Medical Error

by Richard Mabry

  "How can I turn that down? When can I pick you up and what can I bring?"

  It wasn't that Nick didn't believe Anna when she said this party wouldn't be like church. It was just that perhaps her idea of "church" was different from his. Oh, well, at least he'd have a chance to be with her.

  "Looks like a pretty big party." Nick squeezed his car into a parking space a block away from the house that Anna said was his target.

  "Not too big. And I think you'll like these people."

  He climbed out and hurried around to open the car door for her. She looked ravishing in a green blouse and tan slacks. Then again, Nick recalled that she looked great in scrubs and a wrinkled white coat too. Maybe it wasn't the clothes.

  "Thanks for coming," she said as they approached the house.

  "Wouldn't miss it," he said. Well, I would have but it gives me another chance to be with you. He stabbed at the doorbell.

  "Everyone's around back." A middle-aged man hurried up the walk behind them, two grocery sacks in one arm and a large plastic bag of ice in the other.

  "Thanks, Chet," Anna said. "Nick Valentine, this is your host, Chet Conway. Chet, Nick is a colleague of mine."

  "Nice meeting you. Come on this way." Chet nudged a gate open with his foot, and led them through into a large fenced backyard filled with chattering people. People talked in small groups while others bustled back and forth between the kitchen and a long table loaded with food. "Nick, help Chet with those sacks. I'll put this pie down and see if his wife, Martha, needs a hand."

  Chet shoved a sack into Nick's arms and said, "Napkins, paper plates, plasticware, cups. Find the nearest person in the kitchen and then run like the wind. Otherwise you'll be drafted." He laughed. "When you escape, find me and I'll introduce you around."

  Nick did as he was told. Soon, he stood with Chet and two men whose names he had already forgotten, trying to follow their conversation without being drawn into it.

  "I don't know what we're going to do with those people in Congress," the first man said. "No wonder our country's going to the dogs."

  "We've always had bad people around. Doesn't mean they can't be good leaders," Chet said.

  "Yeah, but it's more likely to happen if they're decent in the first place. Isn't that right?" The second man looked at Nick with a "back me up on this" expression.

  Nick managed a shrug.

  Chet grinned. Nick had seen that grin before. It was the expression of a staffphysician when a medical student made a statement that wasn't going to stand up under close scrutiny. This could be good.

  "Why don't we consider some of the leaders in the Bible? Would you agree they were good people?" Chet said.

  The first man nodded. "Sure."

  Chet grinned. "Start with Moses. Great leader. Led the Israelites out of captivity. God gave him the Ten Commandments. Moses was bound to be a pretty good guy? Would you sign offon that?"

  The first and second man looked at each other, apparently wondering where the trap was. "Sure," they said in unison.

  "Remember where Moses was before all that? He was hiding in the desert, because he'd killed a man," Chet said.

  The men didn't seem to have an answer for that, but Chet wasn't through. "Ready for another try?"

  "Sure," the first man said, not quite so eager now.

  "King David," Chet said. "Saved his people by slaying Goliath when he was just a kid. Became king of Israel. Wrote the Psalms."

  "Yeah, and the Messiah came from his line," the second man said. Surely this one was a winner.

  "Remember what David did after he was king? Lusted after another man's wife and had her husband killed by sending him to the front lines. There's your good man."

  Nick let the rest of the conversation wash over him, as he thought about what he'd heard. Nick always figured he'd blown his chance with God when he pulled that trigger. Maybe he'd been wrong.

  Meanwhile, the game—for that was what it had become— was in full swing. One man would give an example of a leader. Another would point out his flaws.

  "Peter. Lead apostle. Called 'the rock.' "

  "Hot-tempered firebrand who cut offa man's ear in a fight.

  Denied his Lord three times when the chips were down."

  Nick eased away. He'd heard enough to start him thinking.No, this hadn't been "church, the second installment," but there'd been some good stuffthrown around.

  "Enjoying yourself?" Anna eased up beside him. "I'm sorry I left you alone for a bit, but I had to help get the food on the table. Ready to eat?"

  "Sure," Nick answered. He pointed to the group of men he'd just left. "I don't remember those guys' names, but are they on the church staffor something? They were slinging Bible stuff around right and left."

  "Chet, the host, is an insurance agent. Charlie, on the left, is a mechanic. Rick, on the right, is a dentist." She looked around and pointed. "The only minister I see here is the man in Bermuda shorts and flip- flops. That's Robert, our pastor."

  Nick reached for Anna's hand, and she allowed him to take it. Together, they strolled toward the long table, where people were already lining up with paper plates in their hands. During the meal, Nick managed to take a polite interest in the conversations that flowed around him, but his thoughts kept coming back to one point: God probably hadn't written him offwhen he'd killed that holdup man. Maybe he had a second chance coming.

  On Monday morning, Anna's phone rang while she toasted an English muffin.

  "Anna, this is Ross Donovan. Hope I'm not calling too early."

  She caught the muffin as it popped from the toaster and immediately dropped it on a plate. "No, not at all. What do you have for me?"

  "Agent Hale at the DEA finally returned my call. He agreed to meet with me this morning. Kramer will probably be there too. Do you want to come?"

  Anna sucked at her fingers until they stopped burning."What do you think?"

  "I think this is the part where I tell them that if they have anything solid, show me a warrant for your arrest. If they don't, then back off, give you a new DEA permit, and let you get on with your life."

  "Should you push them like that?"

  "Did you tell me the truth when you said you had no knowledge of or involvement with those false narcotics prescriptions?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it's time to bring it to a head." Donovan's voice took on an edge. "At your first meeting, if they really had something, they'd have brought you in for questioning at their offices. Instead, they came to you and gave you the obligatory nudge, the one they always hope results in a confession. It didn't. Now they're letting you twist in the wind while they check out other leads. It's time that came to a halt."

  "Tell me where to meet you."

  "Come by my office at nine-thirty this morning. We'll talk some more and drive over there together."

  Anna was about to hang up when she thought of another question. "What about the Dallas police?"

  "They haven't returned my calls. Let's deal with the DEA first. That'll get you back to your practice."

  An hour later, Anna was seated in Ross Donovan's office. She remembered how good the coffee had smelled on her last visit, so she accepted his offer of a cup. Her first sip convinced her that taste and smell weren't always linked. This coffee was so strong she checked the spoon to make sure it hadn't melted after she stirred in the sweetener.

  "Coffee a bit strong for you?" Donovan asked.

  Anna wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "I thought I'd had some strong coffee at the hospital, but this tops it. But tastes vary, I guess."

  "It's alcoholics' coffee."

  She took a cautious sip, but couldn't taste anything but bitter, strong brew.

  Donovan smiled. "No," he said. "Not alcoholic coffee. It's like the coffee you find at AA meetings everywhere. Hot, strong, and lots of it. When you're trying to avoid one addiction, you tend to find a replacement. A lot of alcoholics smoke. Some get hooked on sweets. Most guzzle coffee. I decided there wa
s no reason to kick alcohol only to get lung cancer or diabetes, but I was willing to risk an ulcer."

  "If you don't mind my asking, how can an alcoholic practice law?"

  "Well, as it turns out, not very well. I managed never to drink before I met with clients or had to be in court. But I made up for it by drinking at other times. And, as my ex can attest, I combined that with running around on her. She tried to straighten me out, but finally she'd had enough. She filed for divorce."

  "I'm sorry," Anna said.

  "Me too. She'd been practicing law under her maiden name, so a lot of people didn't even notice a change. But the divorce was the slap in the face I needed. A few months after it was final, I went into rehab."

  "Do you miss drinking?"

  Donovan's laugh was far from mirthful. "Would you miss breathing? Sure I miss it. It was what kept me alive. I made sure there was always a bottle of Jim Beam right here." He pointed to the bottom drawer of his desk. "Every day, as soon as my assistant left—that was back when I had an assistant—I unscrewed the top of that bad boy and had a few belts. That held me until I could get to the bar."

  "Are you . . . do you think you're okay now?"

  "Do you mean is your lawyer going to show up drunk sometime? I hope not. But I take it one day at a time. You learn that in AA, because if you don't learn it, you're back drinking."

  Anna looked at her watch and Donovan took the hint."Well, enough about my sordid past," he said. "Let's get ready for our meeting with the Federales."

  Anna wasn't sure how to take this man. He seemed almost jovial at times. Was this a coping mechanism? Or had he reached the bottom of life's barrel so completely that nothing caused him any fear or worry? Despite it all, she found herself trusting him. Even if his ex-wife had qualified her referral with the words "liar" and "cheat."

  Ross was seated alongside Anna in straight chairs across the table from Kramer and Hale. He recognized the room; he'd been in dozens like it, usually in a jail or police station, with his client sitting across the scarred metal table in shackles and a guard standing right outside the door. The agents had probably chosen to meet in an interview room simply to scare Anna. Judging from what he'd seen so far of his client and her Irish temper, they weren't going to get far with that maneuver.

  This was Ross's first time to meet the two DEA agents, and they weren't what he'd imagined. Hale was a week past needing a haircut. His suit looked like he'd slept in it. Kramer, on the other hand, looked like a million dollars. For an instant Ross wondered why she was working in law enforcement, instead of acting or modeling. Then he saw her eyes and revised his estimate.

  Agent Hale leaned back and laced his hands behind his head. His coat dropped open, showing an automatic holstered on his hip, something else Ross figured was meant to intimidate his client.

  "Counselor, let's cut to the chase," Hale said. "We don't have to share the results of our investigation with you until we file charges against your client."

  Ross sat a bit straighter and planted both hands on the table. He fixed Hale with a gaze he hoped was laser-like. "Agent, speaking of cutting to the chase, why don't you admit that you confronted my client and accused her of a crime you knew full well she didn't commit, hoping she might give you some bit of information that would help you in an investigation where you were totally lost?"

  Hale came halfway out of his chair. "Now wait—"

  "Hang on, there," Kramer put a restraining arm on her partner's shoulder. Her voice had steel behind the softness. "Maybe it's time to put our cards on the table." She looked at Anna."We recognize that the signatures on the prescriptions bearing your DEA number were forged. So far, we've found no evidence of involvement on your part. You're not totally in the clear yet, but we're willing to cut you some slack if you'll help us. If we issue you a new DEA permit so you can go back to work at the medical center, we'd expect you to keep your eyes and ears open. If you discover something that might help us find the person behind this, can we depend on you to pass it on to us immediately?"

  Ross held up a warning hand to Anna. "Don't answer." He turned back to Hale. "You'll call her chairman and tell him you haven't turned up anything to incriminate my client? And you'll communicate that to the Dallas Police Department?"

  The expression on Hale's face suggested he'd just dined on a lemon. After a moment, Hale nodded.

  Ross suspected that the interview was being taped, and nods don't go into a transcript. "Say it, Agent. Say it for the tape."

  Hale swore under his breath. "Yes, we'll do that. I'll make the calls today. It'll probably take us a week to get you a new DEA permit. But I can't promise the DPD will back off. I've talked with Dowling and Green a couple of times. They really believe that the doctor here is mixed up in this some way."

  "Thank you for the information," Ross said. "Just make the call."

  Hale wasn't through, though. "And Doctor, you'll keep us informed of anything you learn that would help our investigation?"

  Ross figured it was time to say "yes" and end the interview. He nodded at Anna, who gave her head a quick up-anddown.

  This time it was Hale's turn. "Dr. McIntyre? Get it on the record, please."

  "Fine, I'll pass on anything I find out," she said.

  There were no handshakes to end the meeting, just the scrape of chairs and the rustle of papers gathered into briefcases and folders. Ross worked to maintain a poker face. This wasn't a total victory, but it was at least a small one. It was nice to be back in practice again, and especially nice to be doing it sober—and for such a lovely client.

  Outside, on the sidewalk, Anna turned and offered her hand. "Thank you for your help."

  "Just doing my job," Donovan said. "Now, how about some lunch?"

  "I'm . . . uh—"

  Donovan patted the air. "Easy there. I'm just offering to buy you a sandwich. Besides that, we can talk. The fact that the DEA's let up a bit doesn't mean you're out of the woods. And I get the impression there's more to this than what you've told me so far." He ticked offthe points on his fingers. "Never lie to your lawyer. Never withhold information from your lawyer. Always trust your lawyer. And—" He pointed his finger at her."Always accept an invitation to eat with your lawyer, so long as he agrees to pay and not charge it back to you."

  The Irish have a saying: "He could charm the birds out of the trees." That fit Ross—at least a sober Ross. Anna relented."All right. Just a quick sandwich. I have some things I need to do today."

  10

  NICK LOOKED AT THE SANDWICH ON HIS DESK AND WRINKLED HIS NOSE. Mondays were always busy, so he generally brought lunch from home and ate at his desk. Today, though, he hadn't done so well as a chef. He lifted the top slice of bread and sniffed at the lunch meat, wondering if he should slice offthe green rind or toss the whole thing. The chips he'd sealed in a sandwich bag had been reduced to a greasy mass of shards. The apple, the last one in his crisper, was dry, wrinkled, and totally unappetizing.

  He shoved everything back into the brown bag and heaved it into his wastebasket, where it settled with a satisfying clunk. Nick looked at his watch. One o'clock. Wonder if Anna's already eaten. He picked up the phone, punched in her home number, counted the rings, and felt his heart sink when the answering machine picked up. "Anna, this is Nick. Just calling to invite you to have a late lunch with me. I'll try your cell." He did, only to have his call roll over to voicemail on the second ring. He repeated the message with appropriate variations and hung up.

  In the cafeteria, the chicken potpie on his plate tasted like sawdust, although all around him people were shoveling it in with great gusto. He managed to eat about half of it before he pushed it aside. Maybe some coffee and a piece of pie? No, he wasn't really that hungry, something so foreign to him that he toyed with the idea of asking one of his internal medicine colleagues to give him a checkup. Then again, maybe what he felt wasn't due to a bug. Maybe the cause was a certain redheaded surgeon.

  How long had he known Anna McIntyre now? A we
ek? Two? Surely not long enough to feel this serious about her. Maybe this wasn't love at first sight, but at the very least it was "strong liking in less than two weeks."

  The beep of his pager roused him from his self-analysis. He thumbed the button and checked the display: Dr. Wetherington—probably fuming because Nick hadn't finished his professional résumé for the promotions committee. Somehow, Nick didn't think his chairman would accept the excuse that he'd been too busy spending time with his new girlfriend. Maybe he'd have time to think up a good story on his way to the chairman's office.

  "I've only spoken with these guys on the phone. You've seen them in person. What are your impressions of Green and Dowling?" Ross put down his chicken sandwich to listen.

  Anna dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and tried to think of the right way to describe these men. "Green frightens me a bit. Remember the football player, Mean Joe Greene, who was supposed to be such a terror? Well, Mean Joe would be a pussycat compared with Lamar Green."

  "What about Dowling?"

  "So pale you'd think he never saw the sun. Lean and sinewy, losing his hair. Quiet, but I have this mental image of a snake ready to strike at any time."

  "Which one would you rather deal with?" Ross asked.

  Anna couldn't suppress a shiver. "Neither one. Green would come right after me. Dowling might stab me in the back. They scare me."

  "Okay, we'll let that rest," Ross said. "Time to talk about something else."

  Anna was surprised to learn that Ross liked the same kind of music she did, enjoyed the same movies she did, and in general was a real person. As he paid the check, she decided her first lunch with a lawyer hadn't been as bad as she'd feared, especially considering the precipitating circumstances.

  They parted in front of the restaurant, with Ross promising to keep Anna posted on any new developments and extracting the same promise from her. She ransomed her car from the parking garage and pulled out onto Pacific Street. The laboratory where the pseudo-Anna McIntyre had received her HIV workup was on Grand Avenue, only a couple of miles in distance but light-years in economic status from downtown Dallas. Anna pulled up a mental map of the streets involved and set a course for the Metro Clinical Lab. She didn't recall the exact street address, but it shouldn't be too hard to find.