A Show of Hands
by Olaf Kroneman
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
“I am a former patient of that group. I guess I’m lucky to be alive. I always wanted a chance to settle the score. Money wasn’t enough, especially when you have a lot of it. Those guys never seemed troubled by what they did. People only feel remorse if they are caught.”
He notices me looking at his hand. “The thumb is handy; excuse my pun. You’d be surprised. I’m glad the King of Digits was saved.”
I feel uneasy, almost dirty, to be on the same side as the malpractice attorneys.
Bill Burns says, “We are the significant drivers of reform and quality improvements in a hospital. Doctors don’t police themselves.”
“Sometimes they do, but it is political and arbitrary,” I say.
“Doctor, we must find a prosecutor to call for a grand jury investigation.”
“Why not go directly to a trial? Hand out subpoenas.”
“This is all emotional for people like us. The case is no good. After hearing the evidence, a grand jury will decide if a crime has been committed and proceed to trial. I don’t think it will ever get to trial, but perhaps we can expose what they covered up many years ago. Maybe get some closure. I suspect we both suffer from PTSD.”
I never think of it as post-traumatic stress, but yes, it is.
“So, at the very least, there will be exposure?”
“That will likely have to be enough,” Mr. Burns says. “I don’t have the ability to summon a grand jury. The judges are not very fond of personal-injury attorneys; I could hurt the cause.”
I take in what he says. Judges and policemen seem to like doctors more than lawyers. An idea comes to mind.
“A patient of mine is a homicide detective. He knows everybody in city law enforcement.”
“You go without me,” Mr. Burns says. “Talk to your friend in Homicide.”
I feel sort of bad. Mr. Burns and I are a team. I don’t argue.
* * *
I go downtown to police headquarters. I read the directory and take the elevator to the ninth floor. The sign on the door reads: HOMICIDE.
I hesitate before I turn the door handle. I’m a doctor. I shouldn’t have to go to homicide for help. But things in medicine are not as they seem.
I meet my patient in his office. I am a bit uncomfortable as our roles have changed. Now he is in charge.
I explain the crime.
“So, this guy had an eighty percent mortality rate, and nobody did anything?”
“His partner was the chief of surgery.”
“The chief knew he was incompetent?”
“Without a doubt.”
“I have a friend who works for the attorney general. We can run it by her.”
* * *
The next day, the detective and I meet with the attorney general. I tell my story. I show her the data from the medical records.
“The old guys are still alive? I thought those bastards would be dead by now,” she says.
I’m confused. How would she know about those doctors?
“They are very much alive,” I say.
“What were the chances of a patient dying?”
“Eighty percent.”
“Murder,” she says. “It was murder and premeditated, but they covered it up. The governor’s up for re-election. This will be great for an election year. People will forget about inflation, crime, job losses and taxes.”
She, too, keeps her right hand in her pocket and shakes hands with her left.
“Do you think we can get an indictment?”
“No, but it will be a great show,” she says.
She took her hand out of her pocket and revealed a stump.
“I got my hand caught in an ironing machine when I was a little girl. That guy was the surgeon. They said they did everything they could but were unable to save my hand.”
She informs me that a grand jury consists of sixteen to twenty-three people. It is very secretive, completely closed. So, if we present the evidence and they don’t think the case should be pursued, then the bodies remain buried. There will be no exposure.
“If they don’t think there was a crime, there will be no need for investigation and indictments?” I ask.
“Then nobody will know what happened.”
“The guys walk?”
“Unfortunately, but I can arrange for a grand jury investigation. Your lawyer, not you, should reveal the evidence.”
* * *
The day came for us to meet at the state courthouse to speak to the grand jury. We are stopped at the court’s entrance, where we empty our pockets and walk through a metal detector.
I see the four old doctors who were complicit in the surgeries decades ago. They glare at me. One makes the crazy twirly sign at the side of his head and points at me.
We enter the grand jury room. Twenty-three jury members are seated in a semi-circle on an elevated stage. They peer down at my lawyer and me. Their body language and facial expressions appear sympathetic to the old physicians.
The defense presents first. The accused sit at a table next to their attorney. They look confident and smug. They smile, whispering in each other’s ear. They laugh.
Their lawyer speaks, “These four men, doctors, are pillars of our medical community. They are also civic-minded leaders. They should not be here. This is a show trial. Election year lawfare.”
“One of these men was the chief of surgery at the time. To this day he is revered. His oil portrait is displayed at the entrance of the hospital. There are surgical lectures in his honor. He is worshiped. Yet he sits here accused as an accessory to murder.”
He stops speaking and clasps his hands together as if praying.
He continues, “I pray you have some respect for the medical profession. Doctors police themselves. It’s part of their sacred oath.”
The jury looks at my attorney and me, not at the accused. A few shake their head.
Their lawyer continues, “His partner sits next to him. He is the focus of the complaint. I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, would the chief of surgery risk his reputation, let alone the lives of the patients, and let this man operate if he was incompetent?”
He pauses. “The answer is no, he would not.”
“The two other accused were the chairman of the medical staff and the chief medical officer. They were medical men, not surgeons. They would be unfettered to stop institutional malpractice performed at the hands of surgeons.”
Another dramatic pause. “I ask these doctors to stand. I want the jury to get a good look at these gentlemen.”
The four stand. They look dignified and professional in their three-piece suits and bow ties. They look stoic. They don’t smile or whisper to each other.
While they remain standing, their attorney says, “These distinguished doctors have been grabbed out of retirement and accused of murder or accessory to murder. This is ludicrous. There will be defamation suits after this hearing. My clients will be made whole.”
He looks at the grand jury. He scans all twenty-three. He says, “Thank you for your attention to this serious matter.”
He bows slightly from the waist and returns to his seat.
One of the grand jury members applauds.
The presiding judge hits the wooden disk with his gavel and warns against further demonstrations.
The eyes of the grand jury emit rays of contempt directed at my attorney and me. Bill Burns the Battler has his work cut out for him. We are screwed.
He begins. “That is a tough act to follow, but I will go with the truth. Truth is difficult to suppress because it is too powerful. It has been over forty years since these crimes were committed, but truth will finally prevail here today.”
He takes out the medical records. “The surgeon who performed the operations was incompetent, as the following data will prove. But what is worse is that the other three doctors allowed this to happen again and again. I will present the death rate but not the scores of lost arms and hands, because they are too numerous to count. That can come out in discovery when we go to trial.”
“In 1984, there were thirteen deaths, and the expected number was zero.”
The faces of the grand jury appear puzzled.
“In 1985, there were ten deaths, and the expected number was zero.”
The jury looks ashen.
“In 1986 there were six deaths and the expected mortality was zero.”
The jury is frozen.
“In 1987, there were twelve deaths, and the expected mortality was zero.”
“In 1988, my law firm sued the doctor and the hospital. They stopped doing the surgeries. We had no idea of the cover-up. Had we known, we would have gone to the state attorney general. There were forty-one avoidable deaths.”
My lawyer continues. “The doctor that sits at my side tried to stop it and was destroyed professionally but not morally. It was like he stumbled upon a shallow grave containing forty-one bodies. The bodies were not like those discovered following a wartime atrocity. There were no partially decomposed bodies or vacant eye sockets staring out of human skulls. There was no choking smell of the dead. The evidence of the slaughter was neatly cataloged in a medical records department. The atrocity was sanitized, civilized, and hidden. To me, it’s even more frightening.”
He stops speaking and walks around in a semi-circle. It is very quiet; you can hear his footsteps. “You know, I can’t get this thought out of my mind. At Nuremberg, several Nazi doctors were accused of actively or passively allowing atrocities to occur. The prosecutor said to them that they were all ‘yes’ men. Even if they were only complicit, they were just as guilty. He asked, ‘Where are the no men? The prosecutor answered for them: ‘All the no men are dead.’”
The lawyer representing the accused physicians stands and shouts, “I object to your comparing these fine men to Nazi doctors.”
I can’t help it, I spring to my feet. “I tried to stop them,” I say. “Those bastards killed a lot of patients and maimed even more. It was all covered up.”
The judge shouts at me. “Get that man out of here.” He bangs his gavel. “Ninety days in jail for contempt.”
Two bailiffs escort me out of the proceedings. I am placed in an isolation room after surrendering my belt and shoelaces. I did not help myself. The grand jury must think me crazy.
The windowless isolation room is small and claustrophobic. I sit on an orange plastic chair and stare up at a large clock encased in a wire cage. The only thing I can do is watch the hands slowly and painstakingly move.
One hour, another hour — it is taking too long, and that is not good. The facts are the facts. There should be no deliberation.
My lawyer enters. He is smiling.
“What took you so long. What happened?”
“The grand jury was riveted,” he says. “They asked for a show of hands to see if there should be indictments. Twenty-three arms were raised, sixteen hands, and seven amputated stumps. ‘We are all victims,’ they said.” He removes his amputated hand from his pocket and raises his manicured thumb. “We are going to trial.”
“What took them so long to reach a verdict? I thought I would crack up.”
“The indictment went fast. After the hearing, the jury members shared their stories with me. I couldn’t get them to stop talking. They are disappointed the statute of limitations is up, but they insist on going to trial for the murder charge.”
“What about my contempt charge?”
“Dropped,” he says. “Did you observe the judge?”
“Not really. I just heard the smashing of the gavel.”
“Did you notice which hand he used.?”
“No.”
“He used his left; his right hand was an amputated stump.”
“Let’s go watch those bastards shuffle out.” We leave the room in time to see the old doctors exit.
They are handcuffed and indicted for murder. They are suddenly aged and bent over. They remind me of the ancient concentration camp guards who, decades later, are finally caught and must confront and account for their atrocities.
“How do you feel?” my attorney asks.
“I feel like something I lost has been returned.”
“Justification?”
“No, I didn’t need it.”
“What should we do now?’
I think for a moment and explain about the patients on dialysis and the fact that I might be complicit with Big Dialysis.
“Are they causing harm?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.” I explain the high rate of kidney failure in Black patients, the potential therapies available, and the lack of progress.
“When we take depositions in those clinics,” he says, “most dialysis patients are Black. I never thought about it. Something is not right; I can smell a cover-up like a shark smells blood.”
“Too many people are keeping quiet,” I say, “including me.”
“The nice thing about being a personal injury attorney is that you make money by not being complicit. You make money by being a pain in the ass. It’s just the opposite for doctors. There’s a lot of pressure on you guys to go along.”
“It is a lot easier,” I say.
“Do you want to investigate the dialysis monopolies? You will likely lose your job.”
“Let’s do it.”
He put his right arm around me. His withered hand feels like a rock. From the corner of my eye, I see the thumb’s up. We walk to the street.
Copyright © 2025 by Olaf Kroneman
