It's Nothing Personal

by Gorman MD, Sherry

  “Really?” Safety in numbers, Jenna thought to herself.

  “Really,” Katharine answered. “Furthermore, I don’t think you did anything wrong. I don’t think any of your colleagues did anything wrong, either. We had a criminal in our operating rooms. How do you protect yourself against something like that? The answer is, you can’t. You are an excellent anesthesiologist. You need to convince yourself of your innocence and then fight for it.”

  Cautiously, Jenna asked Katharine, “Do you think the hospital is going to lay all the blame on the anesthesiologists? They have a lot to lose.”

  Katharine was quick to answer, “Well, look at it from this standpoint. Right now, there are over twenty confirmed cases. That means twenty anesthesiologists, give or take, all had similar practices regarding how they secured their narcotics. In my opinion, that alone defines the standard of care. If the hospital tries to say that many anesthesiologists were practicing below the standard of care, then they would have to explain why they failed to detect your ineptness or to enforce stricter rules.”

  “Yeah,” said Jenna, “that does make sense. I hadn’t thought of it in those terms.”

  Katharine reached out and hugged her friend. They embraced for several moments. Finally, Katharine pulled back and told Jenna sternly, “For now, you have got to get your act together. Take a couple of days off, if you think it will help. You may want to consider seeing a psychiatrist. This is a huge stress. You have to remain strong to get through it.

  “With respect to this conversation, as far as I’m concerned, it never happened. Okay? You are always safe to talk with me, anytime.”

  Jenna had never felt so close to another woman. She kissed Katharine lightly on the cheek and whispered, “Thank you . . . for everything.”

  Their moment ended when Katharine’s pager alarmed. She pulled it from her pocket and read the display.

  “Dammit,” Katharine said. “I’ve got a patient trying to die in the ICU. I’m going to have to run.”

  The women went their separate ways, and Jenna grabbed her phone and dialed Tom. He answered on the first ring.

  “Baby, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve been trying to tell you how to handle this based on how I would handle it. I don’t want to add stress to your situation. From now on, I’m going to make it a point to simply listen. If you want my opinion, ask me, and I’ll give it to you. Otherwise, I just want to be there for you in whatever way helps you the most.”

  Jenna spoke softly into the phone, smiling for the first time in weeks, “Thanks. I love you.”

  For the second time that day, Jenna found herself overcome with gratitude for the simplest of gifts. She watched a majestic Monarch butterfly flutter in front of her. Jenna stared at the colorful creature until it finally flew away. She never noticed Keith Jones, peering down on her from his office window.

  CHAPTER 19

  October 18, 2010

  Hillary Martin had been incarcerated for more than four months. Her prominent, dark black roots served as visible markers of time. She had also lost considerable weight, and the blaze orange jumpsuit that had fit snugly back in June was now baggy. Jail-issued flip-flops revealed tiny specks of old black polish on Hillary’s toenails. Her fingernails had been chewed down to the quick, leaving ragged edges. Without makeup, her skin was pasty white and dotted with pimples.

  A female guard appeared outside her cell and said brusquely, “Martin, you’ve got company. Let’s go.”

  Accustomed to the drill, Hillary held out her arms, and the guard snapped the chilly, metal handcuffs around her wrists. Escorted by the burly woman, Hillary Martin marched slowly past the other inmates’ cells. She could feel the harsh stares from the other prisoners as she made her way, but she kept her head down.

  In a small meeting room inside the county jail, Hillary’s attorney, Jack Lewis, waited patiently. In spite of their daughter’s protests, Harold and Janice Martin had liquidated every asset they possessed to hire Jack to represent their daughter. Hillary’s parents may have been modest people, but they were savvy enough to know that a court-appointed lawyer would be inadequate for a case of this magnitude. Jack Lewis may not have been the best attorney that money could buy, but he was the best attorney their money could buy.

  Ignoring Jack, Hillary entered the room and focused on the single window, which overlooked the parking lot. It was an overcast fall morning. Soggy, dead leaves littered the ground. A brisk wind rattled the glass panes. It was the kind of weather she hated.

  The guard removed the handcuffs and left the room, locking Jack and Hillary inside.

  “Why don’t we sit down and talk?” Jack motioned for Hillary to take a seat. She finally shifted her attention from the world outside to her attorney. Hillary stood for several moments, staring defiantly at Jack Lewis. With his balding head, paunch belly, and unruly eyebrows, Hillary found Jack revolting. In fact, she openly loathed him.

  Jack sat down and waited. Eventually, she took a seat. He rested his hands on the table, quietly grinding his teeth in agitation.

  Anxious to end their interaction, Jack did not waste time. “Hillary, we are at a crossroads here. You are set for trial exactly a week from today. It’s do or die time.” He tossed a stack of documents on the table in front of her, and the pages scattered.

  Hillary flinched. For the first time since they met, Jack finally had her attention.

  “There are forty-two counts against you from the federal government. If you are found guilty, you could be looking at life in prison. Do you understand?” He spat the words at her.

  Hillary watched her counselor, expressionless. Her eyes were dead and empty, as Jack imagined her soul might be, too. He reminded himself that he was not hired to like her, but rather to defend her.

  Gruffly, she asked, “So, what are my options?”

  Jack tapped his pen against the table and said, “Option number one – we proceed with the trial next week. I’ll be honest. The evidence against you is overwhelming. We are nearly guaranteed to lose.”

  “What’s option number two?”

  Jack’s expression became grim. “Option number two – we attempt a plea bargain.”

  “What kind of plea bargain?” Hillary asked suspiciously.

  “You would agree to plead guilty in exchange for a reduced sentence. The problem is we don’t have much bargaining power.”

  Jack eyed Hillary until he was certain she was listening. “The decision is yours.”

  Standing abruptly, Hillary shoved her chair back and began pacing the room. The chair tipped over and created a loud thud as it hit the floor. The guard outside heard the ruckus and peered through the door. Jack waved the guard away, reassuring her, “Everything’s okay.”

  Picking up the plastic chair, Hillary swung it back toward the table. She positioned it backward and took a seat. Watching her straddle the chair caused Jack’s stomach to turn.

  “So, what are your thoughts?” he pried.

  She buried her head in her hands. When Hillary lowered her hands to the table, Jack noticed her pupils were dilated, and her cheeks were red and blotchy.

  “You said that we don’t have much bargaining power for a plea deal, but that’s not completely true.”

  Jack leaned closer to Hillary and whispered, “What do you mean?”

  “I’m the only one who knows the whole truth about what I did.” There was a diabolical glimmer in Hillary’s eyes.

  Jack glanced out the door. Satisfied the guard was honoring their attorney-client privilege, he moved closer to his client and asked very quietly, “What is the truth?”

  With a precarious smirk, Hillary revealed her secret. “I wasn’t the only one contaminating those needles, and hepatitis C isn’t all they need to worry about.”

  CHAPTER 20

  October 19, 2010

  At five o’clock on Tuesday morning, Jenna crept in to her house and flopped on the couch, exhausted. She was dressed in dirty, bloodstained scrubs and had just arrived ho
me from a brutal, twenty-four-hour call shift. Kicking off her shoes, the offensive odor from her swollen feet assaulted her. Jenna’s back ached, and her eyes burned. In an hour, Mia would need to be awakened for school. Until then, she could rest.

  Jenna had just drifted off to sleep when Tom’s high-pitched alarm clock sounded at 6 a.m., shattering the silence of the house. Jenna trudged up the stairs to her daughter’s room. Mia was cuddled up in her in bed with the covers pulled over her head. Jenna lifted the blankets and kissed her daughter’s soft cheeks. Mia’s skin felt hot, and her hair was damp from sweat. Slowly, Mia opened her eyes.

  “Mommy, I don’t feel good,” Mia croaked. Then, without warning, she vomited. Warm, yellowish-green fluid coated her bed, her pajamas, and her mother.

  Jenna pulled her wet shirt off, dragging Mia’s stomach contents into her hair along the way. Then she helped Mia disrobe and ran to turn on the shower. Gently, Jenna helped Mia get under the spray. Standing in her bra and scrub pants, Jenna scrubbed her daughter’s hair as the shower stall filled with the opposing scents of shampoo and bile.

  From downstairs, Jenna heard the phone ring. A few minutes, Tom called her name. Whoever it was would have to wait. Mia needed her full attention. Jenna was rinsing Mia’s hair when Tom peeked into the bathroom. His hand covered the receiver. “It’s Rob Wilson,” Tom murmured. “He says it’s urgent.”

  Jenna grabbed a towel, drying the suds off her arms and wiping vomit from her hair. She stepped out of the bathroom, and whispered back to Tom, “Mia’s sick. Can you get her into our bed?”

  Tom handed the phone to Jenna. Knowing that nothing good could ever come from such an early morning phone call, she struggled to take in air.

  With great trepidation, she answered, “Hello.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you post call.” Rob sounded sincere.

  “That’s okay. What can I do for you?” Jenna attempted to keep her voice from cracking.

  “Jenna, you were served a subpoena from the Federal District Court yesterday. They delivered it to the office late in the afternoon. I knew you were on call and didn’t want you to worry about it while you were at work.”

  How considerate, Jenna thought. Rob saved her from having an emotional meltdown while there were still cases to do and money to be made.

  Jenna was standing in the kitchen as Tom led Mia past her, on their way to the bedroom. Mia walked by and Jenna reached out and rubbed her arm.

  Turning her attention back to Rob, Jenna said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean, a subpoena?”

  “That’s all I know. I already forwarded it to Jim Taylor and Nancy Guilding. You need to call them as soon as possible.”

  Jenna broke into a cold sweat. Was she on trial already? What was going on? She ended the phone call with Rob and immediately dialed Jim Taylor’s direct number. With her adrenaline surging, it was a challenge to press the right numbers on the receiver. From down the hall, Jenna heard vomit splash into the toilet as Mia retched again.

  It was not yet 6:30. Jenna fully expected to get voicemail, but Jim answered on the third ring. “Hi Jenna. Nancy’s here with me. We have you on speaker phone.”

  “Rob Wilson told me I got served a subpoena. Am I in trouble?”

  As far as Jenna knew, only criminals got served with subpoenas. She felt weak and leaned against the granite countertop for support.

  Nancy spoke in a motherly tone. “No, you are not in trouble. A handful of summons were served to doctors yesterday. Hillary Martin is scheduled to go on trial next Monday. You are ordered to testify.”

  Jenna’s heart was beating so rapidly, she felt certain it might burst. Her next question slipped out of her mouth, “Why me?”

  Jim piped in, “We’re not entirely sure. What we do know is that the federal prosecutor has served twelve doctors, ten of whom are anesthesiologists from your group, and the other two are surgeons. We are placing calls to the prosecutor right now to try to gain more information. Hopefully we’ll know more by the end of the day.”

  Jenna’s mind was in overdrive. “What are they going to ask me? What if I say something wrong? Can they use that against me in my malpractice case?”

  Nancy tried to reassure her, “We assume they are going to ask you what you remember about Hillary Martin. We will be there in court, but since you aren’t the one on trial, we won’t be able to object to any of the questions they ask you.”

  “In other words, I’m on my own to hang myself.”

  “Not entirely,” said Nancy. “Once we get more information, we’ll meet with you and help you prepare.”

  “Who else got a subpoena?” Jenna demanded.

  Jim read off a list of her colleagues.

  “Do all of us have hepatitis-positive patients? Is that the common denominator?”

  Jim said gravely, “At this point, it would be pure speculation, but I think that’s probably the case. We’re at a disadvantage. We don’t yet know the identity of every anesthesia doctor who has an infected patient. We won’t know, in fact, until the very last lawsuit rolls in. However, the State Health Department and the administrators at St. Augustine do possess that information. It’s highly likely they shared those names with the federal prosecutor.”

  Nancy chimed in, “Jenna, you’re going to be fine. Try not to worry. You’re stronger than you think.”

  Jenna did not respond.

  She hung up and walked into her bedroom. Mia was curled up in a ball on the bed with her eyes closed. Jenna lay down, facing her. The stench of vomit lingered on Mia’s breath, and the sheets were damp from her wet body. Jenna carefully pulled the blankets over herself and her daughter and fell into a fitful nap.

  CHAPTER 21

  October 22, 2010

  On an overcast Friday morning, Jack Lewis drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for Hillary to be ushered into the dank, depressing meeting room at the jail. Jack was functioning on a week’s worth of very little sleep, no exercise, vending-machine meals, and a heavy conscience. He was sure that the revelations of the past week would disturb him for many years to come. At long last, Hillary had divulged the true details of her crimes.

  Hillary silently entered the chamber. Impatient for her handcuffs to be removed, she thrust her arms forward toward the guard. Once the guard shut the door and locked them in, Hillary rubbed her wrists, attempting to erase the sensation of the frigid steel pinching her skin. Jack found it hard to believe, but Hillary actually looked worse than she had on Monday. She was jittery, agitated, and unfocused. Hillary did not seem to realize he was in the room. Bewildered, Jack watched her, feeling like a voyeur. She squeezed a pimple on her chin until it burst and started to bleed. After wiping away the blood with the palm of her hand, she remained mesmerized by the red streak left behind.

  Jack was becoming uncomfortable. He grunted in an attempt to gain Hillary’s attention. The gesture worked. Hillary was startled back into her bleak reality and took a seat. Her right leg jerked restlessly under the table. Jack tried to overlook it, but the shuffling grated on his nerves.

  Tersely, Jack said, “We only have three hours before we are scheduled to be in court. I need to present the details of the plea agreement to you, and you need to stay focused.”

  Hillary stopped twitching her leg. The blood on her face had coagulated into a dark, red ball.

  “Okay, shoot.”

  Retrieving two stacks of legal documents from his worn, leather briefcase, Jack handed one copy to Hillary and kept the other for himself.

  He told her, “I’ve fought hard for you all week. However, the federal prosecuting attorney is unwilling to make any major concessions in the plea agreement. Do you understand what I am telling you so far?”

  “Yep.” Hillary slumped in her chair. Her callousness tested Jack’s patience.

  “Okay, so you plead guilty to five counts of tampering with a consumer product and five counts of obtaining a controlled substance by deceit. If you do that, the remaining thirty-two ch
arges will be dismissed, and no further charges will be filed.”

  Hillary turned her head toward the window. Iron bars partially obscured her view of the gray sky. The distant thunder of a plane roared overhead. Hillary was about to look away when she caught sight of a pretty, little sparrow on the window’s ledge. She briefly glanced down at the smeared blood on her hand. By the time Hillary looked back at the window, the bird had flown away.

  She turned her attention back toward Jack. “How long?”

  Jack found it excruciatingly painful to play the role of the messenger. He resisted the urge to look away from Hillary as he gave her the news.

  “Twenty years, without the possibility of parole.”

  The room fell nearly silent. The only sounds were the “clunk, clunk, clunk” of an officer’s footsteps outside the door.

  Hillary was hoarse, her throat dry. “What should I do?”

  Jack found Hillary offensive. He fought to remind himself that she was a young woman in her mid-twenties, with many years ahead of her. She was a mother who loved her child, and she had parents who loved her. A collection of contradictions, Hillary caused Jack to vacillate between repulsion and pity.

  “I can’t tell you what to do,” Jack said coolly. “This is a decision you have to make for yourself. You will live with the consequences for the rest of your life. All I can do is make sure you understand the implications of your choices. In my legal opinion, it would be highly unlikely that you would receive a lighter sentence from a jury.”

  “How long until I have to decide?”

  “I will meet you at the courthouse in two hours, and I will need your decision then. That gives us just under one hour to prepare.”