“The bulging disc in this woman’s back is from her double Ds—nothing we did wrong.” My attorney pulled a file from a tall stack on his desk, then moved the remainder of them to the top of the cabinet behind him. “But at least we get some good scenery across the table during the deposition.”
I prefer my scenery in the form of a certain sexy nurse at work, thank you very much.
“I don’t understand why I’m even involved in this lawsuit. I wasn’t the treating physician. I saw the woman for maybe two minutes on the way out at the end of my shift.”
“Everyone gets sued. It’s the American way. Might as well get used to it. Won’t be the last time you’re sitting in my office if you’re going to stay part of the Memorial Healthcare system. Or are you going back home? Is that a brogue you got there?”
“I’m from England.”
“Might want to go back. America’s the most litigious society in the world.”
Great.
“Anyway. Let’s get started. I just want to go over your involvement before the deposition tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I thought it wasn’t for a few weeks.”
“Got moved up. The radiologist settled out, so you’re up next. You’re also the last defendant in the lineup, which means the plaintiff’s attorney will depose you in the morning and then in the afternoon, we’ll begin our deposition of the plaintiff. ”
“I’m on shift tomorrow morning at nine.”
“My secretary called over earlier and got you coverage from nine to five. You’ll be here with me all day.”
“Great,” I said sarcastically.
He opened the file and looked over some chicken scratch, then grabbed a pen. “So, why don’t we run through your interactions with Ms. Delmonico from the top. How did you first come to meet the patient?”
“I’d just finished up a twenty-four hour shift and was on my way out when a double trauma came in. Car accident. I stopped into treatment room six and asked if there was anything they needed help with before I took off.”
“Who did you ask that of?”
“The attending, Dr. Larson.”
“Okay. And did you view the patient at that time?”
“I did. Not up close—but from the doorway.”
“And what did you observe?”
“She had a burn on one side of her face—which I assumed was from the airbag, and Dr. Larson was removing the cervical collar that the EMTs had placed for transport. He asked me to call in radiology orders for a neck and head scan and hang a bag of fluids. It was a busy night, between flu season and the driver who was brought in with the woman, everyone was tied up. Normally a nurse would call in orders and hang fluids, but I’m a resident and Larson is an attending which means he barks, I fetch.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I called X-ray down to the ER, hung the fluids, wrote it in the chart, and took off for the night.”
The attorney scribbled something in the file and then looked up again. “About the burn on her face. Do you happen to remember which side of her face was burned?”
I closed my eyes. It had been a few years, but I could still see it on my memory’s highlight reel. “The left. Dr. Larson was standing on that side and she was crying. I didn’t see it at first, until he moved the collar and her head turned a bit.”
“We have a theory on the face burn. A medical team consisting of a group of orthopedics, internists, surgeons, and nurses review all of our medical records involving any lawsuit. They formulate an opinion on whether standard operating procedures were followed and if any malpractice occurred. During the review of Ms. Delmonico’s medical records, the team noted an inconsistency with the burn and the injury sustained to her neck.”
“What do you mean?”
“She suffered whiplash from the impact of the accident and tore a ligament on the right side of her neck.”
“So? That’s common.”
“Yes. But with the angle of the impact, her head should have snapped back to the right side and caused hyperextending of the ligament on the left side. The burn would be on the left side of her face if she was in the passenger seat like she said.”
“So she lied about where she was sitting? Why would she do that?”
“Our guess? She was giving the driver a hummer when the crash happened.”
I raked my hand through my hair. Which reminded me, I was going to have to get this mop sheared if I wanted anyone to take me seriously in court. “That sucks. But what does any of that have to do with me and the lawsuit? She’s suing for failure to diagnose a lower back bulging disc, right?”
“Shows a pattern of lying. She claims she’s got long-term pain and suffering. Bulging discs are difficult to prove one way or the other. Sometimes it’s easier for us to get the jury to not trust her than it is to prove we weren’t negligent. Not to mention, the driver was her boyfriend—her very married boyfriend. Pick a jury of a few married women, we’ll be on easy street.”
The law was a dirty business. “Did we do something wrong or not?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not always about right or wrong.”
“Really? I thought it was.”
The lawyer snickered. “Stay in practice long enough, those shiny ideals you have will dull.”
It was late by the time I got home. The attorney had spent hours going over the questions I might be asked, even though I could have summarized everything I knew in under two minutes flat. I found Bridget asleep on the couch, with her e-reader still in her hands. Her beautiful mouth let out a sweet whistle with every exhale. I smiled to myself thinking how wrapped around this woman’s finger I was if I thought even her damn snore was cute. Not wanting to wake her, but knowing she wouldn’t sleep well on the couch, I gently lifted her and tiptoed toward the bedroom with Bridget cradled in my arms. She woke as I set her down.
“Hey,” she whispered. “What time is it?”
“It’s a little after nine.”
“I must have dozed off in the middle of reading my book.”
“Yeah. I’ll turn off your reader. I’m going to go take a shower anyway. Close your eyes. Go back to sleep.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
I kissed her forehead. “Goodnight, luv. Sweet dreams.”
I was at her doorway when she called after me. “Simon?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you lie with me for a little while after your shower?”
I looked at her to confirm exactly what she was asking. “In here?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. I’ll be back in a few.”
I knew what inviting me into her bed meant to Bridget. So, even though I was exhausted from being up going on thirty hours, I wanked off quick to reduce the chance that my hard-on would be disrespectful the first time she let me in. After my shower, I locked up the house, peeked in on Brendan, and went back to Bridget’s bedroom. She was on her side, so I slipped in behind her and kissed her shoulder.
“How was the meeting with the attorney?”
“Fine. I’m being deposed tomorrow, so I won’t be at the hospital until dinner time.”
“It must be scary being sued.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Does the lawyer think the hospital did anything wrong?”
“He doesn’t seem to give a shit. His focus is on making the woman look like a liar.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah. The guy’s a dirtbag. I think he was getting off on the fact that they suspect the woman was giving the driver a jobby while he was driving.”
“A jobby?”
“Sucking him off.”
“Oh. Wow. That sounds dangerous. Is that what caused the accident?”
“I don’t know. But it has nothing to do with her injuries and any possible malpractice. Yet the lawyer plans to make it that way.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry you ha
ve to go through this.”
“I’ll deal.” I swept her hair to the other side and kissed her neck. “You know what gets me through everything?”
“What?”
“Knowing I get to come home to you.”
“You’re really a sweet talker when you’re not a dirty talker, Dr. Hogue.”
I rested my chin on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Thank you for letting me lie here with you. It means a lot.”
“You mean a lot.”
I tightened my grip around her waist. “Get some sleep. I set my phone alarm for an hour so I’m not in here when Brendan wakes up.”
“Okay.”
“Night, luv.”
“Good night, Simon. Good luck tomorrow.”
“State your full name for the record.” It was the afternoon, and the hospital attorney’s turn to question the woman. This morning I’d been deposed, and it was rather uneventful. As much as I didn’t like Arnold Schwartz, there hadn’t been a single question that he hadn’t prepped me for last night.
“Gina Marie Delmonico.”
“Ms. Delmonico. Is it okay, if I refer to you as Gina sometimes during this afternoon’s session?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you. I have to go over some formalities before we begin. Can you please tell me your current address, how long you’ve resided there, and your date of birth?”
“910 East Elm Street, Warwick, Rhode Island. I’ve lived there for about six years. My date of birth is July 10th, 1985.”
“Great, thank you. And are you married, Gina?”
“No.”
“Were you married at the time of the visit to the Emergency Room on July 12th, 2015?”
“No, I’ve never been married.”
“Thank you, again. Do you have any children?”
“Yes. I have one daughter, Olivia.”
“And her age?”
“She just turned three last week.”
“Okay. Thank you. I’m going to begin asking you questions about the night of your visit to the Emergency Room.”
“Okay.”
“What event led you to visit the Warwick Emergency Room on the evening of July 12th, 2015?”
The small conference room we were in had nothing to look at. The tan-colored walls were barren and the conference room table was empty, except for the files in front of each attorney. I’d been watching Gina Marie Delmonico all morning, and her face hadn’t changed—until she had to answer that question. The color of her skin paled, and her eyes glassed up.
“I was in a car accident.”
“And were you the passenger or the driver of the vehicle?”
“I was the passenger.”
“And who was driving?”
“A co-worker was driving.”
“And was the driver taken to Warwick Hospital as a result of the accident, as well?”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t make it?”
“No. He died in the accident.”
Arnold slid a box of tissues across the table. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you and the driver have a relationship outside of a professional one?”
Gina turned to her attorney, whose lips drew to a straight line, and he nodded his assurance. Clearly they’d discussed that this issue would likely come up. I felt bad for her—whatever their relationship was, it was obvious that the loss was difficult for her even after a few years. It felt dirty to make her talk about it when it was so irrelevant to the issue of malpractice. She swallowed and answered in a low voice. “We were dating, as well as co-workers.”
“And this co-worker, your boyfriend, was he married?”
Her eyes pointed down. “Yes.”
“Was he separated from his wife at the time of the accident?”
“No.”
“And how long were the two of you a couple?”
“I don’t know exactly. Around a year, I guess. Maybe a little less.”
“So, you had an ongoing relationship with a married man for an extended period of time prior to the accident.”
“Yes.”
“And you were aware he was married during this relationship?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. And where were you coming from on the evening of the accident?”
“We’d just had dinner at a restaurant, Carmine’s.”
“And where were you heading?”
“To my house.”
“To be clear, you and your married boyfriend were not working at the time of the accident. This was strictly an evening of a personal nature?”
“Yes.” A tear fell from Gina’s eye. She used the back of her hand to wipe it away, rather than take one of the tissues that Arnold had pushed toward her. I didn’t blame her. I wouldn’t have taken anything from the jerk, either. This entire thing was wrong, and regardless of whether she was dating a married man, Gina deserved some privacy. The least I could do was not gape at her while she cried. I folded my hands on top of the table and stared at my clasped fingers.
“What was the location of the accident?”
“We had just come off Exit 15 on 95 and onto Jefferson Boulevard.”
“And what caused the accident?”
“A car had been stopped in the shoulder and unexpectedly merged into traffic just as we were about to pass. We swerved to avoid the car, going into the lane to the left of us, and sideswiped a car that was already in that lane. Our car lost control and bounced around before being spun into oncoming traffic.”
“And that is your own personal recollection of the accident?”
“No. I don’t remember any of it. That’s what I learned afterward from the police and witnesses.”
“What’s the first thing you’re able to remember from that evening?”
“I remember waking up, and our car was upside down. A truck was smashed into the driver’s side, and people were yelling that everything was going to be okay.”
The woman paused and then her voice broke when she started again. “There was so much blood. So much blood, and he wouldn’t wake up. Everything wasn’t okay.” I kept my eyes trained on my hands out of respect.
“Thank you,” Arnold said. “I’m sorry. I know this must be difficult for you to talk about.”
The woman sniffled. “It is.”
“Would you like to take a moment?”
“No. It’s fine. I’d rather just get this over with.”
“Okay then. So, the cause of the accident, you’re saying, was a car cut you off. But you don’t recall seeing that car actually cut you off?”
“Yes.”
“So that I’m clear, you don’t remember seeing the car, or you weren’t able to see the car from where you were seated?”
“I don’t remember.”
I tried to tune the rest out, knowing where Arnold was going with his questioning and wanting nothing to do with it. “Let’s talk about where you were seated during the accident? Were you seated in the front passenger seat?”
“I was.”
“Were you wearing a seatbelt?”
“No.”
“No seat belt. Why not?”
“I’d just taken it off for a minute.”
“Were you upright in the passenger seat, Ms. Delmonico?”
“I don’t understand the question,” she sounded panicked.
“From the nature of your injury and the angle of the impact, it appears that you weren’t facing forward as one might assume is normal when you’re seated in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle.”
The woman’s lawyer jumped in. “This is a new low, even for you, Arnie. My client lost someone she cared about and was injured. None of this is relevant and you know it.”
“This is a deposition. Keep your relevance objections for the judge, Frank.”
The other lawyer grumbled something I didn’t catch.
“I’ll go back to my original question,” Arnold said. “Were you upr
ight in the passenger seat prior to the accident, Ms. Delmonico?”
There was quiet and then a low answer. “No. I was lying down.”
“You were lying down? Where was your head?”
“On the driver’s lap.”
“So, it wasn’t possible to know if a car cut you off or not, even if you remembered that actual accident?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Were the driver’s pants open while your head was on his lap?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“You asked, she answered,” Gina’s attorney warned. “Move on.”
“Fine.”
By that point, I was so pissed off that none of this had to do with the type of treatment she received, that my knuckles were turning white keeping my hands folded. Where were the questions relevant to the woman’s medical care, for Christ’s sake?
“For the record, what was the name of the driver whose lap your head was on—with or without his pants being open?”
The woman whimpered, causing me to look up. Tears were streaming down her red face, and she was doing her best to keep control. She looked distraught and our eyes caught as she spoke. “Ben. Benjamin Valentine.”
The door lock clanked closed. Too exhausted to even turn over and see who was there, I assumed it was a fellow resident coming in to get some sleep. Until lips met the back of my neck. Even if I hadn’t known Bridget’s touch, I was like Pavlov to her smell. Only this dog wasn’t ready to face his master quite yet.
Taking the cowardly way out, I pretended to be asleep. She wasn’t on the schedule for a shift this morning, so I wondered if they called her in because someone called out sick. For a few minutes, I listened as she tiptoed around the dark room and then she brushed her lips on my cheek.
I waited until the door opened and closed to roll over. There was a small nightstand next to the bed I was pretending to be asleep in. Bridget’s handwriting slashed across a folded piece of paper—Simon. Next to it was a brown paper bag. I grabbed the note first.
Simon,
I stopped by after dropping Brendan at school to bring you some treats. Hope everything went well yesterday with the lawyers. Looking forward to seeing you tonight at home. I left something to remind you what’s waiting for you after shift.
British Bedmate (A Series of Standalone Novels) Page 18
