Medical Error (22 page)

Her cell phone was clipped to an inside pocket of the purse, and Anna was surprised to see that it still held a charge. The display also showed twelve missed calls and eight voicemail messages. She scrolled through the log and saw that, along with six messages from Nick, she had two from Ross Donovan.

She listened to Nick's messages first. There was a definite progression in their tone. The first was a casual invitation to lunch, the next call expressed regret that they hadn't been able to get together, and a third asked if he could see her that evening. The fourth, fifth, and sixth demonstrated his worry when he was unable to contact her at her office, at home, or via her cell phone. Yes, no doubt about it. Nick cared for her. But she wasn't ready to answer the question of how deep her feelings for him ran. Not now. Not with all this hanging over her.

She moved to the messages from Ross Donovan, wondering if her reluctance to think about a commitment to Nick had something to do with this other man who'd come into her life. The first was fairly businesslike: "Anna, this is Ross Donovan. I enjoyed lunch with you. I think our meeting with the DEA went fairly well. I suggest you call your chairman tomorrow to make sure Hale notifies him that you're in the clear with the agency. I'll see what I can do to get the Dallas police offyour back now. Keep in touch."

So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours; Anna had almost forgotten her meeting with the DEA agents. A new permit and a call from Hale to her chairman should pave the way for her return to work. She wasn't sure how ready she was physically, but she certainly was itching to be back doing what she loved best—practicing medicine and teaching residents.

The next message from Donovan put an end to Anna's improved mood. "Anna, call me as soon as you get this message. Detective Green phoned. He and Dowling want to talk with you. They've agreed to do the interview at my office, but they say if you don't follow up with them tomorrow, they'll issue a warrant to pick you up as a material witness. I don't know what they have, but apparently something new has come up. Call me ASAP."

Anna hadn't yet entered Donovan's number on her cell phone directory, so she had to scroll back and find it in her call log. Her stomach churned as she waited for him to answer the call.

"Ross Donovan." His voice carried a smile, and she could picture his dimples deepening as he spoke.

"Mr. Donovan . . . Ross, this is Anna McIntyre. I won't be able to meet with the detectives today. It's—"

There was no smile in Donovan's voice this time. "Anna, I think they were serious about picking you up as a material witness. You'd better make time for this."

"Ross, a lot has happened since I left you yesterday. You'd better come by my hospital room and let me explain."

Ross Donovan looked up from the yellow legal pad balanced on his knee. It was almost filled with scribbling in the personal shorthand he'd developed over the years. Only he could read it, sometimes only after a second and third effort, but he figured that represented another level of security and privacy for his clients.

"So, Anna, you don't think this attack on you had anything to do with the identity theft?"

Anna didn't answer, just shook her head. She leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes, obviously spent after filling him in on the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Ross tapped his fountain pen against his front teeth and looked at the ceiling. "You know, when you came to my office the first time, you started by telling me you had problems with the police and the DEA. I managed to pry the information out of you that someone had stolen your credit card numbers as well. But I get the sense that this problem is even broader than that. What aren't you telling me?"

Anna reached toward the pitcher and glass on her bedside table. Ross rose and poured water for her. He waited until she'd emptied the glass before resuming his seat.

"I guess I need to give you the whole story," she said.

"That usually helps your attorney. Just remember two things. First of all, what you tell me is in confidence. I can't be required to divulge it." He uncapped his pen and sat back.

"What's the second thing?" she asked.

"The other thing to remember is that I've been a liar, a cheat, and a drunk. So whatever you've done, I've probably done worse."

He grinned when that elicited a chuckle. He sensed that she was teetering on the brink of exhaustion, and he hated to put her through this, but if he was to help her he needed the full story.

A half hour later, he dropped the legal pad to the floor and leaned toward Anna's bed, his forearms on his thighs. "Okay, here's a summary of the problem, as I understand it. Correct me if I'm wrong anywhere." He began to tick offpoints on his fingers. "First, someone stole your credit card information and maxed out the accounts, temporarily damaging your credit in the process. Second, someone used your DEA number and name to float a bunch of narcotics prescriptions in the area, and although Agents Kramer and Hale are ready to ease up on you, the Dallas police—for whatever reason—are still intent on proving you're a criminal. And third, both you and one of your patients had your insurance information used by someone else to obtain care. That maneuver cost your patient his life and made you a target for a malpractice suit. It also resulted in your name being associated with a positive test for HIV." He leaned back and spread his hands like a magician showing the rabbit."Right?"

Anna seemed to sink deeper into the bed, as though she were deflating. "Right."

"So here's what we do. And notice, I said, 'we.' The credit repair isn't rocket science, but it takes a bit of work. As soon as you're discharged, get me the paperwork you've already started. I'll look at it and try to help. But that may have to go on the back burner, because it's not our immediate problem. Our first priority is to keep you out of jail and clear you with the Dallas police. I'll call Green or Dowling as soon as I leave here and explain to them that you've been hospitalized for a serious head injury. If they insist on interviewing you anyway, I'll start claiming police brutality, infringement of your constitutional rights, and anything else I can think of. After all, you're not competent to answer questions because of your hazy mental condition."

"But—"

"Hey, your mental status may be fine. But we've been given a perfect excuse to delay this interview, and the longer we can put it off, the more information we'll have when it comes time to talk with them. Let me take care of this."

Anna nodded her understanding. "And the malpractice suit?"

"I suppose you have malpractice insurance?"

"Yes, the medical school covers me. Actually, all of the state med schools self-insure through a trust. But I think I'd better talk about engaging you to represent me as well. The way Ms. Ernst has reacted so far, I don't get a warm and fuzzy feeling about her."

Ross was silent.

"Oh," Anna said, understanding lighting her eyes. "I forgot."

"Never mind. When we divorced, there weren't many warm and fuzzy feelings on either side."

"But if you represented me, you'd be working with your exwife," Anna said. "Is that going to present a problem?"

Ross rubbed his chin. "We'll have to see, won't we?"

"How's the patient today?" Anna opened her eyes and saw Neil Fowler standing at her bedside. He wore a gray scrub suit, and the impression of a surgical cap ringed his forehead.

"I'm a bit wobbly on my feet sometimes, but my memory's pretty much come back." Anna struggled to grin. "Sometimes that isn't good, though."

Fowler leaned his back against the doorframe and stretched."Oh, that feels good. I just finished a bowel resection, and my back is killing me." He straightened. "Anna, I know I told you to use your time offto clear yourself of these narcotic prescription charges, but I think it's time for you to stop. I don't know all the details, but if whatever you've been doing is what got you that concussion, it's not worth it. Let me talk with the DEA and see if they're about ready to turn you loose to practice again."

"No need. I've spoken with one of the agents." She made an effort to brush the cobwebs away from her head. "Agent . . . his name escapes me. He's supposed to call you to tell you they haven't found any involvement on my part. They're going to issue me a new number. What I have to do—" Something, some instinct, stopped Anna before she told Fowler her deal with the DEA: have her privileges restored in exchange for keeping her eyes and ears open. She didn't really suspect her chairman of involvement in the counterfeit prescriptions, but then again, she had no reason to exclude him from her list of suspects.

Fowler apparently took her letting the words trail offas just another sign of her recent concussion. He nodded, stretched, and said, "Well, I'm converting your special leave to sick leave. If you're like me, you've got more of those days stored up than you'll ever use. So take the time you need to heal from this head injury. We miss you and we'll be glad to have you back at work, but don't push it."

After Fowler left, Anna wondered why she hadn't fully con- fided in her chairman. Was it because he had access to all the offices in the department, including hers? How easy would it be for someone in his position to get access not only to her purse but to her personal information, her Social Security number? Was she being paranoid . . . or just careful?

13

A
NNA STRETCHED AND YAWNED. IT WAS GOOD TO WAKE UP IN HER BED. She luxuriated in the feel of fresh sheets, crisp and clean against her skin. She inhaled the aroma of the coffee that the automatic timer on her coffeepot had already started brewing. Mike Simpson wanted to keep her in the hospital for another day, but she pleaded with him until he gave in, extracting a promise that she take it easy for a few more days. Her definition of taking it easy would probably be different from Mike's, but she had things to do and not even a concussion would stop her. Some coffee and a couple of Tylenols should get her going. Then she'd see where the day took her.

Anna sat in her robe at the kitchen table and nibbled on a toasted English muffin spread with cherry jam. Her mind was already busy trying to decide where in the tangled skein of her problems she might find a loose thread to pull. Repair her credit? She needed to take Ross the paperwork she'd started, but that wasn't urgent. Clear herself with the police and the DEA? Right now, the DEA seemed content to let her alone. As for the police, Green and Dowling had grudgingly agreed to put offthe interview until tomorrow, and there was no use worrying about that until she knew what they wanted.

Then there was the Hatley case. She was sure now that his death wasn't due to malpractice, but rather a terrible accident directly attributable to someone using Hatley's identity to put false data into his medical records. Ross had warned her away from digging further into the Hatley case, at least until they saw whether a malpractice case was truly forthcoming. But Anna couldn't get over the feeling that she and Eric Hatley weren't the only two people who'd suffered misappropriation of their medical insurance information. If she could somehow find a pattern, she might be able to trace the enterprise back to its perpetrators. And if she could do that, she'd solve a lot of her problems.

After breakfast, Anna sat down at her desk and went through the mail that had accumulated during her brief hospitalization. She set a few bills aside to be paid and tossed the junk mail into the wastebasket. Then she recalled her intention to get a shredder, something else that had fallen through the cracks, something more for her "to do" list. Anna retrieved the mail from the wastebasket and shuffled through it to find everything that had her name and address on it. By the time she finished tearing the documents to shreds, her wastebasket looked like the aftermath of a snowstorm.

Maybe she'd better check her bank balance before she paid the bills. She logged onto the bank's website, entered her user name and password, and frowned when she saw the amount shown in her account. That couldn't be right. What had happened?

She clicked on "transactions" and ran her finger down the list on the screen. She didn't recall writing the last three checks that were listed. Matter of fact, she was certain she'd never bought anything from those stores. Was someone . . . did this mean . . . ? No, there was no question. Identity theft and its effect on her finances had just jumped to the head of her to-do list for the day.