Under The Knife. Tess Gerritsen
Читать онлайн книгу.
they cut her up enough already?” Patrick blurted out.
There was a long silence. Mary said softly, “We’ll be taking her ashes out to sea. She loved the sea. Ever since she was a baby…”
It was a solemn parting. A few last words of condolence, and then the handshakes, the sealing of a pact. The O’Briens turned to leave. But in the doorway, Mary stopped.
“I want you to know it’s not the money,” she declared. “The truth is, I don’t care if we see a dime. But they’ve ruined our lives, Mr. Ransom. They’ve taken our only baby away. And I hope to God they never forget it.”
David nodded. “I’ll see they never do.”
After his clients had left, David turned to the window. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, willing the emotions to drain from his body. But a hard knot seemed to linger in his stomach. All that sadness, all that rage; it clouded his thinking.
Six days ago, a doctor had made a terrible mistake. Now, at the age of forty-one, Ellen O’Brien was dead.
She was only three years older than me.
He sat down at his desk and opened the O’Brien file. Skipping past the hospital record, he turned to the curricula vitae of the two physicians.
Dr. Guy Santini’s record was outstanding. Forty-eight years old, a Harvard-trained surgeon, he was at the peak of his career. His list of publications went on for five pages. Most of his research dealt with hepatic physiology. He’d been sued once, eight years ago; he’d won. Bully for him. Santini wasn’t the target anyway. David had his crosshairs on the anesthesiologist.
He flipped to the three-page summary of Dr. Katharine Chesne’s career.
Her background was impressive. A B.Sc in chemistry from U.C., Berkeley, an M.D. from Johns Hopkins, anesthesia residency and intensive-care fellowship at U.C., San Francisco. Now only thirty years old, she’d already compiled a respectable list of published articles. She’d joined Mid Pac Hospital as a staff anesthesiologist less than a year ago. There was no photograph, but he had no trouble conjuring up a mental picture of the stereotypical female physician: frumpy hair, no figure, and a face like a horse— albeit an extremely intelligent horse.
David sat back, frowning. This was too good a record; it didn’t match the profile of an incompetent physician. How could she have made such an elementary mistake?
He closed the file. Whatever her excuses, the facts were indisputable: Dr. Katharine Chesne had condemned her patient to die under the surgeon’s knife. Now she’d have to face the consequences.
He’d make damn sure she did.
* * *
GEORGE BETTENCOURT DESPISED doctors. It was a personal opinion that made his job as CEO of Mid Pac Hospital all the more difficult, since he had to work so closely with the medical staff. He had both an M.B.A. and a Masters in public health. In his ten years as CEO, he’d achieved what the old doctor-led administration had been unable to do: he’d turned Mid Pac from a comatose institution into a profitable business. Yet all he ever heard from those stupid little surrogate gods in their white coats was criticism. They turned their superior noses up at the very idea that their saintly work could be dictated by profit-and-loss graphs. The cold reality was that saving lives, like selling linoleum, was a business. Bettencourt knew it. The doctors didn’t. They were fools, and fools gave him headaches.
And the two sitting across from him now were giving him a migraine headache the likes of which he hadn’t felt in years.
Dr. Clarence Avery, the white-haired chief of anesthesia, wasn’t the problem. The old man was too timid to stand up to his own shadow, much less to a controversial issue. Ever since his wife’s stroke, Avery had shuffled through his duties like a sleepwalker. Yes, he could be persuaded to cooperate. Especially when the hospital’s reputation was at stake.
No, it was the other one who worried Bettencourt: the woman. She was new to the staff and he didn’t know her very well. But the minute she’d walked into his office, he’d smelled trouble. She had that look in her eye, that crusader’s set of the jaw. She was a pretty enough woman, though her brown hair was in a wild state of anarchy and she probably hadn’t held a tube of lipstick in months. But those intense green eyes of hers were enough to make a man overlook all the flaws of that face. She was, in fact, quite attractive.
Too bad she’d blown it. Now she was a liability. He hoped she wouldn’t make things worse by being a bitch, as well.
* * *
KATE FLINCHED AS BETTENCOURT dropped the papers on the desk in front of her. “The letter arrived in our attorney’s office this morning, Dr. Chesne,” he said. “Hand delivered by personal messenger. I think you’d better read it.”
She took one look at the letterhead and felt her stomach drop away: Uehara and Ransom, Attorneys at Law.
“One of the best firms in town,” explained Bettencourt. Seeing her stunned expression, he went on impatiently, “You and the hospital are being sued, Dr. Chesne. For malpractice. And David Ransom is personally taking on the case.”
Her throat had gone dry. Slowly she looked up. “But how—how can they—”
“All it takes is a lawyer. And a dead patient.”
“I’ve explained what happened!” She turned to Avery. “Remember last week—I told you—”
“Clarence has gone over it with me,” cut in Bettencourt. “That isn’t the issue we’re discussing here.”
“What is the issue?”
He seemed startled by her directness. He let out a sharp breath. “The issue is this: we have what looks like a million-dollar lawsuit on our hands. As your employer, we’re responsible for the damages. But it’s not just the money that concerns us.” He paused. “There’s our reputation.”
The tone of his voice struck her as ominous. She knew what was coming and found herself utterly voiceless. She could only sit there, her stomach roiling, her hands clenched in her lap, and wait for the blow to fall.
“This lawsuit reflects badly on the whole hospital,” he said. “If the case goes to trial, there’ll be publicity. People—patients—will read those newspapers and it’ll scare them.” He looked down at his desk. “I realize your record up till now has been acceptable—”
Her chin shot up. “Acceptable?” she repeated incredulously. She glanced at Avery. The chief of anesthesia knew her record. And it was flawless.
Avery squirmed in his chair, his watery blue eyes avoiding hers. “Well, actually,” he mumbled, “Dr. Chesne’s record has been—up till now, anyway—uh, more than acceptable. That is…”
For God’s sake, man! she wanted to scream. Stand up for me!
“There’ve never been any complaints,” Avery finished lamely.
“Nevertheless,” continued Bettencourt, “you’ve put us in a touchy situation, Dr. Chesne. That’s why we think it’d be best if your name was no longer associated with the hospital.”
There was a long silence, punctuated only by the sound of Dr. Avery’s nervous cough.
“We’re asking for your resignation,” stated Bettencourt.
So there it was. The blow. It washed over her like a giant wave, leaving her limp and exhausted. Quietly she asked, “And if I refuse to resign?”
“Believe me, Doctor, a resignation will look a lot better on your record than a—”
“Dismissal?”
He cocked his head. “We understand each other.”
“No.” She raised her head. Something about his eyes, their cold self-assurance, made her stiffen. She’d never liked Bettencourt.