Intervention (12 page)

Redirecting his attention to the final lock, Jack finished the task of securing the bike.

“Hey, buddy!” the doorman said. “Did you hear me? You can’t leave the freaking bike here. It’s private property.”

Standing up without saying a word, Jack fished in his pants pocket, pulled out his wallet, and flashed his official New York City medical examiner’s badge. It looked to all the world like a policeman’s badge, unless you looked closely.

“Sorry, sir!” the doorman said hastily.

“It’s quite all right,” Jack said. “The bike won’t be here long.”

“No problem, sir. I’ll keep my eye on it. Can I help you in any way?”

“I’m here to see Ronald Newhouse,” Jack said. He couldn’t bring himself to use the title

“doctor.” Nor did he say whether he was there in an official capacity or as a patient.

“This way, sir,” the doorman said obsequiously, gesturing toward the front door and leading Jack into the foyer. He opened the inner door with a key and pointed. “Dr.

Newhouse’s office is down the hall, first door on the left.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, wondering if the man would have been equally gracious if he knew Jack was a medical examiner.

DR. RONALD NEWHOUSE AND ASSOCIATES was stenciled in gold leaf on the door. When he walked in, it was immediately apparent that Newhouse ran a successful practice. Not only could he afford the Fifth Avenue rent, which Jack assumed was significant, he’d had the waiting room decked out in style. There were original oil paintings on the walls, plush furniture, and a large Oriental rug. What made it appear different from any successful medical doctor’s office he’d seen were three stools with contour seats connected to their bases by a movable ball joint. A woman in her twenties occupied one of the stools. With her hands on her knees and her legs spread apart such that her dress drooped between her knees, she was in constant motion in a manner that reminded Jack of his daughters using their hula hoops. While he watched her, the woman caught his eye and smiled. She appeared completely unself-conscious, leading Jack to believe the unique activity was normal in the environment.

“Can I help you?” a pleasant female voice asked from Jack’s right. He turned to face an immaculately dressed woman with every strand of dark hair in place. Jack was impressed. Even her manicure was perfect.

“I think so,” Jack said. He stepped over to the woman, who smiled up at him. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve never been in a chiropractor’s office.”

“Welcome,” the receptionist said. Her nametag read LYDIA.

“That’s an interesting piece of furniture,” he remarked, tilting his head toward the woman rotating and counter-rotating on the stool.

“She’s using one of our swivel chairs. It’s great for the lumbar vertebrae of the lower back,” Lydia explained. “It causes the intervertebral discs to lubricate themselves and actually swell to a degree. We encourage people to do it before their adjustment session.”

“Interesting,” Jack said. “Is Dr. Ronald Newhouse available?” He gritted his teeth after forcing himself to use the appellation “doctor.”

“He is here,” she said. She gestured toward the woman on the swivel chair. “He has his next patient at one-twenty-five. Do you have an appointment?”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

“Would you like to make one?”

“I’d like to see the doctor,” Jack said ambiguously. “I don’t know nearly as much about chiropractic therapy as I would like.”

“Dr. Newhouse is always interested in new patients. Perhaps he could see you for a few minutes before he sees Ms. Chalmers. If you don’t mind waiting for a moment, I’ll go ask him. Who may I say wishes to see him?”

“Jack Stapleton.”

“Okay, Mr. Stapleton. I’ll be back presently.”

“I appreciate your help,” Jack said. While the receptionist was out of the room, he glanced back at Ms. Chalmers as she dutifully continued her hip rotations. She had her head back, her eyes closed, and her lips slightly parted. For a moment Jack was mesmerized. She seemed to be in a trance.

“The doctor will see you now,” Lydia said, breaking Jack’s concentration. He followed her through an interior door and down a short corridor passing a series of closed doors.

At an open doorway she stepped back and gestured for Jack to enter.

The office looked out on Fifth Avenue and beyond into Central Park. Inside there were two men, one sitting behind a desk, the other in a visitor’s chair. The man behind the desk, who Jack assumed was Ronald Newhouse, immediately stood up and leaned over the desk, stretching a beefy hand in Jack’s direction.

“Welcome, Mr. Stapleton,” Ronald Newhouse said with a salesman’s enthusiasm.

Jack allowed his hand to be vigorously pumped. Newhouse was about an inch or so taller than Jack’s six feet, and one and a half times his hundred-and-eighty-pound weight. Jack estimated he was in his mid-forties. His coloring was dark with carefully groomed eyebrows on prominent brow ridges. His eyes were dark and piercing. But the most striking aspect of the man’s appearance was his hairstyle, or, more accurately, the lack of it. His hair was medium-length, dark, and shiny, as if slathered with styling gel, but totally uncombed. Spiky clumps sprang from his scalp at odd angles.

“Meet one of my associates, Carl Fallon,” Newhouse said, gesturing toward the gentleman in the visitor’s chair.

On cue, Fallon sprang to his feet, and with alacrity that matched Newhouse’s, gave Jack’s hand a second spirited shake. “Very nice to meet you,” he said to Jack. He gathered the remains of a pastrami sandwich and a half-eaten dill pickle along with a small brown bag. “I’ll catch you later,” he said to Newhouse.

“A great guy,” Newhouse commented. He pointed to the chair Fallon had vacated.

“Please, sit! I understand you are interested in chiropractic therapy. I’m happy to give you a quick intro before I see my next patient. But before I do, how did you find me?

Was it through my new website? We’ve been putting a lot of effort into it, and I’m curious to know if it’s working.”

“I was referred,” Jack said. He was aware he wasn’t quite telling the truth, but he wanted to see how things would play out.

“Wonderful!” Newhouse responded smugly. “Would you mind if I asked the patient’s name? I can’t tell you how rewarding it is to get positive feedback from a satisfied patient.”

“Nichelle Barlow.”

“Ah, yes! Nichelle Barlow. A lovely young lady.”

“I’m interested to know what you as a chiropractor feel competent to treat?”

Newhouse’s smile deepened, and for a moment he seemed to be deciding where to begin. Jack focused on a series of books on the windowsill directly behind him, held upright by bright brass caduceus-shaped bookends. The titles were telling:
How to Build
a Million-Plus-Dollar-a-Year Chiropractor Practice
and
How an E-meter and Applied
Kinesiology Can Double Your Practice Income.
Jack had vaguely heard of e-meters, which had been described as bogus technology when a number had been confiscated by the FDA. He’d also heard of applied kinesiology, which had been discredited as having no medical value by controlled trials.

“I’d have to say chiropractic therapy in my hands can treat just about any medical ailment known to man. Now, to be fair, I’d have to qualify that by admitting up front that chiropractic cannot cure every ailment, but it most definitely relieves the symptoms of those problems it cannot cure.”

“Wow!” Jack said, as if impressed. Actually, he was impressed by the sheer boldness of the claim. “Do all chiropractors feel the same about the field’s capabilities?”

“Heavens, no,” Newhouse said with a sigh. “There’s been an unfortunate falling-out, so to speak, since the field’s great founder, Daniel David Palmer, discovered the techniques in the nineteenth century and founded the Palmer School of Chiropractic in Davenport, Iowa.”

“Davenport, Iowa,” Jack repeated. “Isn’t Iowa where the Transcendental Meditation movement is based?”

“Indeed, it is, although different towns. Fairfield, Iowa, is the location of the Maharishi University. I suppose you could say Io wa’s the nation’s most fertile center for the development of alternative medicine. Of course, the most important discovery of all remains the chiropractic movement.”

“Can you give me a thumbnail sketch of the scientific basis for chiropractic’s therapeutic power?”

“It’s based on the flow of
innate intelligence,
which is a kind of life force or vital energy.”

“‘Innate intelligence,’” Jack repeated, to be certain he’d heard correctly.

“Exactly,” Newhouse said, raising his hands palms out with fingers spread like a preacher about to make an important point. “Innate intelligence has to move freely about the body. It’s the basic governing force making sure all the organs and muscles work together for the common good.”

“And when this flow is impeded, then there’s disease.”

“Exactly!” Newhouse seemed pleased.

“What about bacteria, and viruses, and parasites,” Jack said. “How do they fit in when it comes to disease—let’s say with sinusitis.”

“Very simple,” Newhouse said. “With sinusitis there is a sharp decrease in the flow of innate intelligence to the sinuses. There is a resultant decrease in the normal physiological function of the sinus cavities, opening up the opportunity for any resident bacteria or fungus or whatever to grow.”

“So let me see if I understand this,” Jack said. “The pathological process starts with the blockage of the flow of innate intelligence, or life force, and the overgrowth of the bacteria is a result, not a cause. Am I getting this right?”

Newhouse nodded. “You’re getting it perfectly.”

“So, the chiropractor’s job is to restore the flow, and as soon as he or she does that, the bacteria, or whatever is secondarily involved, goes away.”

“You are exactly right.”

“I said ‘he or she,’ but it seems to me there are more men chiropractors than women.”

“I think that is safe to say.”

“Is there some reason?”

Newhouse shrugged. “Probably the same reason there are more surgeons who are men than women. Chiropractic therapy takes a certain amount of strength. Maybe men find it easier.”

Jack nodded while in his mind’s eye he could see the internal tears in Keara’s vertebral arteries. He had to agree. It took strength to cause the kind of damage she’d suffered.

After clearing his throat, Jack asked, “How is it that the innate intelligence gets blocked?”

“One of Daniel David Palmer’s very first patients had a severe hearing problem brought on seventeen years previously while straining to pick up a heavy load. When Dr. Palmer examined him, he determined a cervical vertebra had been racked out of position. When he replaced it, the patient’s hearing returned. What had happened, simply put, was the displaced vertebra had been pressing on the nerves, enervating the ears. When the pressure had been released the flow was reinstated and function returned.”

“So, the innate intelligence flows through the nerves.”

“Of course,” Newhouse said, as if this particular fact was self-evident.

“So, it’s the backbone that’s the culprit,” Jack said, “when it comes to blocking innate intelligence.”

“Yes,” Newhouse agreed. “You have to realize that the spine is not just a stack of bones but rather a complex organ, with each vertebra able to influence the other as well as the group as a whole. It’s what supports us, holds us all together, and integrates us.

Unfortunately, it has a strong tendency to get out of line. That, in a nutshell, is the responsibility of we chiropractors. It’s our job to diagnose the irregularity—or
subluxation,
as we call it—and restore the involved vertebra to its normal position, and then make sure that it stays there.”

“All this is accomplished by spinal manipulation, correct?”

“You got it. We, of course, have a special name for it. We call it
adjustment.
”

“Are you saying you can function as someone’s GP?”