It's Nothing Personal (8 page)

Jenna headed to her home office.
 
Not wanting to wake the rest of her
family, she left the lights off.
 
Carefully, she felt her way behind her antique, cherry desk and sat in
the leather chair.
 
Alone in the
darkness, Jenna wiggled the computer’s mouse.
 
The light from the monitor was barely
enough to illuminate the keyboard, but it was sufficient for Jenna’s
purposes.
 
She opened her email.
 
Midway down the screen, her attention
was drawn to an email from Dr. Rob Wilson.
 

With a trembling finger, Jenna clicked on
the mouse and opened the document.
 
She was completely engrossed when Tom’s voice startled her.

“Hey there!
 
Can’t sleep?” he asked.
 

Jenna nearly toppled over her tea.
 
She could barely make out Tom’s frame.
 
“Geez!
 
You scared me to death!
 
What are you doing up?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” Tom
muttered as he switched on the lights.
 
“Everything okay?”

Jenna squinted as the brightness hit her
eyes.
 
Tom walked behind her and
massaged her neck.
 
For a moment,
Jenna closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of Tom’s powerful hands against her
bare skin.

“Actually,” she groaned, “I didn’t sleep a
wink last night.
 
My world is upside
down.
 
Everything I’ve ever been
taught to trust – the hospital, the staff – are all suspect.
 
I just opened an email written by Keith
Jones, Mr. Big Shot CEO himself.
 
It’s addressed to all St. Augustine physicians.
 
Rob Wilson forwarded it off late last
night.”

Tom peered over Jenna’s shoulders.
 
“This ought to be interesting.”

Jenna leaned closer to the screen and pushed
her glasses up, “Yeah . . . interesting alright.
 
It says the hospital is extremely
remorseful regarding the unconscionable acts of their former employee.
 
They intend to remain open and honest in
their communications, and they want the physicians to know that most patients
are not at risk.”

Tom listened intently.
 
“So far, it sounds like either they are
the most honest, compassionate, for-profit corporation known to man, or the
cover up has begun.”

“I’d vote for the latter,” Jenna replied
grimly.

Jenna’s back stiffened as she continued
reading the email.

“Oh my God!
 
You’re not going to believe this!”
 
Jenna cupped her hand over her mouth.
 
“Any patients who acquire hepatitis C as
a result of Hillary Martin’s actions will be provided free medical care for
life, including liver transplantation, if necessary.”

Tom stood in silence for a few minutes while
he digested what Jenna had said.

“What’s your take on this memo?” he asked.

Jenna swiveled the office chair around to
face her husband and slowly shook her head.
 

“I really don’t know.
 
It feels . . . big . . . huge.
 
It looks like the hospital has already
lawyered up.
 
I get the sense that
they are trying to walk that fine line between appearing like they care yet, at
the same time, aggressively covering their ass.”

Tom nodded.
 
“Yeah, I agree.
 
This is something that could ultimately
take St. Augustine down for good.
 
It
remains to be seen how many patients are infected, but it’s pretty much guaranteed
that each and every one of them is going to sue, and probably for big
bucks.
 
The testing of thousands of
patients alone is going to cost them a fortune, not to mention providing a
lifetime of medical care for every infected patient.”

Jenna was gripped by an alarming
revelation.
 
“I hope St. Augustine
doesn’t throw anesthesia under the bus as a scapegoat.”

Tom looked pale.
 
Stroking Jenna’s cheek, he said, “You
and me both.”
 

Retreating into the kitchen to make some
coffee, Tom left Jenna alone with her growing apprehension.

Jenna turned back around to face the
computer and called up the website for the local news affiliate.
 
Not surprisingly, the lead story was the
hepatitis scare at St. Augustine Hospital, but there was little more information
than the day before.

Thirsty for more details, Jenna typed
Hillary Martin’s name into a Google search.
 
The first hit was a Facebook page.
 
Unsure if it was
the
Hillary Martin, Jenna rapidly clicked to the link.

The photographs on the screen reignited
memories of the scrub tech with whom Jenna had worked, but barely knew.
 
With Hillary Martin’s crimes now
revealed, the images on the screen were deeply disturbing.
 

Jenna sat motionless, mesmerized by the
photos.
 
Her concentration was
broken by the scent of fresh coffee, as Tom entered the office holding two
steaming cups.

“Thanks,” Jenna said, gratefully accepting
the additional caffeine.
 
She blew
over the surface of the mug and cautiously took a sip.

“Don’t mention it.”
 
Tom walked around to Jenna’s side of the
desk and pulled a chair up next to her.
 
Right away, Tom took in the images on the computer screen and asked,
“Who the hell is that?
 
Please don’t
tell me that’s our next nanny.”

Jenna was too mortified to appreciate Tom’s
humor.
 
Instead, she responded with
a barely audible whisper, “No Tom, it’s not our next nanny.
 
Say hello to Hillary Martin.”

Tom took a closer look at the pictures.
 
He had not yet noticed the tears
spilling down Jenna’s cheeks.
 
When
Tom finally glanced at his wife, Jenna was nearly catatonic.
 
Her mouth was agape, her eyes wide, and
her pupils dilated.

“Jenna,” Tom said as he pulled his wife into
his arms.
 
“What’s wrong, baby?”

Whispering shallowly, Jenna confessed, “I
remember working with her!
 
There
was this patient I took care of a while back that had a clit ring.
 
During the surgery, we were all
commenting on it.
 
Hillary Martin
was the scrub tech for that case.
 
She told us she had one, too. It stands out in my mind because who would
admit to such a thing?
 
Especially
to people you don’t know very well.”

Tom looked at his wife
and asked, “Do you remember anything else?”

Jenna tried to think back, but it had been
many months ago.
 
Like a bolt of
electricity, a memory struck her.
 
Jenna stood and started pacing, shaking her head as she muttered
repeatedly, “Oh no! No, no, no.”

The world crashed in upon Jenna.
 
The lights in the room swirled around
her.
 
A tingly, buzzing sensation
enveloped her body.
 
Her heart
raced, her mouth went dry, and she gasped for air.
 
An immovable lump in her throat made it
impossible to speak.
 
She could hear
Tom’s voice, but it sounded distant and distorted.
 
Everything she had worked for seemed to
be in jeopardy.
 
Worse, what if her
patient was infected?
 
Jenna was
drowning in guilt, grief, and fear.

Tom shook Jenna by the shoulders and forced
her to focus on him.
 
“What?
 
Jenna, what’s wrong?”

Jenna’s heart sank.
 
“I remember she disappeared before the
start of the case.
 
I went to see
the patient, and when I came back, she was gone.
 
They had to track her down.
 
Tom, what if she stole my drugs?”

Tom did not answer.
 
He did not have the heart to tell Jenna
what he was thinking.

CHAPTER 9

Later that morning, Jenna fought to clear
her head as she prepared for her first case.
 
However, as she drew up drugs for her
patient, she was reminded of the devastation that Hillary Martin had left in
her wake.
 
For the past week, Jenna
had been struggling to adapt to new hospital rules.
 
Anesthesiologists were no longer allowed
to draw up controlled substances until the patient physically entered the
operating room.
 
Serving as a
constant reminder, a copy of the policy was taped prominently to the front of
every Accudose machine.
 
At first,
before the story broke, Jenna thought the new policy was the result of some
government regulation.
 
Only now did
she understand its significance.

Jenna glanced at the memo, and it struck her
that it was dated June 7, 2010.
 
This was a week before she, or any of her colleagues, had any knowledge
of Hillary Martin’s crimes.
 
Coincidentally, it was also two days after Hillary Martin turned herself
in to the authorities.

The timing of the policy left Jenna feeling
deceived.
 
Her new reality consisted
of a world where the operating room was no longer considered safe, and the staff
could not be trusted.
 
More
troubling, it was not only the staff that Jenna could no longer count on.
 
She strongly suspected that the hospital
administration, including Rob Wilson, was controlling, withholding, and
possibly covering up information.

The nurse wheeled in Jenna’s first
patient.
 
Immediately, Jenna turned
her back and logged into the Accudose machine.
 
She resented being forced to neglect her
patient while she drew up drugs.
 
It
placed her in the uncomfortable position of having to rely too heavily on the
nurses.
 
Too many things could go
wrong, and Jenna was powerless to defend against it.

With her drugs ready, Jenna was now able to
focus.
 
Everything the nurses did
needed to be rechecked.
 
EKG leads
were in the wrong location, the oxygen saturation probe was on the wrong hand,
and not one of the nurses had bothered to provide supplemental oxygen to the
patient.
 
Jenna silently went about
the business of correcting their mistakes, trying to mask her frustration.

Dr. Jon Miner, the surgeon, entered the room
as Jenna was in the process of intubating.

“Hey, Jenna,” Jon said as he watched her
carefully tape the endotracheal tube in place.

Jon and Jenna had a friendly relationship,
but as Jenna glanced up, she noticed that the usual warmth in Jon’s brown eyes
was missing.

Jenna forced herself to paste on a
convincing smile.
 
“Hey, Jon.
 
I see you must have survived the madness
of the lobby.
 
Congratulations.”

The two doctors waited for the nurse to prep
the patient for surgery.
 
With the
nurse preoccupied with her task, Jon moved in close to Jenna and said
discreetly, “It’s crazy around here.”

Jenna crinkled her forehead and frowned as
she replied softly, “Yeah.
 
It’s
getting scarier by the minute.
 
Personally, I worry about how we anesthesia doctors will be impacted.”

Not one to mince words, Jon told Jenna,
“Honestly, I think you guys could be in a lot of trouble.
 
Aren’t you supposed to be responsible
for your drugs?
 
If that scrub tech
was able to somehow steal narcotics because anesthesiologists weren’t securing
them, I think that opens you guys up to lawsuits.”

Jon’s words intensified Jenna’s premonition
that she might end up with an infected patient.
 

Jenna was defensive.
 
“I guess it might all depend on how you
did or didn’t secure your drugs.
 
I
mean, if you left them sitting on the top of your cart in plain view, in an
unoccupied room where anyone walking in could easily see them and take them,
that would be one thing.
 
But if you
hid them somewhere, or took other measures to keep them out of sight, that
seems to me to be a different story.”
 

“Well, I’m not trying to scare you, but I
had an interesting conversation with one of my neighbors last night, who just
happens to be the father of Lyle Silverstein.”
 
Jon’s words sounded foreboding, but the
name meant nothing to Jenna.

“Who is Lyle Silverstein?”

“I can’t believe you don’t know,” Jon said,
somewhat condescendingly.
 
“Obviously, you haven’t faced a lawsuit yet in this town.
 
Lyle Silverstein is one of the most aggressive,
nasty, ruthless, and vindictive malpractice attorneys in the state.
 
He also happens to be one of the most
successful.
 
So anyway, I ran into
his father while grabbing my mail last night, and, naturally, this topic came
up.
 
His dad actually said with
pride that Lyle is already representing several infected patients, and he
expects to get more.
 
According to
Silverstein senior, Lyle is calling this his ‘retirement package,’ and he is
gearing up for huge settlements.
 
What probably matters most to you is that Lyle plans to go after both
the hospital and the anesthesiologists.
 
Like I said, if you end up with an infected patient, you could be in
some serious trouble.”