Georgia tried to stifle an attack of nerves. “I can’t remember what you want me to say . . .”
“George, I got this,” said Jonah, flinging open the door and stepping inside before she could continue to second-guess him. The men all turned at the intrusion. Georgia tried not to look directly at Donovan, but even in her peripheral vision she could sense him, his posture straightening as he caught sight of her.
Beezon didn’t bother to stand as they entered—a bad sign—but instead cleared his throat. “Dr. Tsukada,” he said, and then, to Georgia: “Dr. Brown?” His eyes drifted to the tiny, tasteful glint of silver against her nose.
Last month, the HR department had outlawed unconventional adornments of any sort: visible tattoos, nose rings, and headscarves, as well as any sports jerseys not supportive of Beezon’s alma mater. Georgia didn’t wear sports jerseys—or headscarves, for that matter—but in addition to her nose ring, she did have a few discreet tattoos. Beezon might be on stable ground with the nose ring ban, but she was fairly certain the Civil Rights Act made it illegal to forbid religious garb like headscarves.
Pulling off the hideous cafeteria-style hairnet she still wore from her last in-office procedure, she crumpled it into an airy blue ball and launched it over Beezon’s head in the direction of a wastebasket. In unison, they all watched as it fell about three feet short and unraveled itself back into a hat. “Beezy,” she responded.
His officious air tightened into something else: poorly restrained dislike, maybe, or that justified look people got when provided with an opportunity to rationalize whatever malignant crap they’ve been secretly longing to do. He cast a glance to his left, where Claude perched, almost languidly, on the edge of his chair, and then on to the lawyer, and, finally, Donovan. For a moment, Georgia could not imagine why he would be here, and then remembered: he was the head of this year’s executive committee.
Avoiding his end of the table, she took a seat next to Jonah. Beezon cleared his throat again. “We’re here to speak to Dr. Tsukada, Dr. Brown.”
“I’m aware of that.” She made an ostentatious show of settling in the chair, her heart galumphing at an unseemly rate.
“I asked Dr. Brown to attend with me,” said Jonah. In contrast to her fidgeting, he appeared composed, his voice calm, his hands folded in front of him.
She sat on her hands to hide their shaking. “I’m here to show my support for Dr. Tsukada,” she said. “But not only that. Some of the people you’re banning from the clinic are also my patients.”
There was a brief silence as Beezon looked at Claude, who in turn looked at the important-paper man, who pursed his lips. He offered a dour nod to Claude. It seemed they’d have to accept her position as Jonah’s second in this duel.
“This meeting serves as a follow-up to discuss clinic policies regarding our moral code of conduct,” said Beezon.
“I’d like to say something, if I may,” said Jonah. He leaned forward, shining with goodwill. “I recognize we may have some basic disagreements when it comes to what constitutes a moral code of conduct. But all human beings deserve medical care. I respectfully request that those patients who have been instructed to leave our clinic be welcomed back.”
“No,” said Beezon.
Jonah waited a beat but apparently that was it. “No?”
“No,” Beezon said again. “Moving on—”
“Wait. What is the rationale for dismissing these patients?”
Beezon issued the slow, tolerant sigh of a parent dealing with an irrational toddler. “Dr. Tsukada, we’ve been over this.”
Jonah blinked. His earnestness had begun to deflate a bit, but his voice was still calm. “First, Do no harm, right? It is harmful to our patients to refuse them care.”
“They are perfectly free to seek care elsewhere. Furthermore, this decision is out of our hands.” A self-satisfied nod. “This is coming from the hospital, which does not condone certain therapies you’ve been providing. Going forward, we will no longer be able to accommodate transgender patients. We are not legally obligated to enable medical care contradicting our moral code, especially of patients attempting some kind of unnatural transformation.”
In unison, every eye in the room shifted in the direction of the red-bricked monolith across the pedway. Like the clinic, the hospital had been founded by the fundamentalist megachurch across town to which many of its employees, including Beezon, belonged. An urge to respond rose up from Georgia’s gut, prompting her to clench her teeth.
“They can’t always seek care elsewhere,” said Jonah. “Many of my trans patients have complex medical needs that few other doctors treat. Plus, this is the only hospital and the only clinic in this county. Some of these patients don’t have the means to get all the way into Charleston, and there are often long waits to get into a medical practice as a new patient. Not to mention that they’d likely be charged more or have to go out of network.”
“Interesting that you brought up paying more,” said Beezon. “You do not have the authority to waive your fees to your patients—it defrauds the clinic.”
Jonah, recognizing he’d made a tactical error, backtracked. “Okay, but what about the issue of the patients having difficulty finding a doctor who will see them? It should not be legal to be able to refuse to provide medical care to someone on the basis of perceived immorality.” He paused. “Or to fire someone on the basis of perceived immorality.”
The third man perked up. “I assure you it’s quite legal,” he said to Jonah. Definitely a lawyer, then. “You signed a morals clause.”
“This violates the World Medical Association’s oath of ethics. And the AMA’s position. And it’s un-American.”
Beezon motioned to the important man, who handed Jonah a piece of paper from his stack and began to read aloud, presumably from the contract he’d signed when he joined the practice. Georgia cast her mind back to the day she’d accepted her own job offer, but didn’t remember noticing, let alone parsing, a morals clause. Could they have added it later?
“If the physician, Dr. Jonah Tsukada, commits any act or becomes involved in any situation or occurrence which brings said physician into public disrepute, contempt, scandal, or ridicule,” the lawyer read in an emotionless voice, “or which justifiably shocks, insults, or offends a significant portion of the community, or if publicity is given to any such conduct . . . the practice shall have the right to terminate.”
“So you want to terminate me too,” said Jonah. His hands drummed the table in front of him. “Let’s be honest.”
“You had a clear-cut choice,” said Beezon. “Adhere to the expectations of your employer, or not.”
“It’s kind of two birds with one stone, isn’t it? You get to get rid of all the undesirables at once.”
“If you say so.” Beezon smirked. “You’re the first, certainly, to test us on this policy. Whether or not others follow you is up to them.” He directed a glance at Georgia.
Ignoring him, Georgia regarded Jonah with some wariness. In contrast to a few moments ago, everything in his posture had shifted: his unnaturally straightened back, the blurred vehemence of his hands, even the energized lick of his hair. She recognized he was nearing a dangerous point of combustion. She hesitated, uncertain if she should intervene or not, but also uncertain how much longer she’d be able to remain silent. She should have insisted that Jonah bring his lawyer. This seemed like the sort of situation requiring a precise understanding of the legalities. Maybe she should get Jonah out of here; either one of them losing their shit in front of a hostile lawyer could not possibly end well.
She reached for his hand. “Let’s go,” she said quietly. “Your lawyer can follow up.”
“No,” said Jonah. “I think there’s more to say.”
Beezon made a little moue of encouragement. “Be our guest.”
“He wants you to keep talking,” she said
to Jonah in the same low voice.
Jonah stood, and for a moment Georgia thought he was about to commit some epic blunder, but he bowed slightly and stepped back from his chair. “Dr. Brown is right. I think this meeting is over.” He turned to her. “Thank you.” He pivoted back toward Beezon. “For the record: I do not agree to the dismissal of my patients. And if you tell even one more of them they can’t come back, I’ll sue the clinic for every dime it has.”
The lawyer’s head sprang up. Midforties, appropriately besuited, boring haircut: he was perfectly cast for this role. In ten minutes, if Georgia tried to recall what he looked like, all she’d be able to picture would be a charcoal tie and an expression of smug neutrality. “Dr. Tsukada,” he said, and paused for dramatic effect. Once satisfied he had the room riveted, he continued: “You will not sue.”
Jonah, who had nearly reached the door, stopped. “Just try me,” he said.
The lawyer continued, unruffled. “You are legally prohibited from bringing a lawsuit.”
“What?”
A thin-lipped smile. “No one ever reads their contracts, do they?” He shook his head in mock dismay at the mass ignorance of the American workforce.
Suddenly, Georgia realized where this was going. “Actually,” she said, “I read my contract. In full. Including all the indecipherable fine-print bullshit you guys cram in there. And there wasn’t any mention of a forced arbitration clause. Or, for that matter, a morals clause.”
“It wasn’t in your initial contract,” said the lawyer. His gaze sharpened as he regarded her. “You agreed to both those clauses and other terms of agreement after responding to an email sent by the clinic regarding your yearly educational stipends. You were required to click a box indicating your acceptance of the terms.”
“What?” howled Jonah. “When?”
The lawyer: “The email containing the relevant clauses came several years ago.”
Georgia waved a placating arm at Jonah. “The timing is a separate issue,” she told him. “What this gentleman is saying now is when we responded to an email a few years back, we had to agree to mandatory arbitration for any workplace disputes as a condition of continued employment.”
“That’s correct,” agreed the lawyer. His expression shifted to one of careful contemplation. He exchanged a sidelong glance with Donovan Wright, who was frowning.
“What the hell is mandatory arbitration?”
Both Georgia and the lawyer began to reply to Jonah at the same time, but she barreled over the guy until he hushed. “It’s a condition of employment stating that instead of suing to resolve a dispute, we have to let an assigned person—or a group of people—decide who is right. And their decision is binding; you cannot appeal it. Plus, you’d have to pay a large fee even to initiate the arbitration, and if you lose, they might make you pay the clinic’s legal fees.”
Jonah asked the obvious question. “Who picks the arbitrator?”
Everyone looked at the lawyer. He smiled again. “The clinic has preselected the arbitration company.”
Both Beezon and Claude wore the same expression: So there. The lawyer’s smile had faded to an expression of watchful anticipation. Georgia looked past him at Donovan Wright. In contrast to the other men, he didn’t appear smug; he stared at the table, a frown creasing his forehead.
Jonah opened the door, then turned back toward the room. “I want the names of the rest of the patients you plan to contact.”
“Not a cha—” Beezon began. The lawyer cut in. “We are not legally required to provide that,” he said.
“Guys. I think it would be kind to provide this,” Georgia said.
This stymied everyone for a moment: in the entire history of the legal profession, apparently “kind” had never come up. Beezon recovered first.
“No,” Beezon said. He turned to Jonah. “You have a clear choice. You can support the clinic’s policies on moral conduct, or you will no longer be employed.”
Georgia couldn’t hold back any longer. “How can you presume to tell a physician how to treat his patients? How can you presume to tell a physician who he can treat? Are we really facing a situation where administrators decide who is worthy of medical care and who isn’t? Because this affects every single doctor and patient in this clinic.”
“Dr. Brown.” Beezon leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. “If you’d like to insert yourself into this discussion, I’m sure we could afford a brief detour. You and Dr. Tsukada seem to share a . . . reputation . . . when it comes to attracting certain kinds of patients.” He paused, almost smiling. “And weren’t you involved in a patient death last year?”
At the reminder of the worst episode of her career—a wound infection following a relatively simple procedure—Georgia’s feet went numb. It was startling, how quickly the body could manifest a physical reaction to words, which were, after all, not bullets or swords but rather a jumble of sound.
Jonah leapt to her defense. “Infections happen. It wasn’t poor care on her part. And there was no bad outcome for the clinic.”
Beezon acknowledged this with a supercilious tilt of his head. “Not such a great outcome for the patient, I’d imagine.”
Georgia cast her eyes to the table. Jonah was correct—there had been no lawsuit—but only because she’d had such rapport with the patient and his family that they refused to even contemplate suing her or the clinic. Even now, today, she could hardly bear to think of it.
“That’s an entirely separate issue,” she said, forcing a note of calm into her voice. “The point here is that you do not have the right to deny our patients medical care.”
“That’s exactly the point,” said Beezon. “We do have the right. And you have the same choice as Dr. Tsukada: you can comply with our policies, or you can leave.”
Jonah crossed his arms. “It comes to this: if you fire my patients, I’ll walk.”
“Jonah,” Georgia said. She reached for his arm. “Don’t quit. I’m not sure you can go to arbitration in that case.”
Jonah jerked his arm away from her, trembling. “Fine. If you want me to stop seeing my patients, you’ll have to fire me.”
John Beezon leaned forward, making eye contact with the lawyer, who offered a curt nod. He passed a set of papers to Beezon, who in turn handed them to Jonah. “This is your employee termination letter. There is a checklist of items for you to return, and as of now, your access badge has been disabled. This packet contains information about COBRA compliance and your last paycheck.”
Despite everything, Jonah looked dumbfounded. “You already did all that?”
“You’ve been given prior warnings. We had hoped a reasonable accommodation on your part could be made to comply with the policies of the clinic, but we had plans in place if you were unwilling to do so. Which, today, you’ve stated explicitly you are unwilling to do.”
Beezon decided to chime in: “Not to mention the other concerns about you. You’ll be hearing from us about the rest of it.”
For a moment Jonah simply stared at them. Then, without looking back, he swung around and stepped through the door. They listened to his footsteps fading away until the door swung closed.
A strange sensation tethered itself around Georgia’s ankles, seeping upward in a rope of ice and fire. Her fingers went cold and her cheeks flamed. She gave herself a moment to gain self-control, remembering the way the lawyer had looked at her a moment before. Spouting off about the arbitration clause had been a tactical error; it would be better for the time being for this crowd to underestimate her. She stood to follow Jonah, but Beezon grabbed her arm as she passed by him, causing her to shift a bit off-balance as she recoiled from his touch.
“Dr. Brown, let me be clear: we will be in contact with you regarding your own performance as a physician in this clinic.”
Georgia didn’t reply.
The lawyer piped
up. “If you’d like to pass this along to your colleague, Dr. Tsukada is welcome to participate in an exit interview. Afterward, we will reconvene for a meeting with the executive committee”—he motioned to Donovan Wright, who nodded blankly—“and we will present any recommendations to the board as to severance. If Dr. Tsukada chooses to contest his termination, he has the option to initiate arbitration.”
The room quieted, anticipatory schadenfreude written on the faces of Beezon and Claude and the lawyer as they waited to see if Georgia would make a stink. She pictured it: their cheeks elevating in smug satisfaction at the rising pitch of her voice, tinged with that note of inevitable feminine hysteria; maybe a hint of heaving bosom; and tears, of course. Or maybe they expected volatility: the throwing of things more substantial than an OR cap, spit-encrusted f-bombs descending on the landscape of the conference room as everyone ducked for cover, perhaps a slap or two. After all, she was not only a woman, but a redheaded one.
“Very well, then,” she said, gritting her teeth into a parody of a gracious smile. She offered her hand to Claude, the CMO, the ostensible ally of physicians, who stared with sudden absorption through the conference room windows at a stream of passing vehicles. She turned next to the lawyer, who shook her hand with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. She ignored Beezon, who pulled out a cell phone.
Donovan, still standing next to her, cleared his throat, reminding her that he’d been mute throughout the meeting. She had the impression he was about to speak, but the lawyer beat him to it. “A quick reminder to pass on to Dr. Tsukada,” he chirped. “The contract also contains a restrictive covenant, which means he may not seek employment as a physician within one hundred miles of Charleston for a period of two years.”
“I’m sure he’s familiar with the non-compete clause.”
The Antidote for Everything Page 13