Jeanette moved about the room like an automaton. She must have made the right moves, because both doctors thanked her for her excellent work, though Dr. Randolph’s thanks were underlaid with his perpetual sarcasm.
Finding comfort in the mind-numbing routine cleanup after the operation, she set about quickly to put the room back in order. As she picked up the bottle in which the corneal lens had been stored, she noted a Silver River Pharmaceutical label on the bottle — the distinctively shaped bottle which Walter had said only the Epi Study used. The bottle also contained the blue preservative for which Dr. Rutherford had claimed a patent. Hadn’t Walter told her the Eye Bank didn’t use the bottles or solution so as not to confuse the Epi Study tissue with Eye Bank tissue designated for other hospitals? How had SRP’s label come to be on the tissue? How had they gotten the preservative?
The Study patients were to get free donor tissue — the only cost being an Eye Bank processing charge. So why were they using a commercial lens?
Capping the bottle, she pocketed it, solution and all. She’d lock the bottle up in her office for safekeeping until she could ask Dr. Rutherford about this. She also needed to address the scene which had occurred earlier with Dr. Randolph, and while doing so, ask him about the other missing, incomplete — and inaccurate consents. Could Dr. Randolph be responsible for all the missing patient records? She hadn’t checked to see if the missing records were largely from one doctor over another. Several residents had gone through the Epi Study on rotations. It was common knowledge that not all doctors were good at paperwork.
Dr. Rutherford needed to be apprised of these problems. He had to be made to recognize the importance of accurate and complete records, for legal reasons as well as medical research protocol requirements. His whole project could be shut down over one missed consent, let alone all the holes she’d found in patient records.
“Ah, Jeanette, good you’re still here. Alex said I would find you cleaning up. He told me you did an excellent job, by the way.” Dr. Rutherford entered the surgery. “I need you to schedule the patient Alex just operated on for the graft on his other eye. Let’s make it as soon as possible. He’s going on vacation next week. See if you can get him in day after tomorrow.” Rutherford turned to leave.
“Doctor? Is that wise? The protocol says to wait until the first eye is healed and the patient shows signs of a good healing before operating on the other eye.”
“I know what the protocol says. I wrote it.” Dr. Rutherford glared at her. “Are you questioning my orders?”
“Well, yes sir, I guess I am.” Jeanette straightened to her full five feet, two inches and stared back at him. “I also have a concern about the legality of the consent on this patient. Dr. Randolph had the man sign it under the influence of anesthesia. If the patient has a bad result, he would have excellent grounds for a medical malpractice suit. In fact, he could probably get the whole project shut down.”
Jeanette couldn’t label all the emotions crossing Dr. Rutherford’s face.
“Listen here,” he said. “I’m sure this is all a simple misunderstanding. I explained the procedure to this patient myself, while Alex was present, so the consent was a mere written formality. As for the scheduling, let’s just say I’ve more experience in these matters than you. I’ll get with Alex and explain that it might be better to have the patient sign the consent before he’s under. I’m sure Alex just forgot with all the last minute changes because Missy went home ill. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
What else could she say? After all, he was the doctor. She would reschedule the patient, but as far out as she could get away with. She’d consult with the man himself and work out something. She’d also get a new consent signed after he was out from under the effects of anesthesia. Someone had to protect Dr. Rutherford from careless mistakes by his staff.
As for the other holes in medical records, she’d document them more fully. Find out exactly who was not filing the correct paperwork on patients and failing to get complete and accurate Surgical Consents, then she would take it all in an organized fashion to Dr. Rutherford with a plan of action to avoid the mistakes in the future, including a new more specific consent. The Review Board might cut them some slack if she had a plan in place to correct past errors.
Even with all her new-made resolutions, her gut told her that the Epi Study was in serious jeopardy. She’d ask Charles about the legalities of what she’d found. Maybe he could consult with some of the lawyers at his firm about consequences of the lack of properly executed consents.
CHAPTER SIX
“Charles, I’m serious about this.”
Jeanette pushed away the bread pudding she hadn’t wanted, but Charles had insisted she order. In fact, she hadn’t felt like eating out at all, but had allowed Charles to override her desire to stay at home and eat the shrimp jambalaya she’d cooked.
She envied Brigitte and the sitter happily ensconced in front of the television, sharing the comfort food she’d prepared. Instead of that homey picture, she was here, in a crowded French Quarter restaurant, biding her time for a chance to unburden her concerns about the surgery she’d witnessed earlier that day. Worse, after she explained everything to Charles, he seemed more interested in his fruit tart than her distress.
“Jean, don’t you think you’re over-reacting?” Charles waved his fork at her, a kiwi precariously hanging onto the edge. “After all, research projects like this are monitored closely by all sorts of agencies. Who are you to question procedures that have probably been scrutinized by people with far more experience than you?”
Charles rescued the kiwi, then stabbed at a strawberry. “And as for the missing paperwork, you’re new there. Maybe Dr. Rutherford wanted you to get your feet wet before he dumped the bulk of the work on you. My advice? Just sit back and wait. I’m sure the files are there somewhere. They’d have to be, wouldn’t they? If they weren’t, the project would have been shut down already. Right?”
“Don’t you think I’ve gone over all those arguments already?”
Jeanette fought back the urge to ask him how stupid he thought she was. He hadn’t heard her at all. An icy breeze of realization swept over her, clearing clouds of self-delusion from her mind — Charles never listened to her, now or in the past. Like all narcissists, he only heard the things that pertained to his comfort and care.
God, how could she have been so stupid? How could she have allowed her hormones to choose a man who only needed a woman as a mirror for his own self-esteem? Until now, she’d overlooked all the other times he’d negated her concerns, her needs, while using her for companionship and the mothering he never had when he was a child. Between his jealousy of her daughter and now this complete disregard of her intelligence — well, she wasn’t holding back any longer. This was it. Either he took her seriously, started really listening to her, or she would tell him how she felt — about everything.
Taking a deep breath, she let it out. She needed to present her arguments logically, not emotionally.
“Putting aside the missing documents in the patient records and the hasty rescheduling of a patient against medical protocol, let’s look at just the incident with the surgical consent. Dr. Randolph had a patient under the influence of mind-altering anesthesia sign a legal consent. Trust me, Charles, that patient could have signed away his fortune under that combination of drugs and never remembered it later. If Dr. Randolph had instructed the man to sit up and bark like a dog, he would’ve. You have to admit that was totally unethical if not illegal.”
“Okay, you got me there.” Charles’s face turned pink.
Uh oh, Jeanette recognized the altered tone. It was his little boy whine he reverted to when caught out in the wrong. Now, he would get all defensive. Jeanette’s loss of her husband, her helpmate in all things, hit her harder than it had in years. Paul would have listened, would have offered constructive advice — like a mature partner should.
“But you fixed that by going to the patient aft
er he’d recovered and had him sign a new consent with a waiver, right? So, what’s the problem?”
The underlying “aha, I got you” came through loud and clear. With Charles, everything was a debate, point-counterpoint. There always had to be a winner and a loser; it was never about working together toward a common goal.
So be it.
“Charles, you’re missing the point!”
Red flashed before her eyes. She swore the heat was attempting to escape through her skin. Struggling to regain control, Jeanette ran her fingers through her hair, proud that she resisted the urge to throw the unwanted pudding at the thick-headed male across from her. “Yeah, I took care of it after the fact. But what if the patient had refused? Then where would the project be if his graft failed?”
“Okay, okay. You’re right, okay?” Charles threw his fork on the table, then leaned back in his chair, arms across his chest. “If it disturbs you so much, quit!”
Jeanette placed both hands on the table, then leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them. “No. I’m not a quitter. If I were, I wouldn’t be sitting here across from you.” Jeanette covered her mouth with her hand, then allowed it to drop back to the table top. “Oh, Charles, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Yeah, right. I think you meant it exactly as it sounded.” Charles’s mouth thinned, his face white with anger. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Your job concerns were just an excuse to talk about us. Go ahead, tell me what you really think about our relationship. I’m man enough to take it.”
Careful Bootsie, minefields ahead.
“Oh, Charles.” Jeanette reached across the table, seeking contact with him, but finding only tablecloth as Charles leaned further away from her beseeching fingers. “I care for you, but it seems like I’m making all the accommodations in the relationship.”
“Really? Like what for instance?”
Charles was in full retreat now. She’d already gone this far, might as well get it all out.
“Okay, take this evening, for example. I wanted the three of us to stay at home after Brigitte’s volleyball game and have a family dinner, but you insisted, as you have the last several times I suggested such an evening, that we hire a sitter and have dinner, just the two of us. Is this your way of getting closer to my daughter?”
“Jean, you…”
“No, let me finish.” She held her hand up. “Let’s really clear the air. I’ve told you many times I prefer Jeanette, but you insist on calling me Jean. You may hear me, but you aren’t listening. You say you want a more intimate relationship, but without communication, real communication, it can never be that.”
“Are you through?”
“No, I’m not. This evening is a perfect example of why I’m not ready to commit to a long term relationship with you.” She paused to marshal her arguments. “I just unburdened myself about a serious problem at my job, and your response insulted my intelligence and understanding. It also indicated to me a lack of concern in general for ethics, the law and your fellow man. I’m not sure I can become serious about a man who shows such a lack of… well… morals.”
Jeanette couldn’t imagine Charles’s lips narrowing anymore than they already had, but they did, to the point that all she could see was a crease in his face where his lips met. Damn, she’d pushed him too far, but it had to be said. Had needed to be said for a long, long time.
Charles pushed away from the table. Standing up, he turned, then left without looking back.
Instead of being cleared, the air was filled with the smoke of imaginary mines.
Ignoring the shocked and interested glances from the surrounding diners, Jeanette fought back tears as she called for the check. Well, that was the end of that. What a perfectly horrible day.
———
Jeanette paid the sitter. After checking on her sleeping daughter, she sat on the couch and stared into the cold fireplace, a glass of wine untouched at her hand.
The phone rang. She didn’t have the energy to speak to anyone. Let the machine answer it.
Charles’s voice came over the machine. She thought she’d turned it down before she left this evening. Obviously, Brigitte had been playing with the volume control again. Tears formed in her eyes, but she was so exhausted she couldn’t even move to turn it off. So, she just sat, trying not to listen.
“…Jean, uh damn, Jeanette! Pick up, I know you’re there. Please?” Silence reigned for a few seconds. “Okay, I guess you must have the sound turned down. I, uh, well, I’m sorry. I’m such an ass. I never realized how you felt. Can you blame it on me being male?” A nervous chuckle. “Give me another chance. If you can, call me — please? I’ll try harder. I promise. Love you.”
Tears streaming down her face, Jeanette sat unmoving. She wanted to believe him, and knew she would give him another chance. As she so boldly told him, she wasn’t a quitter. Yes, Charles was an overgrown, spoiled boy, but she saw good stuff in him — he was hardworking, educated, and, most of the time, fun-loving. His excellent manners and interest, at least at the beginning of their relationship, in her and her career had chiseled away at the icy encasement around her grief-stricken heart. Yet, he’d disappointed her tonight. She’d thought his principles were of a higher and tougher fiber. For God’s sake, he was a lawyer, a person who was supposed to uphold the law.
Before she made any decisions about her long-term relationship, he would have to prove to her that he met her standards. Not perfection. After all, he was human.
Yes, she’d give him one more chance, but only one. After today, she knew she needed a strong shoulder to lean on in troubled times. Whether or not Charles could be that shoulder, well… if he couldn’t, then she needed to move on and find the man that could give her what she needed — a full and loving partnership, where sharing of burdens went both ways. She deserved that kind of relationship, and so did her daughter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Bourbon street watering hole which Alex Randolph chose for their meeting wasn’t exactly in Byron Rutherford’s style. It was loud, crowded, and its idea of a premium imported beer was Dos Equus, forget the lime. However, it did provide them the privacy they needed for this impromptu bull session. And, the small jazz band wasn’t so bad.
Carrying two draft beers, Alex wended his way through the bodies lined two-to-three deep at the bar, then edged around the small dance floor crowded with young couples glued to one another, swaying to the bluesy notes of an alto saxophone. Setting the dripping glasses down, he plopped into the chair next to Rutherford, so they both faced the dance floor. Both sat in silence for a few moments. Rutherford checked out the female population, knew that Alex did also. They had that in common — a love of varied and frequent female companionship. Who knew? They might both get lucky.
After a few sips, Alex gulped down a third of his beer in one swallow, then sighed. “God, I needed that. What a day!”
“Is that why you called this meeting? To editorialize your day?” Rutherford sipped his beer and made a face. He hated domestics, but the alternatives were worse. He thought longingly of Chez Paul’s wine list, then braved another sip of the slightly warm, flat beer.
“I called this meeting, because I want you to explain to me again why you hired Jeanette LaFleur.” Alex’s eyes followed a leggy blonde, his lips pursed in a silent whistle.
Examining the girl whom Alex undressed with his eyes, Rutherford could see the upside to the establishment, bad beer notwithstanding, and vowed to make this place a regular trolling spot. He liked a nice young piece of ass as well as the next man. Which was one of the reasons he had hired Jeanette, but he wasn’t going to share that info with Alex. He didn’t want Alex looking at Jeanette with a less-jaundiced eye and deciding he liked what he saw. In general, Alex was still at an age when any maturity in a woman was off-putting. Rutherford, on the other hand, liked his women experienced, but not overly so. Jeanette fell into that category. He would bet his Swiss bank account
, she’d only had one lover — her husband. He was biding his time. So, what to tell Alex?
“The Institutional Review Board team told me to get my paperwork up to par or they would advise the hospital and get our grant money pulled. The facts that all the other Clinical Coordinators were barely out of high school and not trained technicians were also black marks against the project. Hiring Jeanette took care of both problems.”
“Okay, okay, I know all that, but still, she’s too ethical. I thought she would shit a brick today when I had the patient sign the consent while under anesthesia.”
“Sometimes you’re an idiot.” Rutherford resisted the urge to slap the man. “She was one hundred percent correct on that one. With our graft failure rate, we could get sued. Graft failure happens. It can be justified. But a legal misstep like an improperly signed consent could get me — or you — a one-way trip to a suspended or revoked license. Don’t make that mistake again. Follow the rules. We’ll be in enough trouble if little Jeanette ever figures out we cook the stats and decides to report us.”
“My point exactly. So once again, why are we keeping her around? She isn’t stupid, damn her cute little Cajun tush. Eventually, she’s got to realize that patient follow-up records don’t match actual patients seen in the clinic. Plus, Payton and Warren are seeing some of our failures — and letting everyone know it. Hell, I’m sure they said something to her at the training session. I saw Payton fuming clear across the room, and your little Jeanette looked flustered. It’s just a matter of time until she adds two and two.”
“Then I guess it’s up to both of us to see that she doesn’t get four.”
“How? What slight of hand do we use to keep little Miss Nosey from stumbling onto the fact that over sixty percent of the grafts are failing?”
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