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Page 66



Shortly afterward, two DEA agents arrived at his office, unannounced. They accused my 72-year-old father of selling narcotics. They told him he was in a lot of trouble, would probably lose his license, and that there would be a lot of publicity.

For the only time I am aware of, my father was intimidated. They told him he could avoid trouble by handing over his license to dispense drugs from his office. He said in a letter to the DEA, explaining what happened, "... they frightened me—and enjoyed it." He gave them his license, because he feared they could stain the reputation he had so carefully built in over 40 years of medical practice, as well as his standing in the community.

Given the coercion he was subjected to, his handing over his license could hardly be called "voluntary," as was indicated in the official report. He later contacted the DEA about having his registration reissued, and continued to practice medicine until the year he died.

His office was the scene of a different kind of coercion, two years later. This time, however, he was not intimidated. It was a mid-February late afternoon, very close to the end of office hours, when he heard his receptionist, in the outer office, raise her voice excitedly. Seconds later, a young black man burst into his office with a pistol in his hand, yelling at him, "We want the money!"

"He was clean shaven and had on a leather jacket," my father wrote. "He kept tapping me on the head and the temple with the muzzle of the gun. I didn't panic. I didn't feel nervous."

My father gave him all the money he had, about $100. His assailant's partner, also carrying a pistol, popped into the room briefly before returning to my father's receptionist in the outer office. The man then started pressuring my father to show him where the drugs were kept. My father finaly convinced him that he didn't dispense drugs from his office (thanks to the DEA agents two years earlier!). After searching his medical bag and the refrigerator, they forced my father and his receptionist into the bathroom and told them to stay there. Then the robbers left.

The police came, interviewed him and his receptionist, dusted the office for finger prints and had them come downtown to the police station to look at mug shots. None of these efforts resulted in the apprehension of the two robbers.

Upon returning home to Milford, where he was living full time by this time, he wrote his account of what happened. He concluded, "I'm at Milford and still don't feel shaken.

"I think this is because I felt sooner or later something like this could happen to me. I hope I have filled my quota."



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