“What I think you’re doing here,” Grant said pleasantly, “is attempting to get all the questions answered at once so we can have an early lunch.”
Duggins did not smile. “I’m sorry, Doctor. If the question was confusing to you then perhaps I can word it more simply.”
“No thank you. I’d like to give you a more detailed answer. In the first place, you’re assuming that the longer Irlene was in the exam room the more difficulty she had breathing. That was not the case. You’re also assuming that it was standard of care to intubate under the circumstances of her illness. That also was not the case. It was a judgment call. She was doing well and her symptoms were improving when I gave report at the end of my shift. I was not—”
“Dr. Sheldon, I have here a plaintiff’s exhibit of a document I would like for you to identify.” Duggins held up a copy of a prescription and Grant saw his own name as patient. It was a script for pain-killers.
Sudden change of direction. Another ploy to throw him off-balance. It was working but he didn’t let on.
Jay leaned forward to get a closer look at the exhibit then frowned at Duggins. “Objection. Unless you’re prepared to prove to the court why a prescription for medication about a totally unrelated case—”
“I fail to see how you can call it unrelated,” Duggins replied calmly. “The doctor could have been under the influence of this medication at the time of Irlene Goodwin’s presentation to the ER the night before her death.”
“Could have been?” Jay laughed. “If you were to question the use of prescribed medication by every defendant you questioned in court, the judges would have you—”
“I merely wish to point out the fact that Dr. Sheldon’s thought process might not have been the best,” replied Duggins.
Jay gave a casual shrug. “We have three expert witnesses who were shown Irlene’s medical records and agreed with treatment. Unless you intend to prove that their judgment was also hampered by some form of medication, may I suggest that this line of questioning only serves to prolong this deposition?” He looked at his watch. “And I could use that early lunch.”
There was a polite round of soft chuckles and Duggins shoved the exhibit aside. Grant concealed his relief.
Duggins checked his notes again. “Dr. Sheldon, would you agree with the assumption that an emergency physician, upon the ending of his shift, is responsible to give a comprehensive report on all patients in his care to the relief physician for the next shift?”
“No.”
Mr. Duggins paused and removed his glasses. “You disagree with my statement?” he asked, as if that were the most outrageous answer he’d ever received.
“A comprehensive report,” Grant said, “listing every detail about each patient case, would be impossible to cover during a normal shift change. An adequate report would encompass the pertinent details of the case, which we call an abbreviated SOAP note format, which stands for subjective-objective-assessment-plan.”
“And this is what you assert that you gave to your colleague on the date of these medical records?”
“That is correct.”
“On the night in question, did you alert Dr. Teschlow to the fact that Irlene Goodwin suffered from myasthenia gravis?”
“Yes.”
“You specifically remember giving him a verbal report?”
“Yes.”
“And if you had forgotten to mention those particulars to Dr. Teschlow, or perhaps mentioned them to a nurse and mistakenly believed you had mentioned them to Dr. Teschlow because of a state of mental confusion due to the sedation of a pain-killer you had taken earlier, would you have recalled that oversight quite so easily?”
“I didn’t forget.”
“That was not my question.”
Jay held his hand up. “Objection. This line of questioning is grossly misleading and argumentative.”
Grant did not allow Mr. Duggins’s comment to irritate him. Jay had warned him that the plaintiff’s attorney would attempt provocation.
Duggins replaced his glasses and leaned forward. “Can you tell me how, two years later, you can remember the details of this case so precisely?”
“Because Irlene Goodwin had been my patient at least three times previously in that ER. The news of her death the morning after I treated her was a terrible shock. I reviewed the comprehensive facts on the case, including the personal notes I had taken the night before. It took me more than an hour. I made further notes, seeking ways I might avoid such an outcome in the future.”
“So you concluded at that time that you could have been at fault?”
“I did not.”
“What was your conclusion?”
“I found nothing I would have done differently.”
Duggins leaned back in his chair. “I have no further questions of the witness at this time.”
Grant watched him for a few seconds in surprise, feeling primed for a fight that hadn’t taken place. He looked at Jay.
“None for me,” Jay said. He gestured to Grant. “Do you want to read it or waive signature? You can read it for accuracy.”
“Yes, I prefer to do that.” The deposition was over. Grant could go home.
***
On Thursday evening Beau sprawled across Dad’s bed and watched him fumble with buttons. He was obviously nervous about the date with Lauren. “So you’re not getting sued now?”
Dad dropped his comb, picked it up, leaned into the mirror, and frowned at himself. “That’s what it looks like. I’m not sure yet.”
“Dad, you’re going to ruin a perfectly good silk shirt if you wear it tonight.” It was a gift Mom had bought him for his birthday not long before the wreck.
“I like this shirt. Brooke says it makes me look younger.”
“It’ll make you look like a clumsy fourteen-year-old on his first date if you don’t fix your buttons. They don’t line up. The collar’s lopsided.”
Dad checked the mirror, groaned, undid his button job.
“You said you’re going to Lambert’s, right?” Beau asked. “Lambert’s servers go from table to table with extra helpings of fried potatoes and okra and beans and stuff. And they throw their dinner rolls and spoon out gooey molasses for the bread, even before you get your plate. Nobody wears a silk shirt to eat there.”
Dad nodded at his reflection in the mirror and tucked the shirt into his slacks. He hesitated. His gaze found Beau’s reflection and his brow furrowed with concern. “You really think this shirt looks stupid?”
Beau felt a pang. “I didn’t say that. It looks good on you. I just didn’t want you to get it stained and then have to go to Jessica’s Christmas show with a dirty shirt.” He was beginning to sound like Brooke. What a horrible thought. “Would you relax?”
“I’m relaxed.”
Something stirred Beau’s thoughts as Dad padded into the bathroom in his stockinged feet to brush his teeth. What would it be like to have someone else living here with them all the time? How would it feel to have another person—someone like Lauren—taking Mom’s place with Dad?
But Lauren had already pointed out that no one would take Mom’s place and she hadn’t been saying that just to be nice. She’d said it before she ever agreed to go out on this date with Dad. And they weren’t even talking marriage. Still, it didn’t hurt to think ahead.
Dad came back to the bedroom and sat down on his dressing chair to pull on his shoes. Beau noticed the sprinkles of water darkening the beautiful burgundy color of the shirt. He didn’t remark on it. In just a few moments his perspective had changed. Let Dad be happy on his date tonight. Don’t make him worry about what might or might not happen to a stupid piece of cloth. The important thing was that he would be with someone who appreciated him for who he was—and whom his kids approved of with great enthusiasm. It didn’t hurt that Lauren sometimes came back from the creek smelling like fish.
“Dad.” He waited until his father finished tying a shoe and looked up. “You look great. Mom would
be proud if she were here. Lauren won’t be able to resist you.”
Dad’s smile came quickly. “There’s a lot of pressure here, you know. I haven’t been out on a date like this in”—he tic-tic-ticked his tongue to mimic a calculator—“more than twenty years. That was with your mother.”
“Then this is a special occasion. You should dress up. Lauren deserves it.”
The smile widened. “I think she does. Where’s your sister? I thought she’d be in here all excited about this. She’s been nagging me forever to take Lauren out.”
“She called while you were in the shower. She’s still at school.”
Dad’s smile froze on his face. “Why?”
“The school paper, remember? Christmas edition, final one of the year.”
“Then why aren’t you there?”
“I wanted to come home and make sure you actually went on this date. Besides, you told us last week you didn’t want the car parked in the school lot after hours.”
Dad glanced at his watch. It was five-thirty.
“Dad, you’re stressing. That’s one reason Brooke and I never tell you anything.”
“How’s she going to get home?”
“She’ll call me and I’ll go pick her up.”
Dad hesitated. “Trade cars with me and take my cell phone.”
Beau sighed. “You’re overreacting again.”
“No I’m not.”
“Nobody’s seen any sign of the pusher and all his contacts are in jail.”
“If you refuse to work with me on this I’ll have to call Lauren and cancel our date. Brooke would never forgive you for that.”
Beau knew when to give up. “Where’s your cell phone? And give me the keys to your car.”
Dad caught him in a hug.
Beau would be relieved when this relationship with Lauren started taking a little more of Dad’s attention.
***
The sniveling coward Kent Eckard sat in the passenger seat of the truck with his hands clasped between his knees. “Look, Peregrine, I’m sorry. I didn’t know anything about it, okay? How was I supposed to warn you when I didn’t—”
“Shut up!” It would feel so good to rip the punk’s face off but then he’d bolt.
Fury blazed through Simon’s—Peregrine’s—Simon’s body. He had to remember his stupid name. What good was a street name when he couldn’t remember it? Was it even worth it? He gripped the steering wheel hard to control the shaking. Couldn’t let on that it was getting worse. He was losing control. He needed more speed. He’d been seeing people standing in the trees out in the woods, staring down at him, eyes peering at him from the bushes.
“Just don’t drive out on the street, okay?” Kent pleaded. “The cops are everywhere, man.”
“Don’t talk about the cops! I gotta have another place to stay.” The shaking got worse when Simon was mad and it never went away completely anymore. “Jamey took off on me while I was sleeping last Saturday. I can’t go back. She might’ve gone to the cops.” His fingers clenched with fresh anger that shot through him even though he tried to fight it. He slanted a glance across the seat at the kid. “I can’t sleep in the woods anymore or I’ll freeze to death. What about your place?”
Kent’s eyes bulged. “You kidding? My mom would call the cops on both of us. She kicked my pop out when he tried to kick me out for good. Why don’t you just leave the state, man? Go to Arkansas. Nobody knows you—”
Simon grabbed Kent by the collar of his scruffy T-shirt and yanked him halfway across the seat. The kid barked like a seal, mouth open, teeth bared in a grimace.
“That’s right, nobody knows me. I got no contacts there. You tellin’ me to get out of my own town?”
“N-no man, no! I just—”
“Nobody strikes me down in Dogwood Springs!” He jerked the shirt tighter, loving the rush of power that pulsed through him as Kent gagged. Let him gag. This muscle boy thought he was so tough, let him see what a real man could do. “This is my town. The users know me here. I can sell my own stuff for a while until I get some more staff. I try getting in on somebody else’s territory I could get dead real fast.”
Kent choked. Simon let up a little on the shirt just enough to keep him breathing. “I’ve got to know who informed.”
Kent nodded, his face bright red, eyes about to pop from their sockets.
Simon liked that. Just for fun he gave a final tug before he let the punk plop back into his seat. Push him any further he’d probably have to change his jeans.
Kent fell against the door and stayed there, still breathing hard.
“Who informed? You?”
“Not me! I never told nobody!”
“But you let that little fuzz-face Webster blast the school rag with all his stuff.”
“How was I gonna stop him? It was just a couple of stupid articles. Who’d care about that?”
“Somebody cared, okay? Somebody’s started singing to the cops. How’d Webster know about me unless somebody told him?”
“I’m the one that tried to shut Webster up, remember? Got expelled from school for it.” Kent rubbed at his neck.
“But he didn’t shut up. It’s going to take more than a couple of bruises to convince him. Guess I’ll have to do this myself, just like everything else.”
“What’re you gonna do?” Kent whined.
“First cook up some more stuff. I need a hit. And I can’t let the customers down.”
“Where’re you getting the raw ingredients?”
“I’ve still got some things stashed out in the woods. We can buy or steal the rest.”
Kent swallowed hard. “We?”
“Yeah. You still got the key you lifted from that chemistry teacher?”
The punk’s eyes slanted away. He looked like he might puke.
“You’ve got it, I can tell.” Simon couldn’t believe his luck. “Then we’re in business. They got beakers and everything. Let’s go get that key.” He switched on the clattering motor. “And as soon as we get our stuff cooked we’re going to find Webster and shut his mouth for him. He’s ruining everything.”
***
Lauren’s front porch light was on when Grant pulled into her driveway. He took a moment to enjoy the little porch with the handmade wreath on the door and the drapes of lavender and dusky pink and sky blue. Gina had helped her select the fabric last weekend. The two women were obviously more comfortable together now than they’d been on Thanksgiving Day.
Grant loved the colors Lauren had picked out. He loved her offbeat style. He’d been here often since he’d first met her; he and Brooke and Beau had even helped her paint the trim around the eaves and porch and shutters last summer.
He checked the time. She wouldn’t mind if he was five minutes early, especially with his good news.
He fastened the top button of his shirt, pocketed his keys, got out of the car, then as he walked up the sidewalk to the house he unfastened that troublesome button again.
Why was he so nervous? This was Lauren, his co-worker, his fishing buddy. His friend. She’d seen him with the seat of his pants ripped out, with mud in his hair, and a three-day growth of beard on his face after the mercury episode.
But this was special. She was special.
He pressed the doorbell and then knocked, remembering that the doorbell hadn’t worked in two weeks.
Lauren opened the door and stepped out. She wore a black cowl-necked sweater dress. Her hair fell around her shoulders like molten gold—she’d dressed up for him.
“Wow,” he whispered.
The smile she gave him was more brilliant than the glow of the porch light. “Thanks.”
“Ready?”
She nodded. “Nice shirt.” She reached over and touched the sleeve. “Silk. Beautiful.” Her gaze seemed to measure the width of his shoulders. “You look great in silk.”
“Thank you.” The lady knew how to give a compliment as well as receive one.
She cleared her throat. “So how�
��s your mother adjusting to the daily companion?”
“Better than I expected. I haven’t seen her so animated or so happy in years. I think it’s going to work out, at least for a while.” He opened the door for her and forced himself not to stare like a tongue-tied schoolboy as she slid into the passenger side of the Volvo. Lauren McCaffrey was beautiful. Her scent reminded him of lilacs. Was this the same woman who drove a pickup truck, fished in baggy overalls and her brother’s old denim shirts, and could establish an IV in a patient’s arm faster than any phlebotomist in the hospital?
“Beau told me things went well in St. Louis,” she said when Grant got into the car.
“He did? I’d hoped to give you the good news myself.”
“You can tell me all about the deposition on our drive to Springfield. You’ve got to be relieved it’s over.”
He hesitated. “In a way.”
“Oh? It didn’t go as you’d wanted?”
He backed out onto the street. “Don’t get me wrong, I was as outraged by the frivolous suit as any other doc would be but as I drove home this afternoon I couldn’t help feeling a sense of depression.”
“I think I understand. No matter what happened in the lawyer’s office today a patient still died.”
“Irlene Goodwin’s memory should have been treated with more honor. As it is now the story of her struggle for life will be nothing more than a smudge on some legal documents. Her name will be tossed across a courtroom like ammunition.”
She put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. You want to spout, go ahead and spout. I’ve done it plenty of times.”
He grinned. That was one of the things he loved about her. She knew how to say the right thing at the right time and then she knew how to listen.
***
Beau paced across the kitchen for fifteen minutes, glanced at the clock, then strode to the front door and looked outside. Brooke wasn’t there of course. She’d said she would call him but he hadn’t expected it to take her this long.
He dialed Evan’s cell phone number.
Evan answered before the first trill ended. “Yeah?”
“What’s going on?” Beau asked. “I thought you would be done by now.”
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