It's Nothing Personal (14 page)

“Let me tell you something.
 
I’ve been sued before, too.
 
I know what it can do to you.
 
I know what it did to me.
 
I also happen to have the inside
scoop.
 
There are certain things I
can’t talk about, but there’s one thing I can tell you.
 
You may feel like you’re the only one
standing out there in front of the firing squad.
 
Let me reassure you, you have plenty of
company, and it runs the gamut.
 
There are excellent and not-so-excellent doctors who are on the
list.
 
Hillary Martin did not
discriminate.”

“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 home 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.