“I’m busy right now. Can’t you handle it, Irina?” Frankie asked. But in the short time the door was open, Frankie could hear that this was no minor disturbance.

“It’s Mrs. Tremont. She won’t listen to me, and now she’s screaming at the girls behind the desk.” As Irina continued, she began swearing in Russian. If you want those kind of people as your patients, then you can handle them, but I don’t allow anyone to talk to me that way.”

“You go ahead, Dr. Weissman,” Pippa said. “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes alone.”

Frankie touched Pippa’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back. I promise you, we will get Alex the best care. And I’ll be with you all the way.”

Pippa grabbed Dr. Weissman’s hand and squeezed it. “I know that.”

Frankie looked at Irina and lowered her voice. “Okay, Irina. Let’s go.”

Frankie walked down the hallway and threw open the doors to her waiting room to find Judy Tremont screaming at the front-desk receptionist. “For all I know, there are communicable diseases in this waiting room. I might as well be in a bazaar in Baghdad.”

“What seems to be the problem, Mrs. Tremont?” Frankie asked her formally.

“Dr. Weissman, I had to send my girls to wait with Bill in the car because I certainly wasn’t going to have them sit here. This office is like Port Authority.” Judy was so angry she felt her face turning red. “I know Adrienne Strong-Rodman doesn’t have to waste time anymore in this waiting room and I don’t see why I should have to either.”

Frankie usually set aside Tuesday mornings for pro bono work with her uptown patients, except for special circumstances like Pippa Rose, or if a parent called with a sick child. Judy had called early that morning because Charlotte had a sore throat and Frankie squeezed her in. As she looked around the waiting room, it was very apparent that other than Pippa Rose, Judy and her daughter were the only other white patients.

“I want the same treatment as Adrienne Strong-Rodman. I’ll pay you what she pays you.” Judy took out her checkbook.

“Let me give you some figures first, Mrs. Tremont.” Frankie felt her heart racing. “Do you know that forty-seven percent of East Harlem’s children are living below the poverty line? In my office, I try to make these numbers irrelevant. In my office, all children are treated as equals.”

“Looky here.” Ever since she was a child Judy had said “looky here” when she was boiling mad. “I don’t care how much of a donation I need to give to whatever clinic you tell me, I need to know when I come here that my children are your first priority.”

Without hesitation Frankie turned to her nurse. “Irina, can you get me Mrs. Tremont’s file?”