15 Seconds. Andrew Gross

for me after some definite rocky patches. I had a thriving cosmetic practice in Boca, annually making South Florida Magazine’s list of Top Doctors, once even on the cover. I’d built my own operating clinic and overnight recovery center, more like a five-star inn than a medical facility. I’d put together a successful group of three storefront medical clinics in Ft. Lauderdale and up in Palm Beach, and even appeared periodically on Good Morning South Florida, “Dr. Henry Steadman Reports” … Dubbed by my daughter as “the go-to Boob Dude of Broward County,” my reputation cemented as creator of the Steadman Wave, the signature dip I’d perfected just above the areolae that created the seamless, pear-shaped curvature everyone was trying to copy these days.

      It wasn’t exactly what I thought I’d be known for when I got out of med school at Vanderbilt twenty years ago, but hey, I guess we all could look back and say those things, right?

      I’d played the field a bit the past few years. Just never found the one to wow me. And I’d managed to stay on decent terms with Liz, a high-powered immigration lawyer, who five years back announced, as I came home from a medical conference in Houston, that she’d had one of those “days that made the list” herself—with Mort Golub, the managing partner of her practice. It hurt, though. I suppose I hadn’t been entirely innocent myself. The only good thing that came of it was that I’d managed to stay active in my daughter’s life: Hallie was a ranked equestrian who had narrowly missed going to the junior Olympics a couple of years back and was now finishing her freshman year at UVA. I still went with her to meets around the South, just the two of us.

      But I hadn’t had a steady woman in my life for a couple of years. My idea of a date was to cruise down to the Keys on weekends in my Cessna for lunch at Pierre’s in Islamorada. Or whack the golf ball around from time to time to a ten handicap. All pretty much “a joke,” my daughter would say, rolling her eyes, for one of “South Florida’s Most Eligible Bachelors”—if he was trying to keep up the reputation.

      Traffic was building on Lakeview, nearing I-10, as I continued on past Metcalfe. I saw a Sports Authority and a Dillard’s on my left, a development of Mediterranean-style condos called Tuscan Grove on the right. I flipped on a news channel … Another day of U.S. missiles pummeling Gadhafi air defenses in Libya … The dude had to go. Tornadoes carve a path of death and destruction through Alabama.

      Where the hell was Bay Shore Springs Drive?

      Yes! I spotted the name on the hanging street sign and switched on my blinker. The plan was to first check in at the hotel, then head over to Mike’s, and we’d go on to the club. My mind roamed to the famous island green on the signature sixteenth hole …

      Suddenly I realized the cross street wasn’t Bay Shore Springs at all, but something called Bay Ridge West.

      And it was one-way, in the opposite direction!

      Shit! I looked around and found myself trapped in the middle of the intersection—in the totally wrong lane, staring at someone in an SUV across from me scowling like I was a total moron. Behind me, a line of cars had pulled up, and was waiting to turn. The light turned yellow …

      I had to move.

      The hell with it, I said to myself, and pressed the accelerator, speeding up through the busy intersection.

      My heart skipped a beat and I glanced around, hoping no one had spotted me. Bay Shore Springs had to be the next street down.

      That was when a flashing light sprang up behind me, followed a second later by the jolting whoop, whoop, whoop of a police siren.

      Damn.

      A white police car came up on my tail, as if it had been waiting there, a voice over a speaker directing me to the side of the road.

      I made my way through traffic to the curb, reminding myself that I was in North Florida, not Boca, and the police here were a totally different breed.

      I watched through the side mirror as a cop in a dark blue uniform stepped out and started coming toward me. Aviator sunglasses, a hard jaw, and a thick mustache, not to mention the expression that seemed to convey: Not in my pond, buddy.

      I rolled down my window, and as the cop stepped up, I met his eyes affably. “I’m really sorry, Officer. I know I cut that one a little close. It was just that I was looking for Bay Shore Springs Drive and got a little confused when I saw Bay Ridge West back there. I didn’t see the light turn.”

      “License and proof of insurance,” was all he said back to me.

      I sighed. “Look, here’s my license …” I dug into my wallet. “But the car’s a rental, Officer. I just picked it up at the airport. I don’t think I have proof of insurance. It’s part of the rental agreement, no …?”

      I was kind of hoping he would simply see the initials MD after my name and tell me to pay closer attention next time.

      He didn’t.

      Instead he said grudgingly, “Driving without proof of insurance is a state violation punishable by a five-hundred-dollar fine.”

      “I know that, Officer, and of course I have proof of insurance on my own car …” I handed him my license. “But like I said, this one’s a rental. I just picked it up at the airport. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to take that one up with Hertz, Officer … Martinez.” I focused on his nameplate. “I just got a little confused back there looking for the Marriott. I’m up here for a medical conference …”

      “The Marriott, huh?” the policeman said, lifting his shades and staring into my car.

      “That’s right. I’m giving a speech there tonight. Look, I’m really sorry if I ran the light—I thought it was yellow. I just found myself trapped in no-man’s-land and thought it was best to speed up than to block traffic. Any chance you can just cut me a little slack on this …?”

      Traffic had backed up, rubbernecking, slowly passing by.

      “You realize you were turning down a one-way street back there?” Martinez completely ignored my plea.

      “I did realize it, Officer,” I said, exhaling, “and that’s why I didn’t turn, not to men—”

      “There’s a turnoff two lights ahead,” the patrolman said, cutting me off. “I want you to make a right at the curve and pull over there.”

      “Officer …” I pleaded one more time with fading hope, “can’t we just—”

      “Two lights,” the cop said, holding on to my license. “Just pull over there.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      I admit, I was a little peeved as I turned, as the cop had instructed me, onto a much-less-traveled street, the police car following close behind.

      Through the rearview mirror I saw him pull up directly behind me and remain inside. Then he got on the radio, probably punching my car and license into the computer, verifying me. Whatever he would find would only show him I wasn’t exactly one of America’s Most Wanted. I couldn’t even recall the last time I’d gotten a parking ticket. I glanced back again and saw him writing on a pad.

      The son of a bitch was actually writing me up.

      It took maybe five, six minutes. A few cars went by, then disappeared around a curve a quarter mile or so in front of us. Finally, the cop’s door opened and he came back holding a summons pad.

      A couple of them were filled out!

      I sighed, frustrated. “What are you writing me up for, Officer?”

      “Driving through a red light. Operating your vehicle without valid proof of insurance …” He flipped the page. “And driving down a one-way street.”

      “Driving down a one-way street?” My blood surged and I looked up at him in astonishment. “What are you talking about, Officer?”

      He just kept filling out the summons, occasionally eyeing my license, which still