FanStory.com - This Time It's Personalby Terry Broxson

I have been a lawyer for thirty-three years. A few high-profile cases made me a celebrity of sorts. Texas Monthly Magazine named me, Jeb Woods, the best "Criminal Defense Lawyer" in the state. The media, especially television news programs, have sought out my opinions on legal matters.

Over the years, I have defended a plethora of charges against a wide range of defendants. I don't lose cases I take to trial. I occasionally settle a case when it's in the client's best interest. I have never had a personal interest in the outcome of any of my legal work.

My law firm has four lawyers and ten other employees. We are expensive. We are worth it. I don't like repeat business. I tell my clients, "If I get you a get-out-of-jail card, you better use it wisely." I do work for the same organizations more than once, but not the same individual.

I do not represent those seeking political office, holding political office, or who formerly held political office.

I don't have much of a personal life. I was married once for five years. She wanted more from me than my full-time plus twenty-five percent law practice provided her.

Usually, I discussed any case I considered with my team members, but not this time. This was personal.

My mother died last month at eighty-three. She died of heart failure. She lived in West Texas all her life. For the previous three years, she lived in an assisted living facility. I lived three hundred miles from her, but I saw her often and talked to her frequently. My younger brother moved into the house we grew up in after our mother moved to assisted living. He took care of the home and our mother in a way I couldn't do.

The way I figured it, whatever he wanted, if I could provide it, he would get it. But it was not his style to ask me for things. It was not my style to talk things over with him,

I saw my mother three days before she died. She lay in a hospital bed. Her pastor, my brother, and a doctor gathered around her when I entered the room. The Doctor, Rudra Patel, MD, explained a problem in her right leg.

"Mrs. Woods, you have an infection in your right leg that I do not think can be cured. The only solution is to amputate the leg."

There was silence in the room. I looked at my brother, who shook his head. The pastor looked at his feet. After a couple of moments, my mother said, "Doctor, do whatever you need to do."

Dr. Patel said, "Okay, you rest; I will be in touch."

Dr. Patel left the room, and my brother and I stepped out into the hall. I asked him, "Randy, what is going on?"

"Jeb, it is like this. There is a problem with the leg. She has congestive heart failure. Dr. Burks, her physician at assisted living, says he thinks she will only live for a week, maybe less."

"Dang, why would anyone want to amputate the leg of an eighty-three-year-old woman in that condition?"

"I am planning on asking Dr. Burks that exact question."

"Randy, I would like to be there for that conversation."

Randy and I drove to the assisted living facility, about fifteen minutes from the hospital. We met with Dr. Burks in his office. Randy introduced me, but I wanted Randy to take the lead on this meeting because he knew Dr. Burks and I didn't.

"Dr. Burks, my brother, and I were just at the hospital with our mother when Dr. Patel visited and told her she needed to have her leg amputated. We wanted to see what you thought."

"That is unfortunate. Look, guys, I am her attending physician, not Dr. Patel. I suggest we bring her back here for a few days. Randy, nothing has changed. She has days at best. With amputation, she could easily die on the operating table."

Randy says, "Dr. Burks, I like that idea."

I add, "Me too. I don't want her in that hospital unless it is absolutely necessary."

"Okay, I will put in transfer orders."

We saw Mother in her small apartment a couple of hours later. She was happy to be back. There was no talk about amputation. The following morning she was in a coma. She died two days later.

Her pastor did a nice job with her funeral; what few friends and relatives she had not outlived came to say goodbye. It was a sad time, but we celebrated her remarkable life.

I needed to get back to my office in Dallas, but I wanted one more conversation with Dr. Burks. I didn't plan on inviting Randy.

I met Dr. Burks at a coffee shop. He said he liked the place because of their pie. I thought it was to be away from prying eyes and ears. But the strawberry pie was good.

"Dr. Burks, I want to ask you about Dr. Rudra Patel."

"Jeb, I thought as much. Please call me Robert. What do you want to know?"

"Was he right about my mother's leg?"

"No."

"Okay, what do we do about it?"

"Jeb, what do you want to do about it?"

"It is not a malpractice case because he didn't operate, but he wanted to, so it's maybe a medical ethics case."

"Let me explain how it works out here in West Texas. Rudra is part of a family of respected physicians. His father, two brothers, a sister, a couple of uncles, and some cousins are all esteemed doctors. Rudra is thirty-one, the youngest. He is new here. No one here will file a medical ethics case against him."

"Robert, does that include you?"

"No one."

"Has he tried this with other patients that you know about?"

"It might be fair to say that an older patient on Medicare with a very slim chance of living much longer might have had an unnecessary procedure right before they died. May have been more than one such incident. Some surgeons may think this is the last chance to get a billable."

"Robert, I have heard of that."

"It's hard to prove, counselor. I would say impossible out here."

"Robert, it was good to meet you. Thank you for taking care of my mother in a responsible way and for the medical education about West Texas."

"Jeb, thanks for the pie."

***

I had a lot to think about on my drive back to Dallas. I debated the merits of trying to do something within the system to try and stop Dr. Rudra Patel from doing unethical and potentially harmful surgeries. I also thought he was young; this could continue for a long time.

By the time I got home, I had a plan. I wondered if my plan differed from what Dr. Patel had been doing. I conclude with two points of difference. One, I was not being paid. Two, it had been my mother.

I called John Carmello and asked him for a private meeting. John was the owner of a conglomerate of companies. He agreed to see me the following afternoon. John had never been a client, per se. But I had represented four of John's top lieutenants.

According to the Justice Department's Organized Crimes Division, John's interests were far-flung. As far as I knew, all of John's businesses were legitimate. The four times I had represented John's people, I had been very successful. John gladly paid my fees but said, "If I can ever help you let me know."

I explained my situation and concern about Dr. Patel.

John looked me in the eye without blinking and said, "Do you want him killed?"

"No, I don't want anybody killed." Then I explained to John what I did want.

***

A couple of weeks later, on a Sunday morning, my cell phone showed an incoming call from my brother.

"Hey, Randy, what's going on?"

"Well, you will not believe it."

"Try me; I'm a lawyer; I have heard it all."

"Last night, Dr. Patel, the doctor who wanted to take mother's leg off, was involved in a car wreck."

"Is he okay?"

"Jeb, he is going to live."

"How did it happen?"

"They say he may have been drinking and driving when he went off the road in his Mercedes and rolled his car. He was thrown from the car and broke one leg in four places. But the worse part his right hand had been severed. They found his hand in the car. He was lucky someone saw the accident and got help."

"I think his days of operating are over."

"A strange thing happened, he woke up screaming in his hospital bed because of a song playing over his intercom."

"Really, what song?"

"The Beatles, 'I Want to Hold Your Hand."