stripes and the cushy parishes in the diocese,

his less-than-ardent followers got sent to places like St.

Christopher's."

Kasperski took another sip of whiskey and continued

looking straight into Cassidy’s eyes.

"How much did your father's feelings about St. Chris' and

the diocese sway you in your decision to leave the seminary?”

he asked.

Although a little known fact in Roaring Fork, Cassidy had

indeed been a seminarian at Pius the Tenth Seminary in nearby

Dalton. In fact, Cassidy had only two years remaining before

his ordination when he decided to leave the seminary and

pursue a career in medicine.

With a sullen look on his face, Cassidy took a healthy swig

of whiskey.

"Well, you know how hard my father tried to get me to

leave the seminary,” Cassidy replied. “He never wanted me to

go into the priesthood in the first place. In fact, it wasn't until

my senior year at the University of Scranton he realized I had

taken a double major in theology and biology, and was

planning to go to the seminary rather than medical school. He

was especially upset because I had the second highest average

of all the biology majors and could have gone to practically

any medical school in the country. When I started the

seminary, he tried to get me to leave by telling me how I was

wasting my life, and then he tried to get me out with horror

stories about how badly the diocese treated certain priests.

None of his early tactics worked. The only reason I left was

because my mother developed lung cancer, and I realized my

father couldn't take care of her himself. I took a leave of

absence from the seminary, and after spending a few months

at home, I started to realize how important the medical

profession was to my father, and how much he wanted me to

be a part of his profession. I also started to realize I was

becoming genuinely interested in medicine. So, while I was

taking care of my mother, I applied to medical school and got

accepted without any problem. My mother died the summer

before medical school started. Right before she died, she held

my hand and said, 'Robert, you're going to make a good

doctor.'"

Tears started to well up in Cassidy's blue eyes. Taking a

sip of whiskey, he slumped back into his couch. Quickly

composing himself, he looked at Kasperski and smiled.

“Well, enough seminary stories,” he joked. ”Let’s hear

more about that cough.”

“Like I told you, I've had this cough for a few months

now,” Kasperski said. “For the last week or two, I've been

feeling weak, and my bones have been aching. Of course, the

weather's been cold, and I'm no spring chicken either. The

thing that's starting to worry me, though, is the blood I've

been coughing up for the past two days. When I coughed up a

big clot after supper, I decided it was time to get over here to

see you."

Hearing Kasperski’s symptoms left Cassidy with an uneasy

feeling. The good doctor had seen lung cancer kill his mother

and rapidly take his father to death's door, and he didn't like

what his friend was telling him.

In lieu of any premature false hope, Cassidy escorted the

priest into the examining room of his office and began his

investigation.

"I don't like the way your lungs sound, Father,” the

dejected general practitioner stated unequivocally, “And your

diaphragm isn’t moving very well. Your bones and liver are

tender, and it seems like you've lost some weight since I last

examined you. It might be my imagination, but you also sound

hoarse to me."

"So, what's the verdict, Doc?” Kasperski asked point-

blank. “Do I have cancer?”

"I don't know, Father, but I don't like what I'm seeing,"

Cassidy answered honestly.

"Well, look, you know how I feel about things,” Kasperski

said. “Let's do whatever's necessary and find out what's going

on here. I'm at peace with my Maker, so 'Thy will be done.'

One thing though, Bob, I want everything kept on the 'Q.T.'

Understand? If I do have cancer and there's nothing we can do

about it, I want to live out my days at St. Chris,' and I don't

want anybody the wiser, especially the Bishop. Okay?"

"Alright, Father," Cassidy agreed, "I'll set up a few tests for

you in Binghamton where no one knows you. When I get the

results, we'll sit down and talk about things."

"Thanks, Bob, you're a good friend," Kasperski said, as he

buttoned his overcoat, put on his hat, and prepared to face the

cold night air. "You're also the best doctor I know."

As he left the house and approached his car, Kasperski

paused, turned around and looked at Cassidy.

"You know, Bob, you made the right decision when you

left the seminary,” he shouted. “Christ was a doctor, not some

Sunday morning orator. Think about it."

With a final wave, Kasperski got into his car and quickly

drove off.

Closing the stubborn front door, Cassidy went back into

his office and sat down at his desk. Putting both feet on the

desk and leaning back in his chair, he thought about Father

Kasperski and struggled for a diagnosis that didn't contain the

word, cancer. Quickly dismissing all other alternative diagnoses

as soon as they came to mind, the concerned physician grew

despondent. Still deep in thought, Cassidy was startled by the

sudden ringing of his office phone.

"Oh, Doctor," the female caller slurred. "This is Martha. I

know my husband, Edgar, has an appointment with you next

Thursday for his infantzema, but I forget what I did with your

card that had the time on it, and I wondered if you could tell

me the time his appointment is, and Edgar told me to remind

you he needs the subscription for his breathing medicine filled,

and, Oh, Doctor, by the way, I'm selling some ladies'

cosmetics to make some extra money, and, well, I know there's

no Mrs. Doctor Cassidy, but I was wondering if, when I come

down to your office with Edgar….."

Although he was usually tolerant and understanding of the

long-winded Martha Post, Cassidy had been totally depleted of

the energy to be either, and without any warning, he simply

hung up the phone. Realizing Martha would undoubtedly call

right back, Cassidy waited for a few seconds before taking the

phone off the hook again. As he listened to the dial tone, he

wondered at what stage of mental fatigue a person began to

prefer telephone noise to the sound of the human voice.

As he continued the meditation that had been interrupted

by Martha Post's late night phone call, he was once again

startled by the piercing ring of the front door bell.

"Oh, already, give me a break," he thought to himself, as

he stumbled out of his chair and made his way to the front

door.

Arriving at the door, he saw an unfamiliar silhouette on

the window shade. Realizing the uninvited visitor would

undoubtedly go away if he ignored the doorbell, he considered

not opening the door.

During the past week, the front door had allowed an

incessant array of new problems to complicate the life of Dr.

Robert Louis Cassidy, and he sincerely wondered if there was

room in his life for yet another problem. Firmly grasping the

door knob with his right hand, Cassidy leaned against the

large, wooden door and wondered if his life was about to be

changed by the unexpected caller on the other side.

CHAPTER THREE

As he opened the front door, Cassidy stared at his late

night visitor. In turn, the young woman in the designer ski suit

and woolen snow bunny cap stared back at the fatigued

physician who was starting to look more like a poster child for

Biological Warfare than a contemporary practitioner of the

healing arts.

Glancing at the driveway where her late model Mercedes

was parked, Cassidy continued staring at his late night visitor.

“Can I help you,” he asked, expecting the beautiful woman

to admit she was lost and ask for directions.

Removing a European leather driving glove, the young

lady offered her hand to Cassidy in a businesslike fashion and

introduced herself,

"Doctor Cassidy, I'm Angela Fratello,” the young beauty

said, briskly shaking Cassidy's hand. "Please forgive me for

calling on you so late, but I need your help. I had an accident

while I skied at Elk Mountain tonight, and I'm starting to

experience some pain in my right foot. I live outside Scranton,

and I don't know if it's safe to drive that far without having my

foot examined."

With his attention still divided between his visitor and

what was undoubtedly the most expensive car to ever grace his

driveway, Cassidy invited Angela inside. Making her way into

Cassidy's office, Angela removed her woolen cap, and shook

out her wavy, brown hair.

Cassidy silently watched as she took off her ski suit,

revealing a gorgeous body in tight-fitting blue jeans and a

flannel shirt. As she turned toward the speechless physician

and smiled, the combination of her refulgent green eyes, rosy

cheeks, and red lips made Cassidy wonder if he wasn't about

to awaken from one of his fantasies.

Angela hopped on Cassidy’s examination table with some

difficulty, and as the doctor slowly removed the suede boot

from her right foot, she studied his office.

"You know, this is just how I pictured it," Angela said.

"Pictured what?" Cassidy inquired.

"Your office," she answered. "You know, I've been skiing

at Elk Mountain for years, and the favorite part of my ride

from Scranton has always been driving past your house. I've

often wondered what it was like inside, and for some reason,

it's just like I pictured it."

Angela stopped talking and winced with pain as Cassidy

removed a heavy woolen sock from her right foot.

"Oh, brother," Cassidy remarked, as he looked at the big

toe of Angela's right foot. "Your big toe is swollen and

severely infected. This didn't happen just tonight."

"No, it didn't," Angela conceded. "It's been swollen for a

few weeks and discolored for the past few days. To be honest

with you, I think it probably started about a month ago. One

of my avocations is ballet. I was doing The Nutcracker with the

Binghamton Ballet Company last month, and after one of our

rehearsals, I noticed a small ulcer under my toe. The ulcer

didn't get any bigger, so I just forgot about it. When the

swelling started a few weeks ago, I attributed it to a new pair

of Italian high heels I've been trying to break in. I wear high

heels all the time at work, and every so often I get a swollen or

discolored toe, which usually gets better after I soak it in hot

water and Epsom salts. What finally got me scared was a fall I

took tonight at Elk Mountain. When I got up, I found it hard

to put weight on the toe and started feeling a throbbing pain

from the toe into my foot. When I took my boot off and saw

how discolored my toe had become, I realized I needed some

help."

"Help is what you needed a month ago," Cassidy observed,

continuing to examine her toe with concern. "What you need

now is prayer."

"What do you mean - prayer?" Angela asked. "Prayer for

what?"

"Prayer that you don't wind up losing this toe," Cassidy

replied.

Returning to his consultation room, Cassidy sat down with

Angela and explained his findings.

"Miss Fratello, I'm concerned about the way your toe

looks,” Cassidy said. “Unless I miss my guess, you have a good

case of osteomyelitis starting. Now, osteomyelitis is…..”

"I know what osteomyelitis is, Doctor,” Angela

interrupted. “It's a bone infection. The question is what do we

have to do to take care of it?"

Cassidy leaned back in his chair and stared into his

patient’s expectant eyes.

"First of all, the diagnosis of osteomyelitis is usually made

with an X-ray and a few blood tests,” Cassidy replied. “If the

X-ray is inconclusive, a bone scan has to be done. When the

diagnosis of osteomyelitis is made, the treatment generally

consists of intravenous antibiotics for usually up to six weeks.

In some cases, even six weeks of antibiotics fail to resolve the

infection, and surgical intervention becomes necessary."

Cassidy watched Angela's face as he explained the

diagnosis and treatment of osteomyelitis, and he was surprised

her facial expression didn't change when the ominous reality

of her presumptive condition was explained. Cassidy expected

his patient to become frightened, if not hysterical, upon being

informed she might have to undergo extensive treatment for a

disease that had the potential of being refractory to even the

most aggressive medical therapy. To Cassidy, Angela looked

more like a medical school professor, who was administering

an oral examination on the diagnosis and treatment of

osteomyelitis, than an amateur ballerina who had unexpectedly

acquired the disease. The more Cassidy looked at Angela, the

more he realized he didn't know how to read her.

"Of course, all this is academic at the moment,” Cassidy

continued. “You need a few tests done before any diagnosis

can be made or any treatment can be started. Since you're

from Scranton, the best thing for us to do is to get in touch

with your personal physician as soon as possible and let your

doctor get the necessary tests down there."

"I'd really prefer not to," Angela answered emphatically.

"Why couldn't you do the tests at your hospital and treat me

here?"

"I don't think you understand what's going on here,"

Cassidy observed. "You may have a disease that is going to

require intravenous antibiotics for six weeks, and if the

antibiotics don't work, you may very well lose that toe. Sure, I

can diagnose your problem tonight, but why would you want

to be treated by a general practitioner in a small rural hospital

when you have your choice of modern hospitals, as well as

medical and surgical specialists, in Scranton? Besides, in a

town as big as Scranton, your doctor could arrange for nurses

from a Home Health agency to administer intravenous

antibiotics to you at home. I can't do that up here. To treat

you, I’d have to admit you to the Roaring Fork Hospital.”

"Could we take one step at a time?" Angela asked

diplomatically. "Could we make sure we're dealing with osteo

and not just cellulitis or something simple?"

"Osteo? Cellulitis? Who is this broad, anyway?" Cassidy

thought to himself, as he continued to stare at his late night

patient. Quickly realizing he was too tired to argue his point

any further, Cassidy decided to hoist the white flag.

"Okay, Miss Fratello, you win,” Cassidy conceded. “I had

nothing planned for tonight anyway. I was just going to sit

down by the fire with a bottle of Wild Turkey and get

smashed, but I guess a few tests won't set me too far back. I'll

draw a blood sample from you now, and while you're at the

hospital getting your foot X-rayed, I'll check your white blood

count and sed rate."

"Great," Angela replied. "Let's get these tests done, and

then I'll get smashed with you."

Totally surprised by her forward remark, Cassidy took

Angela back into his examining room. After he withdrew a

tube of venous blood from her right arm, Cassidy sent Angela

to the hospital for her X-rays. As he prepared the blood for

analysis, Cassidy thought about Angela and began to wonder

what the rich, out-of-town beauty really had on her mind.

Cassidy took one portion of Angela's blood sample and

poured it into a thin tube that resembled a glass soda straw. In

one hour's time, he would check the tube to see how fast the

blood cells sedimented from the fluid portion of the blood.

The resulting erythrocyte sedimentation rate, or sed rate,

would be useful to help substantiate the presence of an active

infection or inflammation in Angela's body.

Cassidy placed a few drops of the remaining blood into a

blood cell counting chamber. When this chamber was placed

under a microscope, an estimate of Angela's white blood cell

count could be made. A white blood cell count over 10,000

would be suggestive of an infectious process.

As Cassidy prepared to estimate Angela's white blood cell

count, he tried to understand why she was so adamant about

being treated by him. He wondered if Angela had a bad

experience with a physician in Scranton, or if she owed a

physician or hospital in Scranton a significant amount of

money. He wondered if she had to keep her medical problem

a secret from her employer, or if she was a fugitive from the

law and unwilling to be seen in a public place such as a

hospital.

Never short on imagination, Cassidy began to consider

other reasons for her reluctance to seek medical care closer to

home. With the Jennings case still in the back of his mind, he

wondered if Angela was trying to set him up for a malpractice

suit. After his recent visit from Teddy Edwards, he wondered

if the inexorable real estate mogul was, in some way,

responsible for Angela's mysterious, late night appearance.

All kinds of thoughts raced through Cassidy's tired mind,

but none of them made any sense. Regardless of Angela's

motives, the facts were still incontrovertible. Angela was one

pirouette away from losing a toe and in urgent need of medical

attention.

As Cassidy looked into the microscope at the blood cell

counting chamber, he was amazed at the number of readily

apparent white blood cells. Tallying the number of cells with a

hand counter, he quickly realized the final count would be

academic. There was little doubt Angela had a severe infection.

Just as Cassidy finished reading Angela's sed rate, she

returned from the hospital with her X-rays. Cassidy promptly

placed the films on the viewing box in his consultation room,

and his eyes widened when he saw the degree of bone

destruction in Angela's toe. What Cassidy had feared, the X-

rays had corroborated. Angela had osteomyelitis.

As Cassidy turned toward Angela, tears were already

starting to fill her eyes.

"You don't have to tell me," she mumbled from behind a

crumpled handkerchief. "I already looked at the X-rays. If you

don't mind, could we sit down by that fire you talked about?

I'd really appreciate a warm fire and something strong to

drink."

With tears in her eyes, Angela no longer seemed like a

patient to Cassidy. Instead, she seemed like a very frightened

30-year-old woman who needed someone to talk to. Without

hesitation, Cassidy escorted Angela into his living room.

With two tall glasses of unadulterated Wild Turkey close at

hand and one recently neglected fire rekindled, the two

strangers pulled their chairs closer to the fireplace.

"So, how bad were my tests?" Angela asked.

"Your white blood cell count was 19,000, which is roughly

twice normal,” Cassidy answered. “Your erythrocyte

sedimentation rate was 90, with normal being less than 20. So,

here’s the thing. It's almost midnight, and I doubt if I'll be

able to get in touch with your primary care doctor at this hour,

but the first thing in the morning, I'll….."

"I already told you I want you to treat me,” Angela

interrupted. “I don't want to go to any doctor in Scranton."

"Why?" Cassidy asked in an atypically loud voice.

"Because," Angela quickly answered. "I have my reasons."

"That's not good enough, Miss Fratello," Cassidy replied.

"I told you I have my reasons,” Angela shouted. "And will

you please stop calling me, 'Miss Fratello?' Try 'Angela,’ and

see if that works."

"Alright, Angela," Cassidy conceded in a quieter tone of

voice. "Put yourself in my position. I've all but finished the

absolute worst week in my entire precarious existence on this

planet. Then, out of nowhere, the most beautiful woman I've

ever seen shows up at beddy-bye time with a Mercedes, a

wardrobe out of the Sharper Image catalogue, a vocabulary that

includes words like 'osteo' and 'cellulitis,' the unexplained

ability to read X-rays, an advanced case of osteomyelitis, a

strange aspiration to be under the medical care of a country

doctor, and not one good reason not to obtain more

comprehensive and convenient medical care closer to home.

Now, if you were me, would you want some answers before

you dove into this case head first?"

Angela smiled and looked straight into Cassidy's baby

blues. Moving her chair closer to his, she put her hand on his

knee.

"Doctor Cassidy, you're a compassionate human being,”

she said. “You’re also a snappy dresser, and you pour a mean

drink. What's more, you're absolutely right. By the way, what

do your friends call you?"

"My friends?" Cassidy asked. "I don't have all that many

friends, but the few I have usually call me 'Bob.' Most of the

people around here call me 'Doctor Bob' or just 'Doc.' Sounds

like something out of The Muppets or Snow White, doesn't it?”

Angela sank into her chair and laughed.

“Patients who think I charge too much call me 'Butch

Cassidy,” he continued. “Others, who think I take too much

time sewing up their lacerations or removing splinters from

their behinds, call me 'Hopalong Cassidy,' I’m starting to

sound like a regular Saturday matinee."

Angela laughed again at his unusual insight, and then asked

Cassidy if she could call him, "Bob."

“Angela, you can call me anything you want as long as you

cut right to the chase and tell me why you won't let me send

you to a doctor in Scranton," Cassidy replied.

"Alright, Bob,” Angela agreed. “I’ll ‘fess up, but I don't

know if you'll like or even be able to understand my reasons.”

Angela paused and took another sip of bourbon before

continuing.

“The fact of the matter is I can't go to any of the doctors

in Scranton,” Angela admitted. “I know many of them

professionally, and I don't think they would want to see me as

a patient."

"What do you mean, professionally?” Cassidy asked. “Are

you one of those expensive call girls or something?"

“I'm not an expensive call girl or something,” Angela

loudly exclaimed, as she laughed and threw a phantom punch

in Cassidy’s direction. ” Of course, you might say I have been

called a 'whore,' at least in a pejorative sense, by a number of

doctors in Scranton."

"I still don't understand," Cassidy said. "Why can't you go

to a doctor in Scranton? Are you some kind of underworld hit-

person who specializes in Scranton doctors, or what?"

"Well, sort of," Angela admitted sheepishly. "The truth of

the matter is I'm an attorney, and my practice is devoted

exclusively to medical malpractice."

Angela paused and took another sip of bourbon as she

watched Cassidy sink deeper into his chair.

"Bob, I've successfully sued more doctors than the

Pennsylvania Medical Society cares to admit,” Angela

continued. “I'm also involved in a greater number of medical

malpractice suits at the present time than any other three

lawyers in Scranton combined. Now, maybe you can see why I

can't go to any doctors in Scranton. Bob, I don’t even go to

any dentists in Scranton. I went all the way to Philly to get

dental implants, and I still have to go there just to get regular

dental checkups.”

Cassidy took a healthy swig of Wild Turkey, and remaining

speechless, looked away from Angela.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" Angela asked,

trying unsuccessfully to make eye contact with Cassidy.

Resisting the temptation to tell Angela exactly what he

thought about lawyers and medical malpractice, Cassidy sat up

straight in his chair and tried to appear professional.

"Angela, what you do professionally is your business,”

Cassidy stated calmly. “My business is doing what's right for

my patients. As it pertains to you, my doing right consists of

dispelling these notions you have about not being able to

obtain the medical care you need in Scranton, and then

arranging such care for you."

Not wanting to hear what Cassidy was about to say,

Angela tried unsuccessfully to interrupt him.

"Let me finish, please,” Cassidy demanded in a much

louder tone of voice. “Just because you earn your living suing

doctors, that doesn't mean you can't find doctors in Scranton

who will be willing to take care of you. The very fact you're a

malpractice lawyer will probably help you receive meticulous

medical care. No doctor is going to take any shortcuts with a

malpractice lawyer, and a lot of these docs will probably even

butter up to you because they realize you might be a good

friend to have somewhere down the line. Now, I don't owe

any of these guys in Scranton a thing, and I could very well

play your little game and pretend all of them wear black hats

and steel cattle from the Little Sisters of the Poor, but that's

not what I'm about. That's why I have to insist you receive

your medical treatment closer to home. You may not realize it,

but it's really in your best interest."

"Cassidy, you sound like my parish priest," Angela

exclaimed. "Get down from your pulpit for a minute and listen

to me. I realize a lot of what you're saying is true. You may not

believe this, but I have a lot of personal friends in Scranton

who are doctors, and don't forget, a lot of these guys are

making big bucks from my law firm. We're paying some of

these guys ten-grand a pop to stick their head in a courtroom,

identify themselves as an expert witness, say the defendant

screwed up, and then excuse themselves because they have an

appointment with their investment counselor. So, I realize

there are plenty of doctors I could go to, but I don't choose to

go to any of them. Bob, you've got to realize my uncle's law

firm, Fratello, Bucci, and Forgione, is one of Scranton's oldest

and most respected law firms. You've also got to realize, in my

four and a half years with the firm, I've brought in more

money than any other lawyer in the firm's history. I've been

able to do this because I've worked hard at developing an

image, and that image would get shot down the tubes if I

started going to the enemy for help. Bob, I don't go after

innocent physicians with frivolous nickel and dime cases. I

only go after the real jerks who are out there hurting people.

Why, I throw away more potential malpractice cases in a day

than any other lawyer in Scranton gets offered in a month. So,

how about cutting me a break here. I need your help. I can't

force you to treat me, and I can understand your reluctance,

but, please, Bob, I'm scared. Help me."

"Boy, this chick knows how to handle herself," Cassidy

thought to himself. Still unwilling to concede, he took another

sip of Wild Turkey and prepared to invoke the powers of

rebuttal.

"Angela, all of this is real nice, but who died and left me in

charge of protecting your image?” Cassidy asked. “You know,

there are a few things you have to understand too. I've been in

practice two and a half years now, but it feels more like

twenty-two and a half. I'm already on my third malpractice

suit, and to this day, I still don't know what I did wrong. Every

time I try to vent some frustration with my insurance rep, he

tells me not to worry, to keep up the good work, and to just be

glad some Angel of Death isn't representing the plaintiff. Is

that the type of image you're trying to work up to? Am I

supposed to work a minor miracle here so someone will give

you a fancy title someday?"

"Bob, let me explain the whole 'Angel of Death' thing,”

Angela interrupted, smiling apologetically. “A few years ago, a

lawyer friend of mine came up to me after a trial I won for big

bucks, patted me on the back, shook his head, and said,

'Angela, you're death.' The guy was just trying to compliment

me on winning the case. Before I knew it, all of the other

lawyers started calling me the 'Angela of Death.' With time, the

letter, ‘A,’ got dropped, but the rest of the name stuck. Now,

they call me the Angel of Death. I think it's funny myself, and

it certainly hasn't hurt business any."

Cassidy's eyes widened upon hearing Angela's revelation.

Once again, he sunk back in his chair and stared at her.

"You're the Angel of Death?” he asked in disbelief.

"You look surprised," Angela replied. "What were you

expecting - an old hag with a broom and a pointed hat?"

"No, nothing like that," Cassidy answered. "Just someone

a little older, with long scraggly hair, and a long warty nose."

"Bob, I can't change who I am, but I don't apologize for it

either,” Angela said with obvious sincerity. “The Angel is a

part of me, but only a part. You may find this hard to believe,

but underneath that image, is a sensitive human being who

really cares about the human condition, a sick toe in bad need

of some urgent help, and a scared little girl who doesn't want

to lose that toe. Bob, please forget about the Angel, and forget

I come from Scranton, and please just help me like you'd help

some sick little kid from Roaring Fork."

Cassidy took a hard look at Angela, and just shook his

head.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," he said. "I can't believe I'm

about to admit the Angel of Death to the Roaring Fork

Hospital for treatment of her osteomyelitis."

"Uh, Bob, that's something else we have to talk about,”

Angela interjected. “I can't go into the hospital. We have to do

this thing on an out-patient basis."

"What?" Cassidy shouted. "What are you talking about?

Do you realize how serious this problem is? Listen, Miss Sugar

Plum Fairy, you're about one pirouette away from hanging up

your ballet slippers for keeps, and you're going to look pretty

silly chasing after some medical miscreant in the courtroom

with your cane. Listen, Angela, I'm still not sure I want to be

treating you at all, but there's no way I can treat you without

putting you in the hospital."

Taking a long drink of Wild Turkey and shaking his head

back and forth, Cassidy made no attempt to hide his mounting

anger.

"Bob, let's just analyze this thing for a minute,” Angela

said calmly. “Exactly what do you plan to do for me in the

hospital?"

"First and foremost, I.V. antibiotics," Cassidy answered

succinctly. "Then, whirlpool treatments, close observation, and

monitoring of the osteo's activity with X-rays and blood tests."

"Now, how many times a day would I be getting the I.V.

antibiotics?” Angela inquired.

"Let's see,” Cassidy said, giving Angela's curvaceous body

the once-over twice. “You're about 5’6” and 120 pounds, so

I'd probably give you one gram of I.V. Ceftriaxone once or

twice a day."

"You see, Bob, that's my point,” Angela observed

enthusiastically. “We can do this on an out-patient basis. You

could examine me every day and give me the intravenous

antibiotics in your office. I could certainly do the whirlpools at

home, and I'd go to your hospital for tests whenever you felt

they were necessary.”

"Ang, I don't stock I.V. antibiotics in my office because of

the expense,” Cassidy admitted. “However, I might be able to

get in touch with a Home Health agency in Scranton and have

their nurses give you the daily injections. I could check your

progress here in my office a few times a week."

"Bob, I don't want to get involved with any medical

agencies in Scranton either,” Angela replied. “Anyway, I have

a better idea. I have an uncle who owns a pharmacy in

Scranton. Just give me a prescription, and I'll get the I.V.

antibiotics from him."

"I don't believe you," Cassidy exclaimed. "You have an

answer for everything. Did it ever occur to you I might not be

able to see you daily for the next six weeks? Did it ever occur

to you I just might have a personal life and might already have

my evenings planned for the next six weeks?"

"Do you?" Angela asked.

"No," Cassidy confessed, "I don't, but that's beside the

point. Anyway, I still don't see how you're going to drive up

here every day from Scranton."

"Bob, that's the least of my problems," Angela replied. "I

only live 30 minutes from here, and I really don't mind the

drive at all. I know it would be more convenient to go into the

hospital, but I just can't. I'm ready to put the lid on one case,

my next trial starts the day after this one ends, and I'm

involved in a State Board of Medicine disciplinary action

against a physician. Besides, I'm dancing in Swan Lake next

season in Binghamton, and I'd never be able to stay in shape

in a hospital bed."

"What about your personal life?" Cassidy inquired. "Won't

all this running back and forth cut into your free time?"

"Not at all," Angela answered. "I'm not married or

engaged, and I don't even have a steady boyfriend. I go out on

dates when the situation is right, and I make appearances at

social functions in Scranton for business sake, but outside that,

I'm really pretty much of a loner. I live alone and I spend most

of my free time alone. I go skiing alone at Elk Mountain, drive

to Binghamton by myself for ballet, and think nothing of

picking up and following the sun for a weekend by myself."

"Do you prefer being alone?" Cassidy asked.

"Not really," Angela admitted. "I'd much prefer to be able

to do things closer to home with other people, but I intimidate

my friends and get bored listening to my colleagues talking

shop all the time. The only way I can enjoy myself is to get as

far out of town as possible and hope I can meet some people

who are willing to accept me for who I am. I really don't like

being a loner. In fact, if I had my 'druthers, I'd be married and

have a family. I'm Italian, and I have a strong sense of family,

but it's hard doing what I do for a living and being married at

the same time. My biological clock is starting to tick louder,

and every once in a while I panic when I think I'm going to

miss the chance of having my own family. So, what's a girl to

do? I'm not going to marry just anyone because my clock is

ticking louder, and I'm not about to give up a prominent

career. You know, Bob, I've often thought the perfect man

would have the mind of a doctor, the body of an athlete, and

the love of a priest. If such a man does exist, and if he ever

comes my way, I think I'll know. Then, I'll be able to consider

all my options. In the meantime, I'm content with my current

lifestyle."

"You know, Ang, you don't look anything like you really

are,” Cassidy observed. “I mean, you don't look like a lawyer,

you don't look like the kind of person who would ever be

alone, and you don't even look Italian. Your hair is light brown

and you eyes are green. I don't think I know any other Italians

who have such light features."

"Oh, that's the Norman influence," Angela replied. "I'm

Sicilian, and Sicily has a number of different bloodlines

because of invasions by tribes like the Normans and the

Saracens. The Normans had light hair and eyes while the

Saracens, who were Arabs, had very dark features. So,

somewhere down the line, I guess one of my ancestors took a

roll in the hay with some Norman soldier who had green eyes

and a long spear."

The two looked at each other and laughed.

"Just think what might have happened if the Normans

never invaded Sicily,” Cassidy observed. “Today, you might be

dishing out spaghetti in some Italian restaurant with a name

like 'Two Guys from Sicily' or 'Three Brothers from Italy.'"

"How about 'Seven Goombahs from Joisey?'” Angela

mused. “If the Normans never invaded Sicily, maybe I'd still

be in Palermo, picking olives by day and working as a bambino

factory by night. It boggles the mind, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," Cassidy said, losing himself in her deep

eyes. "It certainly does."

"What about you, Bob?" Angela asked. "What's a nice guy

like you doing all alone in a big place like this?"

"Oh, I don't know." Cassidy answered with an air of

introspection. "I guess I've never had the time to get interested

in anyone. It seems like my whole life's been a marathon, and

I've never really had any time for myself. We moved up here

from Philadelphia when I was 13, but I wound up going to

Scranton Prep because my father didn't like the local school

system. I dormed at Prep, and after graduation, I just moved

my bags across town to the University of Scranton. All

through college, I was sure I wanted to be a priest, and after I

graduated from the university, I entered Pius the Tenth

Seminary in Dalton. I stayed there for two years until my

mother came down with lung cancer. I took a leave of absence

from the seminary to take care of my mother, but somewhere

along the line, I got hooked on medicine and traded in my

prayer book for a stethoscope.”

“That’s very interesting,” Angela said. “I’m really

surprised.”

“While I was at Jefferson Medical College in Philadelphia,

my father was still depressed over my mother's death,” Cassidy

continued. “I would come home on weekends and during

vacations to spend my free time with him. I had just barely

finished the first year of a three-year family practice residency

at the Keystone Medical Center in Philly when my father came

down with cancer. I had to leave my residency to come back

to Roaring Fork to take over my father's medical practice. So,

as you can see, my dance card's been pretty full, and I've never

really had the chance to get interested in anyone."

"I find it hard to believe you haven't gotten involved with

anyone up here since you've been in practice,” Angela

observed. “You realize, of course, you're probably the most

eligible bachelor in the whole area."

"I don't know," Cassidy answered. "I've never really

considered Roaring Fork my home, and I don't really fit in

with the people around here. I care for them as patients, but

I've never found anyone around here who I could relate to as a

person. Do you realize you know more about me after two

hours than the rest of this town does after two and a half

years? So, what does that tell you?"

"I think it tells me this has been a long office call, and I

should head back down the mountain,” Angela replied, getting

up from her chair and gathering her belongings. “So, do we

have a deal, Bob? Will you take care of me?"

Cassidy took a long look at Angela's expectant face and

helped her with her jacket.

"Why do I get the strange sensation I'm going to live to

regret this?" Cassidy asked jokingly.

"Well, I know I won't," Angela replied, extending her hand

to Cassidy.

As Cassidy walked Angela to her car, they planned their

next meeting for the following evening.

"Is 9 o'clock alright?" Angela asked, as she got into her

Mercedes. "I'd come sooner, but I have a dinner engagement."

"Dinner engagement?" Cassidy inquired with the look of a

jealous teenager.

"Yeah, I'm having dinner at my uncle's house tomorrow

night," she answered.

"Which one, the lawyer or the pharmacist?” Cassidy

inquired.

"Neither," Angela answered with a smile. "I’m having

dinner with my uncle, the butcher."

"Nine o'clock will be fine," Cassidy replied, shaking his

head and smiling. "And don't forget the Ceftriaxone."

"That's easy for you to say," Angela quipped, as she tossed

Cassidy's prescription for the antibiotic into her glove

compartment.

Without saying another word, Angela smiled, waved, and

slowly drove away.

As the snow began to fall once again on Roaring Fork,

Cassidy waved to Angela. With only a pullover sweater to

protect him against the frigid night wind, Cassidy continued to

stand outside his house and watch the dark green Mercedes

make its way down the winding mountain road.

When Angela’s car was no longer in sight, Cassidy, who

seemed impervious to the cold night air, took a deep breath

and turned toward his house.

"It might be a mild winter after all," Cassidy thought to

himself, as he climbed the long flight of stairs that led to his

house and a well-deserved rest.