A Minor Fall

by Price Ainsworth

  “This is all on video? How did we get this?” I asked.

  “Apparently the nurse notices that the patient’s gown is undone after the doctor leaves the area and thinks something is fishy. So she goes to her friend who is one of the people who monitors the video cameras and gets her to make her a copy of the footage. She gives it to the patient’s mom when the patient is released from the hospital the next day.”

  “And it’s all on video? I can’t believe it,” I said, and took the disk out of the case and handed it to Eileen. She inserted the disk into the computer tower beneath her desk and I stepped around where the two of us could see her monitor.

  There it was, just as Eileen had described it. The black and white video was grainy and a little bit jumpy, but you could definitely see a handsome young male doctor undo the patient’s gown, fondle her breasts for several seconds, kiss one breast before hurriedly covering her up, and start reading the chart as a nurse pulls a curtain back and comes into the area.

  The camera must have been positioned on the ceiling and was aimed at several patients in beds cordoned off by curtains that hung on frames below the level of the ceiling. Some of the beds were too far away from the camera to see much about what was going there. But the bed where our potential new client was resting was almost directly below the camera. I assumed that few patients emerging from the effects of anesthesia would notice the camera, but wouldn’t a surgeon know it was there?

  “Mr. Sullivan’s office sent the file over earlier. You are supposed to meet with the woman and her mother first thing tomorrow morning.”

  I nodded. “I can see the case against the doctor, but it is an intentional act. That has got to be outside of his malpractice insurance coverage. I wonder if he has any money. He doesn’t look very old.”

  Eileen removed the disk from the computer tower and put it back in the plastic case. “You can’t tell me that somebody doesn’t have to pay for this,” she said, holding it up before putting it back into the file and handing the file to me.

  I nodded. “There has to be something I can do with these facts.” I said and took the file into my office. I put the file on my desk and sat in my chair. I looked through the phone messages and started to return calls, but I put the phone down and pulled up Google on my computer.

  I tried several different searches and was surprised by the number of items that came up when I looked for hospital security cameras. Several companies advertised systems that would assist hospitals in monitoring gang activity in emergency rooms, record drug distribution, prevent medical errors, and chronicle patient and doctor visits, among other benefits. Most seemed to be monitored by hospital staff at some central location, and while some indicated that the live video was not recorded out of concern for patient privacy, others discussed using the video for defense in litigation or for teaching purposes.

  I looked through the file and found the doctor’s name and ran a Google search on him. He was a general surgeon who had gone to good schools (including the Baylor College of Medicine in Houston), but he couldn’t have been very long out of residency. He wouldn’t have much money, if any, and he wouldn’t have any by the time we took a judgment against him. More likely than not, he just had a pile of medical school debt. I couldn’t tell if he was married. Still, I’d send the notice of representation letter to his office rather than his home.

  I got up from my desk and walked to the door to my office. I explained to Eileen that I was going to close the door and watch the video a few times on my computer, and to let me know before anybody (like Mr. Sullivan) came into my office. She laughed and made some crack about keeping the lights on and no soft music, but she never looked up from her typing.

  At my desk, I watched the video over and over. Although something about it struck me as not quite right, I couldn’t put my finger on it. The fondling was not rough or aggressive and did not appear to be hurried. The kissing, actually two kisses—one above the nipple followed by a light, quick kiss of the nipple was almost intimate and not the kind of thing that would make one think of rape or molestation.

  Before the nurse pulled back the curtain on the area around the bed, you could see her come into view of the camera and the doctor responding hurriedly to her presence. He picked up the chart, flipped through it, handed it to the nurse, and closed the curtain behind him as he left. Before I left for the day, I put the disk back in its sleeve and dropped it back into the file.

  Whatever thoughts I had about combining a conversation in which I told Michelle that I had to be in Kentucky on September 15th with a conversation about how I might have given her a venereal disease, evaporated that evening as I tried to explain why I would need to be out of town. She exploded. I mean, she exploded in that way she had of completely shutting me out as she banged dishes around in the sink and then slammed doors in the laundry room before stomping up the stairs to perform some other menial task. The message was clear enough. She was doing what she could to make this place a home and us a family, and I was abandoning her when she needed me most.

  I couldn’t tell her about the herpes right then. I’m not sure she could have heard me anyway over the clanging of the pots and pans or the slamming of doors.

  I understood that there was never going to be a good time to have the discussion. I knew that it had to be done, whatever the circumstance. I had rehearsed it in my mind a thousand times.

  In early versions of the speech, I had tried to blame someone or something else for my contracting the disease. In later versions, I omitted the particulars of who and how and when, expecting those questions to be answered in rapid-fire succession after the basic admission was made. Somehow, I had to include that I still loved her, because I did, that I was sorry, because I was, and that I would do anything to try and make it up to her for the rest of our lives, because I would if given the chance. I thought at one point about giving her the statistics: one in four American adults between the ages of 19 and 50 have the disease. But what did that mean? That other people had fucked up as badly as I had? That was the whole point. In Michelle’s eyes, I had been special, unique, and capable of anything. Now, I was just a member of a statistically significant set of circumstances that no one wants to be a part of.

  I silently mouthed the words, “I have herpes,” when I knew she wasn’t looking. When she was asleep, or when she was in the shower and I passed by, or when she was singing in church, I would tell her silently. Then panic would strike. I would worry that the lady by the pulpit who performed the sermon simultaneously in sign language for the television broadcast had read my lips. Had the television camera focused on me as it panned the congregation? Which camera had the red light illuminated? How different do my lips look when I say, “I have herpes” as compared to “Holy, Holy, Holy?”

  The words themselves wanted to come out, and by forming the unspoken words with my lips, perhaps I was bleeding off a bit of the blockage that kept them pressed down inside of me.

  I knew, of course, how I would eventually tell her. Just by a simple and straightforward statement, and then I’d stand back and see what happened next and deal with it as it. Maybe I mouthed the words so that she might catch me. I know I wanted to tell her. I just couldn’t—not yet, anyway.

  Instead, I told her about the new cases. With a drink in my hand, I followed her around the house as she did her chores. She rolled her eyes as I told her about the case in the recovery room and nodded as I told her about the new Henderson case. She stopped with a load of dirty laundry on the stairs, looking across the foyer at me.

  “Have you told Dad or Eileen, or anybody other than me about this new Henderson case?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. I didn’t tell her that I had already mentioned the fact to Mrs. Henderson that I might be going to another firm.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “You want me to keep secret from your dad, my boss, the fact that a new case, a potentially good case, even despite the tort reform limits, came into the firm t
hrough me? It’s the first time I’ve brought a good case into the firm.”

  “As practiced as you and the rest of the bunch at Peters & Sullivan are at keeping secrets, maintaining client confidences, holding your poker faces, or whatever you want to call this, it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to keep quiet about a new case for at least a little while.

  “If you leave, you can’t take the recovery room case. It didn’t come in to you. But the Henderson case came to you, even if you were at the firm when it did. Has it ever crossed your mind that, if you quit the firm, you might need that case to live on for the next few years while you wait on getting another one?”

  “Quitting the firm?” I asked. I wasn’t sure that Michelle was right about the Henderson case belonging to me if I quit the firm, but she was right about the fact that Mrs. Henderson would want me to keep it.

  “Yes, quitting the firm. They can’t make you go to Kentucky when your wife is having a baby in Houston. You can just quit. Walk away. Go work with Jonathan or somebody else. Why do you think Jonathan isn’t up there in the first place?”

  “I can’t quit. What about your dad?” I asked.

  “You are not my dad. It’s just a job.”

  It wasn’t just a job. It was my life. But I didn’t say that to Michelle. I just stood there, dumbly silent, while she stared at me over an armload of dirty clothes. In retrospect, I could have told her then that I had herpes, because for an instant we were actually having an adult conversation. But I didn’t. I just stood there until she sighed and disappeared into the laundry room.

  The next morning I showered and dressed early before Michelle got up. I was sitting in his small office at Peters & Sullivan when the bookkeeper, Tom Marston, walked into the room. I wanted to see him before many others got to the office that day and before my new client meeting.

  “Good morning,” he said, as he took off his navy blue suit coat and hung it on a hanger on the back of the door. Compared to the grand lawyer offices, with their secretarial stations, ample size, and decorative furnishings, Tom’s office seemed like an afterthought. It was neat and orderly, but the desk, obviously a hand-me-down, filled up the room and there was only room for his desk and chair, and another chair in which I was sitting.

  His office reminded me of the back office at the car dealership where, after looking at the shiny cars in the elegant showroom, you are ushered to sign the paperwork and hand over the down payment. Not unlike the auto dealer’s finance manager, Tom’s job included explaining the settlement breakdown to the client and distributing the settlement checks after fees and expenses had been deducted.

  “Good morning,” I replied. I realized how infrequently I had ever talked to Tom and how I had never discussed anything of importance with him. “I need to talk to you for a moment, if I may.”

  “Of course, Davy. I work for you. Follow me down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee first.” He motioned to the door and picked up the stained coffee cup from his desk. As we walked down the hall, I realized that we were about the only people at the office. A few secretaries and paralegals were milling around, but no lawyers had shown up yet.

  Tom rinsed out his coffee cup in the sink, set it aside, and started making coffee in the four carafes that to me always just appeared to be full.

  “I don’t know how this got to be my job,” he said. “In the old days, I used to get to work early, and Peters and Sullivan would be sitting in the kitchen over in the offices in the old Houston Bar building, drinking coffee and laughing about whatever dog case it was they were each going to try that day. Gradually, they quit coming in for coffee in the mornings, and I guess it fell to me to get the first pots going. We go through a lot more coffee than we used to,” he said and smiled. When the first pot had finished brewing, he poured each of us a cup, and we walked back to his office.

  “Now, what is it that you needed to discuss with me?” he asked, sitting at his desk.

  “I’d like to ask you about my bonus.” I said.

  “Sounds like a fellow that’s about to have a new baby,” he said, smiling again. “Honestly, Davy, I don’t really know what the end-of-theyear bonuses will be. It’s too early. Peters and Sullivan together decide that issue, usually in late December. They sit down and go over each employee’s performance. I usually make the recommendations for the staff, but they decide about the attorneys.” He didn’t seem nervous discussing a money issue with me.

  “No,” I said, “I’m not asking if I can get a bonus early. I was wondering how my previous bonuses compared to the bonuses paid to the other associates.”

  “You know I can’t discuss that with any specifics,” he said. “If you really want to know the numbers, I’m sure Sullivan will tell you. He probably doesn’t remember them exactly, but he could request them from me and I would pass them along. What is it that you’re concerned about?”

  “Well, it’s not that I have been slighted in any way. I guess it’s the opposite of that. Have my bonuses been larger than the other associates? Can you tell me that?” I asked.

  “I don’t know if I’m supposed to, but I would say, yes, substantially larger,” Tom replied.

  “Substantially? Is that because I’ve brought in more money to the firm than the other associates?”

  “You’ve done well, Davy,” he said. “No, I wouldn’t say that you’ve consistently brought in more money than the other associates. You’ve had your share of successes. You’re probably close to second place among the associates. Maybe third or fourth. It’s difficult to compare and assess. I know you spend a great deal of time with Mr. Sullivan, helping him on his cases.”

  “Why is my bonus so much larger than that of the other associates?” I asked.

  “You’d have to ask Mr. Sullivan that, I’m afraid, Davy.”

  I thanked him for the information and the coffee, and walked to the doorway of his office. Before leaving, I turned to him and asked, “You do the recommendations for the bonuses for the staff?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Can you tell me how Theresa’s bonuses compare to the bonuses for the other paralegals?”

  “No,” he said, “Not because I don’t think it’s the kind of thing we should be discussing. I honestly don’t know. Theresa works for a separate corporation . . . some screwball name like ‘Paralegals Parami.’ I know we’ve paid that company a great deal of money over the years. Recently, I know that Sullivan even made the company a rather substantial loan out of his capital account. You know, Davy, if you’re worried about money with the new baby coming, I’m sure we could do something about an advance. I’d just need to check with the partners.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I think we’ll be okay. I don’t know if Michelle will ever go back to work after the baby is born, but we’ll be okay. Nice having coffee with you, Mr. Marston.”

  “You too, Davy. Come by anytime.”

  “Hey, Mr. Marston, are any other paralegals around here employed by Paralegals Parami?” I asked.

  “No, not right now. There have been others over the years. The only other person I remember working for them recently was that female contract lawyer . . . the real good-looking one with the dark hair. She was here such a short time, I can’t remember her name.”

  Promptly at 8:30, Eileen let me know that Tamara Davis and her mother were there to see me. Both were nicely dressed in conservative, inexpensive pantsuits and they were polite to Eileen when she brought them coffee. Tamara let her mother do most of the talking as I went through the “new case sign up” packet with them. Mr. and Mrs. Davis lived in Sugarland, and Tamara had an apartment off Westheimer near the Beltway.

  After getting down the basic biographical data (Tamara’s dad was a civil engineer, her mother was a stay-at-home mom, and Tamara, age 24, worked at a Montessori school as an assistant), we discussed the more pertinent facts of the case. Tamara had always had problems with tonsillitis, sometimes brought on by allergy bouts, and one time after getting mononucleosis during h
er freshman year in college at the University of Houston. When her tonsils became inflamed this year, and she was covered by health insurance through her work, she decided to see about having them out. She asked her internist to recommend a surgeon, and her doctor suggested a couple of groups.

  Tamara called them and an appointment was made with Dr. Jeff Ammons, the youngest surgeon in the group and the most readily available for an appointment.

  Tamara met the surgeon in his office the day before the scheduled surgery, and Mrs. Davis went with her the day of the surgery to Methodist hospital. Everything seemed to go fine. The doctor came out of the operating room and told Mrs. Davis that Tamara had done well and that the tonsillectomy was routine. He expected Tamara to spend the night in the hospital and then go home to the Davis’ house the next morning.

  Mrs. Davis was shown the way back to the recovery area and stayed with her daughter who was still quite sedated after the surgery. Mrs. Davis left the bedside a few times—to go to the bathroom, to get coffee, and to go to the cafeteria for lunch. That afternoon, Tamara was moved to a regular room, and Mrs. Davis left the hospital about ten o’clock that evening after Tamara had gone to sleep. She went back to the hospital the next morning, but it was almost noon before Tamara was released to go home. Dr. Ammons had already been by to see Tamara before Mrs. Davis got to the hospital.

  It was not until they were packing up Tamara’s things to go to the car when something unusual happened. Then a nurse, which Mrs. Davis recognized from the recovery unit the day before, knocked on the door to Tamara’s room and let herself in. The nurse seemed nervous and hurried. Neither Tamara nor her mom remembered the lady introducing herself to them. She asked how Tamara was doing and said that she was glad Tamara was doing well. Before turning to leave; however, the nurse produce a disk in a plastic cover from the front pocket of her smock and handed it to Tamara.

  “Listen,” she said, “I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I guess I could get in some kind of trouble, but I think you should see this. I had a friend in the surveillance monitoring room download it for me. Look at it when you get home.” Then she left, but not before Mrs. Davis made a mental note of the name on the nurse’s nametag that was “Jonas.”