Cal Burton backed his red Porsche Carrera 911 cabriolette near a pine tree in front of the Armstrongs’ to prevent a bump or scratch from a drunk or careless partier. He strolled through the front door without a knock, looking for John. Cal was always impeccably dressed, and today he was dapper in his polo shirt and pressed pants. He arrived just in time to catch the end of Rick’s diatribe.

“Then who would attend these wonderful parties?” Cal said. He smiled as he reached up and placed his hand on his host John Armstrong’s shoulder. John noticed that Cal’s short brown hair now had grey streaks in it. Had that many years passed?

“Rick, meet Cal Burton. Trial lawyer and medical malpractice expert. No one is better.”

Rick gave Cal an embarrassed smile. “I sort of got carried away there. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

Cal smiled back as only a practiced litigation attorney can. Rick could have cursed Cal’s mother and he would have just grinned. The party was a prime source for his referrals and leads, and he was not going to let a half-drunk redneck radiologist screw it up. “No offense taken. I understand your anger. There’s plenty of resentment between malpractice attorneys and doctors. One thing you have to understand is that we are the only watch-dog there is. Doctors have never policed themselves well enough to prevent bad doctors from practicing. Only bad doctors and people with bad judgment ever have legal problems. Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

John smiled. “Don’t look at me to make your case, counselor.” John moved away and made himself another drink. “Can I get you one, Cal? Or are you working?”

Cal waved Armstrong off with his hand. “Anyway, look at our former President; taken down not by a psychotic younger lover, but by his own bad judgment. Taken another way, by his own air of invincibility. When men start to believe they are above the law, they will inevitably make a mistake and are doomed to failure.”

“Clinton was trying to be like Kennedy, but Monica was no Monroe,” Rick said. “As for malpractice, I only half agree with you. I agree we don’t police ourselves well, but part of that is the government’s fault. They allow bad doctors from every third world country to train here, then stay. If we could keep out these bad foreign doctors, we would be okay.

“You think? Most of the work I get is from regular doctors like yourself. Not foreigners.”

John stepped in smoothly. “Cal is working on an interesting case now where I’m an expert witness. Maybe it’s something you could do in the future.”

Cal’s smile eased the tension. “Yeah. John loves it and thinks it’s very interesting because he gets three hundred dollars an hour!”

John glanced at Cal, anger still in his eyes.

“Oops, I guess I was not supposed to tell you that. Pretend you didn’t hear that from me.”

John managed a smile. “Cal, you’re a real classy guy.”

“I don’t think I could do it,” Rick said. “I would feel like a traitor.”

“Rick, you could work for the defense, helping the doctor defend him or herself. You don’t have to be an expert witness for the plaintiff.” Cal said.

There was a long, awkward pause. “Well, enough shop talk. Let’s get some food.” John led them out into the yard.

Excerpted from LOCKED IN by Mike Esposito. Copyright © 2007 by Mike Esposito. All rights reserved. Excerpted by permission of the publisher. www.mikeespositomd.com

Author

Growing up in NYC, Mike Esposito never imagined that he would end up in Florida. After graduating high school on Staten Island, he attended the University of Florida and then went on to medical school at University of South Florida in Tampa.

After his radiology residency in Tampa he finished up his training in fellowship at Duke University. Soon after he took up a job as a radiologist in a Tampa area practice.

“My career in radiology has been rewarding but I needed a new challenge. Writing provided me an outlet but soon became an obsession and a second job. The end was LOCKED IN, my first completed full-length novel. I hope you enjoy it.” - Mike Esposito

For more information, please visit www.mikeespositomd.com

Chapter One

“What do you know about art, Volk?”

Maxim Abdullaev hurls the question through the airwaves as if it were an ax, cleaving pretense.

I cram my Nokia cell phone against my ear. Clattering dishes, jostling diners, and raised voices give me an excuse to delay answering his question. “Hold on,” I say, then step downstairs to my table in the basement of Vadim’s Café near Staraya Street, where I make my office.

Maxim could be anywhere. His headquarters are in the Solsnetskaya neighborhood just a few blocks away, but he changes his personal place of business weekly, sometimes daily, so it is impossible to develop a mental picture of where he is or what he is doing.

Once I’ve moved away from the din, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. “Art? I have a master’s in art history from Moscow University.”

I’m sure that Maxim knows enough about my life to catch the sarcasm. Dead mother, disappeared father, late-era Soviet poverty, and five years of killing and worse in Chechnya unsurprisingly failed to harmonize into a world-class education. The things I have learned are not taught in universities. He barks a deep-throated chuckle that offers no comfort. A polar bear probably makes the same sound just before it eats.

“Listen,” he says. “You do something for me. Talk to Gromov. Yes?”

“Yes,” I say, as if I have a choice, and Maxim disconnects.

Two hours later, nearing midnight, Gromov clumps like a plow horse into my basement office. The flesh on his bald head and puffy face droops like a shar-pei’s skin and slits his eyes, which are shifty-nervous, with good cause. Valya lurks hidden among the shelves of café sundries behind him.

“You talked to Maxim?” he says.

I grunt acknowledgment.

He collapses into a padded roller chair that disappears, creaking, beneath his bulk. Even its silvery round feet are covered by the hanging folds of his overcoat, where one hand stays buried in a deep pocket. He likes to show off a chromed Colt .45 Peacemaker, an outdated cannon that rends great holes in bodies, a good weapon for a man whose business is intimidation.

“I got a business opportunity,” he begins. “Maxim says you’re the guy to help me assess it.”

“I don’t do partners.”

He knows this. My rule is one source of the friction between us. “Yeah, yeah.” Scarred leather biker boots twirl the chair as he takes in the surroundings.

There’s not much to see here in the basement level. Black slate floor, rows of shelves, exposed raw-wood beams, plaster walls randomly damaged to show the red brick beneath, and dusty ’60s-era slot machines. Gromov is looking for Valya, I know, but she won’t be seen unless she wants to be. He finishes his survey and grins through crooked yellow teeth ridged black with omnipresent chewing tobacco.
Read the rest of this entry »

So let’s rap a little bit about writing, shall we?

I had promised I’d discuss my latest venture into fiction, the differences between fiction writing and writing for the stage and screen, all that jazz.

But before I do that, we need to clarify terms, if only for the edification of this particular column. Before we can talk about the difference between alternative forms of writing, we need to agree, at least for the duration of this post, on what writing actually IS.

Just by saying that, I know that’s quite possibly a can of worms in and of itself. Folks get mighty defensive, me as much as anyone, when one tries to definitively state what something ABSOLUTELY IS, especially if that something happens to be an art form of a sorts.

So before I do that very thing, a couple of caveats.

One:

Nothing is absolute, except life and death itself (and even then, many have their doubts about both.) All life and all that life touches is fluid, which means it’s subject to change as it evolves. Yes, I believe in evolution, and if you get a flu shot every winter, so do you, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.

But there is a identifable constant to fluidity and change - how absolute the constant is, I could not say. I can only say I know it’s there because I’ve experienced it. Which leads us to . . .

Two:

What follows is strictly my own subjective experience and opinion, nothing more, nothing less. It’s what I’ve gotten from the work I’ve done the past twelve, fourteen years and like everything else, subject to CHANGE (that damn evolution rearing its ugly head again).

The writer I am today is in no way the same writer I was five years ago, and vastly different from the guy ten years ago. Therefore, in ten years I probably will have new discoveries and offerings to share. One hopes, anyhow.

I’m also a writer who, though very experienced, with no formal training, everything I’ve picked up is from books and personal experience on the job, so to speak, and pearls of wisdom from elders (writers more experienced than I who have been good enough to share, like this guy) given to me here and there.

Okay. That’s out of the way.

Now to the big question . . .

Read more of Joshua James’s article at his Daily Dojo blog.