Tampa, Florida
Thursday 7:20 p.m.
January 7, 1999
Later, I changed into a canary-yellow sweat suit and made myself a drink. I went out to our balcony and sat with my feet propped up, lighting up my first Partaga of the day. It was after dusk, but not dark. The sky was filled with reds and oranges. Tomorrow would be another beautiful day. I was still sitting there, contemplating what to do about Carly’s problem when George came out to join me. I was glad to see he’d brought a larger than usual glass of Glenfiddich.
“How do you feel about room service tonight?” he asked me as he sat down in the rocker next to mine. “I can order up some poached salmon over greens with raspberry vinaigrette and fresh sourdough rolls. What do you say?”
“Sounds good to me,” I answered him, still contemplating.
“I’ll give you a silver dollar for your thoughts. They look valuable.”
“I was just thinking how really unfortunate it is that the police department never closes.” Then, I told George, my partner in all things, about Carly’s visit.
“What is it about you that brings everyone with a problem to your door?” The question was rhetorical. It was far from the first time I’d been asked. Nor the first time I’d asked it of myself. For a long time I felt as if I walked into every room with a large sign around my neck that said “bring your problems to Willa.” In every crowd, at every party, in every organization I joined, it seemed I soon became the “mother” of the group. Messy divorce? Problems with your children? Out of money? Weight problems? Drugs, alcohol, gambling? Ask “Dear Willa a/k/a Mighty Mouse.”
Now that I know myself better, I know I wear my philosophy on my sleeve. You see, I believe all problems can be solved. It’s that simple. And most people don’t. Most people just want to wallow in it, but they don’t want it fixed, especially if the fix requires the acceptance of personal responsibility and personal change. On some level, I like solving problems, other people’s problems anyway.
I accepted that was why Carly had come to me in the first place. Not because she had any special affection for me. It’s just that I’ve always been the problem solver. And she certainly had a problem. Where else would she go?
But this time, George was as distressed by Carly’s situation as I had been, maybe more. If I try to mother everyone who comes along, George takes in strays, any stray, as long as they’re a stray. Because Carly had been estranged from the family lately, George was particularly protective. He’d always liked Carly and he felt protective of her.
“Don’t you know someone to whom you could entrust this information in confidence? It seems the sort of thing that needs to be disclosed, but I certainly wouldn’t want Carly to be arrested just for having suggested the possible identity of a dead man,” he said. George still believes in all American institutions.
“I think I’d have to give some reason for my suspicions. Since I never learned why Carly was asked to leave the prosecutor’s office, I’m not sure that if I disclosed her name, she wouldn’t become a suspect. I can’t risk that.”
George and I debated the ethics and the practicalities for another hour before concluding that perhaps the tried and true “anonymous phone call” was the best way to go. Since it was scrupulously important, at least to me, that I not be involved, George volunteered to make the call from a pay phone in the local supermarket. I was amused and surprised. Until he suggested it, I wasn’t really sure George knew where the local supermarket was, and cloak and dagger is clearly not his style. I’m not sure he even knows who James Bond is. George really is a sport.
We agreed on what he would say and how he would say it. I told him it was important to keep the call to less than three minutes so that it couldn’t be traced. After we got everything worked out, he went downstairs to drive himself to the phone.
I waited for what seemed like forever. By the time George got back, I’d already finished three more drinks and smoked two more cigars. One a day is my usual self imposed limit. I saw his car pull up in the driveway and I poured us both another drink. George is not a man meant for intrigue and I knew that he would be at least as shaken as I was.
“Well, what happened?” I pounced on him as soon as he walked in the door.
“It went as well as can be expected. I called the downtown branch instead of 911. I know all 911 calls are taped. I disguised my voice and I said ‘I think the body you found yesterday morning in Tampa Bay is Dr. Michael Morgan’.”
“Did they act like they believed you?”
“They asked me to repeat the information. After I repeated it twice, making a total of three statements in the very same words, I hung up. I think the whole call took about two minutes. Then I got back in my car and drove directly here.”
“Were you followed?”
“Christ, listen to you! I don’t know whether I was followed. I’ve never been followed in my life except in a funeral procession. I’d have no idea how to find out. Did you see anyone else come up the driveway behind me?”
I told him I hadn’t and we both tried to calm down. At the moment, it appeared this was the most we could do. I had called Carly twice after George left. No answer. For all I knew, she could have moved or changed her number. In any event, we’d given the authorities the information we had and, with luck, we wouldn’t have to deal with it further. I made a mental note to look up whether obstruction of justice was an impeachable offense first thing tomorrow morning. I was sure I knew the answer, but pretending I didn’t gave me some hope.
We had the dinner George had suggested earlier sent up to our dining room and, although neither of us said anything, I knew we were both waiting for the evening news. At 11:00, we turned on the local broadcast. Frank Bennett carried the major stories, including the unidentified body. He recapped the prior reports, the reasons the police had for the conclusion that the victim had been killed before he was dumped in the Bay. The only new information came at the very end of the segment.
“This spot,” Bennett said, “just in the middle of the Skyway Bridge, is where the body was found. But there’s no evidence to suggest the victim was dumped from the bridge. In fact, it’s almost certain that anyone stopping along the bridge, even in the early morning hours, would have been observed by passing motorists.
“Police Chief Ben Hathaway told NewsChannel 8 he believes the body was dumped way back here at the Port of Tampa, and unusual currents related to last week’s storm washed the body toward the bridge. This is Frank Bennett, reporting live from the Sunshine Skyway.”
Neither Frank, nor any of the other channels carried any information regarding the identity of the man. In fact, by eerie coincidence, none of the journalists even speculated on whom the man might be.
George and I went to bed and had a very uneasy night. Every time I woke up, he was already awake. When the clock finally read 5:00 a.m., there was no way I could continue pretending to sleep, so I got up. George was, finally, snoring. I got Harry and Bess, our two Labradors, and went down to the beach for our morning run. For once, I was in the office well before the CJ or anyone else.
I was just thinking it might be nice to take a nap, when I realized it was past time to take the bench. Although judges kept me waiting often enough when I was in practice, I try not to keep a room full of lawyers, at a gazillion dollars an hour, waiting in my courtroom. It’s just my little way of reducing the cost of litigation.
I slipped my arms into my robe, zipped it up, took a deep breath for patience and stamina, and walked straight through the back door onto the bench.
As I feared, the court reporter was seated, the bailiff at the door and the room full of charcoal pinstripes and red ties. Everyone jumped up at my abrupt and unannounced entrance: well-dressed jack-in-the boxes. I motioned them to be seated.
I looked around for any women lawyers who might be in the room and, predictably, saw none. Few women lawyers have federal court cases. Federal courts handle larger, more sophisticated disputes and crimes. Unfortunately, in Tampa as everywhere, relatively few women have a practice including the magnitude of claims typically brought in federal court. Whenever a woman appears in my courtroom, I always call her case first, just so I can give her the preferential treatment I never received as a lawyer. If they catch me at it, I’ll find some believable way to deny it.
Calling the court to order is an old-fashioned custom required by the United States Code. But since I was already seated, I just nodded to the clerk to skip it and call the first case; first come, first serve, just like McDonald’s.
On Fridays, I hear motions from ten until one. It’s perceived to be a waste of judicial time and not worth the energy by most of my colleagues. I’m the only judge in the Middle District who schedules oral argument regularly. On any given Friday, I may hear up to twenty different motions. My colleagues are right about one thing: it takes a lot of time and energy to prepare for these oral arguments and they usually don’t change my mind. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court is wrong about something else--the quality of argument is generally much higher than judges like to admit.
I saw Christian Grover sitting in the back of the courtroom carrying on not-so-quiet conversation with other lawyers waiting their turn. His motion was number four on my docket, but since I detest his style and because I didn’t want to give him an audience for the morning, I put his matter at the end. I could tell he was wildly annoyed and he began to speak louder and louder, just to challenge my authority. I made him wait until 12:45, when I finally allowed my clerk to call his case.
“Jones v. General Medics, Case No.: 95-57-Civ-T-23E,” the clerk called out.
“Ready, Your Honor” O’Connell Worthington, himself. I hadn’t seen him come in.
“Ready,” Grover said, unable to summon the courtesy to call me Judge. I tried not to smile. It was so easy to tweak him these days. I’m told there was a time when he wasn’t so self important, but that was long ago in a galaxy far away. Since then, Christian Grover has been President of the State Bar, President of the American Trial Lawyers Association, President of the Florida Trial Lawyers Association, and on the adjunct faculty of most of the Florida law schools. So many titles, so little humility.
O’Connell began his argument. “Your Honor, we’re before the court today on Defendant’s Motion to Dismiss Plaintiff’s claims for failure to state a cause of action against us. Plaintiff just doesn’t have any evidence that my client has done anything wrong in this case.”
Worthington went on for twenty minutes, explaining why Grover had been unable to satisfy the pleading requirements of the Federal Courts to keep his case alive. With every word, Grover was turning redder in the face until he was sputtering. He kept popping up and down, bursting to interrupt. He didn’t dare. I run a tight courtroom and I don’t allow the lawyers to berate one another or talk between themselves during argument. Grover is well aware of my rules. He didn’t say anything out loud during Worthington’s argument, but he certainly let me know, along with the few remaining people in the courtroom, that he would sure like to.
After several minutes of long-winded argument, Worthington was finally winding up “and for those reasons, Your Honor, which have been more fully outlined in our papers, we request that the Court dismiss this claim against my client.”
Grover slowly stood up to his full six feet, three inches, buttoned his double-breasted jacket, pulled down on the French cuffs of his shirt, smoothed his hair and moved to the podium, poised to begin what I’m sure he planned to be a speech worthy of the congressional record. I held up my hand.
“Mr. Grover, just a moment. Let me talk to Mr. Worthington. Mr. Worthington, you’ve made an eloquent argument. I’d like to grant your motion. I happen to agree with many of the things you’ve said.” Grover was like a six-year-old who needed to go to the bathroom. He could hardly contain himself. I continued to hold up my hand, preventing him from talking at all. “However, we’ve thoroughly researched the issues and the cases you’ve relied upon are not sufficient to allow me to grant summary judgment to your client under Florida law. I’m denying the motion at this time, without prejudice to your right to bring it again. I’ll prepare the order. Thank you gentlemen.”
I stood up and left the bench while the bailiff was still saying “all rise.” When my law clerks were back in the office, I could hear them laughing.
“Did you see the look on Christian Grover’s face? I don’t think anyone has refused to let him talk in fifteen years.”
“You got that right,” the other clerk replied. “I’ve never seen anybody shut him up before!” At least that would give them something to talk about over dinner this evening and Worthington could go back to his office and profess his victory over Grover, even though he lost his motion.
By some miracle, my afternoon calendar was clear. I tried to work, but I just couldn’t concentrate. If I didn’t get to the bottom of this thing with Carly, I knew I’d never get any work done. Weary tired of waiting for the problem to solve itself and not getting the answers I needed. I grabbed my purse and headed for the judge’s garage. If I dropped in unannounced, Carly would have to see me.
I drove to MedPro, which was across the Gandy Bridge on Roosevelt Boulevard in St. Petersburg. In the parking lot, I pulled into the only empty spot marked “visitors.” I’d never been to MedPro before and I was impressed with the aesthetics of the building. There was a small pond out back with a long dock running from the building to a large gazebo. The building itself was pristine white with “MedPro, Inc.” in large blue letters over the door. The lobby was similarly clean and decorated in a contemporary style. It continued the azure blue and bright white color scheme.
The receptionist smiled brightly at me as I approached her. Do you need great teeth to be a receptionist? “Good morning. My name is Wilhelmina Carson. I’m here to see Ms. Carly Austin.” When she asked me if I had an appointment, I lied.
I heard the receptionist call Carly’s office. The receptionist continued to smile at me, but I could tell that what she heard from the other end of the phone was not what she wanted to hear. Her smile faded. Unexpected visitors were apparently not the norm at MedPro, Inc.
When she hung up the phone, the receptionist told me nicely, but with a shade less warmth, that Ms. Austin’s secretary would be right down. The secretary arrived less than three minutes later, introduced herself, gave me a visitor’s badge to attach to my jacket and asked me to follow her.
It was a long walk back to Carly’s office through several corridors. Each time we came to a door, the secretary held up a security card to an electronic reader and the door automatically unlocked. I noticed that the card readers were located on both sides of the doorway, so that it was impossible to travel throughout the various departments without security access, both in and out.
“Ms. Austin is in a meeting at the moment,” the secretary said. “She asked me to make you comfortable in her office and to tell you she’d be with you as soon as she can. Would you like coffee or soda?”
I assured her I would be fine waiting for Ms. Austin until she arrived. She left me alone in Carly’s office, which faced the small pond I saw from the parking lot. It was really quite a lovely view, complete with wild life, including a couple of gators sunning themselves on the bank.
Carly’s office was pretty nice for a junior counsel. It was about twelve by sixteen feet with a reasonably sized desk and credenza as well as a small conference table, a bookcase and two client chairs facing the desk. The windows covered one entire wall, opposite the door. The office had no personal effects in it: no pictures, no artwork, no desk accessories. Carly had worked here almost three years and if she left tomorrow, new counsel could move into this office without so much as rearranging the furniture. Comforting thought to a young lawyer--you’re an interchangeable chair.
Carly’s secretary didn’t close the door and neither did I. I stood with my back to it, looking out the windows for what seemed like half an hour, but was probably closer to ten minutes. Then I sat down in one of Carly’s client chairs and noticed a copy of MedPro’s Annual Report on the table. I picked it up and read the biographical section on the company’s history.
MedPro was formed in 1980 by three doctors, one of whom was, to my surprise, Dr. Michael Morgan. The other two founders were Dr. Carolyn Young and Dr. Alan Zimmer. Morgan, Young and Zimmer were all faculty members and research scientists at CFU Medical School in the early seventies when they discovered new applications for silicone technology on a grant funded by one of the major silicone manufacturers.
The report said that, at the time, the manufacturer was looking for a more “responsive” gel for its breast implants, something that would more closely approximate the feel of human tissue. A silicone breast implant is much like Jello in a baggie. The research challenge was to come up with a gel that would be firm enough to resist leaking through the outer envelope and hold up well inside the breast tissue and yet soft enough to approximate the feel of human breast tissue.
At the time, radical mastectomy was the surgical method of choice for the treatment of breast cancer. The procedure was physically and psychologically devastating to the patient and everyone was racing to find an implant that could be used in reconstruction at the same time as the initial surgery.
Study after study had shown that waking up after mastectomy, either bilateral or unilateral, and observing her scarred and flat chest, was more emotionally devastating to the patient than the initial cancer diagnosis. If the reconstruction could be done at the same time as the mastectomy, then the initial shock of the surgery was significantly blunted.
The problem was that the implants available were hard and conical. If both breasts were removed, replacing both with implants would result in a symmetrical appearance. If only one breast was removed, an implant would be obvious.
Even in a double mastectomy case, the harder implants were often undesirable because they were so obviously not a part of the more mature body of a woman likely to have breast cancer. Most breast cancer patients are over fifty and have born children. Their breasts didn’t look like an 18-year-old’s before surgery, and implants that made the breast look like an 18-year-old’s after surgery weren’t acceptable to many patients. The patients wanted to look and feel just like they had before the surgery, no better and no worse.
Dr. Young became interested in the project after her mother had a mastectomy and was required to wear a prosthesis. Dr. Young, already interested in silicone chemistry, sold her concept to a group of manufacturers at the American Society of Testing and Materials. Three of the manufacturers took her up on the proposal and issued a multi-million dollar grant to her and her two colleagues.
This was a complete paradigm shift for me. I had no idea of the history behind the development of breast implants. It was hard for me to reconcile the chauvinistic product to the altruistic picture painted by the annual report.
After three years, the report continued, Drs. Morgan, Young and Zimmer did discover a suitable responsive gel and all three manufacturers began to make implants using the formula the doctors had created. The new implants were an instant success and immediate reconstruction became the standard of care following unilateral or bilateral mastectomy.
Dr. Young’s mother was one of the first patients. A long testimonial letter from her was reprinted in its entirety. A footnote to the report indicated that Mrs. Young had died less than a year after receiving her implant and had granted permission for an autopsy to further her daughter’s research. No results of the autopsy were included.
Later, after observing the success made of their discovery and wanting to get in on the money, Drs. Morgan, Young and Zimmer formed MedPro, Inc. They mortgaged everything they owned to get the company started. At first, they manufactured breast implants using their responsive gel. Later, they developed other breast implant products to deal with issues such as hardening of the breasts and rupture of the implants that would sometimes occur a few months to a few years after implantation. After the initial lean years of start up costs, MedPro grew so quickly it went public in 1985.
From my discussions with George about initial public offerings, I knew Drs. Morgan, Young and Zimmer must have become immediate millionaires on paper based on the value of their stock when they went public. What must that kind of money have meant to research scientists used to eating potted meat on a regular basis?
The infusion of capital from the stock sale enabled the company to branch out into the manufacture of other medical devices. They acquired a patent and marketed kinetic therapy products to prevent bedsores in bed-ridden patients. They produced lifesaving silicone catheters and hydrocephalic shunts. By late 1991, their sales exceeded $500,000,000. In 1992, MedPro was listed as one of the top ten publicly-traded companies in Florida.
That was as far as I got when I heard Carly come in. I slipped the Annual Report into my purse for further reading at another time. It was a public document. I wasn’t stealing anything.