by Lee Goldberg
Mark hadn’t visited the executive dining room, even though his position at the hospital allowed him the privilege. He disapproved of the class structure that the existence of an executive dining room created among the hospital staff. To him, the dining room personified the insensitivity of Hollyworld towards its employees. The company seemed to be actively sowing bitterness and distrust between administration and the doctors, nurses, technicians, and orderlies who worked there.
So, naturally, the executive dining room was where Janet Dorcott, Community General’s thirty-three-year-old chief administrator, summoned Mark for an urgent meeting.
She’d replaced Noah Dent after his mysterious, and quite unexpected, departure from the job a year or so earlier. Dent slashed budgets, laid off dozens of nurses, and tried to shut down the adjunct county medical examiner’s office, which Mark had established. It was run by Dr. Amanda Bentley out of the hospital’s morgue. But no sooner had Dent made those massive changes than he abruptly reinstated everything and left. That was one mystery Mark had never felt compelled to investigate.
Janet was recruited by Hollyworld from a big box retailer, where she’d been in charge of the company’s aggressive efforts to build superstores on the outskirts of small towns. The retailer dramatically undercut local, family-owned businesses on price and selection and drove them into bankruptcy, leaving behind empty storefronts and deserted streets. When the local businesses died, so did the culture and character of the rural communities they’d served for generations.
She saw that as a successful outcome.
Of course, Janet would argue that she was bringing much-needed jobs and a wide range of affordably priced products to the poverty-stricken communities that needed them most and, in doing so, was revitalizing stagnant local economies. She didn’t care that, at the same time, the superstores were stripping the communities of their character and history, assimilating them into a homogeneous landscape of bland box stores.
That was her idea of progress.
She brought that same attitude to medical care, treating hospitals as box stores and patients as customers. The only difference was the products weren’t cut-rate; only the service was.
Janet liked to paint herself as a simple country girl and play up her Texas twang to disarm people. But Mark saw the performance for what it was—a show of contempt for her rural upbringing and anyone who was charmed by it.
Mark toyed with refusing to meet her in the executive dining room and instead making the woman come to him in the cafeteria. But then he’d be playing the same kind of power games that she did, and he didn’t want to lower himself to her level. So he met her in the executive dining room as requested.
Janet smiled at him when he came in, her unnaturally whitened teeth gleaming in the pinpoint halogen light that illuminated her private booth. He figured that his presence reaffirmed her sense of superiority in the hospital hierarchy and his tacit acknowledgment that he was answerable to her.
She set aside her BlackBerry, her chef’s salad, and her glass of ice water, which Mark assumed she kept cold by holding it against her bosom.
“Dr. Sloan, it is so good to see you,” she said. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
Mark shivered, struck by the eerie parallel between her greeting and the one Carter Sweeney had given him twenty-four hours earlier.
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said, sliding into the booth across from her. “I’ve been avoiding Clarke Trotter.”
“It’s the same thing,” she said. “The legal counsel works for me. As a matter of fact, so do you.”
“And here I am.”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to discuss with you,” she said. “We’d like you to go.”
“Already? I haven’t even ordered lunch yet.”
He was being facetious. He knew what she meant. She was hardly the first chief administrator who’d wanted to get rid of him. She was the fourth or fifth.
“I have no doubt that you were an excellent physician once, respected in your field, and that Community General was proud to have you on its staff,” she said. “That time is long gone.”
“You’re questioning my competence as a doctor?”
“I wouldn’t know. Since I took over this hospital, I haven’t seen you practicing much medicine. Most of what I know about you I’ve learned from reading the Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, and USA Today.”
She picked up a stack of newspapers from the seat beside her and dropped them on the center of the table. The papers had been collected over the last few months. The front pages were filled with stories relating to the killer nurses scandal that Mark had uncovered.
“That’s your problem, Janet. Instead of learning about the hospital by walking the halls, meeting the staff, and getting to know people over lunch in the cafeteria, you sit in here reading newspapers and spreadsheets,” Mark said. “You won’t discover what I’m doing as a doctor by reading the Los Angeles Times.”
“You’re right. I won’t. I’d much rather be reading about the wonderful accomplishments you’re achieving as a doctor and the prestige it brings to Community General. Instead, what I’m reading about is your obsession with homicide investigation, which has brought nothing but calamity and shame to this hospital and to the entire medical profession. There isn’t a hospital in Los Angeles, or anywhere else in the country, that would hire you today.”
“Do you think that this hospital and our profession were better off when there were nurses killing patients for sport?”
“Of course not. But in the wake of exposing those killers, there have been weeks of negative media coverage calling into question the vetting and oversight of our nursing staff, the privacy and security of our medical records, and the health and safety of the patients in our hospitals.”
“That is a good thing,” Mark said.
“It’s a disaster, Dr. Sloan. It undermines public confidence in our hospital. It costs us business. And that’s not even counting the millions of dollars we stand to lose settling the law-suits arising from all this. Or the long-term costs of any additional regulations that the government, provoked by this scandal, could impose on our hiring and supervision of medical personnel.”
“In the long run, it will improve medical care and save lives,” Mark said. “I don’t feel guilty about that.”
“What about the people who lost their lives when this hospital was bombed? The killer was after you. Do you feel guilty about that?”
“I do,” Mark said quietly.
“But that hasn’t stopped you from continuing with your dangerous hobby, has it? Since the bombing, there have been three attempts on your life at this hospital, all provoked by your investigations. It’s pure luck that no one else has been injured or killed as a result. And yet you’re still here, willfully endangering the lives of our patients, their loved ones, and our medical staff while you selfishly indulge your obsession with murderers.”
There was some truth to that, more than Mark wanted to admit. He’d rationalized that he couldn’t be held responsible for the actions of killers. But it was just that, a rationalization. Even so, Janet Dorcott’s argument would have been more convincing to Mark if he’d thought she actually believed it herself. Her rationale for wanting to get rid of him wasn’t nearly so altruistic.
“It’s all about the bottom line for you,” Mark said. “You aren’t concerned about anyone’s safety.”
“And you are?” Janet asked incredulously. “If you were, you would have taken this generous severance package when it was first offered to you.”
She slid a file across the table to him. Mark was familiar with the terms. Noah Dent had made him the same offer, preceded by an unpleasant meeting very much like the one he was having now. It seemed as though Mark had sat through this meeting repeatedly over the years, with one chief administrator after another. It always ended with Mark refusing to quit and vowing to fight any efforts to force him out.
Sit
ting there, looking at that file, Mark was struck again by the feeling that his life was on an endless loop, the same events replaying themselves over again.
He was tired of it. He didn’t want to live a rerun. He didn’t want to have this meeting every time a new chief administrator came to Community General.
Mark took the file.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Steve spent the afternoon in the SWAT tactical command center with agents from the FBI and the ATF, examining blueprints of Gaylord Yokley’s home and car dealership in preparation for the simultaneous raids they were going to conduct, assuming all the warrants came through and the agencies could settle their turf issues.
Gaylord Yokley’s house was in a flat expanse of open desert. The big problem was that he would see them coming. Steve was worried about him destroying any evidence, although handguns and rifles aren’t easily flushed down the toilet. He was more concerned about the raid turning into another Waco, with Gaylord hunkering down with his wife and kids in an armed standoff with law enforcement.
So it was decided that they would wait to strike until after Bette left to drive the kids to school and as Gaylord was on his way out to work. At the worst, only Yokley would be left to make a stand.
Gaylord Yokley’s used-car dealership was in an industrial area on the corner of two wide, busy streets. It catered to low-income customers. An alley ran behind the dealership, with warehouses on either side.
In addition to Gaylord, surveillance revealed that the dealership’s employees included one salesman, one secretary, an accountant, two mechanics, and roughly four illegal Mexican immigrants whom the salesman or one of the mechanics picked up on the street each day to wash cars.
The location of the dealership made it easy to coordinate the raids; they would hit it at the same instant they struck the house. Steve and his law enforcement colleagues suspected the guns were kept at Yokley’s home, or at a third location, and brought to the dealership for delivery. Keeping the weapons at the dealership made it too likely that they’d get robbed someday by one of their less than reputable customers. Plus Steve wasn’t entirely sure that anyone at the dealership but Gaylord knew about the black-market weapons sales.
Once the logistical details of the raid were agreed upon, and the various responsibilities doled out among the agencies, all the agents retreated to their offices to brief their superiors. That left Steve alone with Olivia Morales and Karen Cross.
The ADA started making some calls. Olivia stepped close to Steve and lowered her voice so Karen couldn’t overhear what she said.
“I’ve got a boyfriend.”
“Good for you,” Steve said. “Any particular reason I should know?”
“In case you were thinking of putting the moves on me.”
“I’m not,” Steve said, though he had been until that exact moment.
“Then why this?”
“Why what?”
“Why the sparkling repartee and the invite to share this bust?”
“Because I’m a witty and generous fellow.”
“No,” Olivia said. “Really.”
“That’s it. There’s more pie here than I can eat, so I am sharing it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You must need friends.”
“Desperately,” he confessed.
“You’ve got one.”
“But I can’t sleep with you,” he said.
“I thought you weren’t interested,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Just so we’re clear,” she said.
“We’re clear,” he said.
“So why aren’t you interested? Is something wrong with me?”
She said that a little bit too loud, enough so Karen Cross, who’d just hung up the phone, raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the innuendo. Karen was half Caucasian, half Asian, and exceedingly thin, which gave her a deceptively frail look. She was anything but frail.
“You don’t want to get involved with him,” Karen said.
“You know this from experience?” Olivia asked.
“I’m relying on instinct and good taste,” she said.
“Gee, thanks,” Steve said. “It’s so nice to be wanted.”
“The warrants aren’t going to be a problem,” Karen said, ignoring Steve’s show of false indignation. “I just hope Teeg isn’t lying and all of this effort actually leads to a cache of illegal weapons.”
“You say that like you have some doubts about this,” Steve said.
“I always do when you or your father are involved,” she said. “I’ve been burned before.”
“You’ve also gambled and won,” Steve said. “Prosecuting those killer nurses rehabilitated your career.”
“It wouldn’t have needed rehab if it wasn’t for the Lacey McClure debacle.”
Karen was referring to her prosecution of movie star Lacey McClure, who was accused of murdering her cheating husband and his lover. It was a scandalous case, tried on live television, and it nearly ruined Karen, Steve, and Mark before it was over.
She had also been part of the team that prosecuted corrupt cop Harley Brule and his Major Crime Unit cronies, another case that Mark and Steve handed the DA. The way Steve looked at it, his debt to Karen had been repaid twice over. After the Yokley bust, she was going to be owing him some favors.
“Assuming you’re right about Yokley, and he has been selling guns to LA street gangs,” Karen said, “this arrest could cause us some serious political problems.”
“How?” Olivia asked. “It’s a win for everybody.”
“But which mayoral candidate gets to exploit it?” Karen asked. “DA Burnside or Chief Masters? If I’m smart, I’ll tip off Burnside about this. And if you two are smart, you’ll alert Masters.”
“There’s an easy way to cover all of our butts,” Steve said. “We’ll tip them both off to the raid at the same time. Let them duke it out for bragging rights.”
“Works for me,” Karen said just as her cell phone rang. She answered it, listened for a moment, then fixed her gaze on Steve before mumbling a “yes, sir” and ending the call.
“You can tell Burnside about the raid yourself,” she said to Steve. “He wants to see you right now.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
District Attorney Neal Burnside’s office was huge, large enough for his massive desk and leather chair, two guest chairs, a couch, two armchairs, a coffee table, a round conference table with six more chairs, and a flat-screen TV the size of a sport utility vehicle.
Outside his door, the ADAs on his staff were crammed into windowless offices that were roughly the size of the prison cells they were struggling to fill with criminals. The prosecutors had to wriggle their way into their chairs, which were wedged into what little open space they could clear amidst the jammed file cabinets, the computer monitors, and stacks of bulging case files.
Steve doubted that any of the ADAs would vote for their boss. Burnside was lucky his peasants didn’t rise up in armed rebellion and drag him off to the guillotine.
That happy thought kept Steve entertained as he stood patiently in front of Burnside’s desk, waiting for his own head to be handed to him by the DA; for what offense, he didn’t know. He doubted that Burnside had called him down to his office for praise, promotion, or a fervent appeal for his vote.
Burnside took his time reviewing some document on his desk before finally, reluctantly, acknowledging Steve’s presence.
“Carter Sweeney’s habeas corpus plea is being heard in court soon,” he said. “Are you aware of that, Detective?”
“No, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over it,” Steve said. “Are you?”
Burnside didn’t appreciate having his question turned back in his direction, which was, of course, exactly why Steve did it.
“The hearing happens to fall within days of the election,” Burnside said. “Interesting timing, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t expect any
thing less of Carter Sweeney,” Steve replied. “Would you?”
The questions were being volleyed back and forth like a tennis ball. Burnside’s face reddened. He wasn’t going to be put on the spot in his own office.
“This isn’t simply his last appeal for freedom. It’s a strategic political move designed to influence the outcome of the mayoral race,” Burnside said. “I want to know whose campaign Sweeney is hoping to derail with this stunt.”
Steve admired the way Burnside couched his latest question as a statement.
“Ask Carter Sweeney,” Steve said.
“I’d rather ask your father,” Burnside said.
“Sweeney blew up Community General Hospital with Dad and me in it,” Steve said. “Ever since that little tiff, they haven’t really stayed in touch.”
“Oh really?” Burnside pushed a photo across the desk to Steve. “Your father visited Carter Sweeney a few days ago.”
The photo was lifted from a prison surveillance camera video, and it showed Mark sitting across from Sweeney in the visiting room.
Steve was shocked. If he hadn’t seen the photo, he never would have believed it.
Why was his father meeting with Sweeney? Why did Mark keep it secret from him?
“What did they talk about?” Burnside demanded.
“I have no idea.” Steve passed the photo back to Burnside. “This is the first I’ve heard about this.”
“I don’t believe you,” Burnside said.
“I don’t care,” Steve said.
“If your father thinks he can use Carter Sweeney’s pathetic bid for freedom to smear me or my campaign, he is sorely mistaken.”
“My father put Carter Sweeney in prison. He has no interest in seeing him freed,” Steve said. “Not that there’s any chance of that happening. Is there?”
“Of course not,” Burnside said, “The case against him is rock solid and has withstood every one of his insipid attempts to overturn his conviction.”
