Under the Knife

by Tess Gerritsen

  Dear God, I’m being sued. Less than a year in practice and I’m being sued….

  She’d always thought that lawsuits, like all life’s catastrophes, happened to other people. She’d never dreamed she’d be the one charged with incompetence. Incompetence.

  Suddenly feeling sick, she swayed against the lobby telephones. As she struggled to calm her stomach, her gaze fell on the local directory, hanging by a chain from the shelf. If only they knew the facts, she thought. If I could explain to them…

  It took only seconds to find the listing: Uehara and Ransom, Attorneys at Law. Their office was on Bishop Street.

  She wrenched out the page. Then, driven by a new and desperate hope, she hurried out the door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “MR. RANSOM IS unavailable.”

  The gray-haired receptionist had eyes of pure cast iron and a face straight out of American Gothic. All she needed was the pitchfork. Crossing her arms, she silently dared the intruder to try—just try—to talk her way in.

  “But I have to see him!” Kate insisted. “It’s about the case—”

  “Of course it is,” the woman said dryly.

  “I only want to explain to him—”

  “I’ve just told you, Doctor. He’s in a meeting with the associates. He can’t see you.”

  Kate’s impatience was simmering close to the danger point. She leaned forward on the woman’s desk and managed to say with polite fury, “Meetings don’t last forever.”

  The receptionist smiled. “This one will.”

  Kate smiled back. “Then so can I.”

  “Doctor, you’re wasting your time! Mr. Ransom never meets with defendants. Now, if you need an escort to find your way out, I’ll be happy to—” She glanced around in annoyance as the telephone rang. Grabbing the receiver, she snapped, “Uehara and Ransom! Yes? Oh, yes, Mr. Matheson!” She pointedly turned her back on Kate. “Let’s see, I have those files right here…”

  In frustration, Kate glanced around at the waiting room, noting the leather couch, the Ikebana of willow and proteus, the Murashige print hanging on the wall. All exquisitely tasteful and undoubtedly expensive. Obviously, Uehara and Ransom was doing a booming business. All off the blood and sweat of doctors, she thought in disgust.

  The sound of voices suddenly drew Kate’s attention. She turned and saw, just down the hall, a small army of young men and women emerging from a conference room. Which one was Ransom? She scanned the faces but none of the men looked old enough to be a senior partner in the firm. She glanced back at the desk and saw that the receptionist still had her back turned. It was now or never.

  It took Kate only a split-second to make her decision. Swiftly, deliberately, she moved toward the conference room. But in the doorway she came to a halt, her eyes suddenly dazzled by the light.

  A long teak table stretched out before her. Along either side, a row of leather chairs stood like soldiers at attention. Blinding sunshine poured in through the southerly windows, spilling across the head and shoulders of a lone man seated at the far end of the table. The light streaked his fair hair with gold. He didn’t notice her; all his attention was focused on a sheaf of papers lying in front of him. Except for the rustle of a page being turned, the room was absolutely silent.

  Kate swallowed hard and drew herself up straight. “Mr. Ransom?”

  The man looked up and regarded her with a neutral expression. “Yes? Who are you?”

  “I’m—”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ransom!” cut in the receptionist’s outraged voice. Hauling Kate by the arm, the woman muttered through her teeth, “I told you he was unavailable. Now if you’ll come with me—”

  “I only want to talk to him!”

  “Do you want me to call security and have you thrown out?”

  Kate wrenched her arm free. “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t tempt me, you—”

  “What the hell is going on here?” The roar of Ransom’s voice echoed in the vast room, shocking both women into silence. He aimed a long and withering look at Kate. “Just who are you?”

  “Kate—” She paused and dropped her voice to what she hoped was a more dignified tone. “Doctor Kate Chesne.”

  A pause. “I see.” He looked right back down at his papers and said flatly, “Show her out, Mrs. Pierce.”

  “I just want to tell you the facts!” Kate persisted. She tried to hold her ground but the receptionist herded her toward the door with all the skill of a sheepdog. “Or would you rather not hear the facts, is that it? Is that how you lawyers operate?” He studiously ignored her. “You don’t give a damn about the truth, do you? You don’t want to hear what really happened to Ellen O’Brien!”

  That made him look up sharply. His gaze fastened long and hard on her face. “Hold on, Mrs. Pierce. I’ve just changed my mind. Let Dr. Chesne stay.”

  Mrs. Pierce was incredulous. “But—she could be violent!”

  David’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Kate’s flushed face. “I think I can handle her. You can leave us, Mrs. Pierce.”

  Mrs. Pierce muttered as she walked out. The door closed behind her. There was a very long silence.

  “Well, Dr. Chesne,” David said. “Now that you’ve managed the rather miraculous feat of getting past Mrs. Pierce, are you just going to stand there?” He gestured to a chair. “Have a seat. Unless you’d rather scream at me from across the room.”

  His cold flippancy, rather than easing her tension, made him seem all the more unapproachable. She forced herself to move toward him, feeling his gaze every step of the way. For a man with his highly regarded reputation, he was younger than she’d expected, not yet in his forties. Establishment was stamped all over his clothes, from his gray pinstripe suit to his Yale tie clip. But a tan that deep and hair that sun-streaked didn’t go along with an Ivy League type. He’s just a surfer boy, grown up, she thought derisively. He certainly had a surfer’s build, with those long, ropy limbs and shoulders that were just broad enough to be called impressive. A slab of a nose and a blunt chin saved him from being pretty. But it was his eyes she found herself focusing on. They were a frigid, penetrating blue; the sort of eyes that missed absolutely nothing. Right now those eyes were boring straight through her and she felt an almost irresistible urge to cross her arms protectively across her chest.

  “I’m here to tell you the facts, Mr. Ransom,” she said.

  “The facts as you see them?”

  “The facts as they are.”

  “Don’t bother.” Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out Ellen O’Brien’s file and slapped it down conclusively on the table. “I have all the facts right here. Everything I need.” Everything I need to hang you, was what he meant.

  “Not everything.”

  “And now you’re going to supply me with the missing details. Right?” He smiled and she recognized immediately the unmistakable threat in his expression. He had such perfect, sharp white teeth. She had the distinct feeling she was staring into the jaws of a shark.

  She leaned forward, planting her hands squarely on the table. “What I’m going to supply you with is the truth.”

  “Oh, naturally.” He slouched back in his chair and regarded her with a look of terminal boredom. “Tell me something,” he asked offhandedly. “Does your attorney know you’re here?”

  “Attorney? I—I haven’t talked to any attorney—”

  “Then you’d better get one on the phone. Fast. Because, Doctor, you’re damn well going to need one.”

  “Not necessarily. This is nothing but a big misunderstanding, Mr. Ransom. If you’ll just listen to the facts, I’m sure—”

  “Hold on.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a cassette recorder.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

  He turned on the recorder and slid it in front of her. “I wouldn’t want to miss some vital detail. Go on with your story. I’m all ears.”

  Furious, she reached over and flicked the Off
button. “This isn’t a deposition! Put the damn thing away!”

  For a few tense seconds they sized each other up. She felt a distinct sense of triumph when he put the recorder back in his briefcase.

  “Now, where were we?” he asked with extravagant politeness. “Oh, yes. You were about to tell me what really happened.” He settled back, obviously expecting some grand entertainment.

  She hesitated. Now that she finally had his full attention, she didn’t know quite how to start.

  “I’m a very…careful person, Mr. Ransom,” she said at last. “I take my time with things. I may not be brilliant, but I’m thorough. And I don’t make stupid mistakes.”

  His raised eyebrow told her exactly what he thought of that statement. She ignored his look and went on.

  “The night Ellen O’Brien came into the hospital, Guy Santini admitted her. But I wrote the anesthesia orders. I checked the lab results. And I read her EKG. It was a Sunday night and the technician was busy somewhere so I even ran the strip myself. I wasn’t rushed. I took all the time I needed. In fact, more than I needed, because Ellen was a member of our staff. She was one of us. She was also a friend. I remember sitting in her room, going over her lab tests. She wanted to know if everything was normal.”

  “And you told her everything was.”

  “Yes. Including the EKG.”

  “Then you obviously made a mistake.”

  “I just told you, Mr. Ransom. I don’t make stupid mistakes. And I didn’t make one that night.”

  “But the record shows—”

  “The record’s wrong.”

  “I have the tracing right here in black and white. And it plainly shows a heart attack.”

  “That’s not the EKG I saw!”

  He looked as if he hadn’t heard her quite right.

  “The EKG I saw that night was normal,” she insisted.

  “Then how did this abnormal one pop into the chart?”

  “Someone put it there, of course.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I see.” Turning away, he said under his breath: “I can’t wait to see how this plays in court.”

  “Mr. Ransom, if I made a mistake, I’d be the first to admit it!”

  “Then you’d be amazingly honest.”

  “Do you really think I’d make up a story as—as stupid as this?”

  His response was an immediate burst of laughter that left her cheeks burning. “No,” he answered. “I’m sure you’d come up with something much more believable.” He gave her an inviting nod. In a voice thick with sarcasm, he jeered, “Please, I’m dying to know how this extraordinary mix-up happened. How did the wrong EKG get in the chart?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You must have a theory.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Come on, Doctor, don’t disappoint me.”

  “I said I don’t.”

  “Then make a guess!”

  “Maybe someone beamed it there from the Starship Enterprise!” she yelled in frustration.

  “Nice theory,” he said, deadpan. “But let’s get back to reality. Which, in this case, happens to be a particular sheet of wood by-product, otherwise known as paper.” He flipped the chart open to the damning EKG. “Explain that away.”

  “I told you, I can’t! I’ve gone crazy trying to figure it out! We do dozens of EKGs every day at Mid Pac. It could have been a clerical error. A mislabeled tracing. Somehow, that page was filed in the wrong chart.”

  “But you’ve written your initials on this page.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Is there some other K.C., M.D.?”

  “Those are my initials. But I didn’t write them.”

  “What are you saying? That this is a forgery?”

  “It—it has to be. I mean, yes, I guess it is….” Suddenly confused, she shoved back a rebellious strand of hair off her face. His utterly calm expression rattled her. Why didn’t the man react, for God’s sake? Why did he just sit there, regarding her with that infuriatingly bland expression?

  “Well,” he said at last.

  “Well what?”

  “How long have you had this little problem with people forging your name?”

  “Don’t make me sound paranoid!”

  “I don’t have to. You’re doing fine on your own.”

  Now he was silently laughing at her; she could see it in his eyes. The worst part was that she couldn’t blame him. Her story did sound like a lunatic’s ravings.

  “All right,” he relented. “Let’s assume for the moment you’re telling the truth.”

  “Yes!” she snapped. “Please do!”

  “I can think of only two explanations for why the EKG would be intentionally switched. Either someone’s trying to destroy your career—”

  “That’s absurd. I don’t have any enemies.”

  “Or someone’s trying to cover up a murder.”

  At her stunned expression, he gave her a maddeningly superior smile. “Since the second explanation obviously strikes both of us as equally absurd, I have no choice but to conclude you’re lying.” He leaned forward and his voice was suddenly soft, almost intimate. The shark was getting chummy; that had to be dangerous. “Come on, Doctor,” he prodded. “Level with me. Tell me what really happened in the O.R. Was there a slip of the knife? A mistake in anesthesia?”

  “There was nothing of the kind!”

  “Too much laughing gas and not enough oxygen?”

  “I told you, there were no mistakes!”

  “Then why is Ellen O’Brien dead?”

  She stared at him, stunned by the violence in his voice. And the blueness of his eyes. A spark seemed to fly between them, ignited by something entirely unexpected. With a shock, she realized he was an attractive man. Too attractive. And that her response to him was dangerous. She could already feel the blush creeping into her face, could feel a flood of heat rising inside her.

  “No answer?” he challenged smoothly. He settled back, obviously enjoying the advantage he held over her. “Then why don’t I tell you what happened? On April 2, a Sunday night, Ellen O’Brien checked into Mid Pac Hospital for routine gallbladder surgery. As her anesthesiologist, you ordered routine pre-op tests, including an EKG, which you checked before leaving the hospital that night. Maybe you were rushed. Maybe you had a hot date waiting. Whatever the reason, you got careless and you made a fatal error. You missed those vital clues in the EKG: the elevated ST waves, the inverted T waves. You pronounced it normal and signed your initials. Then you left for the night—never realizing your patient had just had a heart attack.”

  “She never had any symptoms! No chest pain—”

  “But it says right here in the nurses’ notes—let me quote—” he flipped through the chart “—‘Patient complaining of abdominal discomfort.’”

  “That was her gallstone—”

  “Or was it her heart? Anyway, the next events are indisputable. You and Dr. Santini took Ms. O’Brien to surgery. A few whiffs of anesthesia and the stress was too much for her weakened heart. So it stopped. And you couldn’t restart it.” He paused dramatically, his eyes as hard as diamonds. “There, Dr. Chesne. You’ve just lost your patient.”

  “That’s not how it happened! I remember that EKG. It was normal!”

  “Maybe you’d better review your textbook on EKGs.”

  “I don’t need a textbook. I know what’s normal!” She scarcely recognized her own voice, echoing shrilly through the vast room.

  He looked unimpressed. Bored, even. “Really—” he sighed “—wouldn’t it be easier just to admit you made a mistake?”

  “Easier for whom?”

  “For everyone involved. Consider an out-of-court settlement. It’d be fast, easy and relatively painless.”

  “A settlement? But that’s admitting a mistake I never made!”

  What little patience he had left finally snapped. “You want to go to trial?” he shot back. “Fine
. But let me tell you something about the way I work. When I try a case, I don’t do it halfway. If I have to tear you apart in court, I’ll do it. And when I’m finished, you’ll wish you’d never turned this into some ridiculous fight for your honor. Because let’s face it, Doctor. You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.”

  She wanted to grab him by those pinstriped lapels. She wanted to scream out that in all this talk about settlements and courtrooms, her own anguish over Ellen O’Brien’s death had been ignored. But suddenly all her rage, all her strength, seemed to drain away, leaving her exhausted. Wearily she slumped back in her chair. “I wish I could admit I made a mistake,” she said quietly. “I wish I could just say, ‘I know I’m guilty and I’ll pay for it.’ I wish to God I could say that. I’ve spent the last week wondering about my memory. Wondering how this could have happened. Ellen trusted me and I let her die. It makes me wish I’d never become a doctor, that I’d been a clerk or a waitress—anything else. I love my work. You have no idea how hard it’s been—how much I’ve given up—just to get to where I am. And now it looks as if I’ll lose my job….” She swallowed and her head drooped in defeat. “And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to work again….”

  David regarded her bowed head in silence and fought to ignore the emotions stirring inside him. He’d always considered himself a good judge of character. He could usually look a man in the eyes and tell if he was lying. All during Kate Chesne’s little speech, he’d been watching her eyes, searching for some inconsistent blip, some betraying flicker that would tell him she was lying through her teeth.

  But her eyes had been absolutely steady and forthright and as beautiful as a pair of emeralds.

  The last thought startled him, popping out as it did, almost against his will. As much as he might try to suppress it, he was all at once aware that she was a beautiful woman. She was wearing a simple green dress, gathered loosely at the waist, and it took just one glance to see that there were feminine curves beneath that silky fabric. The face that went along with those very nice curves had its flaws. She had a prizefighter’s square jaw. Her shoulder-length mahogany hair was a riot of waves, obviously untamable. The curly bangs softened a forehead that was far too prominent. No, it wasn’t a classically beautiful face. But then he’d never been attracted to classically beautiful women.