“We’re sure that I won’t get into trouble if I have to utilize any of this stuff?” Jim asked, not for the first time.
“You were the one who insisted on the oversight and procedures we’ve put in place for this assignment,” Greg said.
Yes, he had. Paramedics could only work in the United States if they operated under the authority and license of a physician. And so, Matt and his people had found him one. They had paid some gynecologist in Spokane, Washington to agree to be Jim’s medical authority and to sign his name on a set of protocols that, theoretically, would allow Jim to operate with all the rights and privileges of an on-duty paramedic. They had even picked Washington because that was currently the only state that included Adenosine in the paramedic scope of practice. The problem was that Jim was not licensed to work in any state except California. And he had never been officially trained on the use of Adenosine. And he was pretty sure it was not kosher to have a Washington licensed physician providing oversight to a California paramedic even if that paramedic was operating in California, which he would not be for the vast majority of the tour.
“I understand,” Jim said, “that we’ve met the technical requirements for me to operate advanced life support equipment and to use advanced life support drugs while on the tour, but ... well ... I know that what we’re doing is not strictly legal. We could all get in a lot of trouble if something goes wrong. Particularly me. I could be charged with practicing medicine without a license. That’s a federal felony.”
Greg looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded, his grin still firmly on his face. “Let me ask you something, Jim. Do you believe in Heavenly Father?”
“No,” Jim said plainly and honestly. “Not even a little bit.”
Greg’s grin faded. “I see,” he said. “Well ... how about this. Do you believe in the power of money?”
“The power of money?” Jim asked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that money talks very loudly, and you are now working for people—Matt Tisdale primarily, but also, in a sense, National Records—who have an awful lot of money. That means they can talk very loudly and be heard. Do you know how Matt was able to purchase a LifePak monitor, controlled pharmaceuticals, and advanced medical equipment that is only supposed to be sold to those operating under a physician’s license?”
“Because he has a lot of money,” Jim said. “He explained that to me. And I get it. But we’re talking about unlicensed medical practice here.”
“We are not talking about unlicensed medical practice,” Gahn corrected. “We have done what you asked. We have a licensed physician providing oversight to you and he has approved standing orders for you to follow in the form of those standard protocols in that binder inside the football.”
“But I’m not licensed in Washington or any other state but California,” Jim said. “And the physician is only licensed in Washington. That’s not exactly legal. If I were ever scrutinized...”
“That is unlikely to happen,” Greg said. “But if it did, do you know what we would do?”
“What would you do?”
“We would use the monetary resources of both Matt and National Records to hire the very best medical lawyers we could find to defend you before whatever agency is questioning your integrity in pretty much the same manner that the so-called dream team is defending OJ Simpson. They would employ an army of junior partners and paralegals to comb through law books and legal rulings dating back to the Stone Age until they found something that could be used to justify the actions that you took or were capable of taking. They would have you walking out of any hearing looking like an oppressed hero who was only trying to do his job while Big Medicine, Big Pharma and the nurse’s union tried their best to hold you down.”
Jim’s eyes widened. “You think that would work?”
“Of course it would work,” Gahn scoffed. “I’ve seen such tactics employed multiple times during my association with Matt Tisdale and the other members of Intemperance. Justice for money. It’s the American way.”
“But ... but ... even if these lawyers of yours could convolute the issue and keep me from being punished ... I’m still doing something illegal. I’m still operating outside the scope of my practice. I’m still technically practicing medicine without a license.”
Gahn looked at him with a complete lack of understanding in his gaze. “What is your point?” he asked.
Okay ... maybe this is all right after all, Jim thought as he saw, for the first time, the inside of the aircraft they would be traveling on from city to city during the tour. He had been a little nervous about it when he first saw it from the back seat of the limousine as they parked on the tarmac at Van Nuys Airport. It was not a huge aircraft at all. It was, in fact, the smallest plane Jim had ever boarded in his life. And it did not have jet engines like every other plane he had flown on, but two propellers that hung down from the overhead wings. A Dash-8, the pilot-in-command had called it during his pre-board lecture. But as Jim climbed up the stairs on the side and into the interior, his nervousness faded to amazement. It looked like, if it had been fitted with rows of standard aircraft seats, it could hold maybe thirty passengers. But it did not have rows of standard aircraft seats. Instead, there were six large recliner type chairs with tables next to them in the front of the cabin. There were two couches aligned in the mid portion of the cabin, each capable of holding two or three people. Just behind the couches was a small wet bar, complete with barstools, and stocked with a large variety of liquor held in place by rubber straps. Beyond the bar were four bunk beds attached to the fuselage, the beds neatly made up with linen and pillows. Beyond that was a door that led to a bathroom/shower combo.
The pilots, after giving their lists of do’s and don’ts about traveling on their aircraft (no smoking, no drugs in the cabin—though they would not check what was in the stowed baggage until they started going international—no destructive behavior, no groupies), had already sealed themselves behind a closed door in the cockpit. Jim’s impression was that they wanted to see as little of their passengers as possible. There was a single cabin crewmember who greeted them as they boarded. She introduced herself as Lori. She had a face like a Mack truck, a body that rippled and jiggled with fat rolls, and was at least fifty years old. She had a quirky sense of humor and seemed nice, but she made it very clear to all that, while she would serve them drinks, clean up their messes, and even prepare food for them, she was in charge once they boarded the plane and they would follow her orders and show no disrespect for her.
“You got it, hon,” Matt told her with a smile. “We get what you’re saying. This ain’t the tour bus. We’ll mind our manners in here.”
“Then we’ll get along just fine,” Lori assured him. “Now, if all of you will just take the primary seats and get buckled in, I’ll get you all some preflight cocktails.”
“Now we’re talking,” Matt said, his smile getting bigger.
Everyone found a seat to plant their butt in. Jim’s was in front, across the narrow aisle from Greg Gahn. Matt and the band settled in behind them. Lori made sure they were properly buckled in and then sealed up the door of the plane. She made a quick call to the cockpit on the intercom to let the pilots know that this had been done and then made her way down the aisle taking drink orders, starting with Matt and Austin in the very back. Matt ordered a Jack and Coke, heavy on the Jack. Austin ordered a double rye, neat. Corban ordered a cosmopolitan, but only on the stipulation that the lime juice be freshly squeezed and the drink be properly shaken and strained.