Lawyered to Death

by Michael Biehl

  At Gene’s mention of religion, Jake considered how he had come to be grilling meat in the backyard for his in-laws and decided he must have done something wrong in a previous life.

  Medium rare was good enough. “Burgers are done!” he announced.

  The four feasted on hamburgers, potato salad, baked beans and chocolate cake, while McKinley greedily guzzled formula. The women did most of the talking, virtually all of it about the baby. The rain held off, save for a few ominous drops, and there were only a few mosquitoes, but the party was eventually driven inside to spare the neighbors colicky McKinley’s postprandial crying jag.

  Jake’s birthday fell on Father’s Day this year, so Karen gave her father a gift as well, a three-volume set titled Lincoln’s Generals. Gene was a Civil War buff.

  When Jake received his presents, Karen was impressed that he was able to fake as much enthusiasm for her parents’ woefully inept gifts—a tool set from Gene and a handmade carpenter’s apron from Elizabeth—as he showed for Karen’s well-chosen state-of-the-art fisherman’s sunglasses. Karen interpreted her father’s gift as a new twist on his attitude toward Jake. For years Gene had taken a dim view of Jake’s occupation as a blues musician, but his regard for Jake underwent a dramatic upswing when the royalties from a few songs Jake had written surpassed Karen’s income as a part-time lawyer. Now that her father’s doubts about Jake as a provider had backed off, his critical eye seemed to have focused on Jake’s “Mr. Mom” routine, as if there were something unmanly about everyday diapering and bottle-feeding. Hence the tool kit.

  While Karen was saying a long good-bye to her parents at the front door, she mentioned Van Dyke – Eddington’s job offer and the salary, which was twice what the hospital paid her. Elizabeth gave an immediate thumbs-up gesture, exclaiming, “Go for it!” Gene was reserved, saying only, “It’s worth considering, but don’t do anything hasty.” Maybe he needed to calculate whether Jake would still be the principal breadwinner if Karen took the offer.

  Her parents gone, Karen turned to see Jake standing in the foyer wearing the carpenter’s apron, its gigantic pockets stuffed to overflowing with tools, kitchen utensils, baby toys, coat hangers and stuffed animals. With his beat musician’s goatee he looked ludicrous. The tension from her parents’ visit suddenly melting away, Karen was vulnerable to a laughing fit. She started to crack up.

  “Ah’m Bob Vila,” said Jake. “Welcome to This Crappy Old House.”

  “Jake, please,” said Karen, struggling to control her giggles, “that’s cruel.”

  “Now, anyone can hang a panel door, and it’s even more fun than drywalling a ceiling,” said Jake, as Karen dissolved into laughter. “Step one: shim the jams. We’re a little low on shims right now, but we’ve got plenty of jams. Step two . . .”

  Jake was interrupted by the chirping of the cordless telephone in one of his apron pockets. He reached in and pulled out a block plane, held it to his ear and said, “Y-y-yello. Bob Vila.” Karen howled. Jake answered the real phone and held it out to Karen.

  “It’s Anne Delaney,” said Jake.

  “Hey Annie!” said Karen, watching Jake as he pretended to use an eggbeater as a hand drill. “It’s Jake’s birthday! And Father’s Day, of course. Wuz hap’nin’?”

  “Sorry to bother you,” said Anne, her voice sedate. “There’s a situation at the hospital. We had a patient death yesterday.”

  “Patients die in the hospital all the time,” said Karen, still ebullient.

  “Yeah, but not the CEO’s wife.”

  Karen’s exuberance died like a vacuum cleaner when the plug is pulled. Her face blanched. Jake helped her into the nearest chair.

  “No. Lorraine? No. Please, Annie, say it ain’t so.”

  “It’s so and it’s bad. Might have been the hospital’s fault. She died from an allergic reaction to antibiotics the resident ordered.”

  “How could the resident miss a drug allergy sheet in the chart?”

  “There wasn’t one,” said Anne. “I checked my copy. And the resident says she wasn’t wearing a Medic Alert bracelet.”

  Karen’s lawyer hat was already on. “So how is it the hospital’s fault?”

  “The antibiotics were ordered for severe food poisoning. She had two hospital meals earlier in the day. And the night nurse came down with food poisoning this morning.”

  “Anybody else?” said Karen.

  “Not that we know of.”

  “Hmm. Where is Lorraine now?”

  “The coroner has her,” said Anne. “We report all deaths due to poisoning or accidents to the county coroner. Somebody, maybe the coroner, reported it to the police. I smell an inquest.”

  “How come?”

  “The medical records custodian says a police detective was in asking for Lorraine’s hospital records. She refused, and the detective said he would be back first thing in the morning with a court order.”

  “Was his name Lopopolo?”

  “Yeah. I thought I’d better call so you’re sure to come in early tomorrow to deal with him, and the rest of this mess.”

  “So, basically,” said Karen, “we’re up to our proverbial ass in alligators.”

  “If not our earlobes,” said Anne.

  “Have you talked to Arthur?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know whether to call with condolences or give him his privacy for a few days. He must be devastated.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” said Karen. “See you in the morning.”

  “Tell Jake happy birthday.”

  Karen pushed the off button on the phone. Jake had removed his apron and was kneeling next to her. He picked up her hand. “What is it?”

  Karen’s eyes were dark, her brow furrowed. “Lorraine Winslow died in the hospital yesterday. It looks like we poisoned her either with food or drugs or both. The cops are nosing around. Oh, and Annie says, ‘happy birthday’.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Monday morning was sunny and blisteringly hot, compelling Karen to close her office window and live with the air conditioning, which she hated. Margaret was dressed for the heat, one spaghetti strap of her flimsy camisole falling off her skeletal shoulder. Margaret stood in Karen’s doorway, shivering and fiddling with a chunky gold ladies’ Rolex that was way too big for her skinny wrist.

  “Nice watch,” said Karen, thinking that the Rolex was probably on time in more ways than one. How long before Margaret was asking for help with a consumer bankruptcy?

  “Thanks. Ed has the men’s version. Speaking of Ed, he has a problem we need your help with. He was wrongfully terminated this morning by the head of Security.”

  “Max canned him already?” said Karen, astonished that Ed could have blown it so quickly. “What’s he been here, three weeks?”

  “You’re right, it’s not fair,” said Margaret, missing the point. “It was only fifty dollars, and Ed said he was going to put it back as soon as he got his paycheck.”

  That was it for Ed Luebsdorf, unfair or not. The hospital tolerated all sorts of egregious behavior from the executives and medical staff, and accepted inefficiency and marginal competence from everyone. In fact, Karen had once tried to fire Margaret but was told by Human Resources that she would have to document progressive discipline—warnings, plans of correction and repeated poor performance—before Margaret could be fired without risk of a lawsuit. Karen gave up after realizing that by the time she had waded through the red tape, Margaret would have engaged in enough retaliatory sabotage to put Karen’s own head on the chopping block. That episode was probably how Margaret learned about wrongful termination.

  But nothing could save Ed. A night watchman, cafeteria worker or gift shop clerk who got nailed taking so much as twenty-five cents out of the till was history. No warning, no plan of correction, no hearing, no appeal. Ed would be lucky if Max Schumacher didn’t report him to the police.

  “I can’t help Ed,” said Karen. “I’m the hospital attorney, I have a conflict of interest. I hav
e to represent the hospital in disputed terminations. You shouldn’t even be talking to me about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You could hurt his case. You’ve already told me Ed admitted to taking the money.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Margaret.

  Karen sighed. “Well, you told me he said he was going to put it back.”

  Margaret pushed a pile of journals off the guest chair and sat down. “Max would listen to you if you spoke on Ed’s behalf. You’ve got to. You’re our only hope. I’m afraid Max is gonna sic the pigs on him.”

  A voice came from outside Karen’s door. “The who?” Detective Lopopolo appeared in the doorway, sweating, his poplin suit as wrinkled as elephant hide, a day’s growth of beard darkening his chubby face. Karen was almost glad to see him. He smiled at Margaret. “Care to repeat that remark?”

  Margaret excused herself, and the detective sat down in her place. He handed Karen a document and began gnawing the stem of his eyeglasses.

  “Court orders you want, court orders you got. For all of Lorraine Winslow’s hospital records, including psychiatric. Also a warrant to search Arthur Winslow’s office, signed by the same judge at 7:00 A.M. this morning.”

  Karen studied the papers. The court order for the hospital records was valid. She had never seen a search warrant before, but she knew Lopopolo would have had to show probable cause that a crime had been committed in order to get one.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  Lopopolo pulled his glasses out of his mouth and grinned, showing a dimple. “Evidence,” he said. His dark whiskers were longer inside the dimple than on the rest of his face.

  This was the first time Karen had ever seen Joe Lopopolo looking happy. “He takes things personally,” Matthew had said. Karen had known Arthur was making a mistake when he dodged the meeting with the detective. She should have been more assertive. But how likely was it that she could have overcome the lure of Shari Billick?

  Karen skimmed the search warrant. It identified Arthur’s office and described in broad terms what the police were authorized to search for: “Implements, instruments, equipment, devices . . . utilized, used, useful, instrumental . . . in the production, processing, containment, storage . . . of toxic, hazardous, noxious, poisonous . . . substances whether caustic, biological, bacteriological, viral . . .” It also specified documents and records pertaining to the health or medical condition of Lorraine Winslow.

  Karen picked up her telephone receiver and punched the extension for the medical records custodian. Lopopolo watched with a look of satisfaction as Karen gave instructions to prepare a certified copy of all of Lorraine Winslow’s records at Shoreview Memorial. Karen told Lopopolo he could pick up the copy in twenty minutes. Then she dialed Arthur’s home number. Arthur answered.

  “May I have a few minutes to confer with Mr. Winslow privately?” she asked the detective.

  Lopopolo rubbed the stem of his glasses on his lower lip. “Certainly,” he said. “Tell him to stay put for a couple of hours. That’s a command from a peace officer acting in an official capacity and with lawful authority. Want the statute number?”

  “I’M SO SORRY for your loss, Arthur,” said Karen. “How is Amy holding up?”

  “She’s the bravest girl in the world,” Arthur said. “Right now she’s holding me up. Helping with the funeral plans, cooking, talking to Lorraine’s family. Absolutely amazing.”

  “Joe Lopopolo is here with a search warrant for your office. Do you have any idea what he might be after?”

  Arthur was silent for a moment. “Uh, no.”

  “He said you’re not to leave your house for a couple of hours. I think we’d better get hold of Matt Stoker.”

  “Would you call him for me?” asked Arthur. Plaintively, Karen thought.

  Karen said she would, and Arthur asked her if she had decided whether to accept Stoker’s job offer. Karen said she did not want to desert the hospital during a crisis.

  “Crisis?” said Arthur.

  This was one of those situations that called for delicate judgment. Arthur was CEO of the hospital and Karen’s boss, but he was also a potentially adverse party. “How much do you know about the cause of Lorraine’s death?” asked Karen.

  “I know she got food poisoning from a hospital meal,” replied Arthur. “Some resident gave her antibiotics. She has a severe allergy. How the hell could they miss that?”

  “Her attending physician wasn’t around, and there was nothing about it in her chart,” said Karen. “So the night nurse and resident would have no way of knowing about the allergy, and Lorraine herself was too ill to monitor her treatment. But the food poisoning creates a potential liability for the hospital.”

  “If that’s the crisis,” said Arthur, “forget it. I’m the executor of Lorraine’s estate, and I’m not going to sue the hospital. I am surprised the allergy wasn’t in the chart.”

  Karen considered asking Arthur why Lorraine did not wear a Medic Alert bracelet but decided that might sound like blaming the victim, or worse yet that Arthur should be blaming himself. He had enough to feel guilty about. Karen told Arthur to sit tight and then called Matthew Stoker. She told Matthew about the search warrant and Lopopolo’s order that Arthur stay put.

  “I can be at Winslow’s house in ten minutes,” said Stoker.

  “What do you drive,” asked Karen, “an SST?”

  “A Jaguar,” replied Matthew, “but I didn’t drive today. I live on Lake Weyawega, and when the weather is like this I can take my runabout to work. No traffic, no stress and the Chris Craft flies. I’ll take you out on it sometime.”

  “Sounds like fun,” said Karen, rotating her chair to face the window. The screens were getting clogged with cotton-wood fuzz.

  “It’s a blast. When do you want to pick out the wallpaper for your new office?” Matthew reminded Karen that the dead-line for accepting the Van Dyke ~ Eddington offer came in four days.

  “Could I have a couple more weeks to think about it?” said Karen.

  “Sorry, Karen, no can do,” said Matthew. “Let’s have lunch tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on what goes down at Winslow’s.”

  AFTER TALKING TO Matthew, Karen called the nursing supervisor, Deb Jazinski. She was a no-nonsense nurse with twenty-five years on the job. Karen asked her about the night nurse, Bonnie Bach, who had contracted food poisoning a few hours after Lorraine Winslow.

  “She called in sick, said she won’t be back to work this week,” said Nurse Jazinski. “It’s a bad case.”

  Karen asked for Bonnie’s home phone number and address.

  “What are they going to do to her?” asked the nursing supervisor.

  “I just need to ask her about a few things,” said Karen. There was something in the way Deb Jazinski asked the question that seemed odd to Karen. As if she was expecting that Bonnie would be subject to discipline.

  “Why do you ask?” said Karen.

  “She administered the antibiotics that caused a patient death. Sure, the doctor ordered them, but he was just a resident. The nurse is expected to be familiar with the chart.”

  “There was nothing in the chart about Mrs. Winslow’s allergy.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” The nursing supervisor paused. She heaved an audible sigh.

  “Well, what?”

  “Look, I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. Bonnie is a sweet girl. I’m sure the resident put her up to it.”

  “Up to what?”

  The line was silent for several seconds. “I don’t care what was or wasn’t in the chart. Bonnie should’ve observed Mrs. Winslow’s Medic Alert bracelet.”

  “She didn’t have one,” said Karen.

  “Yeah,” said Deb with a disgusted tone of voice. “Not when they carried her out. But she had one the last time she was admitted to the hospital. I saw it myself.”

  Karen spun her chair around to the desk. She gripped the receiver with both hands. “Are you sure?”

  “You
don’t mistake something like that. It wasn’t one of those little nickel-plated things you usually see. This was a piece of jewelry. Expensive-looking, with a gemstone and everything. Rich people, eh? Maybe that’s why Bonnie and the resident missed it.”

  “So you think somebody pulled it off her after she started reacting to the antibiotics?” said Karen.

  Deb Jazinski made a sucking sound with her teeth. “It’s been known to happen,” she replied.

  KAREN ROLLED HER desk chair to the window and stared out through the white cottonwood fibers. It looked hot out there. Inside, it was a meat locker. She turned possibilities over in her mind, ordering them from most to least likely and from most to least palatable. Nurse Jazinski’s conclusion, that Lorraine’s Medic Alert bracelet was removed by the night nurse or the resident in order to cover up a gross medical error, was high on the likelihood scale but low on the palatability scale. It was not, however, at the extreme end of either spectrum. Karen believed she had a way to test the theory.

  She remembered asking Margaret to get a copy of Lorraine Winslow’s hospital record while she was a patient back in May, when Lorraine broke her arm. Karen asked Margaret to retrieve the copy from the files. Margaret was still pouting over Karen’s refusal to help with Ed’s termination. She literally dragged her sandaled feet, but she located the chart.

  Karen found the drug allergy sheet almost immediately. In May, Lorraine Winslow’s chart disclosed her allergy. On June 17, it didn’t. Karen called Anne Delaney.

  “Has the detective been in yet?” asked Anne.

  “He has his records in hand by now. He searched Arthur’s office.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Annie, when you called last night you said you checked your copy of Lorraine’s chart. When was that copy made?”

  “Just a few days ago. I made copies of the records of all of Dr. Treacher’s patients who died in the past two years, and an equal number of patients who didn’t die, for the chart review you wanted. Can’t just look at the one category.”