Nonprofit hospitals pay virtually no local, state or federal income tax. In return, they provide community benefits, including charity care to low-income patients. In Memphis, Methodist Le Bonheur Healthcare has brought 8,300 lawsuits for unpaid medical bills in just five years.
This article was first published on Thursday, June 27, 2019 in ProPublica, and was produced in partnership with MLK50, which is a member of the ProPublica Local Reporting Network.
MEMPHIS, Tennessee — In July 2007, Carrie Barrett went to the emergency room at Methodist University Hospital, complaining of shortness of breath and tightness in her chest. Her leg was swollen, she'd later recall, and her toes were turning black.
Given her family history, high blood pressure and newly diagnosed congestive heart failure, doctors performed a heart catheterization, threading a long tube through her groin and into her heart.
Barrett, who has never made more than $12 an hour, doesn't remember getting any notices to pay from the hospital. But in 2010, Methodist Le Bonheur Healthcare sued her for the unpaid medical bills, plus attorney's fees and court costs.
Since then, the nonprofit hospital system affiliated with the United Methodist Church has doggedly pursued her, adding interest to the debt seven times and garnishing money from her paycheck on 15 occasions.
Barrett, 63, now owes about $33,000, more than twice what she earned last year, according to her tax return.
"The only thing that kept me levelheaded was praying and asking God to help me," she said.
She's among thousands of patients the massive hospital has sued for unpaid medical bills. From 2014 through 2018, Methodist filed more than 8,300 lawsuits, according to an MLK50-ProPublica analysis of Shelby County General Sessions Court records. Older cases like Barrett's, which dates back nearly a decade, remain on the court's docket.
Other hospitals in Memphis and around the country also sue patients. According to a studypublished Tuesday in the Journal of the American Medical Association, researchers found more than 20,000 debt lawsuits filed by Virginia hospitals in 2017. More than 9,300 garnishment cases occurred that year, and nonprofit hospitals were more likely to garnish wages.
But Methodist's aggressive collection practices stand out in a city where nearly 1 in 4 residentslive below the poverty line.
Its handling of poor patients begins with a financial assistance policy that, unlike many of its peers around the country, all but ignores patients with any form of health insurance, no matter their out-of-pocket costs. If they are unable to afford their bills, patients then face what experts say is rare: A licensed collection agency owned by the hospital.
Lawsuits follow. Finally, after the hospital wins a judgment, it repeatedly tries to garnish patients' wages, which it does in a far higher share of cases than other nonprofit hospitals in Memphis.
Its own employees are no exception. Since 2014, Methodist has sued dozens of its workers for unpaid medical bills, including a hospital housekeeper sued in 2017 for more than $23,000. That year, she told the court, she made $16,000. She's in a court-ordered payment plan, but in the case of more than 70 other employees, Methodist has garnished the wages it pays them to recoup its medical charges.
Nonprofit hospitals are generally exempt from local, state and federal taxes. In return, the federal government expects them to provide a significant community benefit, including charity care and financial assistance.
Methodist does provide some charity care — and pegs its community benefits as more than $226 million annually — but experts faulted it for also wielding the court as a hammer.
"If Warren Buffett walks in and needs a heart valve procedure and then stiffs the hospital, then yes, you should sue Warren Buffett," said John Colombo, a University of Illinois College of Law professor emeritus who has testified before Congress about the tax-exempt status of nonprofit hospitals. "I can't think of a situation in which thousands of your patients would fit that."
Several nonprofit hospitals don't sue patients at all, such as Bon Secours Hospitals in Virginia, which stopped pursuing debt suits in 2007, and the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, which includes more than 20 facilities.
Some of Methodist Hospital's cousins — health systems affiliated with the United Methodist Church — also don't sue patients. That's the case with Methodist Health System, which operates four hospitals in the Dallas area. The collection policy of the seven-hospital Houston Methodist system states: "At no time will Houston Methodist impose extraordinary collection actions such as wage garnishments," liens on homes, or credit bureau notification.
"We are a faith-based institution and we don't believe taking extraordinary measures to seek bill payments is consistent with our mission and values," a Houston Methodist spokesperson said by email.
Methodist Le Bonheur, which says it is the second largest private employer in Shelby County, boasts on its website that it's committed to a "culture of compassion." Last year, Fortune magazine ranked the hospital among the 100 Best Companies to Work For.
Methodist declined repeated requests to interview its top executives.
Instead it sent a statementthat said, "Outstanding patient debts are only sent to collections and then to court as a very last resort, and only after continued efforts to work with the patients have been exhausted."
"We strongly believe in providing exceptional care to all members of the community — regardless of ability to pay."
Methodist's collection activities are playing out in the second-poorest large metropolitan area in the nation, where jobs have long been concentrated in low-wage industries such as warehousing and logistics. More than 40% of Memphis workers earn less than $15 an hour, according to one economic development report.
For the rest of this year, MLK50 and ProPublica will explore how hospitals, businesses and others in Memphis make it nearly impossible for low-income workers to make ends meet.
Beverly Robertson, who served on Methodist's board from 2003 to 2012, said she was surprised to learn from a reporter about the hospital's collection practices. During her lengthy tenure, she said, board members were never informed about the lawsuits against patients.
"I wish I'd known some of this," said Robertson, president and CEO of the Greater Memphis Chamber and previously executive director of the National Civil Rights Museum.
The Rhythm of General Sessions Court
On Jan. 16, Barrett appeared in Shelby County General Sessions Court to try to stop Methodist's latest attempt to garnish her paycheck from her part-time job at Kroger, where she makes $9.05 an hour.
She had plenty of company: All 80 lawsuits on the Division 5 docket that morning had been filed by Methodist.
On this morning, Barrett faced Judge Betty Thomas Moore, who has been on the bench for nearly 21 years. Moore expeditiously moved through cases, pausing occasionally to question defendants or lecture them on money management, and to ask Methodist's attorneys what judgment amount they sought or the monthly payment they'd accept.
Barrett, a devout woman whose denomination eschews makeup and jewelry, stood when Moore called her name.
She waited as the judge flipped through her file, which contained a record of the case, including a motion she filed to reinstate her payments at $40 a month. That's the amount a judge approved two years earlier, but Barrett had stopped making payments after she lost her job.
Barrett had submitted a sworn affidavit of income and property, which spelled out her dependents, bank account balances, debts, assets and monthly expenses. Barrett wrote that her checking account had $20 in it. Her monthly income was $750 per month, and her expenses were about twice that.
What caught the judge's eye, though, was the amount owed to the hospital.
"It's over a $30,000 balance," Moore said, incredulously. "It has actually doubled."
Though Barrett had made sporadic payments, they were dwarfed by the mountains of interest the hospital tacked onto her account.
It wasn't that she didn't want to pay, Barrett tried to tell the judge, but that she couldn't. She had to stop working to care for her sister, who died of cancer in November.
"You gotta pay," replied Moore tersely. She too is a Christian, and from the bench, she often gives God credit for her journey from humble beginnings in South Memphis to elected office. Barrett began to tell the judge that now that she had a new job, she could pay more reliably, but Moore cut her off.
"That I don't want to hear. … It's your fourth motion. One time, you just didn't show up!" Moore said, as Barrett started coughing — a nervous reaction, she explained later.
"Have a seat, ma'am," said an irritated Moore. "I'm going to think about it for a minute."
Lots of lawsuits and garnishments
Between 2014 and 2018, more than 163,000 debt lawsuits were filed in Shelby County General Sessions Court, primarily by debt buyers, auto loan companies and hospitals.
Only one plaintiff, Midland Funding, which buys unpaid debt, sued more frequently than Methodist. (Midland declined to comment.)
Methodist filed more than 8,300 lawsuits, compared with more than 6,700 filed by competitor Baptist Memorial Health Care and just over 1,900 by Regional One Health, the county's public hospital. St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, also headquartered in Memphis, doesn't bill families for care not covered by insurance.
With $2.1 billion in revenue and a health system that includes six hospitals, Methodist leads the market: In 2017, it had the most discharges per year and profits per patient, according to publicly available data analyzed by Definitive Healthcare, an analytics company. Methodist says it has "a hospital in all four quadrants of the greater Memphis area, unparalleled by any other healthcare provider in our region," plus more than 150 outpatient centers, clinics and physician practices.
The number of lawsuits Methodist files isn't out of proportion to its size, at least compared to Baptist or Regional One. But where it does stand out is the share of cases in which it seeks a wage garnishment order, an action that can upend the lives of low-wage defendants.
A court-ordered garnishment requires that the debtor's employer send to the court 25% of a worker's after-tax income, minus basic living expenses and a tiny deduction for children under 15. The court then sends that payment to the creditor.
Methodist secured garnishment orders in 46% of cases filed from 2014 through 2018, compared with 36% at Regional One and 20% at Baptist, according to an analysis of court records by MLK50 and ProPublica. It is unclear what explains this difference.
Turning to the legal system to settle debts is a choice, not a mandate, said Jenifer Bosco, staff attorney at the National Consumer Law Center, a nonprofit focusing on consumer law for low-income and other disadvantaged people. "A lot of medical debts are just handled through the collections process," she said. "Certainly some end up in court, but it seems like this hospital is especially aggressive."
Methodist's Dogged Pursuit of the Poor
Barrett has worked only low-wage jobs, be it cleaning medical offices or sorting packages at FedEx's largest distribution facility, known as the hub.
But for the last nine years, Methodist has been on Barrett's trail, following her from one low-wage job to another.
To successfully garnish a debtor's paycheck, Methodist, like all creditors, has to clear two hurdles. First, the hospital needs to know where the person works, since garnishment requires the employer's cooperation.
Next, the debtor must have enough after-tax income to clear the law's earnings exemption, which protects $217.50 per week of a debtor's after-tax income – the equivalent of 30 hours at the federal minimum wage of $7.25 an hour.
At first, the hospital couldn't figure out where Barrett worked. It filed garnishment attempts at FedEx and then at Sodexo, which provides housekeeping and other services for corporations, only to learn from the companies that Barrett hadn't worked there in years.
By September 2011, Barrett was working at T.J.Maxx, tagging clothes headed for the clearance racks. Methodist served her employer with a garnishment attempt, only to run into the second hurdle: She often didn't make enough to have her pay garnished.
Time and again over the next six years, the hospital tried to garnish Barrett's pay. Sometimes it succeeded, once collecting $3.67. Other times it failed. Four times, T.J.Maxx returned the garnishment order to the court, marking "Net Earnings Less Than Exemptions."
While state law spares the poorest debtors from wage garnishment, it doesn't stop creditors from adding interest to the underlying debt.
Barrett, 63, gets ready for an evening shift at Kroger. Barrett's employer expects workers to have their uniforms on when they enter the grocery store. (Andrea Morales for MLK50)
Methodist knew that Barrett was a low-income worker, yet it added interest to her account seven times, in amounts ranging from $46 to $7,340.
Charging that much interest to a low-income patient is "unconscionable," said Fred Morton, a retired minister of Christ United Methodist Church in East Memphis.
"That's a 21st-century version of slavery," said Morton, who serves on the economic justice committee for MICAH, a coalition of community and faith-based organizations. "That kind of indebtedness. … That's horrible to me."
By 2017, Barrett had moved in with a friend and her mother, both amputees, and cared for them in exchange for a place to stay.
In April of that year, Barrett filed a motion to stop the wage garnishment and offered to pay $40 per month. She told the court her income was $800 per month.
The judge agreed, but then Barrett's sister, who was unmarried and never had children, fell ill. When Barrett stopped working to care for her, she fell behind on her payments.
"I went and borrowed money through those payday loans to make those payments," she said. "It was just a struggle for me."
Every 30 days, she pays $60 to renew the $300 loan, at an effective annual interest rate of more than 240%.
Financial Assistance Required, but Is It Offered?
The Affordable Care Act, former President Barack Obama's signature health care legislation, is best known for expanding access to health insurance coverage. But it also imposed new requirements on nonprofit hospitals, namely that they have charity care policies and share them with patients.
But the rules do not specify how generous those policies must be — and Methodist is among the least generous in the state, according to MLK50-ProPublica's review of policies at Tennessee nonprofit hospitals.
While dozens of hospitals offer free or highly discounted care that helps shield low- and middle-income patients, regardless of insurance status, from crushing debt, Methodist does not.
That's especially problematic for people with high-deductible health insurance plans, defined by the IRS as those with deductibles over $1,350 for an individual and over $2,700 for a family. The number of adults with employer-based, high-deductible health insurance nearly tripled from 2007 through 2017, according to a 2018report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
Methodist said it is required by insurers to collect copayments and deductibles. That said, the hospital added: "We know some insured patients have high copays and deductibles that place a financial burden on the patient. As a mission-driven organization, we will work with these patients seeking assistance."
Methodist's financial assistance policy is outdated, said Michele Johnson, executive director of the Tennessee Justice Center, which advocates for expanded health care access.
"Methodist's rules were written at a time when there was just not this epidemic of underinsured people in the state," Johnson said. "The reality has changed faster than their policy has changed."
Methodist said it offers 0% interest payment plans for insured and uninsured patients who have trouble paying their bills, but only offers those before court action commences. Methodist also noted that it provides an automatic 70% discount it provides to those who identify as uninsured and the free care to patients at or below 125% of the federal poverty guidelines, which for a single adult would be just over $15,600. Uninsured patients who earn more than that, but less than twice the poverty limit, are also eligible for discounts.
"We are committed to working with all patients who are struggling with medical expenses. Our desire is to work with patients early in the process to set up a payment plan that meets their individual need," the hospital said in a statement.
The hospital's contentions, however, do not match the text of its financial assistance, billing and collections policies or the frequently asked billing questions on the hospital's website. None of those mention interest-free payment plans.
Methodist, like its peers, also gets assistance from the state of Tennessee to help offset its costs for providing uncompensated care. In the first three months of 2019, the state gave more than $31 million to qualifying hospitals. Of that, Methodist Le Bonheur Healthcare's hospitals received nearly $5 million, according to a quarterly report submitted to the Tennessee General Assembly.
For years, nonprofit hospitals that sue hundreds of patients have been the subject of investigative reports and lawmakers' scrutiny.
A 2014 ProPublica reporton Mosaic Life Care (formerly Heartland Regional Medical Center) in Missouri revealed that the small hospital filed 11,000 lawsuits over a five-year period. Following the story and a Senate investigation led by Sen. Chuck Grassley, R-Iowa, Mosaic rewrote its financial assistance policies and erased nearly $17 million of patients' debt.
"We were doing the medically right thing for the person, but on the financial responsibility part, we were doing the wrong thing," Dr. Mark Laney, president and CEO of Mosaic, told the St. Joseph News-Press at the time.
Aggressive debt collection practices are "contrary to the philosophy behind tax exemption," Grassley wrote in a September 2017 op-ed for the medical and science news outlet Stat.
"Such hospitals seem to forget that tax exemption is a privilege, not a right. In addition to withholding financial assistance to low-income patients, they give top executives salaries on par with their for-profit counterparts."
In 2017, Methodist paid its president and CEO, Dr. Michael Ugwueke, $1.6 million in total compensation. That same year, Gary Shorb, the hospital's CEO from 2001 to 2016, earned more than $1.2 million for serving as Ugwueke's adviser. In 2018, the hospital brought in $86 million more than it spent, according to an end-of-year revenue bond disclosure statement.
Methodist Sends a Defendant in Circles
Across the country, medical debt is common, but it falls hardest on nonwhite residents and people who live in the South, according to the Debt in America report released by the Urban Institute, a Washington, D.C.-based think tank.
In Shelby County, twice as many nonwhite county residents have medical debt in collections as white residents — 23% compared with 11%.
More than half the county's residents are African Americans, as were more than 90% of Methodist's defendants observed by a reporter in court this year.
That includes Raquel Nelson, who appeared in court the same morning as Barrett.
Nelson's employer-provided health insurance covered the majority of a hospital bill for her 2016 hysterectomy, but she still owes $2,200.
This was not the first time Nelson had been a defendant. Methodist sued her in 2013 for $850 in hospital bills for her children, who are now grown. (She has since paid off that debt.) Three years ago, Baptist sued her for $5,000 after an overnight stay for chest pains. She's paying $50 a month.
Nelson, 43, doesn't regret choosing a career in social services, although her bachelor's and master's degrees left her with $100,000 in student loans, which are in deferment.
Prescriptions to treat chronic illnesses including hypothyroidism, plus supplies for a machine to treat sleep apnea, total more than $200 a month.
When money is tight, Nelson pays just enough on her utility bill to keep the lights on. Her June utility bill was more than $500, and about $200 is the past due amount.
She can't bring herself to keep a written budget. "If I do, it'll be frightening because I'll be thinking, 'How am I even surviving?'"
When a process server handed her the warrant on Dec. 4, stating she'd been sued by Methodist, he also gave her a card to call Consolidated Recovery Systems, a subsidiary of Revenue Assurance Professionals, the licensed debt collection agency owned by Methodist. She called the hospital's collection agency and was told that if she didn't pay $175 per month, she could meet them in court.
So Nelson went to court, where she asked the hospital to send her an itemized bill, so she could verify the debt was hers.
She returned to court in April, agreed the debt was hers and the next week filed a motion to pay $75 a month, the same amount she'd offered the collection agency.
In May, Nelson was back in court, this time before Judge John Donald. "I'm nervous," she whispered, as Donald raced through the cases.
She stood when the judge called her name. Donald asked Methodist's attorney if $75 a month would be acceptable.
"That's fine, your honor," said Dewun Settle, one of two attorneys Methodist has hired to represent the hospital in court.
"You're free to go," Donald said, waving Nelson toward the door.
Outside the courtroom, Nelson tallied her costs, including time off work, parking fees for three trips to court and a $27 filing fee all for Methodist's lawyers to agree to the same monthly payment the hospital's collection agency refused.
"They were just being greedy," she said.
A Familiar Rhythm
Methodist's attorneys tag team the cases. Settle presents the cases to the judge. R. Alan Pritchard moves between the courtroom and the hallway, where he negotiates payment plans with defendants. Attorney's fees add 33% to the initial hospital bill in each case, turning a $2,000 bill into a $2,660 lawsuit, before court fees and interest.
The judges' rulings will follow the defendants for months, years, even decades. But Settle doesn't need to say much for the judge to be the hospital's heavy.
He usually asks for more than the defendant offered, and then the judges almost always lean on the defendant.
In February, Judge Deborah Henderson was unmoved as a charter school employee explained that student loans and caring for her ailing mother kept her from paying any more than $40 per month.
"It is admirable that you are helping your disabled mom, but there is a difference between a moral responsibility and a legal responsibility," Henderson said. "This debt is your legal obligation," she said, before ordering the educator to pay $75 per month.
The defendant left the courtroom in tears.
Even when a defendant complies with a court order and pays the amount agreed and on time, Methodist often seeks more.
That's what happened to a FedEx worker and mother of two the hospital summoned to court in April.
Court records show she'd made her $50 per month payments as scheduled for the past year. The sworn affidavit detailing her finances showed that her monthly expenses were $170 more than her income.
Judge Lonnie Thompson, elected in 1998, had these documents before him as he listened to Settle argue that the mother should pay more.
"She is paying on time," Settle allowed. "We're seeking an increase for $100 a month so the balance won't continue to increase."
The hospital had added more than $400 since September, raising the defendant's debt to nearly $7,000.
Thompson turned to the defendant. "Can you pay $75?"
"My house is in foreclosure right now," she replied.
Thompson pressed her and the defendant grew frustrated.
"I can't agree to it if I can't pay," the defendant said.
"If I sign the order," Thompson said sternly, "you have to pay it."
"I mean, I don't have it to pay," she replied.
Thompson relented and agreed to let her continue paying $50 a month. Three weeks later, she filed for bankruptcy.
Pritchard and Settle referred questions to Methodist. Henderson and Thompson did not return emails seeking comment.
If a defendant had an attorney, the lawyer might be able to negotiate a discount on the debt or maybe a reduction in the attorney's fees.
Without counsel, defendants navigate the system on their own, often poorly. When a judge asked one defendant if she was represented by counsel, the defendant pointed to Pritchard, who shook his head.
Of 80 cases on the Jan. 16 docket, only one defendant was represented by a lawyer.
Neither the judge nor the court staffers can give legal advice.
"I was telling my daughter, and she was saying, 'You need to talk to somebody,'" Barrett recalled. She thought about going to a free legal clinic offered by Memphis Area Legal Services, she said, "but when you're the only sole support in your household, you can't just take off days."
When the Tennessee Justice Center gets the rare call from a patient drowning in hospital bills, Johnson or her staff will call their contacts at that hospital.
"We'll say, 'This is a really heartbreaking story,' and a lot of times they'll just write the bill off," she said. "I don't know if that's because they know that we know our way to the media, but we don't necessarily threaten that. But they see us on the news a lot."
Constrained by the Law
Before she ran for Shelby County General Sessions Court judge in 1998, Moore was a public defender trying capital cases. She was starting to get burned out, but she didn't want to leave public service.
She won that election and the two since.
Moore has an easy rapport with attorneys Settle and Pritchard. And she tries to maintain a firm, but friendly demeanor with defendants.
In late May, she told a courtroom packed with defendants that she'd been where they are: Sued by creditors and having her wages garnished.
It was back in the 1980s, Moore said during an interview in her chambers, when she was a new attorney with the public defender's office.
"I had a husband who walked off, left me with the kids, stopped paying child support and kept it moving. And I struggled," she said.
She filed for bankruptcy in 1995.
Her empathy surfaces on her Facebook page, where she has posted articles about a subprime auto lender and an essay about the insecurity of a life in poverty.
Years ago, she took a stand when she heard cases involving car lenders who charged what she saw as exorbitant interest rates.
"I would strike it out and say: '32%? That is unconscionable.' That's the legal word you can use to say, 'I ain't doing it,'" she said.
In response, the creditors' lawyers sent letters reminding her that the law allowed them to charge the contractual interest rate.
"I just stopped striking it out because there was really no gray area with that. The law said this is what it is."
Moore said she can't be — and isn't — swayed by the relative power of the parties involved, even when the plaintiff is a massive, profitable health care system and the defendants are often poor and without counsel. "If you start factoring that in, then you become biased."
In April, Moore heard the case of a mother of three who owed more than $3,000. In her slow pay motion, the defendant proposed paying $30 per month.
Moore turned to Settle. "What do y'all need on that?" she asked.
At least $200 a month, Settle replied.
"I can't do $200," said the defendant, who works at a warehouse.
Moore then turned to the defendant's sworn affidavit of income and property. The mother's $2,000 monthly income left her $1,300 in the red.
Moore zeroed in on the ages of her sons (11, 17 and 19) and the defendant's sizable clothing allowance and food budget. They were old enough, Moore reasoned, to sacrifice a little so their mother could pay more.
The 11-year-old is autistic, nonverbal, wears diapers and can only eat pureed foods, the mother told the judge. Moore shared that an elderly relative was on a similar diet, but she didn't cut the defendant a break.
"Even with what you told me, I think you can do $100," she said, before signing a court order directing the defendant to pay $130 per month.
On the same morning Barrett and Nelson were in court, a Shelby County Schools kindergarten teacher came to confront a $6,800 debt.
Settle asked for $140 per month. The teacher countered with $50 a month, but the judge seemed offended.
"I won't even consider it," Moore said. The teacher's husband, who'd accompanied his wife to court, spoke up, but Moore cut him off.
"You married a grown-ass woman," Moore snapped.
"Please don't curse," the teacher said.
"I apologize," Moore said quickly. "It's just frustrating."
Taped to a door in the judge's chambers is a prayer that says in part: "Help me to treat others today as I desire to be treated."
She said she reads it every time she heads to the bench.
"I want to do and say what is right and pleasing to God because sometimes these folk, honey, they'll make you want to cuss," she said.
Debt That Will Follow Her to the Grave
After Moore heard the rest of the cases on the docket that January day, she called Barrett's name again.
Barrett stood, and Settle asked the judge to set her payments at $100 a month.
The judge agreed, denying Barrett's motion to pay $40 per month.
"This is going to be my last time setting this up," Moore said sternly. "You gone be paying on this for many, many months to come."
Months later, Barrett was still bothered by the outcome.
"If you know I can't pay $40, why you think I can pay $100?" Barrett said.
If she'd had a chance, she would have told the judge she was perpetually late on her utility bill and sometimes, she's had to let her car insurance lapse because she can't afford it. "She don't take but a few seconds to make that sentence. It was just moving them in and moving them out. They don't have no kind of empathy for people."
Between February and May, Barrett managed to make her payments on time, by shorting other bills and relying on payday loans. But this month, she missed her payment due date.
If Methodist doesn't add any interest to Barrett's debt and she pays as ordered, she will pay it off in 330 months.
She will be 90 years old.
Not long after her day in court, Barrett filed her 2018 taxes.
She made $13,800.
"It's in the hands of God now," she said. "There's only so much I can do."
Wendi C. Thomas is the editor of MLK50: Justice Through Journalism. Email her at wendicthomas@mlk50.com and follow her on Twitter at @wendicthomas.
We’re interested in hearing from people who know more about Methodist Le Bonheur or other hospitals or doctors’ offices in Memphis. Talk to us if:
You’ve been sued by a hospital or doctor
You have medical debt that’s been difficult to pay off
You work for a hospital or collection agency and have something to share about their financial practices
President Donald Trump often touts a law he signed to speed up firings at the Department of Veterans Affairs. He and other Republicans see the law as a model for weakening civil service protections across the federal government.
The administration's case for the new law centered on Brian Hawkins. Hawkins was the director of the VA hospital in Washington when an internal investigation discovered safety risks for patients. The VA tried to fire Hawkins but got held up on appeal. Then-Secretary David Shulkin said Hawkins showed why "we need new accountability legislation and we need that now." Once Congress passed thelegislation, the VA used it to go after Hawkins a second time.
Now, almost two years later, the VA's case against Hawkins has fallen apart. On Tuesday, the government said it would give Hawkins his job back rather than defend the statute in court.
While the administration tried to make Hawkins into a symbol of why it needed the legislation, court records tell a different story: of Trump appointees so eager to score political points that they ran roughshod over legal protections for civil servants.
"They couldn't defend their actions in court," Hawkins said in an interview. "The VA took away my rights, I had no say, my 25-year career was gone. It violated everything I tried to teach my family and tried to believe in myself: this country was founded on a Constitution, the Bill of Rights, equal opportunity for all."
Hawkins argued that his firing was unconstitutional because the VA used a standard of proof that was too low. Since the government opted not to contest that claim, it could have repercussions for thousands of other VA employees who were fired under the accountability law, according to Jason Briefel, the executive director of the Senior Executives Association, which lobbies for high-ranking career officials.
"The passage of this law was a signature achievement for the president and many members of Congress," said Briefel, who also works for the law firm that represented Hawkins. "If they were wrong and this was indeed unconstitutional, now they're going to have to go figure out what to do with thousands of folks fired under this authority."
VA spokesman Curt Cashour said the agency "has complete confidence" in the law but declined to comment on the Hawkins case. A White House spokesman didn't respond to a request for comment.
House veterans committee chairman Mark Takano, a California Democrat, said he would hold hearings this summer to examine the VA's implementation of the accountability law.
"This is another example of how VA has misconstrued and unfairly applied legislation once lauded as the Administration's preferred method to root out corruption," Takano said in a statement. "Instead of weeding out troubled leadership and incompetent supervisors, this law has been exploited and misused to target whistleblowers and employees."
According to the government's court filing, Hawkins will get back pay, but the VA could try to fire him again. The government now wants the judge to throw out Hawkins' case as moot.
Many of the details in the litigation have been sealed for more than a year because the government considers the information protected by attorney-client privilege. But ProPublica uncovered the information from other documents and people involved.
Hawkins, 50, started working at the VA in 1992 cutting grass. He worked his way up through the ranks and in 2011 became director of the Washington hospital, overseeing a staff of 2,000 at the 200-bed facility three miles north of the Capitol. Under Hawkins' charge, the hospital struggled with stocking medical supplies and filling leadership positions. In early 2017, Hawkins found out about problems in the logistics department and reported his concerns to the VA's inspector general.
The inspector general's office found dirty storage areas and supply shortages that were endangering patients. The inspector general's reportdidn't name Hawkins but suggested that even higher-ranking officials in the VA health system were aware the problems and had failed to fix them.
Shulkin was under pressure from Trump. As a candidate, Trump had campaignedon cracking down on errant VA employees, a rallying cry for conservative critics of the government-run health system. "You just need to start firing people," Trump told Shulkin at a spring 2017 meeting with veterans groups, as reported in The Wall Street Journal. "Let them sue us. I don't care if they sue us."
The VA could have taken action against Hawkins based on the problems at the hospital he ran, but that would have required an investigation — and time. The Trump administration didn't want to wait. Political appointees said they wanted to fire Hawkins "for any reason we can find," according to a June 2017 email sent by Scott Foster, a senior official overseeing the staff responsible for investigating VA executives. According to the email, the staff investigators responded that there was "insufficient evidence." (Foster declined to discuss personnel matters, citing privacy rules, but he agreed to tell his story.)
"We are setting ourselves up for slam-dunk due process fouls," Foster said in the email, sent to his boss and the VA's top lawyer. "We will lose this case on appeal, and in a very embarrassing way."
The VA fired Hawkins anyway.
That same day, Foster was on a conference call where his boss, a political appointee named Peter O'Rourke, said he wanted 10 to 15 people who could be fired as soon as Trump signed the new accountability law, according to notes that Foster recorded later that month. Foster cautioned that the VA would still need to follow the legal process and act on evidence.
O'Rourke responded by moving to fire Foster. The stated reason, according to the written notice that O'Rourke gave to Foster, was that Foster had voiced concerns about the legality of how the agency was firing civil servants.
Foster knew that the law protected him from such explicit retaliation, but he wasn't sure if that would matter.
"I was wondering if I was going to be caught up in a time in our country's history when the people who ran the government did not necessarily feel compelled to follow the law," Foster said.
O'Rourke, who later served as acting secretary and left the agency late last year, didn't respond to phone messages.
Foster filed a complaint with the Office of Special Counsel, or OSC, an independent federal agency that investigates retaliation against whistleblowers. OSC blocked the VA from firing Foster.
OSC also received a complaint from Michael Culpepper, another senior official overseeing investigations of VA executives. Culpepper "witnessed VA leadership violate norms in seeking to terminate several senior level employees," according to his lawyer, Mark Zaid. Culpepper became a whistleblower and suffered retaliation, Zaid said. Culpepper resigned in May 2017.
Based on the complaints from Foster and Culpepper, OSC moved to halt Hawkins' removal. An administrative judge agreed to pause the firing for 45 days so that OSC could investigate further.
Shulkin seethed at the intervention. "No judge who has never run a hospital and never cared for our nation's veterans will force me to put an employee back in a position when he allowed the facility to pose potential safety risks to our veterans," he said in apress release.
Shulkin, who was forced out in March 2018, didn't respond to a request for comment.
Rather than honor the 45-day pause, the VA said it would deploy the new accountability law that Trump had just signed. A Wall Street Journal editorialheadlined "Can the VA Fire Anyone?" called the Hawkins case a critical test for the law's powers. The order firing Hawkins was signed by Assistant Secretary for Congressional and Legislative Affairs Brooks Tucker, a political appointee who is outside the hospital system's chain of command.
"The media circus that the secretary went on really made me feel less than human," Hawkins said. "My children were laughed at and questioned by their friends. My neighbors stopped speaking to my family. It was a struggle to leave my home. I gained 30 pounds. I developed hypertension. I've been in counseling for stress and depression. I was unsure of how was going to provide for my family."
Hawkins maintains that the Washington hospital had been on the upswing during his six-year tenure. When the inspector general's office completed its review, it said Hawkins provided "ineffective leadership" but also faulted others above and below him. (A separate investigation found that Hawkins broke agency policy by sending sensitive information to a personal email account.)
Conditions at the hospital got worse after Hawkins left. The facility was designated "critical" last year and now ranks among the worst-performing hospitals in the entire VA system. The inventory problems still weren't fixed —inspections found that some procedures had to be canceled because the hospital ran out of needed equipment.
"You're using civil servants as political pawns to say, 'OK, I fired them, therefore the problem is better,' but a year or two years later, the logistics problem is still an issue," Hawkins said. "It kills the efficiency of the organization, and then the 'big bad VA doing bad things for veterans' becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy."
Cashour, the VA spokesman, said the Washington hospital is making "significant improvements" such as reducing wait times, hiring nurses and referring more patients to private providers. The latter was another Trump campaign promise.
A policy review follows months of turmoil at the cancer center, which pledged an overhaul, including new rules on public disclosure and limits on outside profits.
This article was first co-published on Thursday, April 4, 2019 in ProPublicaand The New York Times.
Top officials at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center repeatedly violated policies on financial conflicts of interest, fostering a culture in which profits appeared to take precedence over research and patient care, according to details released on Thursday from an outside review.
The findings followed months of turmoil over executives' ties to drug and health care companies at one of the nation's leading cancer centers. The review, conducted by the law firm Debevoise & Plimpton, was outlined at a staff meeting on Thursday morning.
It concluded that officials frequently violated or skirted their own policies; that hospital leaders' ties to companies were likely considered on an ad hoc basis rather than through rigorous vetting; and that researchers were often unaware that some senior executives had financial stakes in the outcomes of their studies.
In acknowledging flaws in its oversight of conflicts of interest, the cancer center announced on Thursday an extensive overhaul of policies governing employees' relationships with outside companies and financial arrangements — including public disclosure of doctors' ties to corporations and limits on outside work.
The review was one of several steps the nonprofit cancer center has taken in the wake of reports last year by The New York Times and ProPublica that several top executives and board members had profited from relationships with drug companies, outside research ventures or corporate board memberships.
Those revelations prompted Memorial Sloan Kettering, based in New York, to hire outside firms to conduct inquiries into those relationships as well as into internal allegations of ethical lapses.
The scrutiny of researchers' stakes in startups has intensified at a time when venture capitalists are betting millions of dollars on the next potential cure for cancer and when expensive treatments like immunotherapy have fueled public concern over rising drug prices.
The spotlight on the deals at Memorial Sloan Kettering also swayed other leading cancer centers, like Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston and Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle, to reconsider their policies.
Dr. Walid Gellad, director of the Center for Pharmaceutical Policy and Prescribing at the University of Pittsburgh, said the changes appeared to be more comprehensive than those in place at many other health care institutions.
"Memorial Sloan Kettering really does seem to be taking this seriously and this document, I think, shows it," he said, referring to the hospital's revised policies. "Kudos to them."
At the staff meeting, Mark P. Goodman, co-chairman of the law firm's commercial litigation group, told doctors that the review found "a number of instances of serious noncompliance with MSK's conflict-of-interest policies," according to a recording. A spokesman for the hospital, Mike Morey, declined to provide a copy of Debevoise's findings.
The conflicts and some profit-making deals — which were not specified at the meeting — did not occur through intentional misconduct, Goodman said. Rather, the review exposed inadequate oversight and a lack of established protocols for examining whether employees' and executives' affiliations with corporations could result in biased results that favored a company's products.
Goodman also said the review, involving interviews with 36 current and former employees and board members and an examination of 25,000 documents, did not find that the ethical shortcomings had hurt patients or compromised research. In an email, Goodman disputed the characterization of the findings as violations of rules and said the report did not conclude that top officials acted in a concerted way.
In his presentation, he referred instead to "noncompliance" with hospital policies and to instances where executives appeared not to have followed existing policies.
Scott Stuart, chairman of the cancer center's Boards of Overseers and Managers, said in an emailed statement: "We took a deep and honest look at what went wrong at our own institution, examined what was occurring in the wider cancer research community, and are putting in place best practices that will not only allow us to learn from our mistakes, but will contribute to best practices for the wider research community."
The cancer center has been reeling from the series of reports by the Times and ProPublica, including that its chief medical officer, Dr. José Baselga, had failed to disclose millions of dollars in payments from drug and health care companies in dozens of articles in medical journals.
Baselga resigned in September, and he also stepped down from the boards of the drugmaker Bristol-Myers Squibb and Varian Medical Systems, a radiation equipment manufacturer. The British-Swedish drugmaker AstraZeneca hired Baselga to run its new oncology unit this year.
Additional reports detailed how other top officials at Memorial Sloan Kettering had cultivated lucrative relationships with for-profit companies, including an artificial intelligence startup, Paige.AI, that was founded by a member of the cancer center's executive board, the chairman of its pathology department and the head of one of its research laboratories. The hospital struck an exclusive deal with the company to license images of 25 million patient tissue slides that had been collected over decades.
Another article detailed how a hospital vice president was given a nearly $1.4 million stake in a newly public company as compensation for representing Memorial Sloan Kettering on its board.
In October, Memorial Sloan Kettering's chief executive, Dr. Craig B. Thompson, resigned from the boards of Charles River Laboratories, an early-stage research company, and the drugmaker Merck.
Then, in January, Memorial Sloan Kettering went a step further, barring its top executives from serving on the corporate boards of drug and health care companies. Hospital officials also instituted policy changes to limit the ways in which its top executives and leading researchers could profit from work developed at Memorial Sloan Kettering, which admits about 23,500 cancer patients each year.
Goodman said at the staff meeting that the law firm had not found evidence of intentional wrongdoing — defined as "a conscious decision to engage in misconduct" — by the hospital's leaders or board members.
"Although we did not identify evidence of breaches of fiduciary duty, we did find that processes and controls for the review and management of senior executive and board-level conflicts were deficient and resulted in instances of noncompliance with MSK policies," Goodman said.
Specifically, he noted, plans to manage executive conflicts of interest, a requirement at the hospital, "were not implemented because it was felt to be unnecessary or because there was a failure to realize that a management plan was needed."
Goodman also said that hospital leaders' corporate ties were handled differently from other employees. Beginning in 2014, senior executives were no longer required to vet financial relationships with a conflict-of-interest advisory committee because the hospital felt the committee should not be asked to make decisions about executives to whom it reported. While Goodman said that rationale made sense, the general counsel's office — tasked with overseeing the leaders' conflicts — did not put in place formal procedures to examine potential problems.
"As a result," Goodman said, "conflicts were allowed to persist without formal firewalls in place."
Hospital leaders also did not always disclose to faculty and staff when they had relationships to companies whose research was being conducted at Memorial Sloan Kettering, Goodman said.
The policy changes that Memorial Sloan Kettering announced on Thursday include the creation of a board committee to focus on overseeing conflicts, an existing hospital policy that the law firm learned had not been carried out.
The hospital also said it would disclose financial interests of faculty members and researchers on its website and create a more centralized review of conflicts between employees' work at the hospital and their outside duties.
Other changes included new limits on how income is distributed from research discoveries that originate at Memorial Sloan Kettering, and regular audits to ensure the hospital is complying with its own rules. The cancer center reinforced its earlier statements that many profits from outside work should flow back to MSK research.
Heather H. Pierce, the senior director for science policy and regulatory counsel at the Association of American Medical Colleges, said the hospital decided to undergo a review that "was far broader than the initial concerns that were raised." As an outside member of the task force recommending changes, Pierce noted that "there was nothing that wasn't up for discussion."
Gellad, of the University of Pittsburgh, said the issues raised at a prominent institution like Memorial Sloan Kettering have placed others on notice. "We've seen what happens when these conflicts, even if they're only perceived, they lead to problems in terms of how an institution is judged," Gellad said. "Every institution, if they're not, should look to see how that impacted Memorial Sloan Kettering."
Katie Thomas covers the pharmaceutical industry for The New York Times.
UIC has played down its shortcomings in overseeing the work of a prominent child psychiatrist, but documents show that the school acknowledged its lapses to federal officials.
This story was co-published with The Chronicle of Higher Education and the Chicago Sun-Times.
For a year, the University of Illinois at Chicago has downplayed its shortcomings in overseeing the work of a prominent child psychiatrist who violated research protocols and put vulnerable children with bipolar disorder at risk.
But documents newly obtained by ProPublica Illinois show that UIC acknowledged to federal officials that it had missed several warning signs that Dr. Mani Pavuluri's clinical trial on lithium had gone off track, eventually requiring the university to pay an unprecedented $3.1 million penalty to the federal government.
UIC's Institutional Review Board, the committee responsible for protecting research subjects, improperly fast-tracked approval of Pavuluri's clinical trial, didn't catch serious omissions from the consent forms parents had to sign and allowed children to enroll in the study even though they weren't eligible, the documents show.
The IRB's shortcomings violated federal regulations meant to protect human subjects, putting it in "serious non-compliance," according to one of five letters from UIC officials to the federal government the university turned over to ProPublica Illinois after a nearly yearlong appeal for the documents under open records laws.
Still, UIC officials have continued to blame only Pavuluri. In written statements, the university told ProPublica Illinois last year — and again this week — that "internal safeguards did not fail" and that researchers are "responsible for the ethical and professional conduct" of their projects.
A ProPublica Illinois investigation published last year,"The $3 Million Research Breakdown," revealed Pavuluri's research misconduct and the university's oversight failures. The stories revealed that, in a rare rebuke, the National Institute of Mental Health in November 2017 ordered UIC to repay millions in grant money it had received for one of Pavuluri's lithium studies.
But information was limited — particularly relating to the university's response to federal officials about its own role — because the University of Illinois system withheld or redacted some documents, citing federal and state privacy laws.
ProPublica Illinois had requested the records under the Freedom of Information Act in early 2018, and, after the university declined to turn them over, appealed to the Illinois attorney general's public access counselor. The agency decided last month that the school had "improperly denied" ProPublica Illinois all or parts of five letters sent from UIC to officials at the National Institute of Mental Health and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services' Office for Human Research Protections. Other requested records remain under review by the public access counselor.
In one of those letters, dated March 22, 2013, James Fischer, then UIC's director of the Office for the Protection of Research Subjects, told OHRP that an initial internal audit determined that the IRB shortcomings had "the potential to compromise the integrity of the human subjects protections program."
Another letter Fischer sent OHRP in October 2015 explains why a university investigative panel concluded children likely were harmed by Pavuluri's studies, despite her claim otherwise. The university has refused to release the panel's report, but an executive summary — referenced in the October letter — found that children were harmed based on reports from parents and "a preponderance of evidence."
"It is clear that it is not because of [Pavuluri's] actions that harms may have been avoided," the panel concluded, according to a quote from the report that Fischer included in his letter. "It is despite her actions that no subject came to worse harm."
The study, "Affective Neuroscience of Pediatric Bipolar Disorder," began in 2009 and aimed to use imaging to examine how the brains of adolescents with bipolar disorder functioned before and after taking lithium. The scans were compared with brain images of healthy, unmedicated children.
The study was almost complete, and the money spent, when it was shut down in 2013, when one of the young subjects became ill after she withdrew from other medication to begin receiving lithium for the study.
According to the protocol NIMH had approved, subjects should not have been able to participate if they had previously used psychotropic medication. The IRB did not approve medication withdrawal, records show.
The child's hospitalization was reported to the IRB and then to federal officials, who requested more information. UIC conducted the initial audit and then an investigation, keeping federal officials informed of the findings over the next two years.
NIMH officials eventually determined both Pavuluri and the IRB had failed in numerous ways and demanded the $3.1 million be refunded. The study, NIMH officials concluded, had been compromised and the results had no scientific merit. The university had previously returned about $800,000 for two of Pavuluri's other federally funded projects that also shut down prematurely when similar problems were discovered.
The newly obtained documents describe disorganization in Pavuluri's work, with poor record keeping that included missing dates and identification numbers for the research subjects, among other problems. That made it difficult for UIC officials who later reviewed the research to understand who took part in the trial and the details of their participation.
Still, the records contain details that explain why 89 of the 103 children who participated should have been ineligible, including because they had histories of substance abuse, seizures or suicidal tendencies.
Although the federal grant limited the study to teenagers between 13 and 17, the IRB approved Pavuluri's request to expand the age of participants to include 10- to 12-year-olds despite a specific prohibition by NIMH against doing this and a lack of proper documentation by Pavuluri about the reasons for the expansion.
Pavuluri went even further from the protocol and enrolled 8- and 9-year-olds, records show.
In another significant violation, the IRB approved the inclusion of research subjects as long as they hadn't taken lithium, even though the NIMH grant originally prohibited the participation of anyone who had previously taken any psychotropic medication. Nearly 25 percent of the children enrolled in the study withdrew from or tapered other medication before participating, including the girl whose illness ultimately prompted the study's shutdown.
NIMH has said it was not informed about the eligibility changes allowing younger participants and those with a history of taking other medications. It said "the changes were significant, because they increased risk to the study subjects."
In written responses to recent questions from ProPublica Illinois, a UIC spokeswoman said no employees were disciplined for the IRB noncompliance and the university did not fail in its oversight role.
UIC officials have said they took appropriate steps once they realized problems with Pavuluri's research, including reporting the concerns to the federal agencies, suspending her research and eventually ordering that she retract journal articles. They have said her case was an anomaly, that UIC "does not allow non-compliance," and that research on human subjects "was performed upholding the highest standards in ethical and responsible research conduct."
In its only universitywide communication to employees about Pavuluri's research, sent last spring days after the initial ProPublica Illinois story about the problems, school officials discussed Pavuluri's missteps but did not mention the IRB's compliance failings. The letter noted that UIC "did not have any systemic issues of lax research oversight."
Some "corrective actions" were taken, however, including changes to the IRB review process, records show. IRB panels were instructed to emphasize the research protocol as the preeminent document when reviewing researchers' requests to make changes to ensure compliance with the approved criteria.
UIC also conducted an audit to determine if consent documents provided to research subjects in other studies followed the rules. A UIC spokeswoman declined to tell ProPublica Illinois the results of that audit, though a document indicates the audit found deficiencies in consent forms for 11 of the 28 protocols examined.
UIC provided hundreds of pages of documents in response to ProPublica Illinois records requests last year, but withheld or heavily redacted others. Last May, ProPublica Illinois asked the attorney general's office, which is tasked with interpreting and enforcing the state Freedom of Information Act, to review whether the documents should be public, including the letters between UIC and federal officials.
Last month, the office of newly elected Attorney General Kwame Raoul issued an opinion on five of the letters, finding that all or parts of each were "not confidential" and should be public because they include the findings and corrective actions of the review process.
The university argued that the Illinois Medical Studies Act, which says medical-related peer reviews can be confidential, prohibited the documents' disclosure. The public access counselor agreed that limited parts of the letters that described internal quality control could be withheld.
Raoul's office has not yet ruled on ProPublica Illinois' appeals for other Pavuluri research records the university has refused to provide, including research protocols, documents submitted to the IRB and records created as part of investigating and correcting issues related to Pavuluri's work and university responses.
Pavuluri, who founded UIC's Pediatric Mood Disorders Clinic when she joined the university in 2000, retired in June and has opened a private practice, the Brain and Wellness Institute, in Lincoln Park. In an interview with ProPublica Illinois last year, she called her mistakes oversights and said she made decisions in the best interests of her patients. She said she received minimal research guidance and training from the university, though she received $7.5 million in National Institutes of Health grants during her tenure at UIC.
Pavuluri has said she expanded the criteria for who could enroll in the study because it was difficult to find enough subjects within the narrow age range, and who were not already taking other medication.
But she said university officials placed too much blame on her instead of recognizing that those responsible for oversight also were responsible.
"It was in their interest to kind of maybe see this as one person's mistake [rather] than the responsibility of the IRB as well," Pavuluri said in an interview last year. She has declined to speak again with ProPublica Illinois and did not respond to a recent request for comment.
UIC officials have said that while there were problems with Pavuluri's research, a review of her medical practice determined she provided "high quality patient care."
But following ProPublica Illinois' reporting, state regulators, who review complaints about Illinois doctors and decide if discipline is warranted, launched an investigation into Pavuluri. The state Department of Financial and Professional Regulation issued three subpoenas to UIC in August and September seeking records related to Pavuluri and her research.
State investigations of doctors are not made public unless the department imposes discipline.
Pavuluri's research also has been under investigation by two divisions of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, according to subpoenas, emails and other documents: the inspector general's office, which examines waste, fraud and abuse in government programs, and the Office of Research Integrity, which reviews claims of scientific misconduct.
By Mike Hixenbaugh, Houston Chronicle, and Charles Ornstein, ProPublica
Six days after Thanksgiving last year, a 73-year-old woman showed up at Baylor St. Luke's Medical Center in Houston. Her body was retaining too much fluid after a dialysis treatment, and she was in need of emergency medical care.
What happened next could have killed her.
Hospital staff put in a request to give the woman a blood transfusion, but the order was meant for another patient with a different blood type. Fortunately, the St. Luke's laboratory caught the error, sparing the woman from harm.
Four days later, however, hospital staff committed a similar mistake, only this time workers in the lab didn't notice when a blood sample arrived with another patient's blood in it. As a result, a 75-year-old woman was given the wrong blood, mistaken for a patient who had been in her ER room immediately before her.
She died the next day after repeated bouts of cardiac arrest.
The fatal mistake followed a pattern of blood labeling errors at St. Luke's during the past year, according to a scathing report issued last month by the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services and made public Tuesday by the hospital. The government report came after a yearlong investigation by the Houston Chronicle and ProPublica that documented numerous lapses in patient care at a hospital once regarded as among the nation’s best for cardiac care.
Lawson said newly hired St. Luke's executives have already made several changes to bring the hospital into compliance with federal standards, including an improved training program to ensure blood samples are labeled properly. The hospital has also enhanced its quality improvement program, Lawson wrote, and officials have made it easier for staff to report patient safety concerns to senior leadership.
"It is our responsibility to learn from these mistakes, and we take this responsibility very seriously," Lawson wrote. "An incident like this should never happen."
Dr. Ashish Jha, an expert in hospital quality, reviewed the government's findings and said it appeared St. Luke's was struggling to meet basic care standards. The labeling mistakes, he said, seemed indicative of "a broader systemic problem."
"These are really basic errors that I didn't really think happened that often anymore," said Jha, who directs Harvard University's Global Health Institute.
St. Luke's appeared to miss warning signs in the months prior to the deadly mistake, according to the government report.
An internal hospital committee identified problems with the way staff had been labeling blood samples a year ago, according to the federal report, but the unsafe practices continued. In total, regulators identified 122 incidents from a recent four-month period, from September to January, in which St. Luke's staff made blood labeling errors, some more serious than others.
These problems were compounded by a short-staffed nursing crew that lacked training in how to detect adverse reactions during transfusions and a hospital laboratory with too few workers on staff to always catch potentially fatal labeling mistakes, according to the government report.
The violations are the latest in a series of setbacks for St. Luke's. The Medicare agency cut off funding for heart transplantsat St. Luke's last year after the Chronicle-ProPublica investigation documented an outsized number of patient deaths and unusual surgical complications following the procedure in recent years.
The news organizations also reported on poor outcomes following heart bypass surgery, repeated complaints about inadequate nursing care, a recent rise in the number of deaths after liver and lung transplants, and a physician's lawsuit alleging that he was retaliated against after raising concerns that some of his patients had received unnecessary medical treatments in intensive care units.
Hospital officials said repeatedly that problems identified by reporters had already been corrected, and they denied retaliating against the physician.
After the botched blood transfusion, hospital leaders have taken a different tack. Days after the inspection, the hospital’s board of directors announced it had dismissed CEO Gay Nord and three other top executives.
The report released Tuesday details how the fatal mistake occurred.
Medical staff had drawn blood from an ER patient on Dec. 2 but failed to discard the sample after that patient was discharged. The vial of blood was still in the hospital room when staff brought in a 75-year-old woman who had been rushed to St. Luke’s by ambulance. When a doctor ordered a transfusion, staff mistakenly sent the tube containing the prior patient's blood sample, placing a new label over the original.
Jha, the quality expert, said the double-labeling error was an egregious mistake, but with the proper checks in place, it shouldn't have led to the woman’s death.
"A lab should never accept a specimen that has two labels of two different patients," he said.
Government inspectors found that the lab at St. Luke's did not have a policy on whether technicians should accept blood samples with multiple labels.
The situation was made worse by poor nursing care, regulators wrote. Many nurses at St. Luke's had not been trained on how to identify signs of a blood transfusion gone wrong. Staff continued to give the 75-year-old woman the wrong blood despite a worsening adverse reaction, according to the report.
The government report details numerous incidents in which St. Luke's nurses failed to track patient vital signs while administering transfusions, making it impossible to detect problems.
"The findings present a likelihood that serious blood transfusion reactions may not be detected in an expeditious manner, which could delay appropriate response and treatment, and could result in death or injury to a patient," inspectors wrote.
The hospital did not make changes in the weeks that followed, according to the report. In a meeting at St. Luke's on Jan. 10, more than a month after the death, hospital leaders acknowledged they still were not tracking labeling mistakes.
The hospital has since hired several new officials to guide St. Luke's on its "journey back to excellence," Lawson wrote in his letter Tuesday.
"This is a challenging time for our hospital," he wrote. "While we cannot go back and change the past, we can focus our efforts on recreating the Baylor St. Luke's you have known and trusted."
As OxyContin addiction spurred a national nightmare, a member of the family that has reaped billions of dollars from the painkiller boasted that sales exceeded his 'fondest dreams,' according to a secret court document obtained by ProPublica.
This article is a collaboration between ProPublica and STAT. It was published Thursday, February 21, 2019, by ProPublica.
In May 1997, the year after Purdue Pharma launched OxyContin, its head of sales and marketing sought input on a key decision from Dr. Richard Sackler, a member of the billionaire family that founded and controls the company. Michael Friedman told Sackler that he didn't want to correct the false impression among doctors that OxyContin was weaker than morphine, because the myth was boosting prescriptions — and sales.
"It would be extremely dangerous at this early stage in the life of the product," Friedman wrote to Sackler, "to make physicians think the drug is stronger or equal to morphine….We are well aware of the view held by many physicians that oxycodone [the active ingredient in OxyContin] is weaker than morphine. I do not plan to do anything about that."
"I agree with you," Sackler responded. "Is there a general agreement, or are there some holdouts?"
Ten years later, Purdue pleaded guilty in federal court to understating the risk of addiction to OxyContin, including failing to alert doctors that it was a stronger painkiller than morphine, and agreed to pay $600 million in fines and penalties. But Sackler's support of the decision to conceal OxyContin's strength from doctors — in email exchanges both with Friedman and another company executive — was not made public.
The email threads were divulged in a sealed court document that ProPublica has obtained: an Aug. 28, 2015, deposition of Richard Sackler. Taken as part of a lawsuit by the state of Kentucky against Purdue, the deposition is believed to be the only time a member of the Sackler family has been questioned under oath about the illegal marketing of OxyContin and what family members knew about it. Purdue has fought a three-year legal battle to keep the deposition and hundreds of other documents secret, in a case brought by STAT, a Boston-based health and medicine news organization; the matter is currently before the Kentucky Supreme Court.
Meanwhile, interest in the deposition's contents has intensified, as hundreds of cities, counties, states and tribes have sued Purdue and other opioid manufacturers and distributors. A House committee requested the document from Purdue last summer as part of an investigation of drug company marketing practices.
In a statement, Purdue stood behind Sackler's testimony in the deposition. Sackler, it said, "supports that the company accurately disclosed the potency of OxyContin to healthcare providers." He "takes great care to explain" that the drug's label "made clear that OxyContin is twice as potent as morphine," Purdue said.
Still, Purdue acknowledged, it had made a "determination to avoid emphasizing OxyContin as a powerful cancer pain drug," out of "a concern that non-cancer patients would be reluctant to take a cancer drug."
The company, which said it was also speaking on behalf of Sackler, deplored what it called the "intentional leak of the deposition" to ProPublica, calling it "a clear violation of the court's order" and "regrettable."
Much of the questioning of Sackler in the 337-page deposition focused on Purdue's marketing of OxyContin, especially in the first five years after the drug's 1996 launch. Aggressive marketing of OxyContin is blamed by some analysts for fostering a national crisis that has resulted in 200,000 overdose deaths related to prescription opioids since 1999.
Taken together with a Massachusetts complaint made public last month against Purdue and eight Sacklers, including Richard, the deposition underscores the family's pivotal role in developing the business strategy for OxyContin and directing the hiring of an expanded sales force to implement a plan to sell the drug at ever-higher doses. Documents show that Richard Sackler was especially involved in the company's efforts to market the drug, and that he pushed staff to pursue OxyContin's deregulation in Germany. The son of a Purdue co-founder, he began working at Purdue in 1971 and has been at various times the company's president and co-chairman of its board.
In a 1996 email introduced during the deposition, Sackler expressed delight at the early success of OxyContin. "Clearly this strategy has outperformed our expectations, market research and fondest dreams," he wrote. Three years later, he wrote to a Purdue executive, "You won't believe how committed I am to make OxyContin a huge success. It is almost that I dedicated my life to it. After the initial launch phase, I will have to catch up with my private life again."
"Clearly this strategy has outperformed our expectations, market research and fondest dreams."
—Richard Sackler, in 1996 email
During his deposition, Sackler defended the company's marketing strategies — including some Purdue had previously acknowledged were improper — and offered benign interpretations of emails that appeared to show Purdue executives or sales representatives minimizing the risks of OxyContin and its euphoric effects. He denied that there was any effort to deceive doctors about the potency of OxyContin and argued that lawyers for Kentucky were misconstruing words such as "stronger" and "weaker" used in email threads.
The term "stronger" in Friedman's email, Sackler said, "meant more threatening, more frightening. There is no way that this intended or had the effect of causing physicians to overlook the fact that it was twice as potent."
Emails introduced in the deposition show Sackler's hidden role in key aspects of the 2007 federal case in which Purdue pleaded guilty. A 19-page statement of facts that Purdue admitted to as part of the plea deal, and which prosecutors said contained the "main violations of law revealed by the government's criminal investigation," referred to Friedman's May 1997 email to Sackler about letting the doctors' misimpression stand. It did not identify either man by name, attributing the statements to "certain Purdue supervisors and employees."
Friedman, who by then had risen to chief executive officer, was one of three Purdue executives who pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor of "misbranding" OxyContin. No members of the Sackler family were charged or named as part of the plea agreement. The Massachusetts lawsuit alleges that the Sackler-controlled Purdue board voted that the three executives, but no family members, should plead guilty as individuals. After the case concluded, the Sacklers were concerned about maintaining the allegiance of Friedman and another of the executives, according to the Massachusetts lawsuit. To protect the family, Purdue paid the two executives at least $8 million, that lawsuit alleges.
"The Sacklers spent millions to keep the loyalty of people who knew the truth," the complaint filed by the Massachusetts attorney general alleges.
The Kentucky deposition's contents will likely fuel the growing protests against the Sacklers, including pressure to strip the family's name from cultural and educational institutions to which it has donated. The family has been active in philanthropy for decades, giving away hundreds of millions of dollars. But the source of its wealth received little attention until recent years, in part due to a lack of public information about what the family knew about Purdue's improper marketing of OxyContin and false claims about the drug's addictive nature.
Although Purdue has been sued hundreds of times over OxyContin's marketing, the company has settled many of these cases, and almost never gone to trial. As a condition of settlement, Purdue has often required a confidentiality agreement, shielding millions of records from public view.
That is what happened in Kentucky. In December 2015, the state settled its lawsuit against Purdue, alleging that the company created a "public nuisance" by improperly marketing OxyContin, for $24 million. The settlement required the state attorney general to "completely destroy" documents in its possession from Purdue. But that condition did not apply to records sealed in the circuit court where the case was filed. In March 2016, STAT filed a motion to make those documents public, including Sackler's deposition. The Kentucky Court of Appeals last year upheld a lower court ruling ordering the deposition and other sealed documents be made public. Purdue asked the state Supreme Court to review the decision, and both sides recently filed briefs. Protesters outside Kentucky's Capitol last week waved placards urging the court to release the deposition.
Sackler family members have long constituted the majority of Purdue's board, and company profits flow to trusts that benefit the extended family. During his deposition, which took place over 11 hours in a law office in Louisville, Kentucky, Richard Sackler said "I don't know" more than 100 times, including when he was asked how much his family had made from OxyContin sales. He acknowledged it was more than $1 billion, but when asked if they had made more than $5 billion, he said, "I don't know." Asked if it was more than $10 billion, he replied, "I don't think so."
By 2006, OxyContin's "profit contribution" to Purdue was $4.7 billion, according to a document read at the deposition. From 2007 to 2018, the Sackler family received more than $4 billion in payouts from Purdue, according to the Massachusetts lawsuit.
During the deposition, Sackler was confronted with his email exchanges with company executives about Purdue's decision not to correct the misperception among many doctors that OxyContin was weaker than morphine. The company viewed this as good news because the softer image of the drug was helping drive sales in the lucrative market for treating conditions like back pain and arthritis, records produced at the deposition show.
Designed to gradually release medicine into the bloodstream, OxyContin allows patients to take fewer pills than they would with other, quicker-acting pain medicines, and its effect lasts longer. But to accomplish these goals, more narcotic is packed into an OxyContin pill than competing products. Abusers quickly figured out how to crush the pills and extract the large amount of narcotic. They would typically snort it or dissolve it into liquid form to inject.
"Since oxycodone is perceived as being a weaker opioid than morphine, it has resulted in OxyContin being used much earlier for non-cancer pain. ... It is important that we be careful not to change the perception of physicians toward oxycodone when developing promotional pieces, symposia, review articles, studies, et cetera."
—Michael Cullen, in 1997 email
The pending Massachusetts lawsuit against Purdue accuses Sackler and other company executives of determining that "doctors had the crucial misconception that OxyContin was weaker than morphine, which led them to prescribe OxyContin much more often." It also says that Sackler "directed Purdue staff not to tell doctors the truth," for fear of reducing sales. But it doesn't reveal the contents of the email exchange with Friedman, the link between that conversation and the 2007 plea agreement, and the back-and-forth in the deposition.
A few days after the email exchange with Friedman in 1997, Sackler had an email conversation with another company official, Michael Cullen, according to the deposition. "Since oxycodone is perceived as being a weaker opioid than morphine, it has resulted in OxyContin being used much earlier for non-cancer pain," Cullen wrote to Sackler. "Physicians are positioning this product where Percocet, hydrocodone and Tylenol with codeine have been traditionally used." Cullen then added, "It is important that we be careful not to change the perception of physicians toward oxycodone when developing promotional pieces, symposia, review articles, studies, et cetera."
"I think that you have this issue well in hand," Sackler responded.
Friedman and Cullen could not be reached for comment.
Asked at his deposition about the exchanges with Friedman and Cullen, Sackler didn't dispute the authenticity of the emails. He said the company was concerned that OxyContin would be stigmatized like morphine, which he said was viewed only as an "end of life" drug that was frightening to people.
"Within this time it appears that people had fallen into a habit of signifying less frightening, less threatening, more patient acceptable as under the rubric of weaker or more frightening, more — less acceptable and less desirable under the rubric or word 'stronger,'" Sackler said at his deposition. "But we knew that the word 'weaker' did not mean less potent. We knew that the word 'stronger' did not mean more potent." He called the use of those words "very unfortunate."
He said Purdue didn't want OxyContin "to be polluted by all of the bad associations that patients and healthcare givers had with morphine."
In his deposition, Sackler also defended sales representatives who, according to the statement of facts in the 2007 plea agreement, falsely told doctors during the 1996-2001 period that OxyContin did not cause euphoria or that it was less likely to do so than other opioids. This euphoric effect experienced by some patients is part of what can make OxyContin addictive. Yet, asked about a 1998 note written by a Purdue salesman, who indicated that he "talked of less euphoria" when promoting OxyContin to a doctor, Sackler argued it wasn't necessarily improper.
"This was 1998, long before there was an Agreed Statement of Facts," he said.
The lawyer for the state asked Sackler: "What difference does that make? If it's improper in 2007, wouldn't it be improper in 1998?"
"Not necessarily," Sackler replied.
Shown another sales memo, in which a Purdue representative reported telling a doctor that "there may be less euphoria" with OxyContin, Sackler responded, "We really don't know what was said." After further questioning, Sackler said the claim that there may be less euphoria "could be true, and I don't see the harm."
The same issue came up regarding a note written by a Purdue sales representative about one doctor: "Got to convince him to counsel patients that they won't get buzzed as they will with short-acting" opioid painkillers. Sackler defended these comments as well. "Well, what it says here is that they won't get a buzz. And I don't think that telling a patient 'I don't think you'll get a buzz' is harmful," he said.
Sackler added that the comments from the representative to the doctor "actually could be helpful, because many patients won't get a buzz, and if he would like to know if they do, he might have had a good medical reason for wanting to know that."
Sackler said he didn't believe any of the company sales people working in Kentucky engaged in the improper conduct described in the federal plea deal. "I don't have any facts to inform me otherwise," he said.
Purdue said that Sackler's statements in his deposition "fully acknowledge the wrongful actions taken by some of Purdue's employees prior to 2002," as laid out in the 2007 plea agreement. Both the company and Sackler "fully agree" with the facts laid out in that case, Purdue said.
The deposition also reveals that Sackler pushed company officials to find out if German officials could be persuaded to loosen restrictions on the selling of OxyContin. In most countries, narcotic pain relievers are regulated as "controlled" substances because of the potential for abuse. Sackler and other Purdue executives discussed the possibility of persuading German officials to classify OxyContin as an uncontrolled drug, which would likely allow doctors to prescribe the drug more readily — for instance, without seeing a patient. Fewer rules were expected to translate into more sales, according to company documents disclosed at the deposition.
One Purdue official warned Sackler and others that it was a bad idea. Robert Kaiko, who developed OxyContin for Purdue, wrote to Sackler, "If OxyContin is uncontrolled in Germany, it is highly likely that it will eventually be abused there and then controlled."
Nevertheless, Sackler asked a Purdue executive in Germany for projections of sales with and without controls. He also wondered whether, if one country in the European Union relaxed controls on the drug, others might do the same. When finally informed that German officials had decided the drug would be controlled like other narcotics, Sackler asked in an email if the company could appeal. Told that wasn't possible, he wrote back to an executive in Germany, "When we are next together we should talk about how this idea was raised and why it failed to be realized. I thought that it was a good idea if it could be done."
Asked at the deposition about that comment, Sackler responded, "That's what I said, but I didn't mean it. I just wanted to be encouraging." He said he really "was not in favor of" loosening OxyContin regulation and was simply being "polite" and "solicitous" of his own employee.
Near the end of the deposition — after showing Sackler dozens of emails, memos and other records regarding the marketing of OxyContin — a lawyer for Kentucky posed a fundamental question.
"Sitting here today, after all you've come to learn as a witness, do you believe Purdue's conduct in marketing and promoting OxyContin in Kentucky caused any of the prescription drug addiction problems now plaguing the Commonwealth?" he asked.
The insurance industry gives lucrative commissions and bonuses to independent brokers who advise employers. Critics call the payments a "classic conflict of interest" that drive up costs.
This article was co-published February 20, 2019, by ProPublica and NPR'sShots blog.
The pitches to the health insurance brokers are tantalizing.
"Set sail for Bermuda," says insurance giant Cigna, offering top-selling brokers five days at one of the island's luxury resorts.
Health Net of California's pitch is not subtle: A smiling woman in a business suit rides a giant $100 bill like it's a surfboard. "Sell more, enroll more, get paid more!" In some cases, its ad says, a broker can "power up" the bonus to $150,000 per employer group.
Not to be outdone, New York's EmblemHealth promises top-selling brokers "the chance of a lifetime": going to bat against the retired legendary New York Yankees pitcher Mariano Rivera. In another offer, the company, which bills itself as the state's largest nonprofit plan, focuses on cash: "The more subscribers you enroll … the bigger the payout." Bonuses, it says, top out at $100,000 per group, and "there's no limit to the number of bonuses you can earn."
Such incentives sound like typical business tactics, until you understand who ends up paying for them: the employers who sign up with the insurers — and, of course, their employees.
Human resource directors often rely on independent health insurance brokers to guide them through the thicket of costly and confusing benefit options offered by insurance companies. But what many don't fully realize is how the health insurance industry steers the process through lucrative financial incentives and commissions. Those enticements, critics say, don't reward brokers for finding their clients the most cost-effective options.
Here's how it typically works: Insurers pay brokers a commission for the employers they sign up. That fee is usually a healthy 3% to 6% of the total premium. That could be about $50,000 a year on the premiums of a company with 100 people, payable for as long as the plan is in place. That’s $50,000 a year for a single client. And as the client pays more in premiums, the broker's commission increases.
Commissions can be even higher, up to 40% or 50% of the premium, on supplemental plans that employers can buy to cover employees' dental costs, cancer care or long-term hospitalization.
Those commissions come from the insurers. But the cost is built into the premiums the employer and employees pay for the benefit plan.
Now, layer on top of that the additional bonuses that brokers can earn from some insurers. The offers, some marked "confidential," are easy to find on the websites of insurance companies and broker agencies. But many brokers say the bonuses are not disclosed to employers unless they ask. These bonuses, too, are indirectly included in the overall cost of health plans.
These industry payments can't help but influence which plans brokers highlight for employers, said Eric Campbell, director of research at the University of Colorado Center for Bioethics and Humanities.
"It’s a classic conflict of interest," Campbell said.
There’s "a large body of virtually irrefutable evidence," Campbell said, that shows drug company payments to doctors influence the way they prescribe. "Denying this effect is like denying that gravity exists." And there’s no reason, he said, to think brokers are any different.
Critics say the setup is akin to a single real estate agent representing both the buyer and seller in a home sale. A buyer would not expect the seller's agent to negotiate the lowest price or highlight all the clauses and fine print that add unnecessary costs.
"If you want to draw a straight conclusion: It has been in the best interest of a broker, from a financial point of view, to keep that premium moving up," said Jeffrey Hogan, a regional manager in Connecticut for a national insurance brokerage and one of a band of outliers in the industry pushing for changes in the way brokers are paid.
As the average cost of employer-sponsored health insurance premiums has tripled in the past two decades, to almost $20,000 for a family of four, a small, but growing, contingent of brokers are questioning their role in the rise in costs. They've started negotiating flat fees paid directly by the employers. The fee may be a similar amount to the commission they could have earned, but since it doesn't come from the insurer, Hogan said, it "eliminates the conflict of interest" and frees brokers to consider unorthodox plans tailored to individual employers' needs. Any bonuses could also be paid directly by the employer.
Brokers provide a variety of services to employers. They present them with benefits options, enroll them in plans and help them with claims and payment issues. Insurance industry payments to brokers are not illegal and have been accepted as a cost of doing business for generations. When brokers are paid directly by employers, the results can be mutually beneficial.
In 2017, David Contorno, the broker for Palmer Johnson Power Systems, a heavy-equipment distribution company in Madison, Wisconsin, saved the firm so much money while also improving coverage that Palmer Johnson took all 120 employees on an all-expenses paid trip to Vail, Colorado, where they rode four-wheelers and went whitewater rafting. In 2018, the company saved money again and rewarded each employee with a health care "dividend" of about $700.
Contorno is not being altruistic. He earned a flat fee, plus a bonus based on how much the plan saved, with the total equal to roughly what would have made otherwise.
Craig Parsons, who owns Palmer Johnson, said the new payment arrangement puts pressure on the broker to prevent overspending. His previous broker, he said, didn't have any real incentive to help him reduce costs. "We didn't have an advocate," he said. "We didn't have someone truly watching out for our best interests." (The former broker acknowledged there were some issues, but said it had provided a valuable service.)
Working for Employers, Not Insurers
Contorno is part of a group called the Health Rosetta, which certifies brokers who agree to follow certain best practices related to health benefits, including eliminating any hidden agreements that raise the cost of employee benefits. To be certified, brokers (who refer to themselves as "benefits advisers") must disclose all their direct and indirect sources of income — bonuses, commissions, consulting fees, for example — and who pays them to the employers they advise.
Dave Chase, a Washington businessman, created Rosetta in 2016 after working with tech health startups and launching Microsoft's services to the health industry. He said he saw an opportunity to transform the health care industry by changing the way employers buy benefits. He said brokers have the most underestimated role in the healthcare system. "The good ones are worth their weight in gold," Chase said. "But most of the benefit brokers are pitching themselves as buyer's agents, but they are paid like a seller's agent."
There are only 110 Rosetta certified brokers in an industry of more than 100,000, although others who follow a similar philosophy consider themselves part of the movement.
From the employer's point of view, one big advantage of working with brokers like those certified by Rosetta, is transparency. Currently, there's no industry standard for how brokers must disclose their payments from insurance companies, so many employers may have no idea how much brokers are making from their business, said Marcy Buckner, vice president of government affairs for the National Association of Health Underwriters, the trade group for health benefits brokers. And thus, she said, employers have no clear sense of the conflicts of interest that may color their broker's advice to them.
Buckner's group encourages brokers to bill employers for their commissions directly to eliminate any conflict of interest, but, she said, it's challenging to shift the culture. Nevertheless, Buckner said she doesn’t think payments from insurers undermine the work done by brokers, who must act in their clients' best interests or risk losing them. "They want to have these clients for a really long term," Buckner said.
Industrywide, transparency is not the standard. ProPublica sent alist of questions to 10 of the largest broker agencies, some worth $1 billion or more, including Marsh & McLennan, Aon and Willis Towers Watson, asking if they took bonuses and commissions from insurance companies, and whether they disclosed them to their clients. Four firms declined to answer; the others never responded despite repeated requests.
Patients may think their insurers are fighting on their behalf for the best prices. But saving patients money is often not their top priority. Just ask Michael Frank.
Insurers also don't seem to have a problem with the payments. In 2017, Health Care Service Corporation, which oversees Blue Cross Blue Shield plans serving 15 million members in five states, disclosed in its corporate filings that it spent $816 million on broker bonuses and commissions, about 3% of its revenue that year. A company spokeswoman acknowledged in an email that employers are actually the ones who pay those fees; the money is just passed through the insurer. "We do not believe there is a conflict of interest," she said.
In one email to a broker reviewed by ProPublica, Blue Cross Blue Shield of North Carolina called the bonuses it offered — up to $110,000 for bringing in a group of more than 1,000 — the "cherry on top." The company told ProPublica that such bonuses are standard and that it always encourages brokers to "match their clients with the best product for them."
Cathryn Donaldson, spokeswoman for the trade group America's Health Insurance Plans, said in an email that brokers are incentivized "above all else" to serve their clients. "Guiding employees to a plan that offers quality, affordable care will help establish their business and reputation in the industry," she said.
Some insurer's pitches, however, clearly reward brokers' devotion to them, not necessarily their clients. "To thank you for your loyalty to Humana, we want to extend our thanks with a bonus," says one brochure pitched to brokers online. Horizon Blue Cross Blue Shield of New Jersey offered brokers a bonus as "a way to express our appreciation for your support." Empire Blue Cross told brokers it would deliver new bonuses "for bringing in large group business ... and for keeping it with us."
Delta Dental of California's pitches appears to go one step further, rewarding brokers as "key members of our Small Business Program team."
ProPublica reached out to all the insurers named in this story, and many didn't respond. Cigna said in a statement that it offers affordable, high-quality benefit plans and doesn't see a problem with providing incentives to brokers. Delta Dental emphasized in an email it follows applicable laws and regulations. And Horizon Blue Cross said its gives employers the option of how to pay brokers and discloses all compensation.
The effect of such financial incentives is troubling, said Michael Thompson, president of the National Alliance of Healthcare Purchaser Coalitions, which represents groups of employers who provide benefits. He said brokers don’t typically undermine their clients in a blatant way, but their own financial interests can create a "cozy relationship" that may make them wary of "stirring the pot."
Employers should know how their brokers are paid, but healthcare is complex, so they are often not even aware of what they should ask, Thompson said. Employers rely on brokers to be a "trusted adviser," he added. "Sometimes that trust is warranted and sometimes it's not."
Bad Faith Tactics
When officials in Morris County, New Jersey, sought a new broker to manage the county's benefits, they specified that applicants could not take insurance company payouts related to their business. Instead, the county would pay the broker directly to ensure an unbiased search for the best benefits. The county hired Frenkel Benefits, a New York City broker, in February 2015.
Now, the county is suing the firm in Superior Court of New Jersey, accusing it of double-dipping. In addition to the fees from the county, the broker is accused of collecting a $235,000 commission in 2016 from the insurance giant Cigna. The broker got an additional $19,206 the next year, the lawsuit claims. To get the commission, one of the agency's brokers allegedly certified, falsely, that the county would be told about the payment, the suit said. The county claims it was never notified and never approved the commission.
The suit also alleges the broker "purposefully concealed" the costs of switching the county's health coverage to Cigna, which included administrative fees of $800,000.
In an interview, John Bowens, the county"s attorney, said the county had tried to guard against the broker being swayed by a large commission from an insurer. The brokers at Frenkel did not respond to requests for comment. The firm has not filed a response to the claims in the lawsuit. Steven Weisman, one of attorneys representing Frenkel, declined to comment.
Sometimes employers don't find out their broker didn't get them the best deal until they switch to another broker.
Josh Butler, a broker in Amarillo, Texas, who is also certified by Rosetta, recently took on a company of about 200 employees that had been signed up for a plan that had high out-of-pocket costs. The previous broker had enrolled the company in a supplemental plan that paid workers $1,000 if they were admitted to the hospital to help pay for uncovered costs. But Butler said the premiums for this coverage cost about $100,000 a year, and only nine employees had used it. That would make it much cheaper to pay for the benefit without insurance.
Butler suspects the previous broker encouraged the hospital benefits because they came with a sizable commission. He sells the same type of policies for the same insurer, so he knows the plan came with a 40 percent commission in the first year. That means about $40,000 of the employer's premium went into the broker's pocket.
Butler and other brokers said the insurance companies offer huge commissions to promote lucrative supplemental plans like dental, vision and disability. The total commissions on a supplemental cancer plan one insurer offered come to 57%, Butler said.
These massive year-one commissions lead some unscrupulous brokers to "churn" their supplemental benefits, Butler said, convincing employers to jump between insurers every year for the same type of benefits. The insurers don't mind, Butler said, because the employers end up paying the tab. Brokers may also "product dump," Butler said, which means pushing employers to sign employees up for multiple types of voluntary supplemental coverage, which brings them a hefty commission on each product.
Carl Schuessler, a broker in Atlanta who is certified by the Rosetta group, said he likes to help employers find out how much profit insurers are making on their premiums. Some states require insurers to provide the information, so when he took over the account for The Gasparilla Inn, an island resort on the Gulf Coast of Florida, he obtained the report for the company’s recent three years of coverage with UnitedHealthcare. He learned that the insurer had only paid out in claims about 65% of what the Inn had paid in premiums.
But in those same years the insurer had increased the Inn's premiums, said Glenn Price, its chief financial officer. "It's tough to swallow" increases to our premium when the insurer is making healthy profits, Price said. UnitedHealthcare declined to comment.
Schuessler, who is paid by the Inn, helped it transition to a self-funded plan, meaning the company bears the cost of the healthcare bills. Price said the Inn went from spending about $1 million a year to about $700,000, with lower costs and better benefits for employees, and no increases in three years.
A Need for Regulation
Despite the important function of brokers as middlemen, there's been scant examination of their role in the marketplace.
Don Reiman, head of a Boise, Idaho, broker agency and a financial planner, said the federal government should require health benefit brokers to adhere to the same regulation he sees in the finance arena. The Employee Retirement Income Security Act, better known as ERISA, requires retirement plan advisers to disclose to employers all compensation that's related to their plans, exposing potential conflicts.
The Department of Labor requires certain employers that provide health benefits to file documents every year about their plans, including payments to brokers. The department posts the information on its website.
But the data is notoriously messy. After a 2012 report found 23% of the forms contained errors, there was a proposal to revamp the data collection in 2016. It is unclear if that work was done, but ProPublica tried to analyze the data and found it incomplete or inaccurate. The data shortcomings mean employers have no real ability to compare payments to brokers.
About five years ago, Contorno, one of the leaders in the Rosetta movement, was blithely happy with the status quo: He had his favored insurers and could usually find traditional plans that appeared to fit his clients' needs.
Today, he regrets his role in driving up employers' health costs. One of his LinkedIn posts compares the industry's acceptance of control by insurance companies to Stockholm Syndrome, the feelings of trust a hostage would have toward a captor.
Contorno began advising Palmer Johnson in 2016. When he took over, the company had a self-funded plan and its claims were reviewed by an administrator owned by its broker, Iowa-based Cottingham & Butler. Contorno brought in an independent claims administrator who closely scrutinized the claims and provided detailed cost information. The switch led to significant savings, said Parsons, the company owner. "It opened our eyes to what a good claims review process can mean to us," he said.
Brad Plummer, senior vice president for employee benefits for Cottingham & Butler, acknowledged "things didn't go swimmingly" with the claims company. But overall his company provided valuable service to Palmer Johnson, he said.
Contorno also provided resources to help Palmer Johnson employees find high-quality, low-cost providers, and the company waived any out-of-pocket expense as an incentive to get employees to see those medical providers. If a patient needed an out-of-network procedure, the price was negotiated up front to avoid massive surprise bills to the plan or the patient.
The company also contracted with a vendor for drug coverage that does not use the secret rebates and hidden pricing schemes that are common in the industry. Palmer Johnson's yearly healthcare costs per employee dropped by more than 25%, from about $11,252 in 2015 to $8,288 in 2018. That's lower than they'd been in 2011, Contorno said.
"Now that my compensation is fully tied to meeting the clients' goals, that is my sole objective," he said. "Your broker works for whoever is cutting them the check."
ProPublica data fellow Sophie Chou contributed to this story.
Marshall Allen is a reporter at ProPublica investigating the cost and quality of our healthcare.
When Congress passed a bill last year to transform the Department of Veterans Affairs, lawmakers said they were getting rid of arbitrary rules for when the government would pay for veterans to see private doctors.
Under the old program, veterans could go to the private sector if they would have to wait 30 days or travel 40 miles for care in the VA. Lawmakers and veteransgroups, including conservatives, criticized those rules as arbitrary. The new law, known as the Mission Act, was supposed to let doctors and patients decide whether to use private sector based on individualized health needs.
On Wednesday, the Trump administration proposed new rules, known as access standards, to automatically make veterans eligible for private care. Instead of 30 days, it's 20 days for primary care or 28 days for specialty care. Instead of 40 miles, it's a 30-minute drive for primary care or a 60-minute drive for specialty care.
The announcement appeared to do little to settle the debate over whether the VA's rules are arbitrary.
"Twenty days is just as arbitrary as 30 days," Bob Wallace, the executive director of Veterans of Foreign Wars, one of the largest veterans service organizations, said in a statement.
What is clear about the new rules is that they are dramatically more permissive. The new drive-time standard alone will make 20% of veterans eligible for private primary care and 31% eligible for private specialty care, up from 8% for both kinds of care under the old program, according to a briefing document circulated on Capitol Hill.
"This is doubling down on the administrative rules such as drive times and wait times," said David Shulkin, the former VA secretary who was fired last year by President Donald Trump, in part over disagreements about this bill. "I was in favor of a system that was clinically based, that put veterans' needs first and allowed the right match of services. This is just changing and loosening the administrative rules."
VA spokeswoman Susan Carter declined to comment.
Last month, a ProPublica investigation of the private-care program that the administration is now expanding found overhead costs that were much higher than industry standards and comparable government programs. In response to the article, VA Secretary Robert Wilkie acknowledged that the agency was "taken advantage of" with these overhead costs and vowed to improve.
On the campaign trail, Trump presented himself as a champion for veterans, and as president he frequently boasts about what his administration has done for former service members. But at the same time, he has enthusiastically supported shifting more veterans to private medical care, over the objection of major veterans groups that want to preserve the VA's health system. He has also plunged the VA into chaos by upending his own leadership team at the agency and handing vast influence to three men nicknamed the "Mar-a-Lago Crowd" because they meet at the president's resort in Florida.
The new access standards are the most important step toward reshaping the VA in line with Trump's vision of enlarging the private sector’s role.
"None of this should be a surprise to anybody: President Trump has made it clear from pretty much the moment he started running he wanted full choice," said Dan Caldwell, the executive director of Concerned Veterans for America, a political group that advocates for more private care and that is backed by the Koch brothers, the industrialists who have donated hundreds of millions of dollars to conservative causes. "This does get us closer to full choice. That's the model we want to get to."
The VA is planning to continue widening the access standards, dropping the wait time for primary care to 14 days in 2020, according the agency’s briefing materials.
Already, according to the document, almost half of the VA's primary care sites (69 out of 141) have wait times longer than 20 days, meaning their patients could get private care. In gastroenterology, 81 out of 128 sites have waits longer than 28 days. But, the document cautioned, "This data is not reliable."
According to people present for briefings on Wednesday, congressional staff and veterans groups had a long list of questions that largely went unanswered by VA officials. Among them:
How many more veterans will become eligible for private care based on the wait times standards?
How does the software that the VA bought from Microsoft calculate drive times?
How many more patients does the VA expect to choose private care?
How many more private-sector appointments does the VA expect to pay for?
How many more veterans will sign up for VA benefits, or use the VA instead of their other insurance coverage, now that they could see private doctors at no cost to them?
How will the VA ensure, as required by the Mission Act, that veterans referred to the private sector can get appointments there sooner than they could in the VA? (The VA's briefing materials said average national wait times are higher than in the VA.)
"They just didn't provide a whole lot of answers to questions about the impact," said Carl Blake, Paralyzed Veterans of America's executive director. "The fact is it's going to open up eligibility. It's debatable whether there are adequate resources to do so. What won't be acceptable is for them to take money from other programs in the VA to pay for it."
The unanswered questions could dramatically change the program's cost. The official notice for the new rules on the website for the Office of Information and Regulatory Affairs says the "Anticipated Costs and Benefits" are "TBD." In Wednesday's briefings, officials said the new access standards will increase the agency's expenses by $2.7 billion to $3.1 billion next year and by $19 billion to $20 billion over five years, the people present said.
Lawmakers have cast doubt on the VA's cost projections. In aletter to Wilkie on Monday, 28 Democratic senators noted that officials had provided "widely varying and potentially contradictory" figures depending on the day.
"I don’t know why they’re not using the resources we used to model this," said Nancy Schlichting, the former CEO of the Henry Ford Health System who led a congressionally chartered commission that in 2016 issued a report on the VA's future. The commission estimated that paying for veterans to see private doctors without a referral from the VA could increase costs by $96 billion to $179 billion a year.
"It's very, very unsophisticated, frankly," Schlichting said of the administration's proposal.
When debating the Mission Act, lawmakers relied on a projection by the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office that assumedthe rate of veterans using the private sector would stay about the same. That assumption has now been blown up by the way the administration is implementing the law.
"Today's announcement hastily rolling out new access standards places core VA services and vital research programs at risk by shifting money towards care outside VA," House veterans committee chairman Mark Takano said in a statement on Wednesday, vowing to hold a hearing. "Today's announcement places VA on a pathway to privatization and leads Congress to assume the worst."
Wilkie had moved to pre-empt such criticism. "Some will claim falsely and predictably that they represent a first step toward privatizing the department," he said in alengthy statementon Monday, two days before the news access standards were announced.
As evidence, Wilkie said appointments in the VA's health system have increased by 3.4 million since 2014 to more than 58 million in 2018. But his statement did not mention how much the VA's private-sector appointments have grown: more than four times as much. According to agency data provided to ProPublica, the VA’s private-care appointments increased by 14.9 million since 2014 to 33.2 million in 2017. Private care accounted for 58% of the VA's total outpatient appointments in 2017, up from 33% in 2014, the data shows.
In developing these access standards, Wilkie relied extensively on Darin Selnick, who previously worked for Concerned Veterans for America, the organization supported by the Koch brothers. Selnick signed onto an infamous 2016 proposalto dismantle the VA’s government-run health system. Selnick alsoworked closely withthe trio of unofficial advisers known as the "Mar-a-Lago Crowd."
Selnick sat on the "executive steering committee" in charge of implementing the Mission Act and reported directly to Wilkie as a senior adviser, according to an organization chart obtained by ProPublica. However, when the VA presented a version of the same chart to Congress at a December hearing, Selnick's name was not there.
Lawmakers voted for the Mission Act with the understanding that access standards would automatically trigger private care for only a few kinds of services, such as lab tests, X-rays and urgent care, the 28 Senate Democrats said. But now the administration is making the access standards apply to everything, a plan that ProPublica first revealedin November.
"This proposal risks needlessly siphoning away VA resources to private providers, which could irresponsibly starve excellent existing VA clinics and hospitals," Senate veterans committee member Richard Blumenthal, D-Conn., said in a statement on Wednesday.
Lawmakers and the public may not get more information about the how the program will be funded until the White House releases its budget for 2020. But officials have indicatedthey won't submit the president's budget to Congress on time, blaming the 35-day partial government shutdown. The shutdown did not affect the VA, but it did furlough staff in the Office of Management and Budget, putting the VA at risk of being late on the Mission Act regulations that are due in June, according to an agency report obtained by ProPublica.
The VA recently choseOptum, a division of UnitedHealth Group, to take over administering the new private-care program in most of the country. However, because the agency was late in awarding the contracts, Optum won't be ready to start when the new program is supposed to take effect in June.
In the interim, program will be run by TriWest Healthcare Alliance, the old vendor that charged unusually high fees. TriWest has also filed a formal protest challenging the VA’s decision to hire Optum. The dispute will be adjudicated by the Government Accountability Office.
In one case, a patient claims a surgeon sewed a major vein closed, causing blood to back up in his head. In the other, a patient alleges that the same surgeon sewed through his colon, filling his abdomen with feces. The lawsuits follow a yearlong investigation by ProPublica and the Houston Chronicle.
This article first appeared January 17, 2019, on ProPublica.
Two new lawsuits have been filed against Baylor St. Luke's Medical Center by patients who say they suffered serious injuries as a result of surgical errors during heart transplants at the troubled Houston hospital.
The suits, both filed Friday in Harris County District Court, bring to five the number of malpractice complaints involving heart transplants that have been leveled against St. Luke's or its doctors since a Houston Chronicle and ProPublica investigation last yeardocumented deaths and unexpected complications in the once-renowned program.
In one of the lawsuits filed last week, Lazerick Eskridge alleges that Dr. Jeffrey Morgan sewed a major vein closed during his heart transplant in February 2017, causing blood to back up into his head and requiring an emergency repair in the operating room. That led to several serious complications and resulted in a three-month hospital stay, according to the lawsuit.
In the other case, Ronald Coleman alleges that Morgan sutured his colon to his diaphragm during his heart transplant in October 2016, damaging the digestive organ and causing Coleman's abdomen to fill with feces. That caused serious infections, the lawsuit says, leading to several follow-up surgeries and "nearly costing Mr. Coleman his life."
Eskridge's story was detailed in a Chronicle and ProPublica report last year. Coleman's case has not been made public before now.
Both patients survived their ordeals but continue to suffer debilitating complications, according to their lawsuits.
St. Luke's and Morgan each declined to comment on the lawsuits, as did Baylor College of Medicine, which is named as a defendant in both cases as Morgan's employer. In previous interviews, all three have defended the quality of care provided to heart recipients at St. Luke's.
Hospital leaders also defended Morgan in past statements and interviews, calling him a skilled surgeon who they said had successfully turned the heart program around after a string of deaths in 2015. The hospital's heart transplant survival rates improved in 2016 and 2017, meeting national benchmarks.
In October, however, after losing Medicare funding, hospital leaders announced they had hired two new heart surgeons, effectively replacing Morgan as leader of the program.
The latest lawsuits come as the federal Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services conducts a comprehensive investigation into care provided at St. Luke's after the recent death of an emergency room patient who received a transfusion of the wrong blood type. Following that mishap and numerous other care lapses reported by the Chronicle and ProPublica over the past year, the hospital announced Monday that it was replacing its president, its chief nursing officer and a top physician.
Even as the hospital seeks to move forward under new leadership, it continues to deal with fallout from the problems in its heart transplant program. Three otherlawsuitshave already been filed in Harris County on behalf of St. Luke's patients who died or suffered serious complications after receiving new hearts. The hospital has declined to comment on pending litigation and has filed motions denying wrongdoing in two of the earlier cases; the third doesn't name the hospital as a defendant.
The two most recent lawsuits accuse Morgan of making technical mistakes with sutures during surgeries.A similar problem occured in one of his first transplant operations after taking over as the top heart transplant surgeon at St. Luke's in 2016, according to six medical professionals familiar with the case.
In that case, doctors and hospital staffers told reporters that Morgan sewed shut another major vein that carries blood back to the heart, and the patient died a few weeks later. The patient's family has not filed suit and Morgan has not commented on the situation, citing patient privacy.
In the case of Eskridge, Morgan said in a statement last year that his vein tissue was "severely abnormal" because of past cancer treatments and also was distorted by wires attached to the cardiac devices in his chest. Morgan said he used sutures to reinforce the vein's connection to the heart, but due to "concern for narrowing," he had to perform an operation to bypass the vein.
According to Coleman's lawsuit, he struggled to recover after receiving a new heart in October 2016. More than two weeks passed before an abdominal surgeon discovered what had gone wrong, according to the lawsuit. Part of his colon had to be removed as a result.
Coleman suffered life-threatening infections in the weeks that followed, the lawsuit says. He remained in the hospital for three months.
Because Coleman and Eskridge survived one year after their transplants, both of their surgeries are considered successes based on the main metric used to calculate transplant program mortality rates, and both contribute to the hospital's claim of improved outcomes in recent years.
The lawsuits, which were filed by separate law firms, both accuse Morgan of omitting key details about what went wrong when filling out operative reports in the patients' medical files, a violation of protocol that makes it more difficult to provide timely treatment.
Both lawsuits also accuse St. Luke's of "malicious credentialing" for allowing Morgan to continue operating after receiving complaints from several physicians about his surgical abilities, as reported last year by the Chronicle and ProPublica. At least two cardiologists grew so troubled, they said they began referring some patients to competing hospitals for transplants.
Morgan remains on the faculty at Baylor and still has privileges at St. Luke's, officials have said. But he no longer holds his previous title as surgical chief of heart transplants at either institution.
The sudden removal of the three executives follows a yearlong investigation by ProPublica and the Houston Chronicle into widespread problems at the hospital, including deaths in its heart transplant program.
This article first appeared January 14, 2019 on ProPublica.
Baylor St. Luke's Medical Center has ousted its president, its chief nursing officer and a top physician following numerous reports of substandard care, including a recent mistake that led to a patient's death, the Houston hospital announced Monday.
The hospital board's decision to replace top management comes in direct response to a recent error in which an emergency room patient died after receiving a blood transfusion with the wrong blood type, the hospital said in a news release announcing the changes.
Bob Moos, a spokesman for CMS, said that a team of 11 federal and state inspectors visited St. Luke's last week to complete a comprehensive investigation.
"The next steps will be determined from that review," Moos said.
Marc Shapiro, chairman of the St. Luke's board of directors, said in a statement that the nonprofit hospital "has faced significant challenges over the last year," and in light of the most recent incident, the board determined "aggressive action" was needed.
The latest Medicare review "raises concerns that are simply unacceptable to the Board," Shapiro said.
Doug Lawson, a regional executive with Catholic Health Initiatives, which owns the hospital, will replace Gay Nord as president, the hospital said in the news release. Lawson will continue in his role as CEO of CHI's Texas Division, which oversees St. Luke's and 15 other hospitals across the state.
A hospital spokesman said Lawson was not available for an interview and referred reporters to the hospital's news release.
In a statement, Lawson said the hospital is developing a 90-day plan that "will include new initiatives in the areas of clinical excellence, patient experience, and workplace culture. We are committed to taking all steps necessary to keep us on the path of excellence and to earn the trust of our patients."
Jennifer Nitschmann, the hospital's chief nursing officer, and Dr. David Berger, the hospital's senior vice president of operations, also "have left their roles," the hospital announced. Berger declined to comment for this story; Nord and Nitschmann could not be reached.
Dr. Ashish Jha, the director of Harvard's Global Health Institute and an expert in hospital quality measures, said hospitals nationwide have set up robust systems to prevent patients from receiving transfusions of the wrong blood type, a deadly and rare mistake.
"So for that to fall apart really does say to me, in the context of everything else going on, that there was really a deeper systemic problem," Jha said, emphasizing that such an error is even more remarkable at a major teaching hospital such as St. Luke's. "Whether changing leadership is going to fix it, I don't know ... but, of course, holding people to account is critically important."
The sudden departures are a stunning turn for a hospital renowned for its pioneering heart research, conducted with its partners, Texas Heart Institute and Baylor College of Medicine. It was here that Dr. Denton Cooley performed some of the world's first heart transplants and where Dr. O.H. "Bud" Frazier has worked to develop a mechanical replacement for the human heart.
St. Luke's, founded in 1954 by the Episcopal Diocese of Texas, is a behemoth in the Texas Medical Center, with 850 licensed beds, nearly 4,000 employees and 7,500 physicians.
For months, St. Luke's leaders had steadfastly defended the quality of care provided at the hospital. Following news reports last year about problems within the heart transplant program and other patient care concerns, the hospital launched a website and purchased full-page newspaper advertisements challenging the reporting and defending its medical care.
In an interview in August, Berger acknowledged that St. Luke's had struggled to meet national quality benchmarks in the years immediately after CHI purchased the hospital in 2013, but he said those issues were in the past. After Nord's arrival in 2016, Berger said administrators had invested additional resources in the hospital's quality department, strengthened its physician-leadership structure and worked with doctors and nurses to find ways to improve outcomes.
"The issues that you're bringing to light focus on a period of time in the institution when there were some challenges," Berger told reporters. "But I think our current data, which shows really excellent outcomes both from patient safety and from quality, would show that those issues are no longer pertinent. ... Those are historical issues."
In an interview Monday, Baylor College of Medicine President and CEO Paul Klotman said St. Luke's has made significant progress in improving care in the five years since it entered a joint-operating agreement with the medical school. But he said a mistake as serious as giving a patient a transfusion with the wrong blood type should never happen.
"There are certain things that reach a threshold where you've got to make a statement, where you've got to change the leadership and direction to get everyone's attention," said Klotman, who also sits on the St. Luke's hospital board. "This is one of those things."
Klotman said he does not believe Medicare's decision to cut off funding for heart transplants last year factored in the board's decision to change hospital leadership. He said the problems that triggered federal scrutiny were limited to a string of heart transplant patient deaths in 2015 and had since been corrected.
However, the Chronicle and ProPublica investigation documented unusual complications and deaths following heart transplants in 2016 and 2017, prompting some doctors to bring their concerns to Nord and other hospital leaders. At least two cardiologists grew so troubled, they said they began referring some patients to competing hospitals for transplants.
Two weeks after the news organizations published those findings in May, a federal appeals court judge stepped down from the hospital's board of directors, and the hospital announced it was temporarily suspending the heart program following two additional patient deaths in 2018.
The program reopened 14 days later, but within weeks, the federal government stepped in. Medicare announced in June that it would cut off funding for heart transplants at St. Luke's after the agency concluded the hospital had not done enough to improve care. Starting in mid-August, St. Luke's was barred from billing federal health programs for heart transplants. The hospital is appealing that decision.
The problems led more than 100 patients, family members, physicians and other medical professionals to contact the news organizations to report concerns about care at St. Luke's.
In October, after repeatedly defending the quality of the program and its physicians, St. Luke's announced it had hired two doctors to [replace its]{.underline} lead heart transplant surgeon and hired a new executive to oversee all of its transplant programs.
Marilyn Chambers, whose husband, John, died at St. Luke's in April, more than three months after receiving a double-lung transplant, said she believes the hospital needs to do more than change leaders. Chambers filed several complaints about the care provided to her husband, including incidents in which she said she found medication intended for another patient in her husband's room.
In a pair of meetings with Marilyn Chambers last year, Nord acknowledged that her staff could have done a better job caring for Chambers' husband and said the hospital had educated staff based on some of her complaints.
It wasn't enough, Chambers said.
"I can't get over it," she said. "It's been eight months, and I'm still crying like it's yesterday. Everything is just so unresolved, and I can't get anybody to do anything."